Write On Press Presents: The Ultimate Collection of Original Short Fiction, Volume II

by Write On Press

  THE MAD DASH

  Assad Deshay

  “Bzzzzzzzzzzzz, beep! Bzzzzzzzzzzzz, beep!”

  The combination of the vibro-sonic alarm dragged me slowly from the darkness of my semi-stasis. The tube that supplied oxy and nutri-suppliments had gone dry hours ago, forcing my lungs and other autonomic functions to re-engage and the sensation of hunger to help in the process of reanimating my partially comatose form.

  “Bzzzzzzzzzzzz, beep! Bzzzzzzzzzzzz, beep!”

  The problem with semi-stasis is not the idea that you have to put yourself into a state of being mostly dead for whatever period of time it takes your crate to hop from one system to another at near-light speed. It’s not even that the stasis chair looks way too much like a coffin, the dehydration headache, hunger pains, or the critical need to piss upon waking. It’s the friggin’ vibro-sonic alarm. Damn thing runs through the whole chair.

  I mean, I’ve just been in a dreamless, “pseudo-death” for the better part of a month and I get woken up by a vibration that’s got to have rattled most of my pubes off, followed immediately by a beep that bounces of the interior of the enclosed stasis chair with an echo harsh enough to make your nose bleed.

  Honestly, after almost two centuries of employing this tech, you’d think some egghead would come up with a better way of waking the semi-dead.

  Well, no sense bitchin’ about it. I press the color code into the interior panel to unlock the chair before any sense of claustrophobia can set in.

  “Lessee, uh, green, blue, blue, green.”

  “Pssssht.”

  The cold air of the ship rushes in at me with a whoosh of sudden discomfort, doing nothing but intensifying my need to pee. After leaning the chair forward, I slide onto the deck a few inches below the chair. After doing this for years, I still expect my muscles to fail me every time I end a stint in the stasis chair. But, like always, my legs hold me up. Something in the nutri-suppliments; some nanotech or something fires periodic impulses to contract my muscles while I’m under, fights atrophy I guess. Good thing too, because the head is a good fifty yards away.

  After a brief run and a long wiz, I made my way back to the command deck. I call it the closet. Most folks think the life of a space hauler is just short of glamorous.

  It. Ain’t.

  My rig is built to hold cargo and little else. The cab’s barely got a comfortable enough rack and only a glow lamp to read by; whenever I can get my hands on a good e-book that won’t bite my budget in the ass. The command deck is little more than a two-by-three yard box with two chairs and a butt-load of dials and switches that I normally don’t even need to touch. Hell, I don’t even have a window in this crate, just a few monitors that display what Nelly sees through her external sensors. Nelly-belle, that’s what I call my rig, mostly flies herself once you punch in the target coordinates. Not that much of anything to see until you get in-system, but after you haul cargo from one crap system to another for a few years, they all start to look the same anyway.

  “Entering Terra-Gamma system in 10 minutes.”

  “Thanks, Nelly.” She didn’t reply.

  There wasn’t a hauler in the universe that would waste good money on an interactive voice response system when the imagination was free. Of course, you stay out in the black too long talking to a rig that doesn’t talk back and you will start to crack up. That’s why a good stasis chair is more important for a hauler than a good sound system.

  And mine wasn’t what I’d call ‘good.’ Actually, Nelly’s voice had a little more static to it than usual. I used to notice a change in the amount of static in Nelly’s system and remark on how I’d have to get that fixed. But, after over three years in this rig, I figured lying to myself was just a waste of time.

  I hit the button to transmit my tags and manifest to the Terra-Gamma commerce commission and waited for acknowledgement and clearance to enter the system.

  “Mister Dashiel Tariq, of ‘In-A-Dash Hauling.’ You are cleared for entry into the system. Proceed to Terra-Gamma port number alpha-alpha-12-theta and await inspection.”

  I read the words as they appeared on the screen. Nelly’s voice crackled over the system again, “transmission acknowledged, clearance acknowledged. Proceeding in-system to coordinates 1-1-4-334-blah-blah-blah.

  “Okay, Nelly, just get us there.”

  I still had a headache and the little water I had left on this rig wasn’t going to do it. I needed a real drink.

  I knew I’d have to suffer through a 30 minute docking procedure and a one hour cargo inspection, but there was little choice in that. Terran ports didn’t tolerate smuggling and there were only two outcomes if you were caught: you get killed or you get executed. The difference being the amount of due process you were afforded. But, I’ve always run a clean operation. Well, mostly. I mean, I’ve smuggled what could be carried on me, but that really doesn’t count. I’ve never smuggled any significant amount of freight, nothing I couldn’t ditch in a hurry and nothing I couldn’t claim was a gift for a favorite hooker or something.

  Speaking of which, I knew of a very hospitable establishment in the port city that could offer a gentleman a bit of diversion as well as refreshment even this early in the morning. Since I didn’t offload until late day, I’d have plenty of time to unwind. Huh, just another hour or two and bye-bye headache for sure.

  I walked into The Black Swan three hours later. The establishment was segmented for the customer’s convenience. The nicer restaurant and bar took up the front third of the place. I made my way past the hostess and meandered through a maze of mostly empty linen topped tables, past wood-wrapped columns with mood lighting breaking the dimness of the windowless space. No one stopped me, asked if I could be helped, or even seemed to notice my passing. It’s never ceased to amaze me how a confident stride alone can get you into most situations.

  After passing through a large, arched doorway covered by heavy, sound reduction drapes at the back of the restaurant, a patron could enjoy a less expensive yet slightly seedier experience in the second third of the joint. Used mostly for dining and mild carousing, the middle third of the place catered more to my kind. It was almost half full of laborers, port workers from the docks to lower level managers, other haulers and the like. You know, just a bunch of regular shmucks trying to find a place where they could trade a few coins for a little welcome comfort.

  I sat at an empty table near the center of the room and flagged down a waitress. The tables were bigger here and made of plexiform plexiform. The chairs were also made of the semi-indestructible stuff. But, despite its rigid nature, I felt more at ease in my seat than in the plush, upholstered wood chairs in the dining room at the front of the place. And with the brighter lighting cutting through the light haze of smoke from the kitchens and the hookah section of the long bar at one side of the room, I could almost forget the more uptight room I’d just passed through even existed on the same side of town.

  The waitress approached the table and began wiping the plexiform top for no apparent reason.

  “Can I help you?” She didn’t even make eye contact as she asked. She seemed like she was ready to leave even as she determinedly buffed the table. I had no idea how I could have elicited such practiced disinterest. There’s nothing really imposing about me. I’m not ugly or overly attractive, about average height and build, and really no more than slightly above average in any particular category.

