by Chris Turner
I bumped shoulders with a lot of impatient folk from duty officers to transients, all milling about and talking a lot of hokum in loud voices. I caught snippets of conversation that were not entirely of reassuring nature. Drought on this world, killings on that world, planetary genocide. Gang takeover. Refugees from Megal, merchants from Vylnos, down and out speculators from any of the mining worlds and prospectors scoping out asteroids, uncharted moons, any chunk of rock that could churn out a dime. Any number of garden-variety drifters and hopefuls looking for a new life on a new world. I heard them all, like the buzz of angry bees, haggling over prices of basic commodities like soup, drypak, underwear, which seemed to have escalated in the sudden demand created by the exodus. A tense expectancy hung in the air; a flurry of desperation that made everyone edgy, like a massive feedback loop, the threat of scarcity and the fragile security of their lives.
“Let’s get out of here,” Wren muttered, after I’d paid for the two bottles I needed. “The vibes are getting a little out of hand.”
“Agreed.”
“What’s that glass bottle? Little bit of a garden cocktail?”
“Something like that.” I cast her my chilliest grin before I surged ahead.
Suddenly there came a low drone, pulsing through the air like an air siren out from an audio-net nightmare. The station alarm. Eyes darted up, dull whispers broke from dry lips.
A security monitor next to me spoke in a clipped whisper. “Advance armada—Early distant warning. They’ll be coming out of warp in two minutes.”
The monitor’s partner spat out a curse. “Shit, they’re already here. Why?”
TK mumbled, grabbing my shoulder. “Bad idea to berth here, Rusco, bad idea.” He shook his gray head.
I snatched at Wren’s arm. “Let’s get back to the ship.”
Out the porthole I saw the docking security ship take a turn and bank away, her weapons lights streaming on her foredeck.
That was not good.
Orange lights winked over the shops and service counters. A robot voice pealed over the loudspeaker: “Amber alert. All dockers aboard Skeller’s Run report to emergency bay. Lockdown in process. All docking bays from A1-T3 will be closed in T minus 2 minutes. All boarders proceed to emergency support bay. Repeat, report to emergency bay.”
“Jesus, can you believe it?” I bawled.
The attack came in less than two minutes.
Several stealth raiders came out of warp like banshees and flanked the station. Long beetle-like prows with glass eyes surveyed the station with predatory menace. Their tapered purple-grey hulls pulsed with malignant energy.
The emergency alert was as useless as tits on a bull.
A group of frightened souls snarled curses at the vanguard. White fingers gripped wrists; pale-faces goggled at what faced them.
The battle cruisers came arching into view. The lead craft glowed an ominous grey with triangular nose and bulkheads racked on an octagonal rear body like a souped up war freighter. The Galaga.
“Holy mother of god—” a bystander cried. “That’s Mong’s devil ship. Enough firepower there to wipe out half of Veglos.”
More and more of that name ‘Mong’. It tinkled in the back of my mind like a shaman’s death rattle. Hoath. That two-bit guard. He’d dropped the name. Some star lord or mega star-mogul.
A black-bearded man, clutching a bag of drypak meals, crowded close to the glass. The man looked like a pilot, judging from the eagle logo on his blue spacer uniform. “He’s an ugly brute. Some kind of cult leader. Whatever the case, you don’t want to mess with him.”
“Founded the Temple of Tirith on Ciros, I heard,” croaked another. “Priest, nomad, witch-hunter, warlord, jack of every trade. With some weird kind of powers to boot.”
“Like what?” I snarled, whirling on him.
“Don’t know, like moving stuff with his mind. Weird shit like that.”
“That’s all crap,” I scoffed. “He’s just a flesh-eating shitter like the rest of us.” But somehow I knew not, and my greatest fears were realized, remembering the tales of blood and rapine that Ging fellow on Hazzerot had committed. But it had been so long ago.
“Maybe, but that’s what I’ve heard,” said the outworlder. “Whatever, you don’t want to mess with him.”
Seems as if I already had, if Baer was mixed up with him—and I had provoked him by rifling his secret stash and blowing off his arm.
