Longshot Hypothesis

by Blaze Ward

  Valentinian reached into a pocket on his jacket automatically and pulled out his card-reader, sliding the plas-paper into it and letting the system start chugging.

  He already had a copy of the agreed-upon contract loaded, so now it just had to confirm that the signed and executed version was identical. And had all the right stamps and approvals from Dominion authorities on it.

  Handshakes were nice, but contract law was serious business. You shook hands over a bar bet. When serious money was changing hands, you filed the paperwork with the Hall of Records first. Way safer after that if there were any misunderstandings that you couldn’t settled before you were explaining things to a Dominion Magistrate.

  The machine chirped happily a few seconds later.

  He looked up to see her eyes hooded, the rage masked, at least for now.

  “You have a reputation for integrity, Tarasicodissa,” she announced in a low, compelling voice, eyes sharp and probing, like maybe she didn’t believe it. “I’d hardly start off our relationship by trying to screw you over.”

  Which merely suggested she’d be trying to chisel corners later, and looking for scams and outs once she got tired of him.

  Not that Valentinian was surprised. The woman was a cold-blooded predator. She might look beautiful, but a good deal of work had been above her collarbones, although he supposed she probably had done the breasts as well.

  It just wasn’t as obvious, if she had.

  It was the hands that gave her away. Claws tipped in blood-red and starting to show liver spots on the back. She had built a career and a business empire on beauty, and it was fading a little every day.

  Valentinian nodded and held his peace as the waitress returned with a glass of liquid gold. At least by price.

  “To business,” she said, raising her glass in a toast.

  Valentinian joined her. He wasn’t about to drink the rest of his whiskey in one breath, even as she put the whole glass of brandy away.

  He did make a note to never get into a drinking contest with the woman, if she could hold her alcohol like that. Good way to lose money. And days.

  Maybe he could take her to Tuska Station, just once, and let her loose on the old farts there who thought they could handle their booze.

  That might be fun to watch.

  “Shall we?” she demanded, sliding to the edge of the booth.

  Valentinian was a beat behind her as she rose, taking a moment to ogle her bottom and finish his whiskey after all. She must still work out and dance hard, to have an ass that nice.

  He was pretty sure she was utterly poisonous, though. Burn you just by touching, like some weeds he had heard about on wilder parts of many planets. Valentinian generally never got farther away from civilization than the closest bar or chandlery to the starport, unless he had to.

  And even that was iffy. Going places and having fun usually required money he would rather spend on getting his ship, Longshot Hypothesis, in better running order. Or saving for a rainy day.

  But it was a stupendous ass. And the bodice showed off muscles in the woman’s back as he stood up to his full height, staring just about at the back of her head. But he already knew she was wearing heels.

  Madam Cleray stopped so suddenly that he almost plowed into her from behind, but Valentinian had spent enough time on spaceships to dance to one side safely.

  He stopped, too, when he saw what had caught her eye.

  There were six of them.

  Valentinian thought that was overkill, but maybe they knew something about the woman that he didn’t.

  Five bruisers in black and one pudgy lawyer in a fancy suit. The kind that probably cost about what his ship’s operating costs ran per month.

  “Going somewhere, my dear?” the lawyer asked in a honey-smooth voice that still managed to sound like rusty bearings in a fan about to seize.

  The five goons spread out a little. More than enough to block the wide doorway.

  And of course a joint like this didn’t have a bouncer on duty. Possibly a few off-duty naval officers that might be capable of handling one of these guys, but not all five, assuming they even found a reason to get involved.

  Valentinian knew he should have never gotten out of his bunk this morning.

  “Go away, Nash,” Cleray sneered. “I’m not signing your contract. We’re done. Find some other fool you can skim funds off of.”

  “My dear, I’m wounded at such accusations,” the man, called Nash apparently, answered. “I wonder if I should file for a breach of contract. And maybe throw in slander as well. I’ve heard some of the things you’ve said about me.”