  I decided she must just be at the end of her shift or hate her job or something like that.

  “Three egg omelet, heavy cheese, sausage, and two large glasses of cold water, please.”

  She repeated the order, straightened and held out the hand that didn’t have the towel in it.

  “That’s three and a half silver.”

  Damn, that’s twice the cost as just last year!

  “Why the increase?” I fished the notes from my wallet.

  “The price of water went up, and refrigerant.” She said curtly as she snatched the b
ills I offered, dropped a napkin wrapped fork and knife in front of me and turned to walk quickly away all in one fluid motion.

  When she came back with the meal, neither of us spoke, she seemed dedicated to the effort not to acknowledge my existence. I decided that I didn’t care.

  I watched the tinted plexiform doors at the back of the dining room. Though the doorway was wide enough for three large men to walk in shoulder to shoulder, only the left side of the double doors was allowed to open. The right side was likely bolted shut on one or both sides. Not only would this restrict the flow of traffic into and out of the room but the closed door would provide excellent protection for the heavy guard on the inside in the event any ‘misunderstandings’ were to arise. Even though projectile weapons were banned in all port cities long ago, that just made them rare, not nonexistent. Besides, a well placed shot from a sonic pistol could get you just as dead.

  Even at a leisurely pace, I’d only sat there for 30 minutes or so. In that time only one person had gone in. Which was odd because even though you could only go in one at a time, I’d remembered there being a pretty steady flow to the back room. At least that was the case the last time I’d been through here.

  The back room was almost entirely dedicated to the ‘almost’ illegal. There were cubicles that could be rented for private ‘consultations’, a bar that offered more potent fare than the beer and watered down cocktails that were served in the front two rooms. Of course it was illegal to sell the stuff, but if you gave it away by the glass there was no reason you couldn’t rent the bar stool by the minute, with a minimum up front, of course. And there was gambling. You could rent a seat at the table and the establishment would offer you ‘rebate’ coupons that you could use in the games. At the end of the night, you could exchange your rebate coupons for their approximate value, minus a slight exchange fee.

  I hate gambling, mostly because I’m bad at it. There was a time when the cards would actually call to me and I could not resist. Now, after ending up on my ass three years ago with nothing but an empty and aging freight hauler named Nelly-belle to show for a marathon night of poker, I tended to avoid the tables like the plague. Besides, with limited funds, I wanted to make sure that more immediate needs were satisfied.

  Approaching the double doors was like descending into one of the upper levels of hell. Sure enough, as I passed through the left door a meaty, opened hand the size of a dinner plate halted all forward progress as it pressed firmly into my chest.

  I looked up into a dark skinned face almost a foot above my own. He smiled down at me.

  “Welcome sir. Please allow me to check you for any fire arms or weapons you may have forgotten to remove before entering. It is only for the safety of yourself and all other guests of the establishment.”

  It was all very well practiced, and his baritone voice made the little speech seem warm and reasonable. But the strength and size of the man was more than enough to make anyone who might think about refusing rethink the situation.

  “Of course.” I said, raising my arms to facilitate the pat-down.

  After the guard was satisfied I wasn’t armed, he waved me in and wished me an enjoyable evening.

  The back room was pretty large, but despite its size and the time of day, it seemed like it should be more crowded than this. I can usually only get to this part of space once or twice a year, but over the past five or six years, I’d never seen the backroom this thin. Well, maybe I could get a better rate on my ‘consultation’.

  What crowd there was was concentrated at the perimeter of the gaming floor and by the bar. So, for the sake of expedience, I cut through the gaming floor to get to my destination without delay.

  Most of the floor space was occupied by gaming tables. The cubicles that housed the ‘consultants’ lined the back wall, so I made my way through the gaming floor to the rear making sure that I didn’t even glance at the games. I didn’t have time for distraction; I’d have to be back at my ship in a few hours to offload, get paid and try to secure an outbound cargo.

  In the handful number of times I’d been in this room since my last crushing loss and decision to quit gambling, I had never once been tempted enough to slow my stride. Unfortunately, this time one of my fellow patrons had had decided that I needed a detour.

  The chair moved quickly enough into my path that I heard the screech from the plexiform legs against the tile floor before I realized I was about to collide with a card player. I was just able to stop a hairs breath before the collision; my hand instantly covering my wallet, just in case this was an attempt at petty theft.

  “Well, well! If it isn’t DT!”

  Shit! Not Emmit Dugan. Shit, shit, shit!

  Dugan was a grifter; think of him like a travelling salesman who tries to sell nothing to everyone and charge everything they’ve got in exchange for the experience. I met Dugan a long time ago. In fact, he was the one who taught me how to play cards. Dugan was a damn good card player, but he was an even better cheat.

  Smiling, Dugan stood and opened his arms to hug me. I froze, hand still on my wallet. For some reason, He seemed to take my immobility as an invitation to complete this unwelcome gesture of friendship. He gave me a hug with a few pats on the back. To anyone else it would appear to be a reunion between brothers or old war buddies, but I was getting more nervous and irritated by the second.

  I took a glance over my shoulder. As I suspected, the front guard was eyeing us both with interest and had taken several steps toward the edge of the gaming floor. That would mean that there would be several cameras and at least two or three other toughs training their attention on the two of us.

  Dugan finally released me.

  “Dugan,” I eyed his slick black flight suit and matching pilot’s cap. The outfit was designed to appear like an updated version of the type of outfit the old bomber pilot’s wear in the web-vids. I knew though that Dugan would have hidden pockets all over the damn thing to hide any number of items; ‘tools of the trade’, he used to call them.

  I never took to grifting. So, whenever we were in the same port, I would play Dugan’s straight man for a cut of the take. It was cool for a while, until I got hooked on gambling. And, since I was only an average card player and a straight man can’t play off himself, when I was on my own the odds seemed to always run with the house.

  “So good to see you, DT!” He pumped my hand, pulling it away from its place over the pocket that contained my wallet.

  “How’ve you been boy, how’ve you been!?!” He seemed overly excited. I could tell he was setting me up for something.

  “Dugan, I’ve been good. Look, I’m here dropping freight, so I’ve only got 72 hours before they start charging docking fees. In that time, I intend to get laid, offload, get a good night’s sleep, contract new cargo and get the hell out of here. So, just tell me what you want now so I can tell you ‘no’ and make an appointment with one of the lovely consultants on the back wall.”

  “Deeee, Teeeee,” I hated the way he drew out the letters; he wasn’t giving up the con.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. How could you treat an old friend so?” A hurt expression spread across the pale complexion of his narrow face, but the smile remained in his eyes. It wasn’t a big leap of intuition to know I couldn’t trust him. Even when we worked together he conned me more than a few times; just never so badly that he’d lose me as a future resource. It seemed like he was trying to access that resource now. I did a quick scan of the players at the table.

