by Sara King
A Coalition air traffic controller from Rath interrupted with, “Unidentified aircraft, you are entering an emergency no-fly zone. Land at the nearest available locking pad and power down your ship or you will be fired upon by orbital ordinance.”
Joel quickly flipped open the com. “Hey, uh, I was just out picking off coalers at this epic firefight that’s going on over the Tear and I sustained some heavy damage from a Bouncer attack. My navigation system’s completely down and my com system’s been totally erratic. This is Boomberg, right? Think I could land here to patch up?”
There was a long silence on the other end. Then the Coalition controller stiffly said, “Yeah, this is Boomberg. We’ve got space.”
“Great!” Joel said. “I’ve got like twenty of our guys behind me—those floating coalers hit us with some sort of EMP or something that damaged our instruments and probably our beacons—and the best we can do is short-range wave at the moment, so comm might get screwy. I’ll be dropping down on the tarmac in twenty minutes, if I can make it there. Think we managed to get outta there without the Coalition following us, but if we didn’t, it could get hairy, so prep everyone for a fight. You should probably send out a search party if I don’t show up in half an hour—I’ve got a fire eating through my electronics and my engine’s on its last mag.” Hanging up, Joel immediately flipped on the scramblers, hit the throttle, and changed course.
Jeanne was frowning at the console. “Wait a minute. You told them you’re coming.”
Joel just grinned at her. “Watch and weep, baby.” He did a wide loop and came in from the southern ocean side, over the eddies where the acidic blue-green waters of the Snake mingled with the cerulean sea and turned it jet black, then over ancient rocky Pillars where Daytona Dae and her original group of colonists had first held court, confiscated when the Coalition took the planet for its Yolk. He handed Jeanne the comm. “I assume you have a beacon on here that’s set to something official? Transport or courier, maybe?”
“Yeah…” she said, awkwardly taking the commset with one hand while continuing to point the gun at his head with the other. “Hidden under the dash. Third switch from the right.” She frowned down at the handheld he had shoved in her hand, still keeping the pistol trained on Joel’s skull. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
“Tell them you’re here to obtain Yolk.” Joel ducked under the dash and flipped the beacon marked ‘Coalition Courier.’
Jeanne squinted at him. “What?”
“Go on!” Joel gestured at the comm. “My name is Jeanne and I’m here to pick up Yolk for transport to the Orbital.”
Jeanne put her pistol between his eyes and Joel heard the distinct click of the gun cocking. “Get out of my chair.”
Joel sighed. “I’d do it, but I just told air traffic control I’m a colonist who just helped annihilate their air force.”
“No.”
“Tell ya what,” Joel said. “You do this, and I’ll wear the dress next time.”
Squinting at him, Jeanne reluctantly said, “What kind of dress?”
“You get to pick.” He showed her his dimples.
Warily, her vivid green eyes never leaving his face, the legendary Miss Ivory put the mic to her face, depressed the button, and said, “I’m Captain Ivory, of the Stone Dog. I’m here to pick up Yolk for transport to the Orbital.”
A moment later, a brisk, almost panicked voice said, “We don’t have any shipments scheduled until tomorrow. Come back later.”
Jeanne shut off the feed and raised an eyebrow at Joel over the comm.
“Tell him you’ve got orders from the admiral to get as much Yolk off Fortune as possible before the planet gets any more unstable.”
Jeanne squinted at him. Joel hurriedly gestured at the comm.
“Listen, you brainless son of a bitch,” Jeanne growled into the handset, eyes locked on Joel. “I’ve got orders from the admiral to get as much Yolk off this planet as possible before it gets any more unstable. You wanna argue, take it up with him.”
“Her,” Joel said.
Jeanne lowered the comm in frustration. “I thought it was a him!”
“A new one took over a month ago,” Joel whispered back. “Real go-getter from the Inner Bounds. Admiral Nora Maako. They call her the Shark.”
“What’s a shark?” Jeanne whispered back.
Joel shrugged. “A big cartilaginous fish with a prominent pectoral fin and rows of teeth.”
