Fools Rush In (The Interstellar Rescue Series Book 3)

by Donna S. Frelick

  “I’ll do what I can.” They arrived at the exit, and he gestured for Lainie to line up in front of them. “What are they here for?”

  “Not sure. I only know they tried to kill me and blow up the ship I was on getting here.”

  “Okay. See any Thranes, take ’em out. Got it.”

  “Uh, you might want to pause in that sequence to ask a question or two, chief. If they fail, whoever sent them will send someone else. It would be good to know what the plan was.”

  Neko gave her a slow nod. “Understood.”

  “Oh, and Neko. I need a weapon, as soon as I can get one.” Rayna shrugged as both Lainie and the guard turned to look at her. “I’m sure the Thranes aren’t the only ones who’ll try to kill me in the next few days.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The bones had been rolling his way all night, but Kwan looked around the room and knew he was far from walking out a winner. Slash was a game of strategy and risk, of calculating the odds and taking bold chances. But those who played for big credits sometimes also played for blood. This was definitely that kind of crowd.

  He and Darto had been stripped of their comms and weapons at the door. No surprise there. He still had the garrote he wore sewn into a tiny outside seam of his pants, though, if it came to that, and Darto—well, Javin was a walking wrecking ball. Even the hulking bouncers at the door had raised an eyebrow when he’d come in.

  On the felt-covered table, the ivory tiles lay in their intricate patterns, a structure built as the players were dealt their hands and the emperor and empress tiles were rolled for each set. The bets were made at each roll and as each player placed tiles to add to the structure and/or block other players. Some said the game had come from Earth, with slaves taken from places with exotic names like Hong Kong or San Francisco. From Kwan’s experience, the humans on Terrene mostly preferred card games.

  Others swore it was Ninoctin in origin, and, true enough, the Ninoctins loved to throw their pay away at the Slash tables. But strategic thinking was a bigger factor than luck in the game, which argued against the Ninoctin theory of origin. The tall aliens weren’t known for their mental acuity, and they were big losers at Slash. There were several of them at the table with Kwan tonight, losing as usual.

  The structure lay before him in sinuous intersecting lines, large and expanding nearly to the edge of the green bias, but Kwan could tell the patterns were shutting down. Opportunities were becoming limited, paths were being shunted into dead-ends. The game was entering its final phase.

  Beside him, Darto was restless. “The other tables are closing up. Shouldn’t we be going?”

  “The game’s almost over.”

  “Haven’t you won enough?”

  “You can’t quit in the middle of the game, Javin.”

  Darto waved to indicate several empty seats. “Those guys did.”

  “They lost.” In fact, Kwan had taken their chits to add to his substantial pile. “I’m still winning.”

  This was the high rollers’ table. It had taken Kwan three games on the cheaper tables to earn the stake to play here. When the bets went forward it would cost him the minimum 1000 credits to stay in. That was until his only real opponent in the game, a hulking male with the heavy brow ridges of a Barelian, made his move, setting a Death tile where it would block Kwan’s progression. The move lacked elegance; it simply condemned that line for anyone else’s use. Kwan tried not to show his frustration.

  One player saw the bet, two dropped out, before the Barelian grinned at him.

  “We are almost done, are we not, Terrene? You and I, we have the biggest stakes here. We should finish it, I think. Ten thousand credits.” He pushed his chits to the pot.

  Kwan could see by the fright in the eyes of his fellow players that they would fold. He would be left alone with the Barelian to finish the game. That was an advantage in some ways; there were fewer variables with fewer players. But did he have the tiles to hold on?

  He savagely repressed the urge to scan the structure for openings and opportunities. He knew the patterns; they were laid out in his mind in every detail, just as they had been placed on the green field of the table. Instead, he held the Barelian’s feral yellow gaze while he counted his plays. A strategy formed in his mind. But if the Barelian had certain countering tiles in his hand, tiles that had yet to make an appearance in the game, everything that Kwan had spent the night accumulating would be gone in a single play.

