Will Destroy the Galaxy for Cash

by Yahtzee Croshaw

  “No, no, it’s . . . it’s all right, I believe you.” From the movements of his shadow, it looked like he was leaning further forward and pinching his eyes with his real hand.

  “Okay.” A note of concern entered Nelly’s voice. “You holding up okay, Uncle Dav? It sounded like things got pretty intense back there.”

  Derby suddenly switched to his normal voice. “Nothing is too intense for Davisham Derby,” he crowed, before straightening up a little too hard and hitting his head against the empty paper-towel dispenser above the bowl.

  “It’s just, I got another email from Uncle Ted this afternoon.”

  He stiffened. I know, because he hit his head on the towel dispenser a little harder this time.

  “He said to tell you that they can’t keep the job open at the fish shop for another year. So if you were serious about taking it, then they need to know if you’re coming home soon.”

  Derby’s fingers drummed on the underside of the toilet bowl. “Is that all he said?”

  “Well, he asked if you’re planning to stop . . . doing the things that we’re doing.”

  “I take it that wasn’t exactly how he worded it.”

  My limbs were starting to ache from standing still for too long, so I shifted my weight slightly, and accidentally kicked a spent power cell I’d left lying on the floor. It rattled down a couple of metal steps with sphincter-tightening obviousness.

  “Davisham Derby is the greatest thief that ever roamed the galaxy,” said Derby, back to using his confident voice at a much higher volume. “I can no more resist the call to adventure than I can the siren’s song.”

  “Okay, well, he said if you don’t show up to Auntie Maggie’s birthday—”

  Derby silenced her by promptly slapping the lid shut on his arm Quantunnel, then rose to his feet. I pretended to be very thoroughly checking the airlock seal as he emerged from the head.

  “Ah, you,” he said, like an aristocrat addressing the new shoeshine boy. “How long until we are returned to Salvation Station?”

  I put on a skeptical face, idly flicking the little tear in the worn black rubber that ran around the internal airlock door. “About an hour to the trebuchet gate. Couple more hours to get to Salvation, depending on how accurate the gate feels like being today.”

  Derby made a scoff that blasted out of his nostrils like a round of flak. “What a wonderful, efficient experience space travel is. One wonders how Quantunneling ever managed to make it completely redundant.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply, but strode right across the hall and pushed his way into the passenger cabin, shoving the door aside as if it were a beggar on a train platform. I was about to start searching the engine deck for Sturb’s new cyberslaves when Derby’s head suddenly reappeared in the doorway.

  “Pilot,” he said, brow furrowed. “Remind me how many individuals our mutual friend employed for this heist?”

  “Me, you, and Sturb,” I said, as slowly and clearly as I could. “Three.”

  “I thought as much.” He pushed the door open wide to invite me in. “We seem to have picked up a stowaway.”

  I looked past him. There was the cabin, there was the cryonic cylinder we’d stolen, there was the Quantunnel exit Sturb had put together, and there was Mr. Henderson lying unconscious on the floor.

  Chapter 14

  “Hello?” Warden was saying. “Ground team, report. McKeown, what’s happening?”

  “Shhhhhhh,” I replied, pausing in the act of tying Henderson securely to a folding chair with some spare extension cables. “Sorry, Warden, we’re getting some interfer-shhhhhhkrkkk.” I dug my tongue into my teeth to switch the microphone off, and signaled for the others to do the same.

  “Okay,” said Sturb. “Good news. I think I’ve figured out how this happened.”

  “Great,” I prompted, glaring. “ ’Cos, the last time I saw him, he was on the far side of a Quantunnel. And unconscious. I remember that very clearly, because it’s just about the only time he and I have gotten on.”

  “I think he might have been a little bit not unconscious. I think that after you shot him with your stun blaster”—he emphasized the word you slightly, possibly on the off chance that Henderson could hear—“I think he might still have been just aware enough to keep the Quantunnel from closing. But I didn’t realize that. I was thinking back to that theory you put forward that it wouldn’t close because we were still sensing the cold coming from it.” There was that emphatic use of you again.