I moved off with a grunt, feeling a tremor of sick unease crawling up my gut.
“Rusco, we should—”
I waved TK off.
Without warning all hell broke loose. It seemed any communications’ parley had failed. The wasps surged in with amazing dexterity, making retaliation impossible.
The security docker opened fire but stood no chance against so many enemies. The attackers pounded it to chipboard, its shields blinking red before dying.
The security vessel and companion ships rocked under the firepower. The enemy looped around them like blackflies circling a wounded deer, peppering them with rays, penetrating shields and shearing cannons.
The flagship blew the main security docker ship to dust. That gray-bloated pig with antennae, towers and cannons was no more.
TK paled. “They just nuked the main security vessel.”
“No kidding,” I growled. “The thing’s really just show and glitter. A sitting duck for those smaller spitfires. See?”
The wasps roared over the last of the defenders, taking out crafts, military and civilian.
“Why? What’s their purpose?” cried Wren. “Why take a station when they can have a planet?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “For show, kicks, greed? Teach the refugees there’s no safe place to hide?”
I stood in helpless awe as the invaders employed that blitzkrieg technique TK’d mentioned. It was devastatingly effective.
“Get to Starrunner, before it’s too late,” I mumbled.
The first smart bombs struck the upper decks of the Run, rocking the floor under our boots and knocking us off our feet.
Screams rose from all quarters. Metal crumpled around us, glass shattered, and smoke rose in a shower of sparks, spraying me with debris.
I picked myself up and ran with Wren down the littered terminus, picking my way through the stampede, against the flow.
Pandemonium hit the rotunda. Most tried to scramble for the main avenue to the emergency bay—a mistake, and soon it was a clot of writhing, fighting hordes, crammed against themselves like lemmings.
I grabbed Wren and pushed TK forward. “Back to the ship—”
“But they said—”
I waved him off. “Forget it. Follow my lead if you want to live.”
I ran right into a checkpoint station guard crouching, holding an R2 at my chest. “Get back. You can’t go in there!” he bawled. “Lock down.”
One thing I hated was protocol during life and death situations. I pretended to bow my head in submission, then upended him in the chops with an elbow, knocking him flat on his ass. I kicked the weapon out of his reach and lifted my pen blaster.
His buddy crouched and aimed for my head.
Wren lifted her pen and blew the man’s head off without a second’s hesitation.
I blinked. “Let’s go.”
We raced past the checkpoint for the A2 dock where Starrunner berthed; fortunately she hadn’t been destroyed, only trembling to explosive rumbles and flecked with silver metal plates fallen from the ceiling. Smoke curled from down the hall and cries of the dying reverberated with sparks raging and metal beams crashing down.
The docking arm still hung clamped to our bow. I swore and jerked open the hatch, raced for the bridge, got the engine running. The others were not far behind me. I pulled Starrunner out, breaking off the docking struts and the arm. The water connection severed, sending pipe and water spewing like a fire hose. Sparks flew where pieces were still attached. I turned the cannon and blasted a hole in the stubborn berth gate. I
gunned the engines and she ripped through the jagged opening and under impulse power shot up on a ninety degree angle straight out of there. Pulse rays tore across our beam and flared around us like firecrackers with enemy ships on our tail. Bug-shaped marauders with two wings fore and aft, like two ice picks end to end.
Odd sounds streamed from Billy’s mouth in a disturbing manner. Wren, flush-faced and grimacing, manned the starboard guns.
“The hostiles are coming too close for comfort,” yelled TK.
“Quit blabbing and start shooting! Do I need to coach you? Is there no compliance in this universe?”
“You been praying to the wrong gods, Rusco,” gibed Wren. “Maybe you should quit squawking.”
I whirled on the old man whose arms were trembling. “TK, man the auxiliary starboard guns. Wren, you take the port. We’re going to have ourselves a dogfight before this is all over.”
“We’ve got multiple bogies on our tail,” she called.
“The manuals are in the console, if you need them,” I said.
“Warp out of here,” she cried.
