Star Runners

by Clayton J Callahan

  Then the conventioneers demanded a top-off on their drinks. One of them asked what a boilermaker was and the next thing she knew they were all ordering them. With a shrug, she tapped the order into her pad and swiped it into the “order” column on the left side of the screen. The price or the drinks appeared on the right under “payment” and would only clear when the customers paid up. And while she was still in the middle of that, a mercenary at table-three waved at her and shouted, “Hey, how about a soft drink over here?”

  She taped her styles to the data pad and shouted to the soldier, “I’ll get it right to you, sir. Just let me take care of these folks first.”

  “Little lady, please, don’t call me ‘sir.’ I work for a living.”

  Jezebel rolled her eyes. “Funny thing, buddy, me too.” She looked around the room and did a quick assessment. “I have one other customer who ordered before you; then I’ll get you that soft drink, all right?”

  The soldier nodded. “Outstanding.”

  Rushing her way back to the counter, she got table nine’s order and a soft drink, swung around and marched upon table-nine at a trot. Smiling sweetly at Chris Buckman, she said, “Here you go, Mister, one Hot Screw.”

  He smiled at her and gave her a licentious little wink.

  Jezebel smiled back and let her eyes linger on the man as he raised the glass to his lips. She returned his wink only when the hot blend of wood alcohol and spices exploded in his throat.

  “Ha! Ha! Ha! Haaaaaaaa! What the hell was that?” he demanded.

  “Your Hot Screw, mister. Would you like some water?”

  “Haaa! Yes. Ha, ha, ha.”

  She took the empty shot glass. “Sure thing, just as soon as I take a quick order to another table, I’ll get right on it.”

  Feeling in no rush whatsoever, Jezebel made it to table-three in an easy glide.

  There, two mercenaries sat at that rectangular table facing the same direction. An empty chair was positioned across from them and, presumably, would soon seat some wanna’-be-Marauder.

  “Here’s your soft drink, soldier.”

  He took the glass and smiled. “Sergeant McGowan. Folks call me Goon. And thanks, lady.”

  She returned the smile. “Jezebel and folks call me Jez. No beer tonight fellows?”

  The soldier next to Goon answered. “No, Miss, we need to keep straight while we do these interviews.” He shuffled some data forms and passkeys, slid them to Goon and said to Jezebel, “Thank you anyway.” Addressing Goon, he said, “Change in plans, Sergeant.”

  “What is it, this time, LT?”

  “We’re lifting off in the morning. So each recruit we hire gets a temporary passkey tonight and will be assigned a bunk. I want…”

  Jezebel didn’t have time or inclination to find out what the lead soldier wanted. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted some more customers approaching table-one. Rushing there, she took the order of four guys with thick Earth accents. They all had some bank logo on their blue shirts and were looking through a file on some starship.

  The taller one spoke up for the group. “Just beer, lady. Four beers and hurry, okay?”

  “Sure,” Jezebel replied. “Any kind of beer in particular?”

  A short, heavyset one shrugged. “You have Rocket Fuel?”

  “Four Rocket Fuels, coming up.”

  As she took their order to the counter, she saw the couple at table-five leaving with the brunette. She glanced at the payment column of her datapad, confirmed her suspicion, and took off after them.

  “That will be thirty-three credits, please.”

  The man turned to face her. “What?”

  “Your bill,” Jezebel, pressed, “is thirty-three credits.”

  He looked sheepish. “Oh, uh…sorry. I guess I was a bit distracted.”

  She took his money, but the cheap jerk didn’t tip, and she secretly hoped he got a nasty kind of disease from his upcoming escapade. Then it was off to the bar, a quick bump of the data pad dropped the money electronically into the console, and it was back to table-one to deliver the beers where the guys in blue shirts were still talking as they passed around the file.

  “…hasn’t made a payment in two years. We got it legally by every Confederation world spinning,” the tall one was saying.

  “I know, Quan, I know.” The heavyset guy replied. “But this ain’t a Confed’ planet.”

  Jezebel placed the cold glasses of Rocket Fuel before them while they ignored her completely.