Jeanne squinted at him. Only then did Joel realize that he didn’t really know what half of what he said meant—he’d been doing it more and more since Martin had beat the crap out of him and he’d woken with his mouth full of raw Yolk and wriggling Shriekers. He flushed and cleared his throat, wondering if he had just talked out his ass, then decided to pretend it was all true for the sake of the pretty girl in the room.
Another moment went by and a guy said, “Sorry, which admiral did you say you got those orders from?”
“Nora Maako,” Jeanne said. “She’s really pissed you guys couldn’t keep your own shit from exploding like this. It’s all over the news up there. Said something about the satellite feed showing a few dozen rebels headed in your direction from a big fight up at the Tear, and if you idiots lose it all before we make our quota, she’s gonna give your whole section to the Nephyrs for target practice.”
Joel grinned and gave a thumbs-up.
“Well, shit,” the guy on the wave muttered. “We don’t have much scheduled. Last outbound shipment was two days ago. Yolk Factory 14 had that camp-wide Shriek, lost most everything they had. Only about five hundred sacks actually made it outta there. Would be better if you waited until Steele collects the next one at Factory 11.”
“I’ll collect it now,” Jeanne said. “From the intel we’re getting, Rath is next on the collies’ list, and we need to get it somewhere safe.”
“Dammit, yeah, fine. We’ve got a bit of a shitstorm happening down here right now. Just land on the main base locking pad until we can secure clearance.”
Joel cut at his throat with his hand and shook his head, mouthing, “Yolk Intake.”
“Negative,” Jeanne said, watching him. “I’m looking at something like thirty-five collie ships headed in your direction right now. Don’t wanna risk getting trapped on the tarmac. We’ll land at the Yolk intake. Have it delivered there.”
“Shit, you see them? They’re not showing up on our radar.”
“Ants,” Joel whispered.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Jeanne demanded. “They look like a swarm of ants on mine.”
“You got that new anti-smuggling equipment installed, then?”
Both Joel and Jeanne raised their brows, looking at the comm. Jeanne pointed at the instrument and made a ‘what the hell?’ gesture and Joel shrugged, hurriedly gesturing her to continue.
“Probably,” Jeanne said tentatively. “That the stuff that beats their scramblers?”
“Yeah, top of the line. Just arrived in the last shipment from the Inner Bounds. You’ll know it if you have it—it picks up birds, then tells you what species they are.”
“Good to know,” Joel said.
“What was that?” the air traffic controller demanded.
“Nothing,” Jeanne said, scowling at him. “I was just discussing it on a different wave. Looks like yeah, that’s what I’ve got. Nice stuff.”
“Yeah. It’ll stop those idiots dead in their tracks. Can’t wait to get ours. But shit, if you’re seeing them, they must be planning some sort of sneak-attack. Scramblers off, calling us off base to go looking for ’em… Diversion or something.”
“Sounds like something that conniving asshole Runaway Joel would set up,” Jeanne said. “Be careful. I’ll be landing in ten.”
Come on, Joel mouthed, pouting.
“Roger. Put on the speed. We’re sending out operators to meet these guys, and they’re as twitchy as Nephyrs when it comes to moving targets.”
“Gotcha.”
Jeanne put the com down and frowned at Joel. “Seriously? That easy?”
Joel felt his grin widen. “My dear,” he said, “the key to successful smuggling is sensing an opportunity when it’s falling out of the sky.” He gingerly took her hand in his, grinning at her. “And might I add, darling, you are superb at this.” He bent over it with a kiss.
Jeanne blushed, and he knew it wasn’t because she was thinking of her ability to misrepresent the truth. “Okay,” Jeanne said, reluctantly tucking the gun away, “so what’re we gonna do now? I’m not dressed like a Coalition courier captain, and you are plastered over every wanted board in the Outer Bounds.”
Joel grinned. “You’ve got a secret compartment in this ship, right?”
Jeanne narrowed her eyes like he’d asked a pirate where she liked to hide her treasure. “Why do you want to know?”
“Oh come on,” Joel insisted. “It’s not like this is a convoluted scheme to figure out where you stash your goods.”
“It isn’t?” she said.
“Of course not,” Joel said. “We’re about to make millions. You think I care about whatever trinkets you have in the trunk?”
She didn’t look convinced. “What are you planning on putting in it?” she asked.
