Starhustler

by Chris Turner

  He motioned to his assembly plant with what could have been a gesture of pride. “This is my side business,” he said, spreading a sweaty palm at the production line of boys and young women working fingers to bone to manufacture heavy clothing and boots, others fastening bolts and small latches to what looked like equipment scanners of some sort.

  “You mean, ‘front’?”

  “Sure, whatever you want to call it, Rusco. Why argue over details?”

  “No reason.” A half dozen gunmen idled by, toying with their remodeled Uzis, lazy yawns on their thick lips, evincing casual interest, sleeping lions, but I knew better. I could sense they were wire alert, their lazy, easy steps too light, their sleek bodies too toned, their quick fingers too close to the triggers. To Pazarol’s side, two of his men seemed to be paying more attention to the banter, one tall, swarthy, and sleazy looking with short greased hair; the other shorter, stockier, with down-turned brows and slicked back grey mullet and wearing small round glasses.

  “A man needs a legitimate business in this world,” asserted Pazarol, “otherwise he’s got nothing, right? A few scams giving him a bit of bread now and then. His heist money always running low; no investments, nothing to fall back on, and the wolves, the opportunists, the terrorists, the hired government guard, whatever’s left of them, coming out of the woodwork like termites, asking awkward questions.”

  I just smiled.

  “Something tells me you never really got a business going yourself, did you, Rusco?…you should try it.”

  “On the to-do list, Mr. Pazarol, earmarked for a rainy day.”

  “That’s good!” He wheezed, slapped me on the back. A bad smoker’s cough. I’d give him five years, no more.

  I wondered when he’d broach particulars about the job. This was his game, feeling out his new personnel, gauging the reactions, sparring with bullshit, testing reflexes, even though he was doing all the talking.

  “Hire ’em cheap, work ’em hard,” he went on. “Rusco, that’s my credo. Watch and learn. No labor costs here. Look at these patsies. They’re a bunch of dumb, happy freaks. I give ’em room and board—for the price of protection.”

  It was a sweatshop in the worst of ways. I saw frightened eyes, young boys, battered women with bruised cheeks or a blackened eye, the cocky guards walking about with Uzis, cracking jokes, ogling the prettier women.

  “Get out your lumo pen, Rusco!” Pazarol laughed. “I’ll let you take notes for a limited time, no extra charge.”

  I clenched my teeth, a part of me vowing to come back to this dumphole and free every one of those slave laborers. Blow Pazarol’s enterprise to kingdom come. “What’s this they’re making? Looks like army clothes.”

  “Boots and combat fatigues. Guerilla outerwear for all sorts. High demand for merchandise like this in these times. A lot of traditional guerrillas, aka war thugs, are doing assaults on land.”

  “No doubt.” I moved over and hefted a boot on a rack. Brown leather, durable, super light. Fast for runners in the bush, swamps or other onerous terrain.

  “There’s an extra kick in those babies, for sure.” Pazarol shook out his fingers, bragging. “A barb with nerve toxin stub on the toe. One kick to exposed flesh and the victim is paralyzed, dies in twenty seconds.”

  “Nice.” I set the boot down, wincing. He picked up a pair of fresh fatigues a nervous woman had sewn a battery pack to and motioned to the hand-sized circuit box wired to the back collar.

  “This khaki blends into whatever environment a combat soldier is in. Brown bush, grey concrete, red sunset, don’t matter. A phosphoro-gluten plant-based resin coats the inside surface. This doohickey on the back, a black box, sends the signal down to the plant membranes or whatever, telling it what form to take. Right down to the color, texture. Big seller. The rage these days. Touch it. It’s realistic.”

  “I’ll pass. Seems impressive though.”

  “Ah, a cautious man.”

  I offered no comment.

  “I’ll throw in a pair for you as a freebie, my token of appreciation and good faith. What size? Oh, you look about a ten.” He grabbed a new suit off the storage rack and plunged it too into my hands.” He eyed me, seeing how I’d react.

  “Who’s this lovely young lad you got here? Hiding behind your skirts like a bashful choir boy.”

  “This here’s Wren—as in the bird.”

