by Tom Dublin
8
ICS Fortitude, Level Three, Rear Storage Unit
The four crew members approached the open doorway to the storage unit as quietly as they could. The lights were off inside and, beyond the vague mountain-range shape of towering stacks of non-perishable food, nothing was visible.
Tc'aarlat pressed a hand to Draven's chest, his mandibles crossing.
"I'll handle this," he mouthed.
Draven smiled and shrugged. Satisfied, the Yollin nodded at Jack and Adina confidently and took a step toward the open door.
"You in there…stowaway" he began sternly. "Come out slowly with your hands in the air and no one needs to get hurt!"
As he finished speaking, a large can of chopped tomatoes came sailing out of the darkness and struck Tc'aarlat in the right eye.
The Yollin staggered backward with his hands clamped to his face. "Shitting ass-bastard sacks of crap!" he thundered, stomping back and forth.
Adina darted to his aid as Jack and Draven shared a look of concern and took up positions on either side of the storage unit's entrance.
"My name is Captain Jack Marber," Jack called out. "It's OK, you're not in any trouble—"
"Yes, she fucking is!" growled Tc'aarlat.
"You're not," Jack insisted. "We just want to talk to you, that's all."
There was a sudden thud from inside the unit, causing Tc'aarlat to take an involuntary step back.
But no reply.
"Hello?" called Draven. "Are you by yourself in there? Besides all the boxes of food, I mean."
Silence.
Adina took a deep breath and stepped up to the doorway, in clear view of whoever was hiding inside.
"What's your name?" she asked, calmly. "I'm Adina. Adina Choudhury."
For a moment, nothing, then...
"Callis."
The voice was young, female, and scared.
Adina smiled.
"Hi, Callis," she replied. "That was a pretty good shot with the tomatoes just now."
"What the fu—" Adina's glare cut off Tc'aarlat's protest.
"I can tell you're able to take care of yourself," she continued. "And that's good. It really is."
Silence again.
Adina flicked an uncertain glance in Jack's direction. He nodded, urging her to continue.
She took a deep breath.
"I can't imagine what those slave traders must have done to you," Adina offered. "But it was wrong. Very wrong. That's why we came to help you and your friends."
"They weren't my friends," replied the girl. "They were just a bunch of little kids."
Draven gave Adina a thumbs-up. Tc'aarlat continued to pace behind her, wincing each time he blinked.
"I saw that, Callis," Adina agreed. "They were all scared. I bet they were glad they had you around to protect them."
Back to silence.
"I certainly would have been."
A beat, then...
"I should have killed them. I was going to kill them."
Adina spotted movement in the shadows of the unlit room and took another step forward.
"I'm sorry if we spoiled that for you," she said. "It would have been useful to have you on our team."
Back to silence.
"You must be hungry," remarked Adina. "Are you?"
"There's a big piece of chocolate cake in the galley," she added. "Jack won it in the gun battle when we found you, but I'm sure he'd be happy to share it if you'd like some."
A thin dark-skinned teenage girl with matted black hair and red-ringed eyes appeared in the doorway of the storage room. She wore a stained hand-stitched singlet and mismatched scuffed shoes.
Jack and Draven held their respective breaths. Tc'aarlat stopped pacing and turned to look at her.
Adina smiled and reached toward the teen. "It's going to be okay."
Moon of Hann, Red Light District
Mildew Fester leaned heavily on a battered old walking cane as he led Vimor Malfic and Nerk Wassel up the narrow staircase toward the second-floor apartment door.
He pulled a jangling bunch of keys from a clip on his belt and opened the door’s six separate locks, then silently gestured for the two men to follow as he stepped inside.
The interior of the apartment was a stark contrast to the bright lights and neon glitz of the street below. Low-wattage bulbs did their best to pierce the dreary gloom, but they were fighting a losing battle.
Paisley-patterned paper peeled from the walls, the edges dangling over a torn lounge suite whose faded brown upholstery clashed with a carpet which may possibly have featured a green and orange pattern in some former life. Now it was difficult to tell where the stains ended and design began.
