by J. N. Chaney
My head throbbed with a brewing hangover that was going to hurt like hell once it hit. I groaned and rubbed my temples, wondering what I could do to ease the coming onslaught.
“I need work,” I said as another surge of nausea hit me hard in the back of the molars. “I’m a Renegade, godsdammit, not some drunken asshat stuffed in a cupboard. My purpose is out there in the stars, Siggy, not at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.”
I stared at my hands. Hands that had killed men. Hands that had been broken and repaired, only to be broken over a man’s nose hours later.
That life, that power, it was like breathing to me—effortless and crucial, all at once.
Not the fighting, not the killing, but the thrill of shooting through the void in a metal box. The adrenaline that came with wrapping my hands around the controls and driving my ship into the green maelstrom of slip space. The heart-in-my-throat sensation of firing the quad cannons and not knowing if I’d moved fast enough to save my own ass.
The unknown.
That was life to me.
If I didn’t have that, then I didn’t have anything.
This was it. The last day of my isolation. The last day of letting the heat blow over.
To hell with the Union. To hell with the Operative who’d tried to kill me, whoever he really was. To hell with his partner and whoever else was still after me, trying to hunt me down, wanting to put a bullet in my brain.
To hell with them all.
I wasn’t going to hide here any longer. I couldn’t. I’d go mad if I tried.
Being a Renegade was the only reason I got out of bed every morning. It was the only thing that gave me purpose in this universe full of conmen, hitmen, and murderers.
Sure, I wanted to charge out of here right this second and maybe fire a few victory rounds into the air to celebrate, but I wasn’t an idiot. I wouldn’t indulge the desire.
Before I went anywhere or did anything, I needed to sober the hell up.
I forced myself to my feet, and even though I teetered, I managed to keep my balance. My world spun around me again, and I pressed my palm flat against the wall to keep from falling over. I looked down at my half-naked body and wondered where the hell my shirt had gone.
In the end, it didn’t matter. I would find it eventually.
“Siggy,” I slurred. “Is the stick still safe?”
“Yes, sir,” assured Sigmond. “I kept a close eye on the cleaners as they repaired the Renegade Star. None of Ollie’s men so much as looked at the hidden storage room, and no one has been permitted to enter the Star since they departed.”
“Good,” I said, hiccupping.
I ran a hand through my hair as the hangover began to hit me harder, and the dull throbbing in my head became a roar.
When the so-called operative first conned his way into my ship, I thought for sure I would never be able to give the data stick away, much less sell it. But with the Union pretty much unaware of my existence, that gave me renewed hope that perhaps I could make a decent profit off the stolen device after all.
I could possibly sell it to a private entity who could then turn around and sell it to the Union at a higher price, effectively removing me from the equation altogether. The downside to that was I didn’t know who would ultimately win a bidding war—the Sarkonians, or the Union. At that point, I’d have no control over where the stick ended up, and all of this chaos could’ve been for nothing.
My best bet really was the Union, and I hated that.
It was a risk, of course. Even if everything went smoothly—which it wouldn’t—there was still at least one person out there who was after the stick and anyone who knew where it might be. He had resources, intel, and a fake Union badge.
Anyone running around the Deadlands while claiming to be a Union operative either had nerves of steel or a death wish.
The hitman on the Star hadn’t been easy to take down, either. He’d been quick, clever, and resourceful. His blows had hurt, and I still had bruises from the fight. If the man who had tried to kill me on my own ship was the good cop of the duo, then I probably didn’t ever want to meet his partner or take him on head-to-head.
In a situation like that, having the data stick on me could mean the difference between life and death.
Maybe I needed to wait to sell it after all.
I wanted another good payday, but I had to be smart about this. I had to be clever and careful, which didn’t usually suit me, if I was being honest. This would test me, but I’d been through worse and come out on top.
I stumbled across the floor and reached for another of the empty whiskey bottles on the ground, careful to sidestep any shards of broken glass that I noticed along the way. I probably had a few small grains of glass buried in my foot, but it didn’t matter. I would survive.
With a grunt, I tossed the empty bottle into the bin by the door and leaned against the wall with my forearm for balance.
By now, enough time had probably passed that this guy, whoever he was, was long gone. The forged transfer of the Star into Ollie’s name had been leaked onto the nether net, and as far as Sigmond could tell, no one had so much as walked by the ship since the cleaners had left.
We were in the clear.
At least I hoped we were.
Even if he’d left already, the operative’s partner would likely be back to Taurus Station eventually, looking for me. Hell, he would be all over the universe, checking every star system for me and the data stick, and Ollie had been right.
I wouldn’t be able to rest easy until this guy was dead.
In the meantime, while I figured out what the hell to do with the data stick, I needed to leave the station and breathe the sweet, recycled air on board the Renegade Star. Preferably, of course, while getting paid.
I needed my freedom back, and I’d shoot any man who tried to take that from me again.
“Hey Siggy,” I said into the comm as I drunkenly smushed it deeper into my ear. “Tell Ollie I want another job.”
“Of course,” answered the AI. “When would you like to leave, sir? A few days?”