  The tall one, Quan, shook his head. “Ralph, relax, okay. The Tortugan cops don’t give a shit. And besides, once we have the Starskipper in orbit, we’re free and clear of any dirt-side jurisdiction.”

  Jezebel suddenly froze holding the empty serving tray with a death grip in her left hand.

  “Lady?” the heavy one called Ralph asked.

  Quan was not so nice. “Hey, sister, private conversation. Beat it.”

  “Sorry,” Jezebel replied. “I was just…distracted.”

  She walked away and headed straight for the bathroom. The lady’s was occupied, so she went into the men’s. Locking the door behind her, she rushed to the sink and splashed water on her face. “Take a breath, girlfriend. It will be okay.”

  So, Bob hadn’t made a payment in two years, and now the bank boys had found him just when he learned where his wife is. Well, she thought, that’s great. “Now, what do I do?”

  Considering her options only took a moment. If she warned Bob, that wouldn’t work. The repo crew would see him leave the table and would simply rush out to beat him to his ship. If Bob got to his ship at the same time they did, he’d only get the crap kicked out of him right there on the docking pad—and then they would take his ship anyway. Calling the law would do no damn good. Tortuga had a tiny constable force, but it never got involved in off-worlder business. She’d like to slip a “Mickey” into repo guys drinks like they do in holo shows, but she was a waitress, not a pharmacist, and drugs like that weren’t kept on hand in the real world.

  She leaned into the mirror. “Girlfriend, you’re just going to have to figure something out as you go.”

  Stepping out of the men’s room; she bumped into a burly fellow in Confed’ surplus camouflage. The dude staggered back and said, “Hey!”

  “Oops, sorry, sir,” she said.

  He smiled at her. Obviously, this lug was in a good mood, and a little thing like this wasn’t going to break his stride. “It’s fine, sweetheart. I ain’t made of sugar.” The man bent down to pick a ship’s passkey off the floor.

  “Got a new job?” she asked.

  “Yep! I’d celebrate with you sweetie, but our cruiser leaves in the morning, and I need to get my gear onboard.”

  “Good luck.” Jezebel slid around him and went back to the bar counsel.

  “Jez, where you been?” Carlos demanded. “We got a couple of Russians heavies at table-six who want to pay up and leave.”

  “I’m on it, Carlos.” She dropped her serving tray off at the bar and marched off to table-six, datapad in hand. The surly Russians didn’t tip. She shrugged, walked back to the consul, bumped her datapad to download the credits, and then looked around to see what table needed her attention next.

  There was that writer's group at table-ten, but they were no problem—stale sandwiches sat untouched by their elbows. The dweebs were too engrossed in their computers to want her interrupting them anyway. The Conventioneers at table-two were already done in by the Boilermakers. They were now drunkenly slapping each other on the back, happily singing some geeky tune in the key of “off.”

  Table-nine’s space captain had left the Darkstar entirely without getting his water. Maybe the little turd paid Carlos at the bar as he left, but Jezebel doubted it. Buckman’s order would, therefore, come out of her pay. She glanced at her datapad. Sure enough, the price of a Hot Screw was flashing in red in the payment column.

  She let out a sigh. “Shit…Oh well, worth it.”

  At table-thre
e, Sergeant Goon and his associate, LT, were interviewing a young fatigue-clad lady who wore enough knives on her belt to start a cutlery shop. Noticing Goon’s glass was empty, she got some fresh soft drinks and served the soldiers.

  “No, we ain’t telling where we’re going,” Goon was saying. “All you need to know is we lift off at 06:30 tomorrow morning. That passkey we gave you will let you onboard, and your face will appear on the guard’s data pads so they know you’re authorized access.”

  LT smirked. “You wouldn’t want to know what would happen if you’re not authorized, private.”

  “Uh, I’d lose the job?”

  “No,” Goon said. “We ain’t got no law on Tarkan so on planets like this we tend to take security pretty seriously.”

  “Basically, if the troops on duty think you're trying to get unauthorized access they have orders to capture or kill as necessary,” LT added. “Now, do you have any more questions?”