  “So?”

  “So, I told Jimi to keep attempting the close function until it worked, and then I left.” He looked at Henderson, who sat slumped with head deeply bowed. “He must have been conscious enough to crawl in through the tunnel and then pass out.”

  “This is why they were calling this a kidnapping,” I thought aloud, nervously rapping a knuckle against the nearby bulkhead. “What the hell do we do now?”

  “What, exactly, is your concern?” asked Derby, sitting comfortably on one of the benches with legs outstretched and ankles crossed.

  “My concern,” I said, in a perfectly reasonable tone as my hands clenched and unclenched around imaginary doints, “is that we are now holding one of the most ruthless and wealthiest crime lords in the solar system. Who commands a personal army of loyal killers who will do anything to stay on his good side.”

  Derby’s eyes rotated all the way around as he internalized this information. “So what I’m hearing is, we need to issue a ransom demand.”

  “NO!”

  “Can I just say that this doesn’t have to be our problem alone,” said Sturb. “I’m actually still wondering why you insisted on cutting Penelope out of this discussion.”

  “Because I don’t trust her! I don’t trust that she won’t do something crazy over this. She has a history of going a bit psycho where Henderson is concerned.” I gestured both hands at Henderson’s leg stump.

  “If you say so,” said Sturb skeptically. “But let me just say, I’ve worked with Penelope for some time at Salvation Station, and I really think she’s come a long way since her time as Henderson’s protégé.”

  “Besides,” said an unconcerned Derby. “She must honor our deal.”

  Okay, so now Hitler was vouching for Satan. And the Boston Strangler had declared his neutrality. I tapped my foot uncertainly. Part of me wanted to inform Warden, if only because it didn’t seem fair for her to be sitting on Salvation Station blissfully scoffing fig rolls while we were left to panic amongst ourselves.

  “Look, if nothing else,” said Sturb as my thoughtful silence drew on, “she’s got to be the person who knows the most about him. How best to handle him.”

  My gaze flew to Henderson’s leg stump again, but I had to concede the point. After all, shooting it off had undeniably handled him. I tongued my mic again. “Fine. For the record, I was against this. Warden, come in. Warden?”

  Henderson snapped awake instantly, glaring daggers at me so hard that I flinched from the imagined stab wound. “Warden!” he barked like a dog that had been amusingly trained to say a single word. “Warden, Warden, Warden.”

  His body slowly untensed as he repeated the name, then he seemed to actually wake up. He looked down, tested the strength of his bonds, then looked back at me. A pleased smile spread across his face.

  “Ah yes, Jacques McKeown,” he said brightly. “That makes sense, if Penny’s behind this. Glad to see you two tied the knot at last. I don’t remember getting an invitation?”

  “Hello?” said Warden in my ear. “Status, McKeown?”

  “We have a problem.” I pressed one finger to my ear and turned to face the wall.

  “What kind of problem?”

  Henderson hummed happily in thought. “Really, this was quite clever. You’ve done a super job with this heist, you should all be proud of yourselves. It’ll add some lovely
spice to the news story after they find whatever’s left of your corpses.”

  “I’d classify it as ‘miscellaneous,’ ” I replied, trying to talk over him. “We’ve got the cylinder, but Henderson followed us through the Quantunnel. We’ve tied him to a chair and we’re en route to the trebuchet gate.”

  “Henderson . . . is with you?”

  “Yep.”

  Warden hesitated significantly. “Make the trebuchet jump. Hold your ­position when you get to the Black. I’ll send someone.”

  I glanced at Henderson. He met my gaze and renewed his friendly smile, wrinkling his nose encouragingly. I turned away again. “You expect us to just sit around in the Black like lemons waiting for him to . . .” The rest of the sentence failed me.

  “To do what, McKeown? You tied him up, yes? And you took away his phone?”

  I tongued my mic off. “Did we take his phone away?”

