Bad Bargain: A Space Rules Adventure Part 1

by Ian Cannon

  They gave the Telusian a look of gratitude and bolted off.

  On their way toward REX, they darted past a waving Fexx Pol who looked a bit surprised at their sudden appearance, and their subsequent disappearance.

  “Thanks, Fexx, you’re pay has been deposited!” Ben’s voice carried away like a Doppler affect as they dashed down the passage.

  “Uh, okay…” he said and took a chomp on his sandwich.

  They stormed into their ship. “REX, fire up, we’re getting…”

  “…the hells off this station. I know. I’m so surprised,” REX said. Systems started winding up. Lights and control panels came to life.

  Ben swung down into his seat flipping switches, punching buttons. Tawny took the co-pilot’s chair.

  “Disconnecting,” he called.

  “Here we go,” REX said dejected, “Another cold burn at top speed?”

  “Sorry, pal.”

  “You always say that—sorry, REX, so sorry, yadda yadda…”

  The ship dropped from its crane and lowered well clear of the work bay. It turned about, headed toward open space. “Okay, let’s go.”

  The inner-warps wound up, and—BOOM! They were gone.

  Chapter Ten

  Controlled Space

  Planet Dekorrah’Bha

  Moon Chiat

  United Confederation Front (Underworld Cabal)

  “We’re on approach,” REX said.

  Ben headed toward the bridge, Tawny coming behind. Dekorrah’Bha grew into view through the wide viewport. It was one of the Cabal’s larger civilized planets, over sixteen thousand kilometers in diameter. Yet it also had the lowest population to planet volume in the system with a mere half a billion souls inhabiting. There was only a single contiguous landmass occupying one tenth of the planet. All the rest was hydrogen and oxygen liquid. A water ocean. It was a deep blue planet housing a continent of starkly contrasting emerald green—all swamp.

  It was also home to Norg, an ally to the independents roaming the planets, and a member of the Dekkoran, a race of highly intellectual turtle people. Norg was also a close friend. And friends were rare in these parts. This was Underworld space. The Cabal was everywhere.

  “Where’s the greeting party?” Tawny asked.

  “They’ll be here soon enough,” Ben replied grimly.

  REX said, “Yep, in fact here they come.”

  “Great,” he muttered. “What’s their position?”

  “On approach. Coming around. They’ll be in visual range in a few seconds.”

  Ben took a big breath. “Alright, slowing to comm speed.” He and Tawny looked at each other, their nerves edging over into fear. “Here’s where we find out if our new identification load-up is any good.” But this was no test. This was the real deal.

  Tawny tightened her face, nodded, agreed.

  The Cabal were notoriously paranoid. The last thing Ben and Tawny needed was an investigation into their identification transmissions. If they discovered them as counterfeit they’d be detained. Then they’d discover Tawny’s true identity once their data net displayed her as a war deserter and enemy of the state. The penalty for that was a wiped brain and an entirely new cognitive layover, just before being sent back to the battle front as an automaton to be used as frontline cannon fodder.

  Ben couldn’t stomach the thought. It made him nauseous. His penalty would be much simpler. An Imperium soldier slipping through Cabal controlled space with faked credentials? That’s a quick death penalty. No problem. His wife was the one taking the chance.

  They both sighed nervously in unison as a group of Cabal security vessels came up on their bow. One was a gunboat—long and menacing, sectioned wedge design separated into lateral terraces with windows and batteries.

  Tawny said, “We’re being hailed.”

  “Here we go. Put them on,” Ben said.

  A 3-D face holoformed into view over their holopad. As with most Cabal security contingent personnel, there was a no-nonsense look about him. He said, “This is the security patrol vessel Non Conscientiam. You have entered United Confederation territory, approaching the planet Dekorrah’Bha, member of the Confederate Planetary Front. You will stop and identify.”

  Ben nodded, said, “This is the freight hauler RX-one-one-one on approach. I’m Captain Standish, over.”

  “What’s your destination?”

  “The moon Chiat,” Ben responded, “outer landing. We’ve been here before.”