Fester slumped into a battered armchair, sending up a mushroom cloud of dust. He reached for a near-empty bottle of some undefined gray liquor and poured a shot into a grubby coffee cup.
"You wanna drink?" he wheezed, cradling the cup in his ink-stained fingers.
Vimor Malfic shook his head, not bothering to extend the invitation to his hostage.
Wassel perched on the edge of the couch, his eyes flicking from one towering pile of aging papers to the next. Between these stacks sat crumpled grocery-store boxes overflowing with electrical gadgets, tangled power cords, and an assortment of outdated computer components.
Vimor remained standing, waiting patiently until their host had finished slurping at his drink. "You get what I asked for?"
Fester nodded, wincing as the alcohol burned his throat. "Most of it," he wheezed, setting the cup down and pouring the last dregs from the bottle.
After shaking it to ensure every last drop of the grim liquid escaped its container he lowered the bottle to the floor beside his chair, where it clattered against a collection of similarly drained brothers and sisters.
"I take it your little friend got the chip I made past security," Mildew commented, gazing up at Malfic. The villain's vast frame seemed to fill any empty space in the room, his thick, dark curled hair brushing the peeling paint of the ceiling.
"She sure did." Malfic laughed darkly. "I had a real fun time extracting that from her."
Mildew Fester made an attempt to join the felon's amusement by smiling, although it was like no smile Nerk Wassel had ever witnessed.
The few teeth Fester still retained ownership of were the color of dark mustard, interspersed with two which were so rotten and black they only became visible when they rattled against the off-white ceramic of his coffee cup.
"What about him?" Fester asked with a frown.
Vimor Malfic turned to glare down at Wassel as though he had only just remembered the guard was there. "I needed collateral," he growled. "Once I've got everything I'll slit his throat."
Wassel's eyes grew wide in alarm. "What, don't I get a say in this?"
Malfic growled deep in the back of his throat. "Shut it!"
His impending fate sinking in, Wassel watched as Mildew Fester climbed unsteadily to his feet using his cane for support. The old man opened the door of an ancient wardrobe and took a thick envelope from the top shelf.
"Local currency, identity papers, and immigration visas for any of the five planets of the Ordanian Hub," he said, handing over the package.
Malfic slid out the forged ID card and read the name stamped on the surface. "Crispin Cottingly?" he queried. "Do I look like a fucking 'Crispin' to you?"
Fester shrugged and turned back to the wardrobe. "There were only two tourist deaths on Hann in the past week," he explained. "It was either that or Dorothy Spunge."
Sneering, Malfic tucked the paperwork away and took a cracked leather gym bag and a wash kit from his decrepit colleague.
"Bathroom's that way." Fester jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
Vimor Malfic fired a threatening stare in Wassel's direction and made for a door in the far wall. "Stay!"
"Hey, I'm not some kind of pet!" countered Wassel as Malfic left the room, keeping his voice low enough to ensure he wasn’t heard.<
br />
Once the bathroom door closed he spun to face Mildew Fester. "Look, I'm just a lowly prison guard. No one important. Malfic's free now; I'll only hold him up. What say you just let me slip out when your back's turned, huh? I'll make it worth your while..."
Fester appeared to consider the guard's offer for a moment, then he reached down the side of the cushion on his chair and produced a scuffed pistol, which he aimed at Wassel's chest. Hand trembling, the old man raised his thumb and pulled back the hammer.
"He told you to stay."
Half an hour later Malfic emerged from the bathroom looking like a different person.
He had shaved his beard, revealing a strong, square jaw studded with ancient scars. And the shearing hadn't stopped there. The felon had shaved his head completely bald.
The effect was as horrifying as it was dramatic. Nerk Wassel wouldn’t have imagined his kidnapper could look any scarier, but this was a whole new level of terror.
It looked as though someone had taken a razor to a four-hundred-pound gorilla.