  The lady with the knives shook her head. “Just happy to have a job again. Thank you, Lieutenant. And thank you, Sergeant.”

  LT nodded. “Don’t thank me yet. Wait till the mission is over.”

  The recruit rose, shook hands with her superiors, did a smart “about-face” and marched from the table a happy new private in Mulliter’s Marauders.

  The sergeant turned to Jezebel. “Thanks for the soft drinks, Miss. My throat’s getting parched.”

  “You’re welcome, Goon.” Once more scanning the room, she looked for customers needing attention. Nothing was popping up at the moment, only Bob, drinking coffee all alone while gazing out the big picture window. She went to the bar, got a fresh pot of joe, and took it to table-eleven. “Hi, Bob. Need a top off?”

  “Sure thing, Jez.” He held out his mug, and she filled it. He didn’t say anything after that, simply went back to staring at the ships coming and going. Jezebel let her eyes follow his. She could see the Starskipper on a pad to her right—hoses connecting it to tanker trucks.

  “How much longer ‘till she’s ready to fly, Bob?”

  He looked at his timepiece. “Oh, another twenty minutes or so. Maybe Irene will be with me next time I’m here, ay, Jez?” His smile widened. “Irene with me at the Darkstar. Wouldn’t that be great?”

  “Yeah, Bob. Great.”

  She whipped out her table rag as an excuse to hang out with Bob for a moment longer. There was a mark on the table that got her attention. It turned out to be some graffiti cartoon burned in with a laser knife. Scrub as she might, the graffiti wasn’t going anywhere. And if those bank boys repoed the Starskipper, neither was Bob. For his part, the old space bum just went back to staring out the picture window. His butt planted firmly in his seat, but his heart was already chasing across the galaxy after his wife.

  Desperately, she tried to come up with a way to help him, but nothing was coming to mind. She needed to think.

  A shout came from across the room. “Aw, damn, man!”

  Jezebel turned to see one of her costumed conventioneers puking all over table-two.

  “Wonderful.” She shook her head and went straight to the cleaning closet for a bucket and a mop.

  “Problem tonight?” asked Carlos as she closed the closet door.

  Casting her boss a baleful look, she replied, “More than you want to know.”

  “Tell me after hours, Jez.”

  She nodded and went off to clean up table-two.

  “Miss, I am so sorry. I am so sorry,” the conventioneer repeated. “I mean; I didn’t mean to. I’m just so sorry.”

  Jezebel forced a smile. “It happens.”

  “Well, here, I owe you at least this.” The conventioneer handed her a thirty-credit chit, which she pocketed without hesitation. Messes like this were fairly common in her line of work—polite drunks who tipped, not so much. After returning the mop and bucket to the closet, she took a moment to linger by the coffee urn.

  This night was turning into a nightmare, and the coffee seemed her only salvation.

  Pouring herself a cup, Jezebel took another scan of the room. She let the caffeinated steam waft across her face and felt the warmth caress her cheeks. It gave her a moment to think, and in that moment, the outline of a plan formed in her mind…Jezebel only needed some kind of distraction to make it work.

  At table-three, one of the mercenary applicants sat for his interview. She watched the grunt take off his black beret and look pleadingly at the recruiters. Goon shook his head, and that really seemed to piss the guy off. Jezebel primed herself, this looked like exactly the kind of thing she had in mind—and she dared not waste the opportunity!

  The grunt snapped his beret back on and rose to tower over table-three. Angrily throwing his chair back, he declared, “I’ll whip you both, fair fight or no!”

  “Well, I’m glad you feel that way,” replied Goon, “because I don’t fight fair.”

  Fast as lightning, the sergeant pulled out a pistol the size of a small cannon. The whole room went quiet as Goon clicked the safety off. Then, it was like everything went into slow motion. The conventioneers got up and scrambled in a drunken dash for the exit. Jezebel launched herself onto the service floor like a guided missile. She sprinted to cut the costumed drunks off and just caught the lead conventioneer a meter from the door. “Hey,” she demanded. “Who’s going to pay the bill?”