  Kwan glanced at his pile of chits. Respectable, but still not enough to do what he’d come to do. He needed that matrix, and he wasn’t leaving until he had enough to buy one.

  He threw the ten thousand into the pot. “See you.”

  The amount was enough to clear the field. Everyone else dropped out. The Barelian bared his teeth in what passed for a smile.

  Beside him, Darto said nothing. Refusing to look at Kwan, he poured himself a big slug of synthohol from the flask at his elbow. He tossed it to the back of his throat and grimaced as it went down. Kwan smiled. Thanks for the vote of confidence, big guy.

  The dealer rolled the bones. The emperor and empress, ivory like the other tiles, but shaped more like dice, tumbled across the green felt and came to rest. The emperor, director of movement, came up North, indicating that the next tile would have to be placed to the north of any tiles already in play. The empress, controller of force, came up Red. The next tile would have to match Red to Red.

  Kwan watched the face of his opponent. It was not an expressive face, full of nuance and subtlety. The Barelian wore a frown now that turned his mouth into an animalistic snarl. Was it the North he didn’t like, or the Red? Or does he just know that’s a good combination for me?

  Kwan slid his tile into place. “Ten thousand.”

  His opponent saw the bet with little grace and they awaited the next roll of the bones.

  East. Green. No help to Kwan, but he watched for the Barelian’s reaction.

  “Portal’s balls!” He couldn’t make a play and was forced to give up a tile. He threw it at the dealer’s discard pile where it landed with an angry clink.

  The dealer was at least part Savagnoir, and in reaction to the lack of manners her green reptilian eyes closed to mere slits. She would be within her rights to have the Barelian removed, and, for a moment, movement around the table stilled.

  Then she turned to Kwan. “Your move, sir.”

  He set a throwaway tile as a block on a secondary line. “Oh, let’s not get greedy. Five thousand for now.”

  He could see the bet was enough to make the Barelian think, but not enough to humiliate him. He wanted to lure the man in, not put him in a killing mood. After all, if Kwan won, he still had to get out of the room in one piece.

  The bet was matched and the game moved on. The bets ebbed and flowed, and the pot grew steadily while Kwan saved the best for last, waiting for the killers to come out.

  The spot he was watching was still open as they went down to the last two tiles and the last rolls of the bones. He needed North or West, Black to place his master tile, the Crown Prince, and guarantee a win. The die tumbled and came to a stop. South, Yellow. The Barelian chuckled.

  “Things are looking bad for you, my friend.” He reached out and placed the Golden Dragon on the line. “Fifty thousand.”

  The Golden Dragon demanded a tile from him, either the game-winning Crown Prince, which required a specific roll of the bones, or the Magician, which could be used anywhere in the structure, regardless of the roll. Winning with the Magician would depend on the bets and careful placement of the tile to block his opponent’s next move. He couldn’t be certain of the tile the Barelian held, though the man’s gaze kept returning to the yellow piece at the East end of Line Four.

  “Or you could just fold,” Darto offered in a harsh whisper.

  “Not an option.” Kwan took his last chits and counted them out. It took everything he’d made all night to see the bet. “I’m in.” Then he gave up the Magician, handing it ove
r facedown to the dealer.

  The Savagnoir placed the royal couple in her cup and shook. The sound echoed in the silence that had fallen in the room. With a flick of her wrist, the die rolled out onto the table. Kwan stared, not believing what he saw until Darto grabbed his arm and began shaking.

  The Emperor’s Face. The Empress’s Face.

  “Wild! They’re wild, Kwan! You own those bones! Holy shit!” Darto had him by the shoulders now, wanting to hug him, but Kwan put him off. The dealer was frowning, indicating the breach of decorum would soon mean eviction, win or no win.

  He nodded to show he understood and settled himself to make the final move. He picked up the Crown Prince and placed it at the end of North, Line Six. The watching crowd gasped as the tile clicked into place.

  The dealer bowed. “The Crown Prince is played. The game is ended. Congratulations, sir.” She gestured at an assistant standing on her left, who gathered the chits into a polished wooden box and waited for Kwan to follow him to the cashier.