  “Purpose?” the guy said sharply.

  “Parts acquisition. We’re here to purchase cargo compartments for our freight. Plus we’re here to see an old friend.” Ben flashed him a characteristic grin, wily but appealing. It didn’t work.

  The guy said flatly, “Are you on assignment?”

  “Yeah, we’re aqua haulers headed to the moon Mortus in the outer lanes.”

  “You’re Guilders,” the guy assumed with a sour look.

  “That’s our association. We don’t keep ties. We’re just contractors.”

  “Transmit your identification, Guild license and contract data for verification and hold.” He cut the transmission. The guy’s head disappeared.

  Ben punched the transmit sequence and looked at his wife. “These people don’t trust anyone, I swear to Ae’ahm.”

  “I wouldn’t mention your god around here, babe.” It could blow their cover, fast.

  “Hmm,” he agreed.

  The head came back. “You will hold for detainment and inspection.”

  A sudden shot of cold ran up his spine, into his cheeks. This was new. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  The holohead said, “Are you refusing to comply?”

  “No, not at all. What are my instructions?”

  “Hold your position or you will be destroyed,” he said quite frankly, no emotion—like player’s at a chess board.

  “Holding position.”

  The holohead disappeared. A drop ship lowered from the gunboat and started its approach.

  “What’s going on?” Tawny asked with an unusually thin voice.

  “Our ident got tagged.” He smashed a fist into his control deck and yelled, “Damn that Sympto!”

  “You think it was Sympto?”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “Well, if you’re right,” Tawny sneered angrily, “I’m going to kill him. Do you understand? I’m going to vacuum splat his nasty little carcass!”

  REX said, “I’m prepared to make a hot burn, Cap.”

  “Okay, REX,” Ben said jerking the fuel drive toggle all the way open and coming to an immediate decision. They were running … right this second. “Let’s jackrabbit.”

  “No!” Tawny cried. “We’d never get away. They’d chase us all the way to Proximus. These are Cabal. That’s a gunboat.”

  Ben froze, his hand still on the lever. “If they’re coming to arrest us, I’d rather take that chance.”

  “No,” she said, lower, more controlled. “Ease it back before they detect our on-boards.”

  Ben growled reticently and released the lever back.

  There was a thump as their new friends attached to the exterior airlock down in the cargo bay.

  He looked at her. His eyes were urgent, severe. “We got about thirty seconds, baby.”

  She said, “Let them board.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “We’ll have hostages if we need them.”

  “The Cabal won’t negotiate.”

  The airlock signaler blipped through the fuselage three times. Someone was knocking.

  Tawny said, “We don’t have a choice now.” She tightened the buckle on her holster belt and said, “So let’s go say hi.” The grin she gave him both settled his nerves and stretched them taught as wire.

  He huffed back. “They’ll have to kill me, Tawny.”

  “Me too,” she said. “It’ll be fun…”

  Ben groaned and strapped on his own holster with twin plasma-drive blasters, one on each hip. He hate
d wearing them, but under the right circumstances he knew he’d love using them. And he was more than a decent shot. The Imperium had made sure of that. He followed her to the drop lift and went down to the cargo bay.

  The inspection leader was a dour sort, sunken face, prim, dark blue officer’s uniform, almost black, with buttoned lapel, hawkish eyes locked onto them with accusation. An armed security contingent entered first, eight members each wearing the dark blues and blacks of the Cabal, each displaying security markings on one shoulder, guns in hand. They assumed a ready position with their heavily booted feet coming to a halt.

  The leader stepped forward, his face never changing—not even when he recognized Tawny’s vague Raylon markings suggesting she was under the Cabal banner. Not even when he failed to recognize Ben’s allegiance.

  Ben shuddered just having the Cabal on board his vessel. But he gave them a forced, congenial smile. “I’m Captain Standish of the freight vessel RX-one-one-one, this is my co-pilot, Tannifer. Welcome aboard.”