  I checked the dealer first; looks like he could handle himself in a fight, but not a bruiser. Three players; at first base, to the left of the dealer, was a slender gent with high, angular features. He was well dressed in a dark blue suit and a powder blue necktie. At second base was a short, hefty fellow with piggy little eyes and an eggplant shaped nose. Dugan sat to the left of this guy. Then at fourth position sat a lean, but well muscled fellow dressed in a red long-sleeved pull over and black denim pants. His clothes were exact to the poi
nt where I could count his abdominal muscles and see the definition of his biceps.

  He was obviously young; no more than 20 -25 years old, but he looked like a trained fighter despite the sad blue eyes and long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail that hung between his shoulder blades.

  I expected to see a sizable disparity in the amount of money in front of the players. It would explain why Dugan would interrupt a con or card game. See, if Dugan had a pile of cash and the others didn’t it would suggest that he suspected that his cheat had been busted. In which case, he would use me as a diversion and try to exit the game even if it meant losing his ‘winnings’.

  If Dugan had little or no cash compared to the other three, then he wasn’t cheating and he needed to get out before they called for him to pay his debts. In either case, I would likely be the diversion that would allow Dugan some means of escaping with all of his limbs intact.

  However, all four places looked well stacked with vouchers. Even the young fighter had vouchers totaling over 70,000 in gold. From the looks of the table, the other three positions had over 90,000 each. Perhaps they had just sat down or something. But, if so, why was Dugan setting up an exit and using me as the door mat?

  “Old friend, huh?” I raised an eyebrow at him. He knew this meant that I was in a less than tolerant mood.

  “Dugan, what do you want?”

  Piggy spoke up, his voice sounding like he gargled with broken glass this morning,

  “Gentlemen, I am anxious to continue the game.” Dugan seemed to ignore him even though I could tell this little piggy was used to getting his way.

  “Well! Since you’re going to be that way DT all I really want is for you to mind my place at the table while I make a quick run to the men’s room. Here, that’s for your trouble.” Before I could respond, he thrust a 1,000 gold note into my hand, turned haughtily and strode off purposefully toward the lavatories.

  Piggy turned in his seat, making it look easier than turning his thick, lumpy neck.

  “Well, DT?” He waved one pudgy red hand toward the chair to his left. I looked around and a large well muscled guard I hadn’t noticed move up behind me unbuttoned is jacket to flash the butt of a sonic pistol.

  “May I get you a drink while you play sir?” The bruiser asked. His voice was a little higher than I expected from a guy that looked like he could drink concrete and crap a brick sideways without even noticing.

  “Cold water please.” It looked like I didn’t have a choice. And evidently Dugan had made it to the bathrooms. He’d have to make his own exit from there. There’d be no windows or doors but he’d figure a way out. Possibly he’d hidden a small sonic drill to get through the wall or access a drain outflow or something. Or maybe he didn’t make it there, or wouldn’t make it out. In any case, I knew I’d never have to worry about him again if I didn’t figure a way out of whatever mess he’d gotten me into.

  “Gentlemen,” I took my seat, trying not to look as queasy as I felt, “what’s the game?”

  “The game is Blackjack, sir. Dealer holds on 17 or better, no insurance, no table max bet.” The dealer said with a charismatic smirk. Then he flipped a black toggle switch on the side of a silver box and I could hear the cards being shuffled inside.

  The “shoe” as it was called was big enough to hold seven or eight decks of cards. Not only is Blackjack my least favorite card game, there was no way in hell I could count into a seven deck shoe. This game would be all about luck and so far, mine had gone from bad to worse.

  I let out an audible sigh and placed a 100 gold note in the bet circle in front of me. I noticed everyone else laid out more; 500 notes for Piggy and the Dandy on my right; while muscles on my left dropped two 500 gold on the table. High rollers, I guess.

  Traditionally, the first round of cards is dealt face down to each player; my first card was an eight of hearts. The second round of the deal is issued face up so everyone else can see it. The idea is to get as close to 21 without going over. Go lower than the dealer and you lose.

  The dealer called the second round of cards, “Mr. Lambert draws 10 of hearts.”

  He pronounced it like it was a French cheese or something. Lambert, who I had mentally renamed Poupon after the old French mustard, didn’t even touch the card. He merely sniffed as if disgusted with the whole endeavor.

  “Mr. Lump draws,” Ha, couldn’t have guessed that one, “nine of clubs.”

  “Mr. D.T. draws a four of diamonds.”

  Crap! I could feel the anxiety building; those old urges coming back. Even though this wasn’t my money, wasn’t my game, wasn’t even any of my business, all thoughts of a lust-filled consultation had vanished. I wanted to win but getting 12 on my opening hand was a crappy way to get started.

  “Mr. Jones draws queen of hearts.” Face cards count for 10 and the ace can count for either 11 or one, whichever gets you closest to 21 without busting by going over.

  “Dealer draws Jack of spades.”

  The dealer checked his hold card then asked for bets. That meant he had less than 21, so I had a chance.

  Poupon signaled for another card by tapping his slender, manicured, middle finger on the green felt of the card table.

  “Mr. Lambert draws six of clubs, 16 showing.” The dealer announced. Poupon scowled, and then with a fingernail flipped the edge of his hold card over to reveal a six of hearts. Sorry Frenchy, you busted.

  Lump waved his hand over the table to signal that he didn’t want a card.

  The dealer faced me.

  “Hit me.” I said, almost mumbling. I just knew a 10 or higher was waiting to jump on me and bust my opening hand.

  “Mr. D.T. draws seven of clubs.” I waived to show I’d stand pat with what I had. With 19 the dealer would have to have 20 or 21 to beat me.

  Jones flipped his hold card. It was an ace. It was a blackjack that would have made me happy; but even with the two and one half to one payoff, Jones looked even more down in the face than before.

  The dealer flipped his hold card. I held my breath.

  “Dealer showing 13,” It was a three of spades so he had to draw until at least 17. He flipped his next card.

  “Dealer showing,” I could feel my palms starting to sweat, “23, dealer busts.” He drew a King of clubs.

  I had to get out of this game before the habit overwhelmed me. But it felt so good to win.

  “Your water, sir,” I thankfully accepted the cold glass of water and downed at least half of it before settling the glass on the coaster in front of me.

  “Ramón, see what’s keeping our guest, Mr. Dugan.” Lump turned his piggy eyes at me as Ramón walked toward the men’s’ room.