  The Barelian intercepted them before they could take two steps. “You think I don’t know what went on here?”

  Kwan ignored him and tried to keep walking, but the stocky alien was having none of it and blocked the way. “Your pal was giving you a little help, no?”

  “No. But if you’d like him to help me out now, keep standing right there.”

  Darto slid smoothly between Kwan and the Barelian, allowing Kwan to catch up to the assistant with his winnings. He found the man at the cashier’s window, where an accountant was totaling his take.

  “Two hundred twenty-eight thousand four hundred fifty. Your pad, please.”

  Kwan handed it over and watched while the transfer was made. When he got his device back, he ran his security scans and double-checked his accounts to make sure the credits—and nothing but the credits—were there.

  When he turned away from the window, Darto was at his elbow. “Where’s our friend?”

  “He gathered up his boys and took off as soon as you headed over here.” The big man was practically dancing in his excitement, a grin creasing his face. “Guess he could see there was no point in messing with you once you’d transferred all those credits to your pad, brother! Wooeee!”

  “He’ll be waiting outside in the nearest alley with all his boys to beat the shit out of us and take back all those credits, Javin.” Kwan had counted at least three bodyguards with the Barelian, as overgrown and dense as their boss. Unless he and Darto shot them senseless with a stun gun in the first few seconds of the fight, they had no chance.

  “Oh, well, I got that covered.” Darto held up a finger. “Stay right there.”

  Kwan wandered over to the bar and ordered a drink. If he was going to take a beating, he should be well anesthetized.

  Darto returned with a pair of blond giants in tow. “Meet the Thorson twins—Anders and Nils. We played bloodball together for the NuSouth Knucklers on Argent. They’re newly arrived from Terrene on the Eskehay, hauling protein grow mix. Boys, this is Chief Engineer Kwan.”

  Kwan shook the hands that were held out to him since the men were wearing grins to match Darto’s. They were as enthusiastic as two puppies. He lifted an eyebrow in Javin’s direction.

  “Well, you know, I got bored while you were playing those first games, so I was up at the bar and in walks these guys! We’ve been in a few scrapes together. Thought they might come in handy.”

  “We could use some exercise, Mister Kwan,” said Anders (or was it Nils?).

  “You know, to keep the skills up,” added his brother.

  Darto dipped his head close to Kwan’s ear. “They’re not asking, but I thought maybe we could give them a little something if they do well.”

  Kwan checked his pad for their ship’s records and found the details matched. That made the decision an easy one. He’d prefer to use the stun guns if he could, but if it came to a beatdown, they could use the extra muscle.

  “Okay, boys, you’re with us. Keep your eyes open, get us safely through the next few hours, and we’ll make it worth your while.”

  The Shadowhawk’s Executive Officer had been using every resource at his ship’s disposal to search for her captain since Kwan had called hours ago with the news that Sam had been taken. Of course, Drew Vort would be smart enough to know about the transponder Sam wore under the skin of his left thigh. His people had disabled or removed it just outside the Alpha C, and it wasn’t responding.

  Mo’s sensors gave him nothing; LinHo’s security nets scrambled the signals so effectively it was as if a blanket had been thrown over the mulaak rock. The Pataran had been trying to break through the security blocks to get a view of the streets and buildings, or more importantly, of the docks, with no success. And now it was far too late.

  Mo was inclined to agree with Kwan: Vort was long gone with Sam, bound for Madras and the nearest ConSys station to claim the bounty. They had to get moving.

  “I think I have something, XO.” Patel turned toward him from the Communications station. “I just got into the Spacedock logs.”

  Crew members all over the bridge stopped what they were doing in anticipation of news—any news. “Tell me,” Mo ordered.

  “Request for departure from a commercial Raptor-class cruiser six hours ago. Registered as Master of the Octagon II.”

  “That’s him.” Six hours ahead. And even if Kwan was successful, Vort would be in Madras at least a day before them. They needed help. “Stand by for a message, Patel.”

