by Chris Lowry
“What’s that?”
“Hootch,” Tinker crowed with pride.
“Hootch?”
“I made moonshine on the trip over here,” he said as he reached for the flask.
The thug pulled it back and unscrewed the cap. He sniffed it and made a face, and shrugged in Banner’s general direction.
“Any good?” Banner asked.
“I’ll drink it first,” said Tinker. “You can have what’s left.”
He wiggled his other arm loose and pulled a cigar out of the other inside pocket.
“One last smoke and drink before you put me in there, okay?”
He fumbled a jar out of another pocket.
“Look, you can have the rest before I go.”
Banner nodded to the thugs.
The one on the left passed the flask back to Tinker. He tipped it up, took a sip, awkward with the cigar in his hand. He chomped the end in his mouth, passed the flask back.
It tumbled out of his hands and spilled across the thugs shoes.
“Sorry,” Tinker apologized around the clenched tip of the cigar in his teeth.
He fished a match out of his jacket and tried to light it with his thumb tip, just like he’d seen the cool guy do in the bar.
The match head flared with a flash.
The flame burned his skin. Tinker yelped and flinched. The match sailed end over end and landed on the guard’s soaked shoes.
The moonshined caught fire, blue orange flame dancing across the spilled liquid on the deck and on the legs of the thug.
The man barked out a hoarse yell, danced back from Tinker.
The move knocked the jar of moonshine loose.
It crashed to the deck and exploded on the metal under the thug on the right.
The man had enough time to stumble back before the puddle reached the flames and fire raced across the floor and enveloped his legs.
Both men screamed and shrieked, bouncing around in the flames, splashing drops of flaming moonshine across the deck as they tried to pound out the fire on their legs.
Banner took a couple of steps back, his mouth open in a circle of surprise.
Tinker leaped over the trail of flames that blocked the airlock door and paused beside Banner.
“Oh shit,” he said. “Sorry about that.”
The thug on the left bent down to the beat his burning pants with his hands. His shirtsleeves caught on fire.
He reached out with arms afire, lumbered toward Banner like an old earth zombie. His mouth worked out moans and short screams as the flames spread up his arms toward his face.
“Son of a bitch!” Banner grabbed
Tinker and tried to shove him in front of his flaming former muscle man.
His hands dislodged a second jar from inside the coat. The top twisted off, spreading moonshine down the lower part of Banner’s shirt and pants.
Tinker skipped back as Banner stared in horror at the potential disaster wetting the front of him.
“Stay back!” he screamed.
The thug moaned.
His counterpart sagged against the air lock door.
“Fire!” he rasped in the same low gravely voice that sounded a lot like the first guards.
His thick fingers punched at the metal next to the panel to open the airlock. It was the only way to fight fire on a space station. If the automatic fire suppression system didn’t work immediately, protocol dictated opening an airlock and robbing the fire of precious oxygen.
Tinker got it.
The guy was going to pop them all into space. Fire, boss and all.
He turned and ran back up the corridor.
The smell of cooking flesh, the crackle of flames and the screams of panicked men followed him.
He searched for an emergency bulkhead panel to seal off the passage. They were standard on new space station construction, so that a portion could be sealed off in case of an emergency or just to provide some privacy.
Even older stations had them, or they
were installed post construction because in space, everything outside the walls of the station could kill you.
Except Banner must have modified his little chop shop, because Tink couldn’t see a damn panel.
Couldn’t see a damn bulkhead or emergency door.
Which meant if he didn’t hurry, he could end up finding out about the kernel of new planets.
He really didn’t want to be a planet.
He wanted a drink.
And to be faster.
He poured on speed and heard the sound of pounding footsteps echoing after him.
Tinker glanced over his shoulder.
He couldn’t see anyone, but he could see an orang-ish glow against the corridor walls.
As if someone on fire was chasing him.
Which didn’t sound appealing either.
He ran faster.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tinker reached the panel to the NC 17, reached inside the opening and yanked out the wires to finish the job of bypassing the electronic lock and opening the access.
It was hard to think as the pounding steps drew closer.
He pressed the two red wires together to complete a circuit and sparked the blue one against the metal edge frame.
The door began to whisk open when the power on the station failed.
“Shit,” Tinker snapped.
The orange glow of what he assumed was a burning man grew brighter.
Tinker threw his shoulder against the opening and tried to shove it wider. The door wouldn’t budge.
He angled his leg through the opening, pushed his left shoulder in. His chest got stuck.
Banner rounded the corner, pounded toward him. His eyes were burning with madness, even as flames roared on his pants, the back of his coat.
“Kill you!” he bellowed and lunged.
Tinker sucked in his gut, shoved and left a few layers of skin from his chest and back on the edges even though he was wearing a jacket.
The last jar of shine fell from his coat and exploded on the deck under Banner as the criminal grasped at Tinker through the door opening.