  “Good idea, I’ll do it now,” muttered Sturb, cautiously moving up behind Henderson’s chair.

  I nodded and tongued my mic back on. “Yeah, obviously we took his phone away. We’re not idiots.”

  “He’s tied up, he’s cut off from his men and out of his center of power,” summarized Warden. “What are you afraid he’ll do?”

  “First one of you three to kill the other two, I’ll pay you ten times whatever she’s offering,” said Henderson, in a bored, extremely loud voice.

  A rather tellingly long silence followed. I’m sure Warden picked up on the sudden rise of tension in the room even from across the galaxy.

  “He might do that,” I said quietly.

  “He might do that, granted.” There was an edge to Warden’s voice. “Make the trebuchet jump. Hold position. Try to keep the situation stable.”

  Easier said than done, I thought, as I looked about the cabin. The way the three of us had taken up position around the room, all now in alert, poised stances, trying to keep eyes on both of the other two at once, the atmosphere had taken on the quality of a Mexican standoff. No guns were out, but Derby was idly holding his wrist device, and my shoulder holster was starting to make my armpit itch.

  “Kill, knock out and tie up, I’m not that bothered.” Henderson inspected his shoes. “Anything along the lines of betrayal is what I’m after. Then help me ambush Warden. For something along the lines of revenge.”

  “All right, well, let’s get on with the, er, the jump,” said Sturb, swinging his arms pointedly toward the door but not moving his feet. “I’m sure I speak for us all when I say that none of us are even going to consider an offer like that.”

  “Not at all.” Derby’s eyes darted from side to side. “A deal was struck, and Davisham Derby is a man of his word.” He was standing as straight as he could and trying just a bit too hard to maintain eye contact.

  “Anyway, Henderson can’t be trusted,” I said. “We broke into his home, shot him, and took his stuff. He’s going to want revenge on us, too. Revenge is a big thing with him.”

  “Well, granted.” Henderson nodded reasonably. “If you hadn’t kidnapped me, I’d send the most violent and depraved scum in the universe to hunt you down and turn all your testicles into one of those little executive toys that knock back and forth. But you have me in a bind, no pun intended, and you know that I can be pragmatic when I need to be, don’t you, Jacques?”

  The smile he directed at me filled the room. “Uh . . .”

  “Look, everyone, we’re this close to completing this job, as a team,” said Sturb, moving with heavy, deliberate sidesteps until he was right in front of Henderson. “We can’t listen to him. He’s just trying to drive us apart.”

  There was a long pause. Derby and I exchanged a glance just long enough for Sturb to notice.

  “Oh no,” he said, letting his shoulders sag. “No, no, no. You’re not actually thinking about it.”

  “No, I’m not!” I protested. “I don’t care what Henderson’s offering. I’m here to save Robert Blaze.” And to get my scientists, I thought to myself; even if Henderson could do as he said and provide ten times as many, there was such a thing as overkill.

  “Indeed,” said Derby, although some of the self-assuredness had drained from his voice. “Derby has given his word. And even if he did consider it, as would be perfectly rational to do so, in the larger process of weighing up pros and cons on a moment-to-moment basis—”

  “You are not going to think about it!” Sturb’s programmer pallor was turning hot pink as he stepped warningly toward Derby. This was a side of him I hadn’t seen, at least not lately; he used to work up the odd head of steam back in the day, usually after I’d foiled one of his master plans and was speeding off into the sunset.

  “Well, suit yourselves.” Henderson was enjoying himself to an infuriating degree. “You want to miss out on an opportunity and mark yourselves for highly unpleasant deaths, it’s no skin off my nose. After all, I’m sure I don’t know Warden as well as you three. I’m sure she’s changed a lot since I saw her last and would absolutely sacrifice herself for any of you if the circumstances were reversed.”

  Sturb spun around so fast that Henderson genuinely flinched. Then he took off one of his shoes, hopping awkwardly as he worried it off, and ­removed a black sock patterned with computer code, which he promptly tied around Henderson’s mouth. Henderson tried to keep up his self-satisfied expression, but then he made the mistake of inhaling through his nose.