  The man’s cool eyes went down, then back up, noticing the weapons. He did not look pleased. “I am Consul Troicka, security representative for the United Planetary Confederation Front. You will relinquish your vessel logs immediately for checkpoint analysis.”

  “No problem,” Ben said turning to a secondary control console in the cargo bay. When Sympto’s team re-established their identification logs, all of REX’s data frames were overlaid with the new information. The Iotian mutt guaranteed there would be no holes. It would appear as if Ben and Tawny had been logging their work in as Standish and Tannifer for years. Or maybe not. In the end, this was where Ben found out how good Sympto’s work really was. He entered a final sequence and hit send. He turned around and said, “Transmission complete.”

  The consul nodded in military style. His eyes narrowed at Ben. “How long have you had this vessel?”

  “Five and a half years, universal.”

  “How long have the two of you been Guild members?”

  “The same,” he said.

  The consul paced over to Tawny who eyed him with a passive glint, and then paced around her and back to Ben. “She’s Raylon,” he said. “Where are you from?”

  “I’m an independent,” Ben said. “I don’t have any affiliation—not political, military or otherwise.”

  The consul repeated very slowly, insulted, “Where. Are. You. From?”

  Ben took a big breath and said, “I was born in the Golothan lunar front.”

  The consul stared at him before sucking his teeth slowly, with malice. He finally said, “Imperium.”

  Ben locked his gaze on him. A stare down. “I’m not Imperium.”

  The man grunted and turned to Tawny to address her. “How have you fallen in with …” his gaze went to Ben. “…this?”

  She said with a grin so nuanced only Ben could see it, and said, “I forced him.”

  The consul was not amused. He said, “I could have you arrested.”

  “If you could have us arrested,” she chanced, “you already would have. But that brings up a question. Why are we being detained?”

  The corner of his lip pulled up. Ben squinted at him. Was that a grin? Tawny knew the game, and she knew how to speak to a Cabal security consul. They loved a challenging dialog. Old habits never died with her. “Protocol,” he said.

  “I don’t believe that,” she said.

  He stiffened, eying her. “That is irrelevant.”

  “Not to the law.”

  “This isn’t a court.”

  “No,” Tawny said agreeably. “This is the field.”

  The consul forced away a grin, made an intrigued grunt. “Are you threatening action?”

  “Forcing truth.”

  Ben looked down, started to sweat.

  The consul inhaled slowly. “Go on.”

  Tawny continued, “The logs will show we’ve been to Dakorrah’Bha several times. We’ve never experienced such protocol.”

  The consul said, “New protocol.”

  “Random check, then?” she said.

  The consul pulled away and took a more open position, facing them both. “Your identification,” he said, “fits with our newly implemented scanning procedure.”

  “Huh,” she said. “And the problem is?”

  “The Confederation rolled it out very recently. No independent has yet to upgrade to it.” He leaned his brow forward deepening the shadows around his eyes and said, “You’re the first.”

  “Since when did efficiency cause a detainment?” Tawny said.

  The consul murmured stepping toward Ben, scanning him with his eyes. “It’s almost too efficient, isn’t it?”

  “Meaning what?” Tawny asked.

  The consul paced around Ben with slow, decisive steps, racking his nerves. “It’s almost as if you had received this identification load from an inside source, perhaps to hide a false transmission.”

  Ben kept his mouth shut.

  Tawny’s eyes went to the security team, sliding her hand down to her belt. She could take out half of them. If Benji was quick enough to follow her lead, he could take out the other half.

  Maybe…

  Of course then it would be a hot burn on the inner-warp engines, lickity split.

  A comm device blipped. Consul Troicka stopped pacing and lifted his hand, speaking into the inside of his wrist. “Consul Troicka.”

  “Sir, we’ve run the logs transmission. It appears to be clean.”

  His lips tightened, disappointed. He asked, “Where does it say Captain Standish was born?”

  A pause, then, “Golot Major, sir.”

  “Any strict affiliation?”

  “We scanned his known history. Only with the Guild, sir. No mention of the Imperium.”