  The conventioneers stopped in their tracks, eyes blinking rapidly as their booze-soaked brains tried to assimilate her demand in light of the threat of imminent gunfire. Before they could complete their mental gymnastics, however, the big grunt in the black beret crashed through the lot of them.

  He knocked several costumed drunks over and bolted out the exit so fast he almost left a trail of smoke. As he passed, Jezebel grabbed a tottering conventioneer and slung him into table-one where the bank boys sat. The table smashed under the conventioneer’s considerable weight, as the repo gang jumped out of their seats. Four glasses of Rocket Fuel beer and the banking file tumbled from the table.

  Jezebel dove to the floor, snatching their copy of Starskipper’s passkey from the file before it skidded away in the chaos. Bumping the key to her datapad took but a second, and she confirmed its data as its digital code appeared in the order column. Now, she just needed another code to put in her payment column before she could complete her special “transaction.” She stood up and looked around. The conventioneers were gone, and so was Goon’s gun. The mercenary sergeant had already holstered it and was straightening out his shirt.

  Carlos strode across the room demanding to know, “What the hell is going on here?”

  Jezebel bent to pick up the banker’s file and returned it to Quan along with the passkey. “I’m so sorry about that, sir.”

  Quan took the crumpled file and checked that nothing was missing. He picked the passkey out of that mess and handed it to Ralph. “Keep this. I don’t want anything happing to it, understand?”

  “Sure, Quan,” Ralph replied as he shoved the thing in his pocket. “I understand.”

  “Jez!” Carlos shouted, “Cash out table-three. These security ‘gentlemen’ will be leaving now.”

  Sergeant Goon and LT glared at Carlos, but this was his place and mercenaries, of all people, can be expected to understand that business is business. “Come on, Sergeant,” LT said. “We know when we aren’t welcome.”

  Jezebel walked up to the soldiers table, set her datapad on the table next to the row of ship’s access keys and gave one of them a bump. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”

  “Don’t you worry your pretty head, little lady,” Goon replied. “I’ve been tossed out of much better places than this.”

  The LT gave a stifled grunt. “And much worse places too, sergeant.”

  She smiled and reclaimed her datapad. “That will be twenty-two credits, gentlemen.”

  The soldiers paid, gathered their stuff and went. Those weird writer geeks at table-ten waved frantically at her, but Jezebel held up her hand indicating “one minute.” Th
e repo guys at table-one were already headed for the door, and she had to quick-march to catch them. “That will be forty-nine credits, folks.”

  Ralph turned to his tall companion. “We don’t want any trouble, Quan.”

  Quan sneered at Jezebel. “What about the damage? Don’t we get some kind of ‘bar fight discount’ around here?”

  Jezebel said, “Certainly, sir. Take a look at your property. If anything’s damaged, let me know. Quan glanced at his bank file, and Ralph took a moment to regard the passkey before returning it to his pocket. Both men seemed to find no faults and shrugged at each other.

  Quan said, “Pay her, Ralph.”

  Jezebel stepped up close to Ralph in an exceedingly friendly fashion and whispered in his ear, “Don’t tell my boss, but I’ll take twenty percent off for all the trouble.”

  He smiled. “Thanks, Miss.”

  “Don’t mention it,” she answered, giving him a friendly bump with her datapad against his pocket.

  He paid.

  She checked the order and payment columns of her pad and saw both columns flashing “Data transfer complete.” Jezebel smiled as the repo guys walked out of the Darkstar but otherwise she played it cool. After all, she’d no intention of tipping her hand.

  As Carlos removed the broken pieces of table-one from the service floor, Jezebel got to work checking on the rest of her customers. She figured the writing geeks at table-ten would want to pay up and split—but oh no. Those weirdoes were downright excited. They asked her for every detail of what just went down while typing furiously on their hand computers.

  “Would you say the soldier ‘quickly drew his sidearm’ or ‘suddenly held a menacing weapon’?”

  “Huh?”

  “Which sounds better?” the writer asked.

  Jezebel shook her head. “Who gives a shit?”