Starhustler

by Chris Turner

  “Bad news,” he said. “Mad boys are on the prowl. Saw ’em skulking up the ridge farther on. This is the closest they’ve come to this area.” He gave a brusque flourish. “Let’s get into the workshop.”

  “Don’t need to convince me.”

  We were hardly down the crude stair and moving across the pit when a ghost of motion caught my eye.

  I gave a choked cry, shielded my eyes from the sun’s glare up top the pit.

  TK lifted his head, swearing a wicked curse. “Into the workshop!”

  Shapes came prowling around the edge and began to drop at our feet. Crapola! Our tracks must have led them right here.

  “Get down!” I hissed.

  Too late. I blasted one as they threw metal spikes at us and I lunged in the same motion. Another tried to gut stab me with a chunk of metal. I whirled, grabbed my knife from my belt, and slashed it soundly across the chest. Steel ripped up to its chin.

  Dark blood sprayed over my open shirt and a white pulpy face fell flat at my feet. I kicked away the grotesque corpse.

  More malformed shapes gathered in numbers. Wren crouched in attack, fired a spray of bullets into the faces of swaying, reaching mad boys. “Die, you brown bitches!” she cried. Billy uttered some Neanderthal sound and scrambled back behind the old man.

  I tossed Toog the extra weapon in my belt. He opened fire with a bloodthirstiness that seemed uncharacteristic of his mild manner.

  Limbs parted and mummy shapes rolled in the sand with mewling sobs. Blood dripped on the fresh sand.

  Silence. Heat. The shimmer of an unnatural stillness. The cry of a carrion bird echoed overhead.

  Swarms of crazies crawled everywhere, peeking over the rim like feral spectators. I lifted my weapon and opened fire, peppering any I saw. Somehow the presence of Starrunner had lured these ghouls here. And somehow the old man had known they would come.

  Hordes of them dropped down on us like monkeys, only the whites of their eyes showing in ghostly, blotched faces partially hidden under brown, cowled hoods.

  TK’s two sand dervishes scuttled down the path after the cloth-wrapped zombies, their stingers raised. A pincer clipped out to clamp on a brown-garbed leg, then a stinger fell and arched into a rag-garbed neck.

  I blasted two between the eyes that crawled at my legs but a slinking shape got hold of my weapon and yanked it out of my grasp. “Motherfucker.” I pulled my knife out, only to reel as a chunk of pipe came angling for my skull. I dodged back, but the thing ended up thunking on my shoulder. I cried out in pain. Wren was yelling at the top of her lungs. She blasted mummy flesh left, right and center.

  Shoots of agony rippled up my arm, but I recovered, grabbed my spare glock, slashed out with its butt end and kicked the gnashing scavenger away in the fleshy part of the gut, before blasting open its skull.

  “Get to the ship,” I cried.

  TK and Billy fought in a wild muddle of bodies. Wise thing that I had given the old man that R3A, else he and his world would have come to an abrupt end.

  I slashed a hole in the tarp, pulled aside the burlap and raced through the maze of machine parts with Wren, TK and Billy staggering at my heels.

  Toog was too far away. The man was doomed unless he cleared a path. I saw the head of one of the dervishes squashed by a giant rock. Brown shapes pounced on it like bobcats and pulled off its legs and ripped it apart with their bare hands, metal weapons in their clawed fingers. Like the ghouls they were, they stuck the fleshy pieces in burlap sacks and carried them away.

  I reached Starrunner and thrust open the port hatch. Pushing Wren through, I yanked TK in last who had shoved Billy in before him and jammed the door shut just as a mass of flesh thudded against the plated metal. One of the scumbitches rolled in with us and Wren stomped its neck and face. I shook the blood out of my hair, scrambled to the bridge. I got the thrusters warmed up, praying to god that those deep space engines would fire—at least, the impulse drive.

  Wren raced to the weapons console and aimed the starboard cannon still operating under auxiliary power.

  The clunks of weapons into the metal hull and thuds against the port glass caused me to wince.

  “Bloody hell! They’re going to break the glass!”

