When the Dust Settled

by Jeannie Meekins

  Level with the shuttle, they ducked their heads and darted to the hatch. Their faces might not show on any camera, but the uniform was a dead giveaway. John was already at the hatch when he realised he should have taken his jacket off.

  “It’s already fuelled up and ready to go,” Soghra said.

  “Why not steal Daygarn’s ship?” Gillespie wondered. “It would serve him right.”

  “I already thought of that,” Soghra answered. “It’s not here. Nowhere in a thousand kilometre radius.”

  John stopped short of the pilot’s seat. The control panel was nothing like he had ever seen before. There was nothing that even seemed remotely familiar. “I can’t fly this!” he exclaimed.

  “I can.” Soghra slipped around him and into the pilot’s seat.

  John dropped to the co-pilot’s beside him. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” he taunted.

  “It is not so different from your own.” Soghra looked anxiously over the controls, rubbing his hands gleefully and loosening up his fingers. “I am a little inexperienced with some of the modern devices.”

  “How inexperienced?” John worried.

  “About eight years… ahh.” He found what he wanted, flicked a couple of switches and pressed a button. The engines turned over and came to life.

  John groaned, changing his mind and telling himself what a bad idea it was. There had to be an easier way.

  The shuttle lifted, then dropped immediately, thumping into the floor. The impact shook them all in their seats. It rose again, listing heavily to starboard, then swayed from side to side as Soghra tried to steady it. A heavy jolt as it scraped across the floor before rising again and wobbling towards the bay doors.

  John was grateful the doors were open; how or why didn’t register with him. The fact that they were more likely to smash against the walls than get out was of more concern. Somehow they made it – aided more by silent prayer than Soghra’s flying skills.

  “I promise I’ll never criticise your flying again! Just get him away from the controls!” Gillespie begged.

  “Piece of pudding!” Soghra exclaimed happily.

  John frowned before comprehending Soghra’s words. “You mean cake.”

  “What?” Soghra asked.

  “Cake. The expression is ‘piece of cake’.”

  Soghra shrugged. “No matter.”

  “You want to tell me where we’re going?”

  “Set your course for Delta Central. Its fourth moon has a retrograde orbit. Navigation should be… somewhere around there.” Soghra circled his hand over the approximate area.

  John eventually found the navigation systems and laid in a course. It took, so he assumed it was right.

  Soghra leaned over and glanced at the destination. “Correct.”

  The next most urgent thing on John’s list was to find an autopilot and get Soghra away from the controls.

  The Ruscatan looked a little disheartened as John found and engaged the autopilot. John relaxed back into his seat. Soghra folded his arms across his chest, drumming the fingers of one hand on the opposite bicep.

  “How long?” John asked, acutely aware of their timeframe.

  “An hour or two.”

  Equally important to all of them was what they were going to do when they got there.

  “We’re not going to be popular,” Gillespie hinted.

  “Yeah, I know.” It was one of the rare occasions John wished he didn’t have his uniform on. A quick search of the shuttle didn’t bring up any alternatives.

  * * *

  The fourth moon of Delta Central was a bustling little place. Its synchronous orbit kept one side facing its planet. Soghra set the shuttle down in a quiet spot in the gloom of its edge. To one side of them, the sliver of sun hinted at its warmth while their other side fell into increasing blackness.

  John checked his pockets. “Got any currency?” he asked Gillespie.

  “I told you, he wiped me out.” Gillespie shook his head.

  Soghra reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a handful of currency. He flicked through the notes before grudgingly handing some over. “Do not spend it all.”

  John took the money and pocketed it with the list of haunts Soghra had scribbled down for him on the way. He checked his watch. “Back here in three hours?”

  Soghra nodded and slipped out of the shuttle into the darkness.

  The first place looked like it had a bit of class. The façade was clean and tidy; no broken or cracked windows. The clientele did not have the same class as John stepped around a body on entering. A trickle of blood stained the floor and the eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.

  He ran his gaze over the place, reasoning his translator would only identify about half the languages being spoken, before making his way to the bar. Several barkeeps darted around each other, attending to orders, calling out well used lines to those who objected to waiting, clearing glasses and wiping down the bar.

  “What’ll it be?”

  The response was automatic. Eyes barely meeting John’s before overseeing the room was the only indication he was the one being spoken to.

  John ran over the labels on the shelves behind the bar and spotted a couple that were familiar. Picking anything non alcoholic – if there were such a thing in this place – was not going to win him any brownie points.

  “Andurian rum.”

  The barkeep hesitated, took the bottle from the shelf, reached under the bar for a clean glass, placed it on the bar in front of John, uncapped the bottle and poured.

  “Not many choose this.”

  “They don’t know what they’re missing.”

  The barkeep glanced at the uniform. “You’re a long way from home.”

  John pulled out a couple of notes. “Got some business this way.”

  “Then I suggest you get on with your business and keep moving.”

  The barkeep took the money, tilled it and brought him his change, then moved on to the next patron.