“Can’t. That’s a gas giant down there in case you didn’t notice. Gravity galore. I have to clear another 100k miles away before I can even think about Varwol.”
“He’s right,” TK groaned.
Wren stared in disbelief. “Why is this happening? How could we have warped in within orbital distance—”
“Shut up. Fire!”
Other ships burst from their stalls, some of them hopelessly damaged and catching fire in the process. I winced as they became incendiaries, ripe prey for the enemy stealth ships bearing down on them. Some tried to jump to warp too soon and became stretched discs miles long before they shimmered blue and winked out of existence forever. I saw a Vega 6 ultra light cruiser go up in flames, drowned in pulse fire. Others followed suit. Fat pulse beams whipped so close to Starrunner they almost tagged her flanks as the black and grey starfleas bombarded us with every weapon they had. All I could do was urge every ounce of speed out of Starrunner before I could trigger the Varwol.
I pondered the motive of any man to unleash such wholesale slaughter. Target: all the refugees from that doomed planet. Truly a vengeful bastard in the extreme, this Mong character. On the chance it was the same Mong I’d heard dropped on Hoath, we’d better be wary. My thoughts were interrupted as a larger, blue wasp-enemy came vaulting out of the ether with fareons locked. What were the chances it was the same Mong?
“Molly, give me live feed and max juice.”
“Affirmative.”
The holo display came up. A target zoomed in and possible missile trajectories for intercept. I targeted it and smashed it broadside on the rear thrusters, near the heat-sink. “Die, fucker.” But my mouth sagged. The wasp-like fuselage flared in a red aureole then faded down to standard gray. I whacked my fist on the weapons console. “Why don’t you die, fucker?” I launched another fareon. Now those stealthguard cannons were aiming straight at us. No wonder those bee-stinging, bitch-faced flydirts had defeated an entire planet. “Molly, we’d better be getting out of here pretty damn fast!”
“Affirmative. ETA T-1:36 before Varwol can engage.”
“That’s an awfully long road to hell. Molly. Snap it up!”
I whirled on Wren. “Give that bitch your best shot. If we combine blasts, maybe our attacks can penetrate those crypto-shields.”
“10-4! On the count of three. Three—two—one. Now!”
Our blasts coordinated at the same point, a four-foot square on the underbelly of the approaching, offensive craft. The thing glowed for several seconds, one baleful crimson, then began to flame around the edges. My mouth quivered for a second, then curled in triumph. “Hot damn! Wallow in oblivion, you bandit shitweasel—”
Fareon beams came arching from the two attacking ships at the flaming ship’s heel which I dodged as other escaping craft died in our rear sights. Shields held but upper panels began to smoke and the Varwol was beginning to shiver and kick in.
Maybe, just maybe. Multiple beams arced out across the gulfs, but Starrunner blinked out in a haze of nothingness as the Varwol, miracle of science, kicked in.
Chapter 10
We all took a time out, and celebrated over a bottle of gin I had tucked in the forward bulkhead I called the ‘back hamper’. Starrunner was off to the Norios belt or some never-never land, and I hoped to hell the Barenium would hold. After the backslapping and congratulations were over and Billy had finished his powdered milk and munched his synthetic cookies, we sat down for a fireside chat at the circular conference table on the bridge. “I see the Varwol’s already degraded 2.5%.”
“Sad thing that,” muttered TK.
“We survived this round, but next time might not be so pretty. I’m not saying that was a typical day in the life of an honest crook, but if you’re running with me, it’s not going to be easy.”
Wren shrugged her sinewy shoulders. “All the same to me, dads. I’ve been dodging mad boys and dervishes most of my life, so this just felt like home.” She adjusted her Uzi on her shoulder at a better angle.
“First of all, I’m not dads, and it’s not grey hair, it’s purple, in case you didn’t notice.”
She reached across the tinted tabletop and patted my hand, as if to console my feelings. “There, there, Rusco, just horsing around. Don’t take it the wrong way.”