  I reached for the thruster impulse to give it max juice, but TK reached to pull my hand away. “It’s too early to task the ship. The Barenium hasn’t settled yet. Sudden acceleration will—”

  “Fuck it! We either get out of here, or those mummy fiends of yours bust through the glass and we’re dead.” I forced the lever up.

  Wren cried, “He’s right! Hundreds of them out there. They won’t stop at a few blaster shots.”

  Billy stared wild-eyed, holding his head, whimpering like a child. Menacing shapes clustered at the windows.

  TK ground his teeth with a fatalistic groan.

  I gunned the engines. The impulse drive made an unwholesome growl, but fired up. Starrunner’s curved prow broke through the top of the low ceiling, raining crumbling earth down and scattering tools and benches while hordes of mad boys clung to the fuselage like bloodsuckers.

  “Woohee! That’s what I want to hear, baby.” I cranked the thrusters.

  I wasn’t worried about finesse now. Those leachy-ghouls wouldn’t last long once Starrunner got going. If she got going.

  I cleared the pit and circled back, watching the crawlers fall to their doom. I reamed a generous spray of pulse blasts on those stinking vermin, grinding my teeth in vindication, hoping to give Toog a fighting chance, if he were still alive. Saw no sign of him. Only those hooded creepos parceling up their own dead for the evening stew. I lifted off into the bright sky, a grumble of exultation in my throat. I was glad to see the end of Talyon…or at least I hoped it was the end.

  Chapter 9

  The Barenium held. After clearing Talyon’s gravity we jumped to warp. The nearest shelter was the outpost at Skeller’s Run, a massive space station in the Wizrin sector on the far edge of Orion. Not a first pick for me, the space station, but it would do for now. We needed supplies, particularly water.

  TK paced back and forth on the bridge in a huff, face contorted at the risk of the compromised Barenium. “The liquid’s not settled. Besides, they’re still going to trace you.”

  “Right. Have to get that fixed.”

  He shook his head and threw his hands in the air.

  “Okay, Beleron then,” I said, “but first things first. We make it to the outpost. Go and play cribbage with Billy or something. You’re making me nervous with all your pacing. We’ve got time to burn aboard this ship.”

  TK didn’t budge. Wren occasioned to bump her hip against me as I was swiveling to check the log coordinates on the nav. I turned to cast her an inquiring glance. Her cheeky smile culminated in a lush rise of black brows. It intrigued but also irked me at the same time. I ordered her to scrub down in the shower. On the next stop, our second priority would be to get her some proper clothes. She didn’t seem to appreciate the hint, and stormed off.

  “Molly, get us info on the next destination.”

  “Orbital station, class D. Captive of gas giant Orves. Inception 2362. Fueling and supply center for inner, terraformed worlds Megal and Vylnos.”

  TK’s mouth dropped. “Molly?”

  “It’s as good a name as any,” I growled. “My first girl if you want to know. You’ve got a problem with that?”

  “No, but—”

  “Good, then check out the landing protocol on the station, if you want to make yourself useful. See who’s on duty, what they’re looking for, and on guard against. Sometimes these stations can be funny about deep space cruisers coming in out of nowhere, with skeleton crews and ones without papers.”

  TK grumbled and tapped some holo keys on the data console. It was something Molly could have told me in an instant, but I needed to keep TK busy. At the moment the man was a nuisance. Judging from his hobbies down on his home world, his mind was too fertile to be idle for any length of time.


  “A certain Roga Flann is the designated contraband checker,” TK muttered.

  “And?”

  “They seem to be particularly intolerant of bombs and peddlers hassling clientele in transit.”

  “Good. Keep digging, TK. What’s Flann’s official’s game? Credentials, past history. There’s more info lurking about on what they’re looking for. Not that we’re carrying anything illicit, but sometimes these officials try to pull a scam where they plant stuff on an incoming ship like ours then shake the captain down for yols, a bribe not to report us.”

  “How’s me digging for stuff going to help if—”

  “Just do it,” I grunted.

  He clamped his mouth shut and set to work. Billy was moving at his side like a spider. Damn, that munchkin, shadowing the old man like a leech. The kid couldn’t sit still. Another source of frustration for me.

  Seemed we’d been flying forever. The Varwol disengaged and the course coordinates finally became a reality. The ship lurched, bucked like a crotchety old mule. The slow corkscrew out of warp had minimal hiccups, I suppose.