  “Mr. D.T.?” His voice was starting to unnerve me, “How well do you know Mr. Dugan?”

  “We used to play cards together, but I haven’t seen him in years. Why?”

  “I wonder if you would expect for him to be returning to our little game at all.”

  This was definitely not a question.

  Just then, the non-question got a very direct answer in the form of the guard trotting back across the gaming floor with Dugan’s black flight suit and pilot’s cap.

  Huh, a friggin’ disguise! The bastard probably walked right out of the front door. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d dressed up as a hooker just to make a couple bucks on his way out. I let out another sigh; from bad to worse, to really shitty!

  Lump got even redder. But to his credit, he held his composure. Of course, his composure wouldn’t keep him from calmly ordering Ramón to rip my arms off.

  “Are you aware, Mr. D.T. that I am part owner of this establishment?”

  “I had guessed as much, yes.” I could sense the hammer getting ready to drop.

  “You see, Mr. D.T., your associate, Mr. Dugan had agreed to assist us with the transportation of a certain cargo. He assured us that he would be able to acquire a talented freight hauler to facilitate this. Now, it appears that Mr. Dugan has decided that our business ag
reement was not to his satisfaction. However, I understand that you are a freight hauler, and I wonder if you might be persuaded to assist us move our cargo in Mr. Dugan’s stead.”

  This was also not a question.

  “What’s the cargo, what’s the destination and what are the terms?”

  “The cargo is sitting to your left,” Muscles? Damn, this just gets worse by the minute.

  “I’m guessing that there’s a particular reason you can’t put Mr. Jones on a passenger ship to wherever he’s going?” I knew I didn’t want to know but something told me that I needed to know.

  “There are no passenger ships destined for Earth, Mr. D.T.” Wait, did he say…

  “You mean, Terra Prime, right?” I said hopefully.

  “Sir, do I seem the type to misspeak?” I shook my head slowly.

  “And…The terms?” It was already too late to get out; I’d have to play through. It was possible that I could run if I got the chance; drop muscles at some resort moon where his physique might make him a star on the gigolo set. It would mean that I’d have to cross Terra Gamma off my list and stick to the outer systems for a while. Hell, I might even make a little money off the deal. But what I would not do is go to Earth, not to mention go there with the intent to traffic in human capital.

  “You will be my guest for the night. In the morning, you will board a ship and leave for Earth with your cargo. You can cash in all of the vouchers in front of you for expenses. When you deliver the cargo,” He turned his eyes on Jones when he said this, “you can expect one million in gold notes. At which point, you will find a nice quiet place to retire.”

  We looked at each other. He knew I didn’t have any option; he had all the cards in this game.

  “Agreed.”

  “Good, I will arrange for you to have your current freight offloaded and the payment posted to your account. I assure you, all of the paperwork will be well in order.” I had no doubt about that.

  “Now, I believe you wanted a ‘consultation’,” Another non-question.

  “Ramón, escort Mr. D.T. to one of the upstairs suites and assure that he is not disturbed until morning.”

  Lump must’ve been satisfied, because although fleeting, I could have sworn he cracked a shadow of a grin. It must’ve been hard lifting the fat red face without pulling a cheek muscle or something.

  “Mr. Lump.” I nodded my head as I rose to follow Ramón. Well if nothing else, at least I wouldn’t have to go another half million miles without getting laid.

  When I awoke the next morning, the girl was gone; she was a professional after all. There was a breakfast of fruit, muffins and juice laid out for me. On the tray was a card that read:

  “Be ready to go at 9:30.”

  The clock by the bed read only 7:45, so I had time to get cleaned up, dressed and eat before I had to worry about getting my sorry ass out of the wringer.

  On the surface my situation might not seem like a bad one. Of course most people wouldn’t realize how truly screwed I am without some additional insight. Okay, so here’s the quick and dirty on my current situation. First Freight haulers can’t transport passengers, it’s against the human trafficking laws and the penalty for getting caught is death. The only persons onboard freight haulers are the pilot and co-pilot. So, the only way I can take Jones anywhere would be if he were registered as my co-pilot.

  Unfortunately, both the pilot and co-pilot have to be licensed and registered with every planet, moon and orbital station that they conduct business on, and the credentials of the hauler crew are routinely verified and back-checked at each stop. The penalty for falsifying inter-system commerce certification is life imprisonment. I have no doubt that Lump could get document solid enough to get us off Terra Gamma, but travelling between here and Earth would necessitate would necessitate at least four planetary stops and a half dozen stops on different lunar or orbital stations for provisions and fuel. It would be impossible for a guy like Lump to have the necessary influence to get papers tight enough and registered in enough places along my trade history to make Jones look anything but suspicious.

  Second, nobody goes to Earth! Since the Universal Rift War of 2380, Earth has been completely closed off. It’s rumored that even approaching the outer edge of the system can get you blasted into space debris. That makes going there pretty much a death sentence. That would explain Jones’ sad face last night; he must’ve known where he was headed.

  Last, If a guy like Lump, a huge fish in this little fishbowl of his wanted to get muscles to Earth for whatever reason, there is no way in hell that he could pull it off without help. My guess is that Lump is being used by an even bigger fish in an even bigger pond. But even if it were human trafficking, one unit (no matter how fit) wouldn’t be worth more than a couple hundred thousand in gold. So it wouldn’t matter if Lump had offered me 10 million gold notes, I know that whatever is going on, no one involved would risk me living to ask the questions bouncing around my noggin already.

  I’ll bet Dugan had figured this hustle was a death sentence even faster than I did and used me to get himself off the hook. Talk about wrong place at the wrong time!

  Which leaves me with one conclusion; I have to figure a way to get out from under Lump’s thumb and hide out if preserving my raggedy rear is going to remain my top priority in this life.

  Ramón opened the door at exactly 9:30. I never checked, but I’m sure the door was locked before then, and I’ll bet Ramón or someone his size had been outside the door all night. It didn’t matter though, even if they would have let me leave the building it’s a guarantee that my ship would be watched. If I couldn’t get off planet, it would just be a matter of time before Lump would track me down and then things would get really unpleasant.

  “Let’s go, Sir.”

  I got up with a sigh and passed through the door he held open for me. Outside were two guys, smaller than Ramón, but still a little bigger than me. We walked down the hall in a two-by-two formation with me and Ramón in the front and the two new guys bringing up the rear. They wore different colored suits of the same style, and they looked enough alike to be brothers or close cousins or something. But there was no mistaking that they were hired guns. I guess Lump wanted to ensure that he clearly communicated the situation I was in.

  From the upstairs suites we walked down a long hallway to a flight of stairs that led to the roof of the building. Once there, we all got into a glider that would take us to the dock, no one spoke.