  His eyes sharked across Ben looking for one final lie. He said, “How many times have they been to Dekorrah?”

  “It says… seven times over four years, universal, sir.”

  Consul Troicka inhaled a large breath very dissatisfied, yet his hands were tied. They were legitimate freight haulers with business on the moon Chiat, Golothan-born or otherwise.

  “I see.” He lowered his wrist, looked at them severely. “Proceed to Chiat. Your course has been reviewed. Do not deviate,” he said as if to choke on a brick of pride. Giving Tawny one last look, he turned to his security staff and marched them out. Once the airlock shut behind him, Ben and Tawny shared a massive sigh of relief.

  “Believe it or not,” Ben said, “it looks like maybe Sympto was a little too good at his job.”

  “Well, shoot. No vacuum splatting, then,” she said.

  A huge sigh came over REX’s comm system and he said, “Can we go now, please?”

  Chapter Eleven

  They boosted into a high orbit around Dekorrah’Bha. Its marble blue horizons turned a brilliant red as the Wi’ahr sunset greeted them. The moon Chiat came into view. Chiat had once suffered an ancient galactic cataclysm that sent chunks of it off into their own orbits around the planet giving Dekorrah’Bha hundreds of tiny satellites. Her night skies were littered with brightly twinkling objects, bigger than stars, smaller than moons.

  They also served as places of commerce where tiny outposts conducted their own private business. Norg’s was on one of the outermost asteroid-moons—outer landing. It was very secluded, very private. Perfect for a guy like Norg.

  “Hailing Norg’s Parts Depot,” Tawny said. They waited. Nothing came back at first. “Hailing Norg’s Parts De—”

  The long, slow drawl of Norg’s voice cut her off, “Is that who I think it is?” His face holoformed into existence, eyes blinking and searching around. He had a tortoise’s beaked skull that always frowned. His bulging yellow eyes blinked from lower eyelids and would have looked severe had they not beamed at them from behind a pair of comically large goggles. The pale yellow spots of his face had all begun to run together with age. They didn’t know how old Norg was, but assumed he was somewhere between five and six hundred y
ears. He said in the typically elongated words of his race, “I believe it is who I think it is. Benjar and Tawny? Well, I’ll be a Molosian unkie’s muncle!”

  Another greeting from Norg. It made them both laugh. Ben waved and said, “Hello, Norg.”

  “Don’t you hello me,” he snapped back waving a tri-fingered hand at them. “The time for that has long past. You should have relayed ahead. I am ill-prepared for guests of your stature.”

  “You know that’s not necessary.”

  “Well, it’s at your peril. You know my price for business,” he warned.

  Ben and Tawny nodded mutually. Norg’s price was clear. If they ever stopped by his lunar hut he’d give them anything from his yard they wanted. But it meant a visitation. No exceptions.

  “Now listen, Norg,” Ben said, “we’re paying you for parts. We’re talking good old yield, this time.”

  “Oh no you’re damn well not!” he declared. “Has my humble abode become off limits? Have you joined the Imperium echelon or standardized me off your docket?”

  Tawny said with a smile, “You know we would never do such a thing.”

  “Then pick what you will from the yard and get your edible humanoid hind ends down here, damn ya!”

  No arguments.

  They both said, “Yes, Norg.”

  They scooted through a sector of rotating rock before coming up on Norg’s outer landing. His home was a large, misshapen asteroid that housed his hermetic environment, a string of igloo-style quarters attached via a main tunnel. There was a collection of gravimetric towers that controlled the slowly swirling sea of space garbage encompassing the asteroid. Debris stretched for as far as the eye could see—wrecked landers, decaying cargo haulers, pieces of orbiter stations, and a sea of parts, pieces and chunks of stuff—all gracefully spinning around Norg’s home. A dilapidating Confederation military vessel pirouetted slowly with its primary and secondary batteries missing. An Omicron passenger shuttle with its innards exposed to space orbited in a gentle end-over-end flip-about. It was sheer tonnage that had been picked clean by visitors to Norg’s junkyard.