  In the viewport, the station loomed—a gigantic figure-eight with hundreds of birthing docks, bays and pods, with untold shield meshes, solar panels, tracking stations. My jaw dropped. Hundreds of ships passed in and out of the ring. So many? Another unexpected sight, these masses of ships converging on the space station. “What in—?” I wheezed.

  TK grumbled, “Looks like a mass run on the station.”

  “Something must have gone wrong on one of the nearby worlds. Look at those space junkers and tramp freighters. I sense desperation here. They’re ready to fall apart.”

  “Should we try somewhere else?” Wren asked.

  “No, we need supplies. Some news wouldn’t hurt at this point.”

  I eased Starrunner through the bee-like swarm of traffic. We approached the far side of the station. From what I could see it was going to be slim pickings for berthing docks. Lucky to see two free stalls. I made contact with the ground personnel.

  An officious voice resonated over the com. “Alpha Explorer XU6, proceed to reserve dock A2. Berthing will be restricted to two hours.”

  “Two hours?” I croaked. “That’s not nearly enough time to either piss or shit—”

  “Sir, we do not appreciate vulgarities. The station is under high volume. Do you wish to cancel your reservation?”

  “No,” I growled. “But—okay, book it.” I cut the connection.

  “Like a mass exodus,” said Wren, her eyes glowing in wonder.

  “Never seen so many ships in my life,” mused TK.

  True, every space vessel in the vicinity seemed to be seeking refuge.

  “Seems we picked a bad time to dock. Okay, we’ll touch down, get our supplies and move on.”

  Light seeped through the cracks as the circular gate opened and I docked Starrunner in berth A2-983. A snug fit but workable. Deep in the mooring bay, robot arms secured the prow. The hatch closed behind us and the chamber pressurized. I took my small hand weapon disguised as a small pen, and tossed a like model to Wren.

  “Machine guns aren’t allowed, for obvious reasons.”

  We de-boarded and I attached the water cable from the utility wall to Starrunner’s underbelly. After I’d inserted ten yols in the dispenser, the green light came on and with a grunt of satisfaction, I could hear water flowing into Starrunner’s bare tanks.

  “Let’s hit the observation decks, since we have such a brief time. The water’ll shut off on its own.”

  TK nodded and herded Billy down the wide hall. Wren looked about with wonder, smelling much better after her shower. Her eyes flashed on the polished chrome railings, imitation marble floors, small potted trees and dust-free cleanliness. “This is a snazzy station.” Seemed all these sights were new to her.

  “Not really. Skeller Station’s been around for centuries. But it’s improved over the years. Megal’s a rich world; they can afford to pay for some luxury.”

  “Why so far out from Megal though?” TK asked, as if to no one in particular. His eyes wandered past the glass over Orves, the gas giant, looming below. Our orbit was hundreds of thousands of miles out, yet still the giant planet arched below us like a monstrous white and red banded egg.

  I shrugged. “Tradition? Who knows? Probably its ore-rich moons were the first mining interest before the inner planets were settled. I think they were more interested in mining rights than terraforming the inner worlds. Over time the place became a resort stop. You’d have to ask the builders, but they’re four hundred years in the grave.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks,” said TK.

  We passed the first checkpoints, me sliding through with my breezy confidence. No, sirs, we came directly from Wiesen in Cassiopeia. No sirs, no illicit drugs or firearms. These are a couple of travelers I picked up on the ride roster en route to Alphanor. We’re more interested in getting repairs than any layovers. Thank you, sirs.’

  All kinds of outworlders milled about, from those with hair piled up on their heads like donuts, to those in trim, tight space jumpers: pilots, shuttle monkeys, cargo couriers. Some were in worse shape than others. A babel of sound hummed in the background, making conversation difficult.

  From the port window, a security docker ship, squat and unsightly like a gray bloated toad, floated with ominous import. Such a ship would be looking to maintain law and order—shakedown any runners peddling contraband or out to leverage any of the station’s business. Skeller’s Run would not be an easy place to work scams.