“Tomorrow,” I demanded.
As I spoke, the roar of pain in my head became a thundering tsunami, and I winced as the hangover smashed through my brain with a sledgehammer.
“Tomorrow-ish,” I corrected. “After I sleep this off, whenever that might be. Tell him I want the best job he’s got that can take me far from here for a while.”
“Right away,” said Sigmond. “I will speak with Mr. Trinidad to see what opportunities he has for you.”
“Thanks, Siggy.”
“Of course, sir.”
I leaned my back against the wall and sank to the floor. With my wrists resting on my knees, I stared up at the ceiling, eager to feel my hands around the controls on the Star again.
Eager to fly.
If there was a man out there in the black who wanted to plant a few bullets in my head, he would have to bring the kind of firepower to set ships adrift in space. This wouldn’t be easy for him or for me, and it would end with one of us dead.
That much I knew, deep down in my bones.
I’d give this asshole the fight of his life. If I ended up with a knife in my throat at the end of this ordeal, it would be on my terms. I’d give this everything I had and take as many hitmen with me as I could.
If this self-proclaimed Union operative managed to pry the data stick from my cold, dead fingers when all was said and done, it would be because he’d earned it.
Pure and simple.
17
It took me a while to sleep off the whiskey, but it didn’t take me long to get dressed and escape the confines of my room.
For my own sanity, I needed to be on my ship and out in the void, but I couldn’t do that until I had a job—or, at a minimum, a destination. If Ollie didn’t have something good for me, I’d probably take a smaller gig. I didn’t even care what it was, so long as it wasn’t anything obviously treacherous.
At
this point, it didn’t matter what work I was given as long as it got me off of Taurus Station.
As I made my way through the crowds on the lower deck, I kept my head down and did my best to scan the faces around me. The brightly lit walkways carved through the bowels of the station, and I scanned the plain gray walls ahead of me in search of a lift.
I had an alias for the moment, and would be using it for the remainder of my time on the station. I didn’t need my name popping up in some database somewhere just because I bought something before I left. It was a fresh alias Ollie had given me before I left my room to rejoin society, but it wouldn’t be the last. I had a feeling I’d need quite a few aliases before this ordeal was over.
I’d wanted to head to the Star and grab a few more guns, maybe a rifle or two, just in case someone tried something stupid or in case the operative’s partner managed to find me. As much as I liked the idea of having extra firepower on hand in case things got out of control, I’d opted against that idea because I needed to keep my movements to a minimum.
With my ship restocked already, that made life a little easier. At least I didn’t need to buy any of the essentials I’d never leave a docking bay without: food, coffee, or booze.
If I got my way, the Renegade Star would be in space within a few hours. First, though, I needed to visit Ollie. Then, I’d head straight for my ship and stay planted in the pilot’s chair until Station Control cleared me for takeoff.
Depending on where the operative’s partner had gone off to, it might be a good long while before I came back to Taurus Station.
Since it was the middle of the day, there was a fair number of people crowding around the lift to the upper floors. I stepped onto it as others pushed past me, and I glared down at one fellow whose hand was inching toward the pistol in the holster at my waist.
I looked him dead in the eye with my arms crossed over my chest until he—wisely—shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away.
When the lift opened onto the deck I needed, I gently elbowed my way through the crowd to the door and stepped out into another throng of people. This time, I kept my hand on the butt of my gun, just in case.
I’d hate to have to break a pickpocket’s nose when I was trying to keep a low profile. I’d do it, of course, but I’d despise the whole experience.
I walked at a brisk pace toward Ollie’s shop, sidestepping travelers and tourists as they gawked at the long stretch of stores before them. More than one person stopped in the middle of traffic, and it took active restraint not to say something stupid to any of them as I passed. One woman with a wide brimmed hat stared up at the ceiling, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what fascinated her about steel panels above us.
It didn’t matter. I had to keep moving.
As I rounded the corner and headed out onto the main walkway that would take me to Trinidad’s Trinkets, I debated taking the back route through the deliveries tunnel again. Doing so would give me a chance to go unseen in a popular area and keep me out of view of the security cams along the main deck, but it also had a lot of risk. With a narrow hall like that, ambush was a real threat. I had no guarantee that Ollie’s shop door would be unlocked if I needed to make a quick exit, and it wasn’t like those doors were bulletproof anyway.
No, as much as I hated feeling exposed in a crowd, I needed witnesses. If a fake Union operative was going to walk up to me and start throwing punches, I wanted as many people to watch that as possible.
I grumbled at the thought of the dead hitman’s partner watching me on security footage and kept my head down, trying my best to blend into the throng and go unnoticed.
When I reached Ollie’s shop, I was relieved to see he didn’t have any customers. He stood behind the counter, rubbing a smudge on the glass with his sleeve while he waited for someone to walk in.
Good. I wanted this to be a quick transaction. In and out. No frills. No detours.
Just business.
He looked up as I entered, and his eyes darted quickly over me before he grinned at my disheveled appearance. “Get some good sleep?”
“Like a baby,” I said dryly. “Siggy told me you had a job for us?”