  Ten minutes and an empty glass and the barkeep wasn’t returning. John glanced to the other end of the bar where Gillespie was trying his luck. He’d been shut down as well.

  John flicked his eyes towards the door. Gillespie’s head moved in the barest of nods, and they made their way out of the place.

  “Any luck?” John asked as they hit the cold of the night.

  “Nup. Mentioned the name… Thought I was going to have to duck.”

  *

  Two hours later they were no better off. No one had seen Roppa or knew his whereabouts. At least, that’s what they were saying. John doubted if anyone was willing to admit otherwise. Everyone knew the game of subtlety and innuendo, and currency changing hands didn’t guarantee honesty or even an answer.

  They came to a place Soghra had listed as ‘promising’. Inside it was well lit, but a cloud of smoke hung around the ceiling creating a veiled effect. It was crowded and noisy, full of what appeared to be the lowlife of the galaxy. Not unlike one or two other places they had visited.

  The bar ran along a side wall. They found a couple of empty stools and sat down. The barkeep, whose method of sorting out disputes was to crack together the heads of two patrons who argued about which of them was paying, was with them shortly.

  “What do you want?”

  He avoided eye contact, his attention remaining on the room, though John noted his eyes had narrowed and his brow furrowed momentarily as he had caught sight of the uniforms approaching.

  “Information,” John answered cautiously. Subtlety had died out several bars earlier.

  “Have a drink.”

  Every place they had visited seemed to have the same requirement. Much more and John doubted his ability to think clearly.

  He searched his pockets. He was almost broke. He ordered and paid, the barkeep eyeing the money longer than was necessary. That was a good sign. John took his time putting the change away.

  “I’m looking for Keel Roppa.” He spoke quietly
, watching the barkeep for any signs of knowledge.

  “You and every other bounty hunter in this system.” He laughed to himself. “Take my advice. Chase the next one on your list. You’re out of your depth with Roppa.” He left them to attend to more pressing business.

  “That seems to be the general consensus,” Gillespie noted.

  “I hope Soghra’s having more luck.” John turned slightly to look around the room. A sudden thump on the back jolted him forward, almost spilling his drink on Gillespie.

  “You’re in my seat!” The low growl was explanation of the assault.

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  John was not about to get involved in any arguments and moved to stand. A second thump on the back nearly knocked him over. Gillespie caught him.

  John steadied himself. “Let me guess. He’s big… hairy… and ugly?”

  Gillespie nodded at each adjective.

  “And he wants to wipe the floor with me?”

  John was not looking forward to the inevitable confrontation. Before he could turn around, a hand grabbed his jacket at the back of his neck and flung him across the room like a rag doll. A path miraculously cleared in front of him as he skidded across a tabletop and crumpled on the floor.

  He scrambled to his feet, still crouched beneath the height of the table, intending to at least get a look at his assailant. Not a race he was familiar with unfortunately though the translator had had no problems with the dialect. Apart from pummel him into the ground, John had no idea what the man was likely to do.

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to discuss this like grown men,” he suggested calmly, and ducked immediately as a chair skimmed over his head and shattered into the wall behind him. “I guess not.”

  He moved quickly. Too quickly for his opponent who came charging after him. In what had been a crowded room, a vacant area now appeared. An interested crowd of spectators began urging them on.

  John backed away; using every object he could find to keep between them, skipping across tabletops to increase the distance. Spotting an overhead light, he leapt for it, tucking his legs up as the man dived at him. He swung like a pendulum for a few seconds before the light ripped from the ceiling and he fell to the floor amid ceiling plaster, electrical wiring and dust.

  The man’s dive found him sprawled across an empty table. He slowly picked himself up, growling in frustration as he swung an arm at the table and upended it.

  John was on his feet as the man turned back to him, his head spinning a little from the amount of alcohol he’d consumed. He shook his head to clear it, his eyes blinking strongly as he focused, and he could feel his muscles tingling.

  “I could do with some help.”

  “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.” Gillespie was tightly sandwiched between two spectators who had no intention of letting him get involved. “You’re on your own.”

  John swore under his breath. The crowd was looking for a fight and there was no way he was going to get out of it. He took a deep breath and assessed his opponent in the remaining second before he was charged. He used his speed to his advantage. A series of well-executed strikes supported with blocks and counters had him temporarily controlling the situation and his opponent on the back foot. He knew that one connecting blow from the man would change that.

  A sudden ramming charge backed John into a table he didn’t know was there. He fell back onto it; his feet came up too slowly to stop the man from landing on top of him. The table tipped, sending them both head first to the floor.

  The crowd came alive at the reversal. John was winded by the crushing weight. He gasped heavily for breath. His forearms protected his head and the fists began pummelling on his rib cage.

  He didn’t realise it had stopped until he found himself upright and completely off the floor. He instinctively struck out behind, taking the impact with his forearm as he was slammed against the wall. His hand and fingers stung.

  A huge fist had a handful of his jacket front, pinning him to the wall as the second fist drew back behind the man’s head, a look of sheer delight on his face as his eyes lit up and his smile showed broken and blackened teeth, and lined up the blow.