  The glider sat two in the front and three in the back, but with Ramón sitting next to me, the back seat was full capacity. Ramón rode the whole way with his arms folded across the barrel of his chest and I could feel the leather holster that likely held a charged sonic pistol bump my shoulder when we turned toward the docking slips where Nelly-Belle would be waiting.

  Throughout the many disappointments of the past 24 hours, there had been relatively few surprises; none after meeting Dugan, actually. Here was my first.

  Approaching the slip where my grey, box-like freighter should have been docked, I was startled to see a silver and white freight cruiser instead. These rigs were half the size of Nelly and three times as fast. This rig wasn’t the newest model, but it made Nelly look ancient. The cargo containers were already loaded in the gut of the rig and at a cursory visual inspection, she looked ready to go.

  Lump, was waiting with yet another large guard. It gave me the impression that he was manufacturing these guys somehow.

  “Mr. Lump.”

  “Mr. D.T. Or perhaps you prefer Mr. Tariq?”

  I didn’t answer. The fact that he’d stolen my rig and replaced it with one intended for inner-system loads was more impressive than him finding out my real name.

  “Mr. Jones is already settled into semi-stasis, so you should have no need to worry about that. Your destinations and routes have been pre-programmed. All of the necessary credentials for each stop have been loaded into the ships’ computer. You will have a schedule to keep, t
hat has also been loaded into the computer. Any deviation from the planned route or schedule for more than six hours and the ship will self destruct. Is all of that clear, Mr. Tariq?

  “Sure, what’s her name?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What do I call her, what’s the name of the ship?

  “Mr. Tariq, I’m quite sure I do not care. You will need to be under way within the next ninety minutes, in that time I’m sure you can come up with one on your own.”

  Lump turned and waddled off. Ramón extended his arm toward the gangway and the ships main entryway. I looked up at the large bodyguard.

  “You know, I’m gonna kinda miss you, big guy.”

  He cracked a childish grin and waved me toward the gangway once again.

  “Please, sir.”

  I shrugged and boarded the ship. With the precautions Lump had put into place, I figured I had about eighty-five minutes to figure something out.

  Almost all freight haulers are the same in design because their function is the same. All a hauler is designed for is to move containers full of cargo from one port to another. Smaller rigs are only used for runs from port to port on-planet, larger rigs for runs within a system, and the largest rigs for hops between systems. Nelly-belle was the smallest class of system hopper. We could run enough water to hydrate a population of 400,000 for a month.

  Haulers don’t need amenities, they are completely utilitarian. Hell, you only really need a human aboard a hauler to handle the unexpected. Or to address situations that require intuition. They still can’t quite figure how to program that into a ships computer.

  This rig was one of the larger types of in-system haulers. It was designed to get from a planet to its moon, an orbital station or between planets in the same system quickly. Most were fast enough not to need semi-stasis chairs, but I’m sure Lump had the rig modified in all kinds of ways. Of course, I didn’t have time to figure out which modifications I could corrupt in order to get free from Lump’s deal. I’d have to improvise.

  On the command deck, which was twice the size of Nelly’s, I found Muscles under in the semi-stasis chair. The dome had been sealed and only the color code could open it from the inside or the outside. I wasn’t sure, but my guess was that the kid didn’t even know what the code was and Lump likely intended for him to stay on ice until he reached his final destination. Well, if I was going to bail, I guess the kid wasn’t going to be joining me.

  Okay, I felt a little bad about it, sure. The kid looked like he couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, and it was a sure bet that not if I did run, the kid sure as hell wouldn’t be seeing another birthday.

  Of course it’d be all academic unless I could figure out how to save my own sorry ass. I checked the manifest. The cargo was mostly textiles and salt, spools of micro fiber wire and portable chiller units. All of the trade accounts that would receive these goods would likely be linked to my account. Everything would look normal and I was actually impressed with the amount of profit I could turn on a run like this. The only thing that ruined it for me was the knowledge that this would be the last run of my life.

  I needed a way off-planet without Lump knowing I had left the ship, which was undoubtedly being watched. If Lump had the Port Authority in his pocket, which I had to assume he did, then he might even have their thermo-detectors trained on the ship to ensure my heat signature only winked out when my semi-stasis chair was engaged. After all only an idiot would leave the atmosphere out of stasis when a functional chair was available. It wasn’t necessary, and whoever piloted this rig normally could have done it. However, the discomfort of lift off and the nausea associated with breaking atmosphere on the way out was way different than the mild sensation of falling associated with entry and landing. Who’d deal with it if they could sleep through the whole thing? And from the look of the flight plan, the first leg of the trip was going to be seven months long anyway.

  With just over an hour before my ship would leave dock and begin its automated trip to the first trading port, I went to inspect the cargo. Old habits, I guess, but no hauler is going to leave dock without ensuring his cargo is secure, even if the job has been fully automated for the last few hundred years.

  In the cargo hold, affectionately referred to as the gut of the rig, I checked every container, and scanned the codes on each door with the handheld that the manifest was downloaded on. I approached the last container group, the ones with the portable containers. Standing in front of the first container, I got an idea that bordered on the insane.

  After grabbing what I needed from the hold, I double timed it back to the command deck. I set my tools and gear on the floor and got to work. I made quick work of the retention blots at the base of the semi-stasis chair that Jones was in. Since the units were pretty much self contained with independent power and computing core, all I needed to disconnect from the ship was the monitoring lead that ran under the deck mats and plugged under the main panel.

  I had a bit of trouble levering the heavy-as-hell unit onto the dolly I’d grabbed from the cargo hold, but once it was on I had no trouble power bolting them together. Then I put on my flight suit and donned one of the all purpose jackets that are standard in every hauler – it gets cold in space. I adjusted the sleeves and body for a better fit. Finally, I stepped into the EV suit.

  The modern day EV suit is a particularly interesting torture device, it’s not meant for use in open space, but if you lose atmosphere within your ship it will ensure your survival for up to four hours. Unless you are fortunate to only lose atmosphere within four hours of a port, it pretty much gives you four hours to make peace with your maker. It’s not stylish or very comfortable, but it does allow for ease of movement and it has its own power unit, oxygen supply and temperature controls, which I made certain were turned off.

  I grabbed a portable chiller unit and secured it to my chest. Huh, over two hundred years, and no one has found a way to improve on duct-tape! Finally, I engaged the chiller’s power unit and adjusted the temp controls to thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit. If Lump was watching on a thermo-scanner, my heat signature would be gone in less than a minute. He should assume that I was in semi-stasis. Once I heard the beep of the chiller announcing that it had reached the desired temp, I grabbed the two coils of micro fiber and laid them on the cover of Jones’ chair.