  He went to his comp and composed it:

  PRIVATE COMMUNICATION

  To: Gabriel Cruz, Access Code 569z24tY#8, Colony of Terrene

  From: Morindarza Maatik, Access Code 223A57vu*6, M.S. Shadowhawk

  Hope this finds you in time to do some good. Sam’s been taken by Drew Vort from LinHo and is on his way to ConSys custody at the Fleet station on Madras. We are undergoing repairs and at least a day behind. Can you help?

  Mo sent it to Patel’s station, saw the Comm Officer glance up at him and grin, then turn to send it. With the bounces the message would have between here and Terrene, they couldn’t expect an answer before third watch. And there was no guarantee that the tracker would be within an easy jump of Madras or free to help them. The only thing Mo knew was that he could depend on Gabriel Cruz. He was a good friend and a half-Thrane with some frighteningly efficient extraction skills. If anyone could help them get Sam back, Gabriel could. If Vort didn’t kill the captain first.

  “Sam! Come over here and help me.” His mother held out a hand to him, a smile creasing her face. “We have to pick some beans for supper.”

  He left off chasing the chicken around the barnyard and grabbed her hand. He didn’t mind the helping so much—he’d grown up on the farm, after all, and chores were chores—but he’d have to make a stand on the hand-holding pretty soon. He was six now and getting too big for that kinda stuff; his brothers had already started teasing.

  Mother and son strolled to the vegetable garden at the side of the modest wooden house and began at the end of one row. He held the basket for his mom while she picked the long, green pods and tossed them inside. The sun lay on his shoulders like a snuggly blanket, and the smell of warm earth and growing things rose up from the ground to fill his nose. He felt like laughing for no reason.

  The basket he held was almost full when the dogs started barking. His mother looked up, a question on her face that instantly turned to something he’d never seen before. Her eyes grew big and round, and her mouth dropped open as she stared toward the place where the road emerged from the edge of the woods surrounding their little farm.

  She took the basket from him and dropped it on the ground. She grabbed his hand and shouted, “Run, Sammy!” But then the big, bright light came, and his beautiful, peaceful world collapsed into ruin.

  Sam awoke with the horror of that moment still clinging to him. For an instant of time he could almost smell the green fields of his home planet, and his heart, thumping within his c
hest, was wild with fear. Just like that boy, taken from everything and everyone he’d known, along with nearly a hundred others, the entire isolated agricultural colony of Ixta IV.

  He had survived the next eleven years, resistant to the Grays’ mindwipe, resilient in a way even he had never understood. He’d been alone, separated from his family at processing, but somehow others had stepped up to help him, other resistants, he supposed now. He had vowed to pay it forward when he escaped. He had done so for years.

  But now it seemed his luck had finally run out. He was light years from his ship and his crew. And Rayna. If things went wrong on LinHo, Sam had no way of getting to her.

  He was trapped here on Vort’s mulaak ship, nothing but the thin pallet under his aching body, the cold plasteel walls of his cell, the dark and the unending silence. He had had little else for he didn’t know how long. He had tried to judge the passage of time by keeping track of how often his guards brought him food and water—they fed him every shift change—but he’d soon realized he must have passed out from the pain of his injuries long enough to throw his calculations off by as much as a day. They would be close to Madras now, if that’s where they were going.

  Well, damned if I’ll just lie here like some wounded targa. He rolled off the pallet and got to his feet, stumbling to the corner of the tiny cell where a bucket of water and a drain served as his only means of hygiene. He stripped and rinsed off the worst of the blood and sweat, shivering at the splash of frigid water on his skin. He dried off as best he could with the filthy remains of his old clothes and reached for one of the spare jumpsuits they’d left him—Vort’s cosmetic effort to show the authorities he’d been well treated. Sam wondered how his captor would explain the cracked ribs and concussion, the bruises and scrapes. Resisting capture, no doubt.

  Those injuries made him slow. He had barely managed to dress himself when the door to his cell banged open. Two guards armed with laze rifles flanked the entry.