The resemblance wasn't helped by the cheap nylon business suit Malfic had barely managed to squeeze himself into. The silver material bulged, threatening to launch the two brave buttons that had undertaken the thankless task of keeping the jacket closed at some unsuspecting citizen.
The shirt collar had no hope of completely circling the escapee's tree-trunk-thick neck, so he had left it open and loosely knotted a bright red tie sporting pictures of what appeared to be penguins—but could just as easily be tiny nuns—like some kind of slender scarf.
Clearly whatever shoes Fester had procured had been too small for his client's immense feet, because he still wore his prison-issue slip-on sneakers.
"Did you find the guns?" asked Fester.
Malfic snatched up the gym bag and pulled out two sleek black weapons, both much more modern and sophisticated than the revolver Mildew Fester was now tucking back down the side of his seat.
When he pressed the pad of his index finger against the trigger of one of the blasters, a slender beam of laser light shot out from the gun's optical sight. Malfic aimed the glowing red dot at the middle of Wassel's now sweat-coated forehead, his upper lip curled into a shit-eating grin.
"Each one fires an ionized torus of super-heated plasma at its intended target," explained Fester, rummaging among his collection of liquor bottles for one with a few remaining drops nestled at the bottom. "You can set 'em to auto-repeat short bursts or simply produce a solid stream, depending on the composition and design of your target's armor."
Satisfied, Malfic released the trigger and switched off the laser guide. Nerk Wassel began to breathe again.
He tucked the pair of guns into the gym bag. "What about a ship?" he rumbled. "The piss-poor police shuttle I stole can't travel through interplanetary space. I need something bigger and more powerful."
"That's the only area where I was forced to compromise," responded Fester. "My usual guy was picked up last weekend for dealing in stolen warp drives and all his vehicles were impounded."
"So, what now?"
"I know another guy," said Fester, plunging a hand into his trouser pocket and pulling out a creased business card. He handed it over. "Zalah Gilt. He's a gaming floor manager at the Blue Diamond Casino over on Victory Boulevard. His ships are more expensive, but they're fast and virtually untraceable."
Malfic scowled. "Virtually untraceable?"
"He has his crew steal them from habitual gamblers." Mildew Fester shrugged. "Tells 'em they lost their pride and joy on the turn of a card while blasted on hard liquor. Those who doubt him are usually too embarrassed to go to the authorities, but there's always the exception to the rule."
Vimor Malfic grunted his understanding. Swinging the gym bag over his shoulder, he turned for the stairs leading down to the street.
"What about him?"
Malfic turned back to find Fester scowling at Nerk Wassel.
"You're not leaving him here."
"OK," Malfic snarled, then sighed. "But I can't have him trailing round after me dressed like that."
Wassel looked down at his gray guard uniform, then back up as Fester pushed himself out of the armchair and opened the wardrobe again. The old man ran his gnarled fingers along a row of hangers holding an entire rainbow's worth of brightly-colored outfits.
"Anything from the second rail and be quick about it."
Moon of Hann, Blue Diamond Casino, Gaming Floor
Lowlon Quell threw his head back and tossed another complimentary shot of Torcellan vodka down his throat.
The croupier ran a fresh deck of cards through her automatic shuffler and slotted them into the dealer's shoe, keeping one eye on her now-inebriated customer and the other on the location of the nearest waiter.
As instructed, she was keeping the supply of free drinks flowing, gradually wearing down Quell's ability to concentrate and ensuring he lost another chunk of his earlier winnings with each successive hand.
"Dealing," announced Nat as she slid cards for the table's three players from the mouth of the shoe. "Place your bets."
Lowlon Quell raised a hand and tried his best to focus on her. "Not f'me thisss time, Natty," he slurred, the heel of his boot clanging against the table's footrest as he made an attempt to climb down from his stool. "I need t'going home."
Nat glanced nervously at the window in the casino owner's office, doing her best not to react when her suspicion that she was being watched was confirmed. "Come on, Lowlon!" she cooed seductively. "The night is young. There's still time to win even more..."