  “A mighty fine bird, that. Got her all dressed up like an army brat and what, with a fuck-boy cut? Surprises me, Rusco. Didn’t peg you going for that. I’m liking what I see. Got to get me a fuck-boy.”

  “Very funny,” I said and Wren growled her contempt. In spite of the rudeness of the remark, I let a dog snicker of grin brush my face. Get on Paz’s good side. It’ll give you an edge in this fencing. Let Wren get a little sore, no harm. Dressed in khakis and looking as unlady-like as possible, Wren was well, Wren.

  “How ’bout it, sister?” He motioned to the fatigues. “You want a pair?”

  “No, thanks,” she said. “Might make me too sexy in front of your boys and give them some unwelcome ideas.”

  He snuffled out a laugh. “A good wit on her, Rusco. I like her. Better hang on to her. She’s a good one.”

  “That she is.”

  His expression turned serious in a second.

  “They’re a trigger happy bunch of bitches down in the desert where you’ll be going—desert mongrels, primitives holed up on a hot planet too long. So don’t go getting any ideas to wise-guy them or do a double-cross. You’ll guard the shipment, make sure things go smooth as olive oil. They’ll string your nuts up on their voodoo-crossed banyans faster than you can spit prune pits out your ass, if you get on their bad side.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Take Raez here with you. I want him and Gris to report all operations direct.”

  I looked over at the shifty man with the cold grin on his face. “No deal. Don’t know him from Adam.”

  “Tough titty. Either Raez goes with you or no deal and you can walk and we’ll never cross paths again. A one time offer.”

  I chewed my lip, pretending to hem and haw over it. I studied Raez, with the slicked-back hair, thin nose and beefy cheeks, wondering how I could dislike the man even more than Pazarol, without him having opened his mouth. The wide stance, the ‘I don’t-give-a-fuck’ attitude conveyed through the animal eyes, the challenging, bad-boy posture, it was a subliminal code of ‘screw with me and you die’ I’d picked up from experience. I ought to discuss it with TK and Wren, my partners, but there was no time. If I waffled here, Pazarol would look elsewhere and the deal would disintegrate, and a part of me vied to play longer. I gave a slow nod.

  “Wise choice, Rusco. Now, more facts of life: Grisheimer, aka Gris, will be called in to run the main freighter and oversee a team of my own boys—hand picked.” He motioned to the older shiftless fellow with penetrating owl-like eyes, the slack jowl, gangly limbs, but no less violent a man than Raez—the kind that would slit your throat and ask questions later for less reason than a dirty look. “He’ll act as navigator on the Urgon, the freighter out back, and backup for the handling, pick up and drop of the cargo. In case things go ape and you fuck up, Rusco, Gris will carry out the rest of the plan.”

  I could see Pazarol was a prudent man, an arranger, despite his fat, friendly airs. He liked to cover his bases, though with an arrogance and pride that stank up the air from here to Perseus. Nor did I like the idea of ‘brother’ Raez hobgobbling about my ship with his foul breath polluting the air. Something odd about the man, and something odd about this job in general; it seemed off from the start. Raez’s greasy look, Paz’s all too easy gestures and his quick impulse to fast-track this job and dish out roles without any discussion at all. A wiser man would listen to advice and input from the players, and never take on a fresh hireling so readily, at least without a test. Perhaps that was in the works. I got the crazy idea Paz’d gotten wind of something I wasn’t aware of. So my first warning
was triggered. “You still haven’t told me what it is we’re carrying or where it is to be transported.”

  “We fly Urgon from Besi 6 to Jasmel, plus your ship to guard. It’s enough to transfer the product. Fareon beam replacements, extended range, kills starfleas dead. That and raw Beryllium crystal needed to manufacture the beams. Need you to pick up raw product in Gizren on Besi then deliver that plus a full load of the replacement parts to Jasmel. I got me some full fareon beams in the back for shipment to the same source. But that’s another story.”

  I stifled a grimace. How’s it feel, Rusco, to be giving your friendly neighborhood warlord like Mong a helping hand in the arm’s race? Maybe it could have been you down on Megal when the bombs dropped? The automatic voice rattled in my head: Well, if it isn’t you, it’s some other slimeball playing delivery boy.

  Yet somehow these circular kind of reasonings didn’t soothe me. More than ever I wished I’d never walked into Pazarol’s warehouse.