In a second, the flames flashed across the opening, blocking the door, but not the view of the burning man or his howls of rage and agony.
Tinker darted to the airlock of the NC 17 and keyed in an access sequence.
He sealed the door behind him and stumbled into the narrow pilot’s seat, fingers working across the console to fire up the engines. He didn’t know how much time he had.
The station could blow, and take him with it. Flames could spread across his ship, cook him inside.
Or a tiny piece of shrapnel could be turned into a lethal bullet that could punch a hole in the side of his ship, break the integrity of the hull and turn it into a giant floating coffin.
All of the horrible thoughts raced through his mind even as he worked the release and launch orders.
He couldn’t wait, fired the retro engines to steer the vessel away from the station. It crawled through space, a ponderous speed that felt like a snail’s pace.
Tinker watched the station slip by outside on his view screen. There was still a lot of it.
Proximity alarms blared, telling him he was still too close, but he ignored them, using small blasts of compressed air to steer.
The communicator button beeped.
He ignored it too, and bit back a yelp of surprise when Banner appeared on the screen. Half his face was burned pink and black, the hair gone. His lips were gone, showing his teeth.
“You’ve looked better,” Tinker barked as he kept working to bring up power to launch.
“When we bring in the ships,” the voice of the burned man sounded distorted due to the missing flesh. “We install overrides on the systems.”
Tinker thought the man was smiling. It was hard to tell with half his face a burned mess.
The computer began shutting down. The NC 17 started drifting in space, the controls non-responsive.
�
�I’m going to bring you in here and I’m going to kill you. Slow,” Banner promised.
The other end of the station erupted in a geyser of flames that sent pieces and parts in an expanding cloud of smoke and debris.
Banner looked back over his shoulder at something Tinker couldn’t see.
The rest of the station followed as flames raced up the chop shop corridors.
The picture on the communicator disappeared, leaving just the memory of the horrible scarred visage in Tinker’s mind.
He really wanted a drink then.
The wave of compressed air washed over his ship and sent it tumbling out of control.
It rolled and twisted.
Tinker cringed and flinched at every ding, ping and loud splat that could mean the end of him.
Then it was gone and he was left with just the thrush rush of his racing heart in his ears.
He reached out and put his fingers on the keyboard, just to be sure.
When nothing happened, he tapped on the key and began typing in the launch codes.
It took a few moments, but he brought all systems online and turned the view screen toward the space station.
Or at least where the space station had been. It was a cloud of floating junk now.
Tinker took a deep breath and breathed out.
He patted his pockets, but the flask was gone, the jars were gone and he was dry.
“Crap,” he sighed.
It was a long ride back to the nearest station, but at least he had his ship back.
He could use the time to do an inspection, check what was wrong, check what was missing, what would need adjusting and changing.
A flash on the view screen caught his eye and he tapped in a command to zoom and center.
Letch’s ship drifted away from the cloud of debris, loose in space.
“Would you believe the luck,” he said to no one in particular as he steered the NC 17 toward the adrift ship.
He angled toward the vessel and engaged a tractor beam. It locked on the nose cone of the ship and dragged it in line with the other.
He felt a tug and momentary surge in the engines as they compensated for the increased weight, but the automatic formulations adjusted and soon he reached cruising speed with the second boat in tow.
Tinker kicked back and put his boots on the console. He took a sniff.
His clothes smelled like a night out on a town, smoke and alcohol and the sweet smell of cooked meat permeated the fabric. He wanted a shower and a nap, but both could wait for just a few more minutes.
He’d have to find a guy who would buy the derelict ship, but he knew who to ask. That gangster that worked for Mr. Kim would probably know somebody who would give him a good price.
He could fuel up with new cells, buy equipment to install his own moonshine still and probably have enough left over for more than a few visits to his favorite brothels.
“Not a bad haul,” he said out loud. “I could get used to this.”
He settled back and watched the stars whisk by on the screen as he smiled.
THE END
Want to read another adventure with Tinker?
Grab your copy of LUNAR HUSTLE.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I don’t normally write the end because there are more adventures to be read, so there is usually a link to the next book. You’ll find that at the end of this, so don’t worry.
But I wanted to say thank you. I wrote the first Dipole Shield book about the adventures of Tinker, Mona Lisa, Bat and Junebug where I introduced them to the galaxy as they tried to save Mars. A lot of people said it was like Firefly meets Guardian of the Galaxy, which flattered me. I am a huge fan of Firefly, but hadn’t seen GOTG until this year. But smart ass pilots who are more lucky than skilled fascinate me. Tinker was supposed to be a poor man’s Han Solo, obsessed with unrequited lust and just smart enough to survive, even if he had streaks of bad luck. Turns out, he’s got a few stories to share.
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OPERATIVE – a Brill Winger Thriller
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CHOKEPOINT – a Brill Winger Thriller
DECREED - a Brill Winger Thriller
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