“Why…” Joel gave her a devilish grin, “me, of course.”
Jeanne just peered at him, clearly suspicious of his intent to breathe, much less look at the contents of her secret compartment. “And what am I going to be doing while you Trojan Horse my ship? Getting captured by Coalition? Trusting your good will to get me out again, when you could run off and sell my vessel to the highest bidder?”
“No,” Joel said, “you’re going to be acquiring for us a couple sacks of Yolk from the gullible rubes thinking they’re about to get hit by the non-existent colonist air force.” He pulled out his knapsack from where he’d left it against the wall, then rummaged through it until he found an earbud and button-cam, which he handed to her. “Now remember. You’re a captain. You’ve got an admiral’s foot up your ass, so you’re going to return the favor to anyone who ranks lower than you on the totem pole.”
“You forget I’m not dressed like an admiral’s runner,” Jeanne said. “Oh, and that my ship is not a government model.”
“Secret op,” Joel said. “Last resort. Gotta blend in. Colonist rebels everywhere, shooting down everything in sight. It’s total hell out there.”
Jeanne continued to squint at him suspiciously.
“Jeanne, baby, all I’m trying to do is make us rich.”
“‘Us?’ Since when did you care about anyone but yourself, Runaway?” Jeanne demanded.
“As of…” Joel checked his watch. “Five days ago.” Grinning, he added, “And it’s Ferryman, now. I never liked Runaway.” He gestured at the main body of her ship. “Now we’re running outta time. They’re gonna wanna board to make sure you’re legit, so you need to do a bit of prep-work.”
“You seem to be forgetting the fact I’m not legit, Joel.”
“They don’t need to know that,” Joel cried. “Bluff, my dear. Smuggling is about bluffing.” Already, he could hear the ship beginning its auto-descent procedures. “Just…” He quickly glanced around the ship. “I dunno. Neaten it up a bit. Get rid of that crystal butterfly and go make the bed. Real tight military-like. Think Space Force captain, not ‘single bachelorette’. Wish you could change the sheet colors, but it’ll have to do. In the future, red and black bedding kinda looks like an open invitation—like you’re looking for customers, you know? Oh, and hide that old laundry you’ve got lying around, maybe spray some cleaner in the air, that sort of thing. Just tidy up a bit.”
“It’s gonna be a miniskirt, Joel.”
He gave her his most charming grin. “A gangly guy like me…believe me, you really don’t want a good view of those pasty thighs.”
“Pretty sure I do.” Jeanne tapped her fingers on her biceps, gaze unwavering.
Realizing his notorious charm hadn’t even made her blink, Joel cleared his throat, reddening. “So. Where’s this secret compartment?”
Jeanne scowled at him a moment longer, then reached over, pressed on a seemingly innocuous support rib, which immediately sucked inward and back, revealing a three-foot by five-foot by two-foot sealed and heat-shielded compartment partially filled with palladium bullion.
Joel winced, looking at its cramped dimensions. “Got anything bigger?”
Jeanne was giving him the Look that said she was about to shove her gun up his nose again.
“Well, crap,” Joel said. “I’m six-five, Jeanne. That’s gonna be a tight fit. We’ll have to move the bullion.”
Jeanne’s flat expression told him that they weren’t moving the bullion.
Joel swallowed. “So, uh, is there an unlocking mechanism on the inside, in case I get trapped?”
She just smiled at him.
Well. That could get…unpleasant.
“Tell ya what, Joel, ” Jeanne said, sticking the comm bud into her ear, “you don’t let me get stuck in prison carrying out one of your crazy schemes, and I won’t let you dehydrate and starve to death in my secret hold surrounded by millions of credits of untraceable palladium.” She held up the button cam, peered at it, then said, “And what the hell is this?”
“Button cam,” Joel said. “Pin it to your shirt so I can see what’s going on.”
Jeanne stuffed the button cam into her pants pocket.
Joel grimaced. “Fine, but you’re paying for dinner this time. Oh, and…” He reached out and tugged the necklace of human molars over her head. “You’re leaving this behind. Body parts are a dead giveaway.” He tossed her grisly string of trophies into the vault, then climbed in after it.