  I tapped a tall outworlder on the shoulder, carrying a parcel in one hand and a paneled, cameo briefcase. He looked like an Arkadian on official business caught in an inordinately busy rush. At any rate, someone who knew what was going on. “What’s up, chief?” I asked. “Why the hubbub?”

  He turned a high forehead to me crowned with a sculpted drift of tan-colored hair. “Haven’t you heard? Ah, you just came in, didn’t you? Megal’s been attacked. Some rogue bandit just declared war and flew in with his stealth craft and took over the planet.”

  I blinked. “Planetary defenses?”

  “Minimal and antiquated. This Mong’s got state-of-the-art equipment, and know-how.”

  “Who?” I croaked.

  “Mong.”

  I frowned, recalling that name. “Why attack the space station? Didn’t they just nab a world?”

  “Out of the way. Easy spoils.” The man’s eyes darted to the destination boards, as if distracted. “He’s taking ships and men, everything. Laying waste, crippling any offenses, moving on.”

  TK mused, “That sounds like a tried and true formula, repeated throughout history, like the Vandal hordes and Blitzkrieg of Earth’s early history.”

  “Another petty warlord come to make life miserable for everyone,” the man spat. “Just another power-monger rising from the ashes of doom.”

  “Mong,” I grunted. “So, that bastard changed his name, did he?”

  “What do you mean?” the outworlder demanded.

  “I knew a Ging or a Gong on Hazzerot planet—the scum planet of the universe. Raged bloody murder and mayhem there, tore it to pieces. Drank human blood from the victims’ skulls.”

  “That sounds like a bit of hokum to me,” said the outworlder.

  “You mean old wives’ tales?” hissed Wren. “Try visiting Talyon some time.”

  “Yeah, tell that to the victims’ families,” I said.

  TK pulled at his whiskers. “I seem to recall a legend of a degenerate warlord out of old Earth history savaging the lands, a Googis Khem. Took over half the ancient world before he was killed.”

  “That’s Genghis Khan,” I corrected him.

  “So maybe this Mong guy takes after him?” asked Wren.

  The outworlder shrugged. “No doubt he’s a role model.”

  “Haven’t had the grace to meet the man,” I said with a low mutter. “Hope I never do.”

  “Let’s just get our stuff and go,”
Wren asserted. She wrung her hands, clutched her sides and flashed impatient looks.

  “What else do we need here?” asked TK.

  “Just packaged goods. Dry packs, meals of any sort, add water and you have instant nutrients. Here.” I tossed over some thirty yols and motioned him to the confectionary section to get the supplies. Billy hopped after him, his ferret-dark eyes blinking in adoration. I shook my head. It’s as if I’d given his mentor a ‘prize of the year’.

  I directed Wren to the clothing shop, passed her a handful of credits. I further noted it would be taken out of her share when work was divvied up and the spoils came in. She trotted off with a haughty air and came back from the change rooms a new woman. Leathers hugged her slim hide like a sleek leopard with a fit pleasing to any eye. I wished I could get a real wig for her or something to cover up that blasted bald crown...

  In fact… I shuttled her to the hair salon down the way and tossed a thick black wig into the basket at the sales counter.

  “That’ll be three yols,” the attendant said.

  “What’s that for?” Wren demanded suspiciously.

  I smirked. “Nothing, really, just part of my plan. Relax, all good.”

  Moving onward deeper within the terminus, we came to a giant rotating rotunda milling with people. A high dome spread overhead with reinforced glass that overlooked a lovely view to the stars. Service shops, eateries, hair stylists, outerwear, everything the casual, weary traveler could want, young or old, rich or poor. Step right up, folks. There was even an executive pad on the upper level like a casino royale, stocked with fancy restaurants, shave and a haircut, shoe-shining parlors, rent a courtesan by the minute. My mind reeled with the cons I could pull up there. But I reined myself in. Not the time or place. Keep your imaginative skull on hold, Rusco.

  This was like something out of time, from an older generation before the slums and ghettos had edged over the bloodied city ruins.

  Meanwhile Wren and I hustled over to the general section for a last minute stop, some Devirol to make more of my homebrew. TK pulled Billy along and scoped out the dry goods. This section of the Run, a giant circular revolving wheel with port windows every fifty feet, was unusually busy with traffic. All kinds from the surrounding sectors.