  “Well, kid, looks like you’ll be getting a ticket off this tub after all.”

  Yeah, I could have left him behind, but I figured that the kid didn’t seem like any friend of Lumps’ and I’d have to use one of the chairs anyway, so what the hell. This plan would likely get us both killed anyway and if I went out, there was no reason not to take Lumps’ “cargo” with me. Besides, even in a partial coma, I could use the kid’s help pulling off what I had in mind.

  “Let’s go, kid.”

  I checked the time on the control panel as I rolled Jones out the door. I had just under twenty minutes left. It would have to be enough.

  With only a few bumps and scrapes through the corridors along the way, I got Jones to the starboard side cargo access door. I grabbed the ends of the two coils of fiber wire and began stringing up the chair in a harness. Then I tied the other two ends into a self constricting knot, so after I looped it around the large exterior handwheel, I could pull it tight.

  I had to hurry, not only was I running short on time but despite the layers of clothing inside the suit, I was really getting cold.

  With the wire loop in one hand, I opened the access door and felt on the side of ship for the handholds that I knew would be there. I swung out onto the outer hull. Now, there aren’t many freight jockeys out there who are afraid of heights, and before you start giggling, I’m not either. However, holding one-handed onto the side of a space freighter, 200 feet above solid ground with severe gusts of wind is enough to make any man lose control of his bladder. What kept me from pissing myself in this particular situation was the fact that with the chiller pumping out thirty-two degr
ee air inside the suit, I’d probably end up flash freezing my privates.

  I held the hand holds on the side of the ship with both gloved hands and stretched my left leg out to snag the open door with my foot and pull it toward me. When it was two inches shy of being closed, I cautiously looped the wire still in my left hand, over the handwheel and pulled the loop closed. After yanking the knot as tight as I could, I looped the wire over the handwheel a couple dozen times before opening the door wide enough for me to get back in the hold. Without a time piece, I had no idea how long I had before the ignition sequence began, but I knew if I wasn’t gone by the time it did then the game was up. As soon as the ignition sequence started, the internal sensors would see that the hold door was open and sound a breach alarm; something the Port Authority and Lump would definitely check out.

  I moved Jones’ chair to the doorway. I figured that the wire was a 200 foot coil and the ground was 200 feet below, so the extra loops around the handwheel should pull him up short before he made a shallow impact crater below the ship. I wasn’t too concerned that the wire would snap since micro fiber wire has the tensile strength of steel cable many times its thickness. What worried me was if the handwheel snapped off, I was really screwed. Well that, and Jones chances of getting whiplash or a concussion when the wire when taut.

  Anyway, too late to worry about that now; I shoved Jones out the door. About five seconds later the wire stretched tight and the door swung in toward me. I sprang back to avoid being clobbered by the heavy metal door.

  Again, I moved out of the partially open portal and grabbed for the handholds. This time I used my foot to close the door completely. After a couple seconds I got the nerve to step over to the face of the door. With both hands on the handwheel and my booted feet on the bar that rimmed the door, I slowly turned the wheel to the right. When I heard the loud clank of the lock, I shuddered a cold sigh of relief. Now all I had to do was get down before the ship launched.

  I wrapped my legs around the wire, lowering myself with my arms from the handwheel. Then, one gloved hand at a time, I grabbed the wire. There was a sudden shudder and a hiss of released pressure. I saw the external lights begin to flash red and blue. Then the steady prolonged vibration of the propulsion systems ran through me. I knew if I didn’t move fast I’d be in serious trouble.

  Releasing my grip slightly allowed me to descend far more quickly than I wanted to, but way slower than I thought necessary. It took only two seconds or so for the wire to begin to burn through my gloves and the pant leg of my suit. A second more and I could feel it begin to burn through the top layers of my skin; this was not going to be pleasant. I screamed into my fogged up visor as the cold air hissed out of the closed internal environment of the suit, burning fiercely as it passed the open cuts in my hands and thigh. Then I crashed into the dome of Jones’ stasis chair.

  Even feet first the impact shocked me. But I had no time for that. I knew that if I didn’t get Jones loose, he’d be trialing the ship in the vacuum of space in less than a minute. I looked down. We were about four feet above the ground and positioned next to the support girders for the base of the port complex.

  I jumped down. I had no cable cutters no torch and no way to get the kid out in 45 seconds or less. Something inside me spoke up.

  “Leave the kid. You’re out, save yourself.”

  Something else responded.

  “If you do, you’re a no good sack of shit!”

  “Aw, hell!” I said out loud. Then I ran at the dangling chair, swinging it forward away from the support girders. When it reached the apex of the swing, I spun it around so that the foot of the chair would crash first and I ran behind it with as much force as I could, crashing the damn thing into the steel supports. The base of the dome crashed apart on impact and the oxygen rich atmosphere within the coffin-like enclosure rushed out. I ran around the chair to its base just as I heard the ships engines fire above me. All of a sudden the chiller wasn’t keeping me so cold. The temp readout on my suit had flashed up to 76 degrees in less than a second and that was with the chiller working!

  I had grabbed Jones’ feet by the ankles and was trying to yank him free from the bottom of the chair when we started to lift free of the ground. If he didn’t break free, I’d have to let go.

  “Come on, damn it!” I yelled at the kid wishing he could help in some way. Shit, I was trying to save his life after all.

  We must’ve been twenty or thirty feet off the ground when the dome shattered completely and we fell to the ground. The kid landed on top of me of course, knocking the wind out of my lungs. The bruise to my tail bone felt like I had broken my ass in about fifty pieces, and I was bleeding from my palms and my left thigh. Other than that, I was a complete wreck! I noticed that the temp in the suit had leveled out to about fifty-two degrees thanks to the rips in the suit.

  “Good,” I thought to myself, “just comfortable enough to pass the hell out.”

  And then I did.

  I woke up on a cold stone floor. I was naked, except for a pair of cotton shorts that weren’t mine. The elastic band was biting a little into my waist like they were a size too small, but the fabric reached all the way to my knees.

  The floor was hard and chill on my scalp, back and calves. Having been laid out on my back, I could only assume that somewhere in the dark above me was a ceiling. I tilted my head to the left and saw only more blackness. Then, I looked to the right, more of the same. I lifted my head a bit and looked past where my feet should have been. There in the darkness above me and at least thirty feet forward from where I lay was a tiny blinking red light.

  “Great,” I thought, “I’m being watched.”