  “Truth is a perfect defense against libel, Nash,” Cleary cat-called cheerfully. “Try it. I’d be happy to be deposed officially.”

  Valentinian noted how quiet the bar had gotten. Upper middle class folks apparently not used to the posturing and braggadocio he ran into regularly, down dockside.

  He really missed his shock pistol about now.

  “We’ll just see about that, Lianearia,” Nash snarled, gesturing at Valentinian. “I see you’ve found a new victim.”

  “Interesting choice of words,” she said. “Especially coming from you.”

  “Did you already sign a contract with this woman, boy?” Nash asked. “About to lose your soul?”

  He didn’t take particular insult from the term. Nash looked to be in his sixties. Squishy and soft. Manicured nails. Dyed hair.

  Instead Valentinian just grinned. It had been a pretty good contract, but Valentinian supposed that maybe these other two folks hadn’t had as pleasant a negotiation about things.

  “Yes, it looks like he has,” Nash continued. “I suppose we’ll just have to convince you to tear it up.”

  Nash took a step forward. His goons spread out even more, actively intimidating the political whores and flunkies that had picked the wrong afternoon for a drink.

  Five on one sucked. He was likely to end up in medbay, if he didn’t do whatever this butterball demanded. And somehow, that deal didn’t sound as good as hauling a crew of nubile teenage girls all over the galaxy for six to twelve months,

  The woman shifted her feet a little. Not much, but enough that Valentinian decided that maybe some of that dance training might have taken place on a dojo floor.

  “Seriously, Nash?” Cleray taunted the man. “Physical violence in public? Not your style at all. And I’m a girl.”

  Low blow. Telling, too, considering the way the man’s eyes turned red.

  “Grab her,” he demanded.

  The goons moved.

  All of them were big fellows. Valentinian’s height, with a bunch of extra weight. Not all of it was muscle, but these boys were bad bouncers, not ninjas. The first one stepped close and threw a punch.

  It was slow, awkward, and his feet were in the wrong position, so obviously he’d never actually learned how to fight in a bar. It was a MOST useful skill to develop.

  Valentinian ducked the haymaker and used the crouched leverage to drive a fist into a soft belly, the kind that was spilling over a belt.

  Air rushed out of the man in a hurry. He collapsed around the fist as Valentinian side-stepped. The rest were coming.

  The woman did know some combat skills, but that just meant she tried a stupid, head-high kick at the man trying to grab her instead of punching him square in the balls. There was no force behind it, so she pretty much just slapped him with her foot. And pissed him off.

  And then the others were all over him.

  Valentinian threw a fist and hit something before he got clocked pretty good. Not spiraling stars, but close.

  Somebody grabbed his right arm before he could pull it back.

  Somebody else tangled his left arm against his side and grappled.

  Third guy punched him square in the face.

  That brought out the stars, but the two goons with holds kept him upright when falling on the floor right now sounded like a good idea.

  Big dude pulled back hi
s fist for another go.

  This was gonna suck.

  And nothing.

  The fist never landed.

  Instead, the mild concussion inside Valentinian’s head made time slow way down, like those really good action movies, where so much is happening that they slo-mo the fight sequence and spin the camera around a few times in a single, dramatic shot so you don’t miss anything.

  The fist was like the sun overhead, about to rain down pain, when somebody hooked the wrist.

  Valentinian felt the camera operator pivot expertly, even as his own head never moved.

  The big guy, the one looking for a job before Cleray chased him off, had stepped up and hooked his elbow around the other dude’s wrist and stopped the punch in the middle of the sky like an eclipse.

  With his left hand, big dude rabbit punched the goon three times, so fast that at normal speed it might appear as a single blow.

  Awesome.

  Then he GRABBED THE GUY AND LIFTED HIM OFF THE GROUND.

  Except it was a hip-pivot throw that landed the victim into the legs of the goon that had just grabbed Madame Cleray in a body hold. Knocked him down and staggered her.