  “Sounds pretty heavy. What’s in it for me?”

  “You’d be looking at 10 Gs if everything works out. As for risk, plenty of raiders out there. Those are lawless territories. We’ll need firepower to keep our investment protected. The ore freighter can move at impulse power only, sub warp, no more. It’s more than she was made for, but will move her from Besi 6 to Jasmel space in a week or more.”

  “Skgurian raiders always find a hole.”

  He chuckled. “As for the split, it’s a three-way deal. The Tanza boys at Gizren’ll take their cut plus a few bribes along the way. I take mine, and you get yours.”

  “So, why don’t you do this yourself?” I asked. “You seem to have capable men. What do you need me for?”

  “That’s the complex part, Rusco, nothing’s ever straightforward. I got other business commitments going on. My team’s maybe not so savvy in foreign affairs. Blinky says you’re competent. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust him and his good word.”

  “Sure, and what’s the real reason?”

  He looked at me for a second, wearing a feral scowl, gripping his goatee. “I need a shamster down there to grease the wheels and make this work. Dammit! I don’t trust those Tanza boys—always fighting and scrapping amongst each other like a pack of wild dogs. Stringing each other up in banyans and letting the buzzards gnaw at them. This’s a rush job here. We need the crystals right now to make fareon boosters. Or this buyer, a certain ‘Dark Angel’, will go elsewhere. I don’t want to lose this deal. As I’ve said, you’ve got a reputation. So I took Blinky’s recommendation to heart.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Don’t be. Just get the job done and everybody’s good, and maybe there’s more where that came from.”

  “Let’s cross that bridge when the time comes.”

  “Don’t get cocky, Rusco. You’re wanted by a dozen agencies and cartels around the galaxy. Men who’ll have you snuffed out for a yol if they catch up with you. On lists galore.” He snuffled a laugh. “A bounty hunter’s dream. Your reputation precedes you—grand larceny, willful destruction of property, first degree murder, assault, border jumping, explosives, on and on.” His face took on a brighter cast. “What I’m saying, Rusco, you’re my kind of shyster. Welcome to the club.” He patted my arm.

  Somehow I was not liking being on Pazarol’s ‘good’ side. The man was a slimy douchebag, even slimier than the lower echelon of thugs I sometimes did business with.

  “The Tanza boys won’t just take a simple cash deal. They’ll want to escort the load too, or some fool thing like that. I want you to thwart them, if possible. It just muddies the pie. Convince them otherwise. I don’t care just as long as the shipment makes it on time and in one piece.”

  “I’m mulling it over, Pazarol.”

  He gave me a cold inspection. I’d seen less predatory looks on steel-fanged viper fish.

  “Tell me more about the product,” I asked.

  “Fresh tech, a quarter price. Fresh off the black market. Double the range, fareon state-of-the-art. Got a bunch of the devices here.”

  “Do I get one?”

  “If you say pretty please and suck my dick.” He looked around, enjoying the snickers of his henchmen. “For you I might swing a deal, with that lady friend thrown in on the side. One of the boys at the other end might equip you with a choicer one, once you’ve got the job done.”

  I shafted him a glare much like a wolf before it leaps in to rend the rabbit.

  “Just kidding, Rusco. Wipe that murderous grimace off your face. Geez, you’re a humorless man. This client I’ve got a deal with’ll take the crystals and enhanced beams without fuss. An up and coming space bully. Thinks he’s Captain Jojo, going to take over the universe.”

  “One of those at every transhub.”

  “You betcha. Keeps us in business.” He laughed it off, a sour, hacking cough. “Wants raw crystal as well to manufacture his own weaponry. I shake my head, say, ‘I can do it for you cheaper’ and he says, ‘no, I want to manage the trade myself’. I say, ‘Okay, I can deal, half in advance’, he says, ‘Fine’. First rule of business, Rusco, is please the customer. Clichéd, but true. A sale is a sale.” He looked at me with a cock-eyed grin.

  I didn’t know why he was telling me all this. I think it’s one of those good guy ploys: let the new guy in town think he’s more important than he is, some bigger part of the overall picture, then he’ll work harder for you, stay loyal.