  John’s arms came up as the fist moved forward.

  “Put him down!”

  The voice could be heard clearly above the noise of the room, and it commanded obedience. The man hesitated in mid punch. John’s connecting blows to his face missed their target as the head turned, though it turned back just as quickly. The glare burned through John as the fist lined up again.

  Roppa pushed his way through the crowd; those who knew him stepped aside immediately. He strode directly to John, his manner calm as he repeated. “Put him down.”

  The man dropped John to his feet and turned to face Roppa. One glance was all that was needed to read the threat on the Skaren’s face. He backed away slowly, a low rumbling growl emanating from somewhere inside him.

  “Go back to your business,” Roppa flashed at the crowd. “There will be no death tonight.”

  John’s eyes widened. Fight, yes. Death wasn’t on his plan. He caught his breath as the sweat began to flow and he turned to make sure another attack wasn’t on the cards.

  The disgruntled crowd was no longer interested. The man took his seat at the bar, a brief look of contempt thrown at John before he turned away, snatched up a glass and skolled its contents. Gillespie twisted his shoulders and squeezed his way clear.

  Roppa turned back to John. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” John muttered hoarsely. He gasped for air, his ribs aching with each breath. “Friend of yours?”

  “No. He fears me… I hear you have been looking for me.”

  “You hear correctly… Got somewhere we can talk?”

  Roppa nodded and headed to the far end of the bar. John followed closely. Roppa spoke to the barkeep, who unlatched a small entry door, allowing them through the bar to a small room out the back. John hesitated, waiting for Gillespie.

  “Just you,” Roppa told him. “Your companion will be safe out here.”

  John felt he wasn’t in a position to argue. He sank into the nearest chair. As his body cooled down, he began to feel the full extent of his beating.

  “Why do you look for me?” Roppa had no intention of wasting time.

  “My ship and crew have been kidnapped.” John moved uneasily in his seat. “The ransom is you.”

  All signs of friendliness disappeared from Roppa’s face as he took this in. Then he suddenly burst out laughing. “And you expect to take me back?”

  “No.” John spoke slowly, deliberately. “I came to ask for your help. I have no intention of handing you over, but I have every intention of getting my ship back.”

  “Why should this concern me?”

  “They’re being held by a bounty hunter called Daygarn.”

  “Ah, yes.” Roppa’s hand unconsciously rose to his eye patch. “I know him… Should I decide to help you, what’s in it for me?”

  “I think we can come to some arrangement.”

  “I do not believe that I can trust you.” Roppa shook his head slowly.

  “And I know for a fact that I can’t trust you. So, now that we know where we stand with each other, how about it?”

  “You still confuse me… But I like you,” Roppa decided. “How much time do you have left?”

  “He’s giving me forty eight hours. After which time, he will execute one crew member per hour.”

  “You have the Ruscatan Soghra with you. He would turn me over in an instant to save his own skin.”

  John gingerly touched his grazed left cheek with the back of his right hand as he looked up at Roppa. The Skaren had done his own research on who was asking after him.

  His cheek stung. Glancing at his hand, there was no blood. “His skin is my responsibility.” He glanced at his empty wrist and grimaced. “Aww, geez, someone out there stole my watch!”

  “Is it important?”

  �
��Very.”

  “Wait here.”

  With Roppa gone, John took the opportunity to give himself a quick checkover. He softly felt his ribs, checked his forearms for the welts he knew were rising, and circled his wrists, flexing his fingers. There was a slight discolouration to his knuckles; the swelling consistent with bruising.

  Roppa returned shortly. “Is this it?” he asked, tossing something to John.

  A quick check. “Yes, thank you.” He put it on immediately.

  “I will discuss your situation with my men and let you know in the morning what has been decided.”

  “But that –”

  “That will give you enough time to return to your ship to make an alternative offer should we not wish to become involved.”

  The final statement may have closed the subject, but John caught the gleam in Roppa’s eye. The question was not if they should become involved, but how to turn the situation to their own advantage.

  Back to top

  Chapter fourteen

  John spent an uncomfortable night in the shuttle. Although, he admitted to himself, it would have been uncomfortable no matter where he was. He had found a medical kit. Soghra’s assurances that nothing in there would kill him unless he drank or injected it weren’t altogether encouraging. When the Ruscatan picked out a jar of what had the colour and consistency of congealed blood and smelled like week old fish, John was ready to put up with the pain.

  His cheek throbbed and had swollen up to block most of his vision in that eye and his ribs were slowly crushing his lungs. He figured anything was better than nothing.

  The smell disappeared as the gel did its work. The colour remained longer before taking on the tones of the natural pigment of his skin. The pain dulled and remained at a constant fuzz unless he moved – or breathed.

  By morning, most of the bruising and swelling had gone. His ribs were still tender to touch and his vision was almost normal. A mug of hot coffee was just what he needed. That would have to wait. At least until he got back to Bismarck.