  This meant whoever had me in this room, if that’s what it was, has likely noticed my movement and realized that I’m awake. I checked my hands; they seemed fine. I reached down to where the rip in my thigh had been, I could feel a faint trace of scar tissue where there should have been an open gash. Thankfully, my rear wasn’t in pain either. Since I was still tired, and there was no sense bumbling around in a dark room looking for doors that were likely locked anyway, I put one arm behind my head and one over my eyes and went back to sleep.

  I don’t think my captors let me sleep for more than twenty minutes, at least that’s how I felt.

  I needed to brush my teeth.

  As I expected, the lights came on suddenly and with blaring brightness. It tried to penetrate my eyelids despite having my forearm to get through first. I stayed where I was and started to count. You see, it takes unaltered human eyes like mine thirty seconds to adjust to a sudden drastic change in the level of light in the environment. If the people who dressed me in these little shorts were going to try to keep me disoriented and off balance, then it would make sense to keep me in a lightless room then blast me with light right before they came to remove me. They would also be quick about moving me so that my eyes wouldn’t adjust. I’d gotten to twelve seconds when off to my left I heard the hiss of a pneumatic door opening, I lowered my arm. First, I needed to adjust to another level of light and second, having both arms at my side could reduce damage from a blow to the ribs from a utility boot.

  I had gotten to twenty-one when I heard at least six pair of boots and two pair of shoes enter the room, these guys were slow.

  “Get him up.”

  This must be the guy in charge; at least of this bunch. He didn’t sound big, but most power doesn’t come from muscle. I was at twenty seven when two pairs of boots stepped to either side of me. They reached down and lifted me to my feet, each placing an arm beneath my arm pit and restraining my wrist with their free hand. I opened my eyes a crack.

  “Good, you’re awake. You can call me Helmut; it is time for your orientation. Follow me.”

  With that, he turned and walked out ahead of us. I took the weight of my 220 pounds from the guards and they walked me behind the retreating Helmut. They seemed surprised that I didn’t resist or speak out. I figured, what’s the point? They
probably wouldn’t tell me anything and I’d probably get punched in the gut for my troubles. I would just wait to see what I could find out in this orientation.

  I did wonder what they had done with the kid, though.

  The orientation wasn’t really as informative as I would have liked. Helmut addressed four of us in a windowless room about twenty feet square. He told us that we were underground, that we were found on the street and made as healthy as possible and that we would be given food and clothing after the orientation was finished. If we chose to stay in this underground colony, we would have to work to earn our shelter and sustenance. If we decided to go back to the surface, we would need to repay the care offered to us by working off the equivalent debt. Then we were free to go.

  Sounded good, but it didn’t make a lot of sense to abduct people get some cheap labor then let them go. It just wasn’t human nature to let an asset go once it was in your control.

  “For the services offered, including medical care, and temporary shelter, you all owe the colony 1,050 gold notes each.” Helmut looked up from his clip board to gauge the response. My three fellow abductees all responded in varying degrees of surprise and despair. Only one of the three was about my size, the other two were smaller; less than 165 pounds. All four of us together had no chance of taking out all eight of the guards – one on either side of Helmut and six positioned behind us – even if they were all unarmed. They were likely trained and it seemed like they had done this a few times before. From their reactions, I would have guessed these three were just dried out bums, and even if they had skill in a brawl, none of us knew how to get out of here. Besides, I was still curious about what happened to Jones.

  Helmut lifted his right hand. The line of six guards behind us closed in a step and the two in front did the same in perfect synch. That quieted the other three. Like I said, this obviously wasn’t their first rodeo.

  Well at least I knew what their game was. It occurred to me that no one who was ever offered ‘services’ from this bunch was ever going to earn their way back to the surface. To give you an idea of the conversion, on most planets you can get a meal for a couple silver notes. It takes 100 silver to make one gold note. On my best run I wouldn’t expect to make more than a couple hundred gold notes in net profit. And that could represent a six to twelve month effort. Paying back over 1000 gold notes through manual labor while putting room and board on the same tab everyday would take a lifetime.

  “Are there any questions?” Helmut was looking directly at me. His dark eyes under bushy white eyebrows had no doubt observed the difference in behavior between me and my fellows. I raised my hand a bit.

  “Yes?” Helmut steepled his fingers and laid his two pointers against his lips. This guy was definitely not the boss. Oh, he had power, but it probably came from some special knowledge the boss or bosses needed for this little underground project. But there was no way this fifty-something, lab coated, orientation giver was anything more than an academic who was resentfully dealing with intake duty.

  “Was there another guy brought in with me? He might have been in a partial coma?”

  Helmut looked at his clipboard, but I doubted he had to.

  “Hmm, yes, young, long haired, very fit?” He pronounced the ‘T’ at the end of the word ‘fit’ really hard, like it made some kind of distinction. I shook my head in confirmation.

  “Well, he is with us, and relatively well. But, unfortunately we have not been able to revive him.” He watched for my response. I tried not to give any.

  “I may be able to help rouse him if I could be permitted to see him.” Admittedly, I was just playing for time, but there was little else I could do. However, I knew the longer I could stay out of the chain gang and get information, the better my chances were for escape with or without Jones.

  “I think that can be arranged.” Helmut raised his hand again and the guards formed up to march us out.

  “But first you gentlemen will need food and fresh clothing.” More ‘services’ to add to the tab was my guess. We marched out of the room; I could feel Helmut’s eyes follow me out.

  Without a timepiece of my own or access to a computer system with a built in clock, there was no way to tell what time of day or night it was. I didn’t know how long I had been unconscious, but I did know time would be critical in making my escape. Once Lump realized Jones and me had jumped ship, He’d tear Terra Gamma apart looking for us while he tracked each ship that had left port since the freight hauler blasted off.

  I’d hoped that Lump wouldn’t know we’d left the ship until it ported seven months later. However, even in that best case scenario it might take me a while to figure out how to sneak off planet without being noticed. And, once Lump did find out we’d jumped ship before liftoff, we would need to have a serious head start if we intended to disappear among the outer planets; the ones far enough out to have actual names instead of Terran letter designations. Once we made it out that far, it would be easy to split up and remain anonymous for the rest of our lives. The only alternative would be to stay here and hope that this place was far enough underground that Lump wouldn’t find out about it.

  Unfortunately, I was not bred for captivity. The thought of a life underground, pressed into forced labor only had slightly more appeal than a painful death at the hands of a troll like Lump.

  We were marched to a supply window where an attendant gave us clothes and shoes. Everything fit and matched. I guess they knew we were coming. The coveralls were comfortable cotton and the shoes were made of very uncomfortable canvas atop a thin rubber sole. We all dressed in the hallway and were then marched through a warren of corridors that all looked the same except for irregularly spaced and numbered doors set into the passage walls. I felt like I was in a medical facility on a space station. It was all so, antiseptic.