She handed over Quell's final card and gently stroked her fingertips over the back of his hand, ignoring the sudden knot of guilt building inside her chest.
"And I get off work in a couple of hours, you know."
Lowlon Quell blinked hard, flashing an innocent smile to all three of the croupier’s faces as they swam about in his field of vision. Pausing to blow the conflicted croupier a kiss, he slid a stack of yellow chips across the soft surface of the table.
"Ten thousssand on making twenty-eight exxxactly!"
9
ICS Fortitude, Galley
Jack stood near the sink watching Adina and the teen stowaway Callis devour what remained of the crew's chocolate cake.
Adina wasn't able to get more than a few mouthfuls before the dessert was gone.
Tc'aarlat pressed an icepack against his throbbing eye and grunted. "For someone who's been living in one of our food storage units she can sure put it away."
"Nearly all of that unit is canned food," Jack reminded him. "Unless she has a stealth can-opener secreted somewhere, I doubt she's been able to eat very much at all."
"Well, she's making up for it now."
"Could you grab the slices of bistok shoulder from the cooler?" Adina called.
"Sure," Jack said, reaching for the refrigerator door. "We've still got some of that bird with the unpronounceable name we picked up on Alma Nine as well. The one that tastes like fried chicken. Want that, too?"
Adina looked at Callis, eyebrows raised.
"Yes, please," replied the teenager through a mouthful of cake.
Mandibles twitching, Tc'aarlat joined Jack as he searched the shelves of the refrigerator. "We'll have to find somewhere to drop her off before she eats us out of ship and home!"
Jack grabbed two platters of meat and closed the cooler door with his elbow. "She's hungry!" he responded. "You would be too if you'd just spent the past however-many years living on slave rations."
"Doesn't mean it's our job to feed her up again!" the Yollin grumbled.
Jack slid the platters onto the table and sat in one of the free chairs. "How old are you, Callis?"
The girl stopped chewing for a second, her eyes flicking from Jack to Adina.
"It's OK," said Adina gently, reaching out to take Callis' hand. "Jack's our captain. He'll do everything he can to protect you."
Jack nodded. "We all will," he promised, looking to wh
ere Tc'aarlat was standing. "Won't we?"
The Yollin sighed, lifted the icepack from his eye, and gently probed at the bruised area with his fingertips. "Yes, of course."
"I'm seventeen," replied Callis softly. "At least I think I am. It was hard to keep track of the time while I was..." Her voice trailed away.
"How long were you with the slavers?" Adina asked.
"They took me when I was six," Callis replied. She set down her fork, eyes gazing into some unknown distance. "And not just me. They took all the children from my village."
"We returned those children to their homes again," Tc'aarlat pointed out. "Or at least everyone we could find. Any idea why your family wasn't there to collect you?"
Callis didn't speak for a moment.
"They were," she replied quietly.
Jack exchanged a concerned glance with Adina and Tc'aarlat. "Your parents were waiting at the meeting point? You saw them?"
The teen nodded, silent.
Adina took the teenager's hand again and squeezed. "Then why didn't you go with them? Why didn't you go home?"
Callis' eyes grew wet with tears. "When the slavers came they raided our houses, looking for children and attacking anyone who stood in their way. Many parents were badly injured or even killed as they tried desperately to protect their young ones. But not my parents..."
"They didn't try to stop you from being taken?" asked Adina.
"No," hissed Callis with a small shake of her head. "They offered me to those bastards. They sold me to them!"
Jack sat back in his chair. "I'm sorry."
"Please don't take me back there," Callis pleaded. "I don't ever want to see them again. I'd rather be back with the slavers than that."
"We won't," Jack promised. "We'll find somewhere safe for you."
"Easy to say," Tc'aarlat commented, "but where? We've still got to drop His Royal Gorgeousness off. Speaking of which, where is he?"
"Up on the bridge," said Jack. "He's been going through the files Nathan sent for this mission."
Tc'aarlat's mandibles tapped together angrily. "What? That's need-to-know information for the Shadows' eyes only! Loose nips sink ships, Jack!"