  Pazarol’s harsh voice tipped me out of my musing. “Okay, that’s out of the way. What’s your plan of operation?”

  It was too late to back out. That time’d passed an hour ago. Suddenly I didn’t want to deal any more.

  “We’ll go in as negotiators, me, Wren, Raez, pack weapons and explosives, in case things get ugly. We don’t want things going haywire.”

  “Whatever, just as long as you don’t damage my product.”

  “What do you think I am, an amateur?”

  “Just so we’re on the same page,” he grumbled. He patted my arm a second time. He put his mouth close to my ear, spoke in a confiding whisper. “Take care, Ruski. On the off chance you sidewind me, I might become one of those mean-ass bounty hunters after your hide.”

  “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  Chapter 13

  Back on the bridge, things were escalating. Wren was all over me about what went down in pig Pazarol’s crib, even though I assured her it was all just show. We’d suffered another close scrape under impulse power by what I guessed were Baer’s bounty hunters: two ships we’d barely evaded before a jump to hyperspace’d saved our hides. Why was Baer riding our asses so closely? Then again, I had blown off the guy’s arm.

  “Those bastards are everywhere at once,” I muttered under my breath.

  “And why shouldn’t they be?” Wren growled. “Either they must have tracked us prior to the last repairs, or the Barenium’s still leaking.”

  “Maybe somebody tipped them off,” suggested TK.

  Wren waved a hand. “If you hadn’t brought that piece of shit microchip bad luck aboard, we’d be in none of this mess.”

  “That again?” I groaned. Shaking my head, I wished I’d never let them in on that tech. What one didn’t know, couldn’t hurt him, right? A shuffle of boot sounded behind me. I turned, scowling to see Raez hovering there like a ghoul. “What do you want?”

  “I just wanted to check if we were good with the transshipment. We’re going in tandem, right—or you going solo? Think you should put me on lead. Wren as backup, you to man the ship. What do you think, Rusco?” He gave her a lascivious look.

  My fists clenched in an involuntary ball. “We already discussed that, Raez. I go in with Wren, you’re backup. You keep your mouth shut. Remember, you’re only here as a courtesy.”

  “Just wanted to double check.”

  Yeah, double check my ass. Any bit of eavesdropping you can do, you’ll do, you piece of shit. I flashed Wren a warning glance, but she didn’t seem to pick up on
it.

  Raez was one of those weasely types, slicked-back hair, thin jaw, who hangs out as a lurker, the smiling, grinning predator who looks for any trusting person or piece of interesting dirt that he can dig up, one that can be useful. I feared his sleazy habit would spill over into his work.

  I had to put this apprehension aside. This was business and once the deal was over, I’d set the bastard down on the nearest transhub and be done with it. “Okay, let’s go through the motions again. I don’t want any margin of error.”

  Within moments, Raez sighed and threw down the map I’d drawn out painstakingly by hand. “Listen, we pick up the merchandise from this Gizren place on Besi, at what, 08:00? Why’s it so hard? Dolgra or Dogface, and his Tanza boys’ll be there with heavy guns, wanting insurance and money up front. We move in, take it aboard, guide the freighter, do whatever the hell those monkeys want done. If we get our jobs done, nobody gets hurt and everything rolls like a greased wheel.”

  “Yeah, exactly, if everyone gets their jobs done.” I leveled him a stare.

  “And what’re you insinuating?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like. It means let’s study the map another time, and a hundredth time if we have to. I don’t want any screw ups on this.”

  “Alright already. Don’t get your tubes in a knot.”

  “Up yours, Raez. I’m sick of your wise-assing about. Either you up your game, or I ship you back to daddy Paz. Let him cater to your moods.”

  The others tensed.

  Raez glared at me for a time, his mouth working in a mincy little line. He did his huffy routine, shifting from foot to foot, quivering and looking all mean, as if he were some big shot mobster. Then as I stared him down, daring him to go further, he backed down like a coward. It wasn’t a subtle thing, just a change of psycho-physical energy in the air palpable to all. One I knew well. One of which I seemed to be in more command. He settled down in a snit, shook out his grease-slicked hair. But I could tell his nose was out of joint on this one and he’d be looking for some way to gain face. Let the man sulk, for fuck’s sake. What did I care?