Ollie shrugged as he pulled his data pad out of his pocket. “You’re not going to like it.”
“I don’t care,” I assured him. “I just need something to keep me busy. Why don’t you think I’ll like it? Is it too small to waste my time on?”
“Oh, no, definitely not a small job,” said Ollie with a dry laugh. “Not even a little.”
“Okay,” I said, frowning as I tried to piece together whatever the hell he was getting at. “Care to elaborate on that, Ollie? Or do you get a kick out of keeping me guessing?”
My RBO agent sighed, like he was preparing himself for an argument with me. “It’s a delivery job.”
A woman walked into the store behind me, and Ollie looked up from his pad as she entered. I peered over my shoulder, wondering if this was some sort of fresh hell I’d have to deal with or if it had anything to do with me at all.
When I recognized the tall woman with jet-black hair standing in the doorway, however, I realized this was most certainly fresh hell reserved just for me.
How lucky.
Calista stood by the door with her hands on her hips and those ruby lips of hers pursed in disappointment. Her blue eyes were focused on me, and a lock of her hair fell across her face as she let out a small groan.
“It’s a job for me,” said the would-be Renegade.
I didn’t answer.
Instead of saying anything to her at all, I gritted my teeth together and leaned both elbows on Ollie’s counter. When I had his full attention, I looked him dead in the eye. “You’re right. I already don’t like this job, and I don’t even know what it is yet.”
Ollie shrugged apologetically.
“What else you got?” I pressed.
Whatever Calista was up to here, I was fairly certain I wanted no part of it. I had enough trouble to deal with as it was, and I figured she couldn’t be up to anything good.
“There’s no work, Jace,” admitted Ollie with a grimace. “Nothing, I swear. I’m sorry, but hers is the only active job that’s worth any amount of decent money.”
“You said you always have jobs,” I reminded him with a stern glare.
“I do,” he said with a defiant nod. “But I never said they were good jobs. I always have work to give out, but the rest of what I have pays out peanuts compared to this.”
I rubbed the stubble on my jaw as Calista walked toward us and stood at the far end of the counter, as far from me as she could manage. With the frown on her face, I figured she didn’t like this any more than I did.
“Let me guess,” I said, looking at her. “No one else will take you?”
She looked away and crossed her arms, and at first I thought she wasn’t going to reply. Eventually, she shook her head. “I’ve tried.”
“So, that means you want to take some long, drawn-out route,” I guessed, starting to piece together what this delivery job might really be about. “Either that, or what you want to do is a pain in the ass. Or illegal, something you don’t have enough experience in. Us real Renegades don’t like to mingle with freelancers on illegal jobs.”
“None of this is illegal,” snapped Calista with a wary glance toward the open front door. She lowered her voice and took a few steps closer before turning her back to the crowds outside. “I just have to act as a courier for a couple of rich guys. I’m dropping off stuff they’ve bought. That’s it.”
I scoffed. How naive. Dropping off other people’s purchases didn’t necessarily mean anything she was doing was legal, and I wondered if she realized that.
My smile fell as I realized that she most likely had no idea how responsible she was for the deliveries she made, even if she didn’t know what they were. It seemed like a glaring oversight on her part, but it suddenly made sense.
She must’ve had no idea about the data stick�
�s real worth. She was probably still clueless about the sheer volume of crazy she’d almost stepped in by handing it off to me, probably all while thinking she was delivering legitimate goods.
Freelancers didn’t get the same level of respect Renegades did, mostly because they didn’t have agents to shield them from anything, and they often got stuck with the sort of jobs that left people very much dead.
Calista was lucky to be alive, and as much as she irritated me, I wasn’t about to turn her into an unwitting accomplice. She didn’t need to know about the stick or the secret compartment on the Star, and as far as I was concerned, I wanted to make sure she never found out about either.
Of course, the sheer number of times she’d annoyed me was starting to strike me as suspicious.
On one hand, it was probably just a coincidence that she’d shown up so often since I’d gotten the data stick, because a Renegade’s life didn’t have a lot of players in the game. I saw the same people near the Renegade Bounty Offices again and again. If she was trying to break into the business, it made sense for her to take whatever work she got. Ollie seemed to have a bit of a soft spot for her, and I understood why she’d stuck around.
But I couldn’t be stupid about this.
The operative’s partner had been a man. I’d heard his voice through the dead operative’s comm, and I was certain Calista hadn’t been involved in the attempted hit on my life—at least not directly.
Still, she had the motive to take me out.
During our first encounter, I’d stolen a job and a payday from her. That would’ve been enough to piss me off if I’d been in her shoes, no question. Sure, it wouldn’t have driven me to the trouble of hunting someone down just to screw them over in some elaborate and complex way, but I had no idea how this woman’s brain worked.
I had to be careful. If I took this gig, I could get paid and keep an eye on her at the same time.
Maybe she would turn out to be just another freelancer trying to make it as a Renegade. Hell, she might very well try to stab me in the neck.
Time would tell. Either way, she would be on my turf, and I would have the upper hand. I’d just have to make sure Sigmond kept watch on her at every available moment.