  Other two were just too slow to process. Or maybe they were moving at normal speed as Valentinian went into overdrive to watch.

  Dude bent forward and drove a kick back like an angry horse into the man holding Valentinian’s left side. And suddenly that guy was gone.

  Poof, just like that.

  Then big and mean pivoted the other direction with the momentum, turning into the bouncer holding Valentinian’s right hand with an elbow slam ox blow to the head straight out of a movie or something.

  Cows usually went down for the count when the guy with the stun hammer hit them that hard. Bouncer wasn’t a cow, but he wasn’t still waking up for a while either.

  One of the guys tangled around Madame Cleray’s feet managed to get to his feet now. Valentinian might have told him that was a really bad idea, but he didn’t like these guys that much.

  Monster dude took a step and it was like he was flying through the air, except he was moving big-ugly-booted-foot-first into the goon’s chest, and kicked him hard enough to drive the guy into one of those tables that were apparently bolted to the deck so that it wouldn’t fall over. Bouncer three (four? whoever?) dented the post. Post dented bouncer three.

  Last guy seemed just about ready to find his wits and his feet, maybe even standing up when the big guy fell on his head fist first.

  And down.

  Big dude straightened back up and looked around. Smiled at Nash.

  Total elapsed time, even flowing at the amazing speed of an action movie: maybe three seconds. Five guys down. Not just down. Out. Bye-bye.

  Big guy’s hair wasn’t even mussed.

  He took a step up to this Nash fellow and leaned down to get right into his face.

  “Don’t follow,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  Might as well have been a shout, because the place was dead silent. Only noise in here were the fans circulating station air through the nearby park the Dominator kept as part of his palace.

  Big guy turned back to Valentinian with a smile, standing among the carnage with a mild concussion.

  “We should depart, Valentinian,” he observed.

  Even station security would wake up and get here soon. After that display of martial awesomeness, though, they had probably already gone back for more reinforcements.

  Valentinian would have.

  Nobody moved. Big guy held out a hand, like he would assist a lady into a skycar. Madame Cleray shook her head and woke from the nightmare she had apparently been expecting.

  “You’re right,” she noted, turning to Valentinian. “I’m so glad your crew was here to help.”

  She turned and fled for the door before Valentinian could correct her assumption.

  Did he want to? Guy had been asking for a job.

  Dude cocked his head and smiled at him now, like he was offering Valentinian an out, if he wanted it.

  But you know what? There were a lot of crazy folks out there with fists and guns. Valentinian and Artaxerxes had had to fast-talk their way out of trouble more than once.

  Being able to punch your way to the door of an angry bar had a certain appeal of its own.

  “Let’s go,” Valentinian decided aloud, racing to catch up with Madame Cleray.

  Out the door, she had stopped suddenly. Valentinian almost ran into her again, hoping that she hadn’t just spotted the Gendarmes. Although, considering the display of bad-assery back there, they might have just waved from a distance as they called in the Caelons, the Dominion’s elite Assault Cavalry troopers.

  “Where are you docked?” she said as he came alongside.

  Oh, right. It had all been paperwork and electronic messages before now. She’d never been physically aboard, instead taking a three-Dee tour of the space.

  “This way,” Valentinian said, grabbing her arm just enough to drag her the other direction.

  That nearly got him punched as she wriggled away angrily at the sudden contact. Maybe she’d go for his eyes with her claws, but he was not about to stay put to get arrested.

  Instead, Valentinian dropped her hand and moved towards a nearby staff stairwell. Never get yourself trapped in an elevator when fleeing shore patrol or gendarmes. Important lesson every spacer learns eventually.

  Down two long flights as fast as he could move, Valentinian had to stop at the first landing and look up. Cleray had made enough noise clacking down the metal stairs that he could track her, but the big guy moved like a jaguar.

  Eerily silent in combat-looking boots that came almost to his knees.

  Valentinian found his platform and palmed the switch to open the door, vibrating with impatience as the hatch retracted into the bulkhead.