  Sturb turned to face us again, visibly trembling. “We’re not listening to him and that’s final! Because Penelope’s my friend and this isn’t what friends do!”

  The deep red complexion and furious spittle at the corners of Sturb’s mouth would have been difficult to fake, especially for a complete emotional cripple. Maybe he really had reformed. Either that or Warden had sealed him nice and manageably into a custom-designed friend zone.

  “Okay,” I said, keeping my tone calm and my hands visible. “I’d better get back to the cockpit.”

  Sturb turned his furious gaze on me, love handles jiggling as he stepped into my personal space. “Why?!”

  I blinked a few times before replying. “To . . . guide us into the trebuchet gate.” I gestured toward the stairs. “So we can make the jump into the Black. Like we need to do. For the job.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  I let a sigh out through my teeth. “Why?”

  “Just . . . in case.”

  “In case I secretly conspire with Henderson?” I started throwing my hands around as if distributing invisible custard pies. “From three rooms away? While there’s a sock in his mouth?”

  “Just in case,” he repeated firmly, shadowing me as I moved toward the steps.

  I nodded toward Derby, who was standing on the far side of the room with his hands behind his back. “You gonna leave him alone in here, then?”

  Sturb stared at him for a few moments, reflecting on how badly he did not want to do that very thing. “Derby, you’re going to come with us, too.”

  “Have I not made it clear enough that Davisham Derby is a man of his word?” He didn’t move from his spot. “I have no intention of colluding with the hostage.”

  “Well then, you won’t have any objection to coming and joining us in the cockpit, will you?” I said patiently.

  His eyes rested on Henderson for the merest fraction of a second before his gaze flinched away as if from a hot stove, and he tried to make it look like he was flamboyantly rolling his eyes in contempt. “Of course not. Lead the way.”

  “You first,” growled Sturb.

  “Follow the way, then.”

  Chapter 15

  The ride through the trebuchet gate was even bumpier than usual. It’d only been getting worse ever since they’d built that Quantunnel on Salvation Station and removed a large chunk of whatever reason remained to use the trebuchet network for FTL travel. I wasn’t e
ven sure who was supposed to be maintaining the trebuchet gates. Last I checked, the company that had originally built them had largely shifted to manufacturing electric scooters.

  They were, at the very least, still functioning, although we arrived in the Black spinning wildly on three axes and I had to burn the side thrusters for a full minute to get us to stop.

  “Jump complete,” I said afterwards, when I finally permitted myself to breathe. I punched up a few readouts. “Looks like we’re near the Biskot system. That’s about a thirty-minute flight to Salvation. You get that, Warden?” I transmitted our precise coordinates to the station, then flicked off the engines and let the persistent background hum fade into silence.

  “Got it,” she said in a low voice.

  Maybe the bumpiness of the trebuchet jump had been augmented somewhat by the presence of Derby and Sturb in the cockpit, which was designed at best to hold one pilot’s chair, one console, and a small amount of space in which to fling discarded fast-food wrappers. During the jump, I’d taken a jarring hit to the shoulder from Derby’s arm device, and there was a greasy dent on one of the overhead vent panels that corresponded to the contours of Sturb’s forehead.

  “So, we are resigned to simply sit here?” Derby was trying to tug the creases out of his clothes. “Could we not meet them halfway?”

  “It’s the Black,” I said. “Still a lot of Zoobs and non-Salvation pirates roaming around. Best not to draw attention to yourself if you can avoid it.”

  “I was just thinking,” said Sturb, “that I’m more worried about the dangers in here than out there.”

  Derby made an offended scoff. “Does a gentleman’s word mean nothing anymore?”

  “Look, there’s no need for us to fall out over this, we just need to watch each other until Penelope decides what to do with Mr. Henderson,” insisted Sturb, peering down from the imaginary moral high ground. “I’d say that’s perfectly reasonable. All we have to do is . . . stay calm.”