Sitting on a throne of bullion, Joel quickly discovered, was really uncomfortable.
“Uh, Jeanne, I’m having second thoughts—”
“Sorry Joel. Gotta make a bed.” Jeanne hit the locking function, sliding the compartment door shut and sealing him inside.
“Jeanne!” Joel cried, in the sudden, total darkness.
She ignored him. He heard her move around the cockpit a moment, then listened to her footsteps disappear into the bowels of the ship.
Joel tucked his own bud into his ear and said, “Jeanne! Maybe I can pose as your copilot or something!”
“I’m sorry, Joel,” Jeanne replied, not sounding sorry at all. “Bed’s not made.”
“Okay, then at least put that button cam somewhere I can see what’s going on?”
“Must’ve dropped it,” she said.
Joel frowned, then brought out his datapad and plugged himself into the ship’s security system. A moment later, he had her image up from one of the ship’s many cameras. She was, indeed, making a bed, her voluptuous body bent over, exquisitely showing off her ass. Joel stopped to stare. He found the zoom function on the camera and utilized it, to get a better view of her technique. He observed her impressive bed-making skills for several minutes before the ship’s landing gear rumbled out and the ship shuddered as it made contact with the ground, startling him out of his reverie.
“Shit,” Joel cried, switching the camera to the one looking out the front hatch. Immediately, it showed a woman in a clerk uniform walking up to the ship, giving Belle a curious look.
“Shit what?” Jeanne demanded. “Don’t say shit, Joel. It makes me forget things. Things like where that release lever is, and whether I have anything suffocating to death in my stash.”
“Shit!” Joel whispered. “She’s got a datapad. That’s not a good sign.”
Jeanne pulled her gun and gave the front hatch a narrow look.
And that was just what they needed—Jeanne getting into a shoot-out with the Coalition in the heart of Rath.
“Nonono,” Joel cried. “Put it back, shmumpkins. In fact, drop the gun down the toilet or something. First rule of smuggling—if they start a fight, you run.”
“I don’t run,” Jeanne replied, cocking her gun.
&nbs
p; “Okay, but think about this logically,” Joel said hastily. “You’re in the middle of the Coalition home base. You start shooting, they’ve got thousands of Nephyrs and operators to blow you a new hole if you hang around.”
“I don’t run,” Jeanne said again, starting towards the hatch.
Joel began to see a fundamental difference in philosophy that had serious potential to get him mummified in what was essentially a secret treasure chest, just like in his mom’s creepiest exploration stories and all those xeno-archeological adventure games he used to play as a kid. “Uh, Jeanne, please keep in mind I’ve only got twenty-two hours in here, tops, before I asphyxiate and defecate all over your palladium.”
“It’s more like fifty-seven,” she said with the certainty of someone who knew.
Joel swallowed down a cold chill. “Uh, Jeanne?”
“Bed’s made. Should I open the hatch now?”
“Jeanne, this really isn’t amusing.” The idea he was sitting in a compartment that had been someone else’s tomb was enough to make his whole body itch. “On second thought, we should just go home.”
“Oh no, Joel,” Jeanne snorted. “What could be more entertaining than spending a night stealing from the Coalition when you led me to believe we were having dinner and more dancing? You’re absolutely right. It is a lot of money. I’m opening the hatch.”
“Jeanne!” Joel cried, stunned to realize she was dead serious. On his screen, the front cargo bay opened, affording entrance to the clerk outside. Over the comm, Joel heard, “Hi, I’m Lieutenant Boxmann. Control told me you were here for some Yolk…?”
“I’m Captain Ivory from the Fortune Orbital,” Jeanne said, crossing her arms—and her charged gun—over her copious bosom. “Admiral Maako wants all your Yolk offloaded to the Orbital, right now, before the planet becomes any more unstable.”
“Yeah, uh…” The clerk glanced down at her pad, then at the obviously not-to-code pirate ship around her. “What unit did you say you were from again?”
“Unit Five-Thirty-One,” Joel said automatically. “That’s the special ops unit made up of the Admiral’s elitely-trained errand-boys.”
“Unit Five-Thirty-One,” Jeanne said. She raised an eyebrow in total superiority. “Why? There a problem, Lieutenant?”