  Nobody on the other side as he emerged. They were on Deck Eleven now. The seedier parts of the station that the beautiful people never saw, where cargo came and went behind pretty sets designed to protect their delicate sensibilities.

  Because he could, Valentinian ran. Cleray kept up, in spite of the heels. Big guy wasn’t even breathing heavy.

  Deck Eleven, Arm Three stuck out of the side of the station like a middle finger. All the big ships docked on Arms Two and Six to handle major cargo loads. Three was for the unfavored children. Or cheap bastards like him.

  Metal floors with scratches and stains underfoot. Walls last painted maybe a decade ago. Not a single plant anywhere in sight. Industrial misery, down here where that was all the people around here needed.

  Nobody emerged from a side door as they got close, smiling at him with a badge on their chest and a shock pistol in their hand. Hopefully, either he had outrun news of a bar fight or nobody was wishing to press charges right now.

  Nash had started it, after all. Cameras would show that. And one of his bouncers had thrown the first punch. Just bad luck they ran into Pain Incarnate in blue and gray back there.

  Valentinian pulled his card-reader from the inside pocket of his jacket and pressed it against the locking mechanism, pressing his thumb to the lifesign imprint. The two machines argued for a second, and then bolts retracted noisily into the bulkhead and the airlock door started to beep. A moment later, it moved outward, forcing Valentinian to the side.

  Last time he had been chased like this, he had slid around the heavy door as soon as he could fit, and then triggered the override to slam it back shut again once he was in the airlock and legally aboard his own ship.

  Couldn’t really do that today, so he turned and watched the long walkway to make sure no uniforms were headed this directions.

  Ten more seconds, and they’d be safe.

  Cleray pulled her card-reader and began typing.

  “Deck Eleven, Three-Three?” she asked, looking around.

  “That’s right,” Valentinian nodded nervously. “Who are you contacting?”

  “The girls,” the woman looked at
him with a barely suppressed eyeroll. “We have a contract, so they need to get aboard as soon as they can, before Nash finds them. And there will be a cargo sled full of gear as well.”

  Right. The girls. How could he forget a contract to transport a team of nubile virgin dancers from planet to planet for six months, along with a Dancemaster, a Songmaster, and a Chastitymaster and the others?

  Dear Lord, just let me get aboard the ship. Way harder to arrest us, that way.

  Big guy loomed close.

  Crap, forgot him as well.

  Valentinian pulled him close enough to whisper up to the giant.

  “I guess you’re hired,” Valentinian shared a grin with the guy. “What gear do you need to grab?”

  “It’s in a locker up a level in the transient housing,” the man replied just as quietly.

  “Can you get it and get back here without being arrested?” Valentinian asked.

  “Fifteen minutes,” the man said.

  “Comm code is Four-Seven-Six-Nine when you get back,” Valentinian said. “Hey, you got a name?”

  For a moment, the big man glared down at him, like he needed to remember something, and then relented.

  “Dave,” he said simply.

  “Dave?” Valentinian was aghast. “That’s it? What’s it short for?”

  “Nothing, just Dave.”

  And the guy was gone.

  Dave? Valentinian had never met somebody with such a short name. Like, ever.

  “Where’s he going?” Cleray demanded, turning to watch Dave jog silently away.

  “To get some things we left aboard station in our rush to get gone,” Valentinian told her. “Let’s get aboard now, and then wait for everyone else to arrive.”

  “Good idea,” she said, striding importantly by him, into the massive aft airlock.

  Valentinian keyed the systems to shut the airlock, and thought he caught a sniff of disapproval from Madame Cleray.

  Like maybe a freighter like this should have been spotlessly clean and freshly painted.

  Right. With the margins he normally ran?

  If she was really offended, her girls could always paint the place in their spare time. Valentinian wouldn’t argue. And this was just the passenger airlock. Wait until she saw what the big cargo airlock looked like.