It was a nice addition, even if it was a touch condescending. “Forget it, Wren. None taken. Now, way I see it, we can run scams and cons up and down the populated worlds, starting with the most prosperous planets. I got one in mind now, where we play tag team at the rich dives and the casinos, looking for manageable marks. We showboat them around, give them a good time, make ourselves out as easy marks, then take them for all they’re worth.”
Wren shrugged. “It sounds easy, but I got a better idea. Why not fake a shipwreck, set up a distress signal, and let them come to us, then we nab their ship and goods.”
TK muttered, rubbing his chin, “It has potential, but too many variables and violent possibilities. I don’t have that many years left in my old bones and don’t feel like cutting them short, lying in a pool of blood.”
“Good luck with that, old man.” I chuckled. “If you’re running with bad boys, blood there’ll be. Tell you what, we can always let you off at Beta Aquilae or the nearest hub.”
The old man gave a withering grimace. “Billy and I’ll stay on here, I think.”
“Good choice. But I tend to agree with your rejection of the shipwreck plan. Wren, as much as I like your idea, I’ll have to downvote it. Let’s stick to plan A.”
She shrugged, gave a surly scowl. “All the same to me, Rusco. Go for it.”
“On another note, Starrunner’s due for an overhaul. New stabilizers, Barenium seals, whatever. You contribute your share and we’re all fine. I’ve facilitated your escape and’ll put in for the bulk of repairs. After that we share in the spoils.”
TK blinked and growled, “I can live with that, Rusco, but I’d rather you pay me hard yols for the repairs I do, and give me a garage, diagnostic equipment and tools.”
I smiled. “See, there’s the rub, TK.” I put my arm around his shoulders. “Things like hangar space and tools, cost money.”
“Why not dump this silly crate and buy a whole new kit?” grunted Wren.
I stared at her for a moment. “How do you figure that? You think quality spacecraft are just lying about, waiting to be plucked from trees?”
“Steal one.”
“Something unethical about that,” I said, in my most deadpan voice.
TK snorted.
These rubes didn’t appreciate a good joke. “I need to take a nap, sleep off these wounds. Knock yourself out, the bridge is yours.
“Wait!” cried TK. “Let’s talk more about these heists. If you’re serious, why not start on Vasel or Perseus? Lot of trade up there, or at least was, when I was touring.”
“Perseus is a high draw,” I admitted
. “I’ve heard ripe business goes on up there. Some money to milk at least.”
“Another place comes to mind is Skguron.”
“With Skgurian raiders coming up your ass out of every nook and cranny in hyperspace. I think not.”
“Scrap it then. Perseus, it is.”
“We’ll talk about it more later.” I yawned. “Plenty of water in the dispenser and dry food in the paks, and some more cheap gin under the bulkhead, if you need a kick.”
“Thanks, dads,” said Wren with unveiled sarcasm. “That’s a great package, the dry meal included.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said, tipping my head in salute.
Exhaustion had more than taken its toll. After showing Wren and TK to their quarters in the spare cabins, I thought to hit my bunk. But first I locked the controls on autopilot for Beleron, with only a key code that I knew. Didn’t trust them farther than I could spit. Yet.
I flopped down on my hard foam, locking the door tightly by remote. I caught some restless sleep, but awoke in a cold sweat some hours later, feeling the gnarling pain in my knee, a gnawing ache which was like a saw penetrating to the bone.
I descended to the hold, checking things over, sauntered back up the service hall where I saw the bridge lights on. Wren had already retired, but as I approached, I caught TK snooping by the controls, rummaging for something. He seemed to be fiddling with the auxiliary panel. It looked as if he were searching for booze, but on second glance, he pretended to tie his boot lace. Then I got suspicious with his head snapping up like that with a stupid grin, fingers tapping some keystrokes into the data console.
“Says here packed Barenium will hold up 50% longer, Jet, if it’s nazolene-pressed vs raw-treated. You know what era your Barenium’s from?”
“Not rightly, TK. Wasn’t given the proper maintenance papers by the lowlifes I snatched the ship from.”
“I can imagine that. Well, seems as if we should make some effort to track those papers down, shouldn’t we? I was searching for them in the utility cabinets below when you startled me—”