  Crossing a corridor wide enough to drive four or five earthmovers though at once; I saw a few small groups of other laborers like us. In the brightness of the artificial lighting at least 20 yards overhead, I could see that they were also dressed in the same blue-grey coveralls my group of new inductees were given to wear. Like us, they were male and shaved bald. It didn’t appear from visual observation that there was any discernible distinction of rank or seniority. Small clusters of the blue clad laborers casually chatted and occasionally mingled from group to group. The fact that everyone in this forced labor camp seemed to be so relaxed was only slightly less strange than the sameness of men in blue coveralls. In fact, the only differentiation among the entire population that I saw was the black uniforms of the security, and the white lab coats over white slacks and button-down shirts that Helmut and other lab-types wore.

  In addition to wearing the same clothing, most of the laborers seemed to be alike enough in appearance to be close relatives; brothers, cousins, sons or fathers. There were men of varying ages, but no one older than about 50 or younger than about 18. There were some, like in my group who looked markedly different, but we were in the minority.

  It seemed that both the security and the lab coats were allowed to keep their hair, but the only women I’d seen so far had been in a lab coat and none of them were too attractive either. Falling into the hands of a pissed off Mr. Lump was beginning to actually look preferable to being stuck here with no women for the rest of my life.

  The facility had to be immense since our group walked for about ten or twelve minutes from the supply counter and I still hadn’t seen any evidence that any labor was being done or needed to be. From the pitch at the orientation, my first thoughts were that these guys would have us all digging ditches or something. But, the journey from the supply room to the dining hall beyond the large open area was completely sterile, white tiled and without the slightest hint of manual labor.

  My guess was that there was a door somewhere that led to a dark pit where I’d be scratching in the dirt for the next eleventy-seven years. Shit on that concept! That was one door I’d be doing my best to avoid.

 
The dining hall was huge, but only sparsely populated. I was hoping that this wasn’t the extent of the population; otherwise slipping out of here was going to be a very complex prospect. It was more likely that there were designated hours for eating and this was not one.

  Our security escort guided us through the cafeteria-style food line then to a table where we sat together to eat. No one spoke.

  Helmut had slipped away somewhere along the way to the cafeteria, and I was halfway through a pretty decent chicken and vegetable stew when he reappeared.

  “Sir, would you come with me please?”

  Though I hadn’t turned to face him as he stood behind me, I knew who he was talking to. I put my plexiform spoon down and rose from my bench seat. The two security guards that flanked Helmut stepped up instantly, as if I presented some obvious threat to the health and safety of their children or something.

  Though they didn’t carry pistols, I could see that the combat gloves they wore had weighted knuckles and an exposed metal plate in the palm. It was safe to assume that if they couldn’t knock me senseless with a direct punch, they’d activate the taser-plate if they could get their hands on me. I froze.

  My eyes locked on Helmut and I tried to keep as much emotion out of them as possible.

  “Calm down gentlemen, I don’t think our friend here will give us any trouble.” He didn’t shift his eyes from mine. He was lying about feeling I wouldn’t cause trouble; otherwise he wouldn’t have had the two guards primed to restrain me, unless it was a demonstration solely for my benefit. Either way, I knew two things: there was no way I was getting zapped if there was a better alternative (like not getting zapped), and that I was really starting to dislike this little white-coated prick.

  The guards walked on either side of me with a cautious Helmut bringing up the rear. We stopped in front of a wide double door with an access key pad. Evidently it was a high level clearance room since Helmut had to move past the guard in the hall to enter a six or seven digit code.

  The room was wide and bright, very hospital-esque, like everything else in this facility. The four doctors in the room had Jones connected to vitality monitors and other than the fact that he was shaved and had about a dozen wires and IV tubes plugged into him, he looked like he was peacefully asleep.

  “His condition?”

  Helmut was definitely in charge here. The other white coats rushed around trying to report a dozen points of data and nervously communicate whatever they thought would keep their boss placated under the circumstances. The bunch of toadies; I could tell that his condition hadn’t changed since the escape from the hauler. Helmut turned to me.

  “Can you tell me anything about this gentleman?”

  I thought that I’d need to be careful here.

  “His name is Jones. If that’s his last name, I don’t know his first.” I waited.

  “Did you know him before he became comatose?”

  “Briefly,” I wasn’t about to get overly generous with information I might be able to trade later.

  “Where does he come from, and how did he come to be in a coma?” Helmut raised his bushy salt and pepper eyebrows.

  “I met him yesterday in a bar, and we fell off the dock together. I guess I fared a little better than he did.” Helmut stared up at me with his cold little eyes. I could tell he was getting frustrated.

  “Perhaps if we could talk in private,” I offered, “Do you have an office or something around here?”

  Helmut frowned and walked out the door behind us. As he passed the guards behind me, I heard him grunt, “Bring him.”

  I was already moving toward the guards when each one reached for a shoulder. I flinched at their touch, but evidently I had convinced them of my cooperative attitude because there was a noticeable absence of electricity flowing through my system. I walked after the good doctor with heavy hands resting on either shoulder.

  I was marched into the office where I expected books, furnishings, wall hangings, pictures, something other than the antiseptic environment I had seen so far. Maybe there would be something I could use to better my situation or buy some good will from my annoying little host. Unfortunately, there was nothing like that in the office. In fact, I couldn’t even say that it was Helmut or anyone else’s office in particular. Helmut sat behind a stainless steel table facing two matching chairs. Other than that the only thing in the office at all was a tablet computer on the table and me and my escort.

  “Please, be seated.”

  Before the guards could move me forcibly, I stepped toward the nearest chair and sat down.

  “Would you like to offer your name?” Those heavy eyebrows rose about a centimeter.

  “Is it necessary?” I didn’t want to piss him off, but I didn’t want to give up anything unnecessarily either. I would have lied, but I was always a terrible liar and I would rather dummy up than be caught in a deception if I had the choice.

  “I suppose it isn’t. Individual identities aren’t a primary concern among the workers.”

  “You never told me what type of work I would be doing here.” I observed.

  There was a slight pause, and then Helmut leaned forward in his chair a bit.

  “Does that concern you?” He asked, showing true interest in what I might answer. I figured that maybe I had played things a little too cool.

  “Well,” I ventured, “I don’t suppose I’ll be going anywhere for a while, so I may as well find out what my days will be like.”

  Helmut leaned back again.

  “You puzzle me, sir.”

  Looking over steepled fingers that resembled a pyramid of gnarled old sausages, he took a long pause before deciding to let me have it.

  “This Labor camp is an underground facility that specializes in genetic research.”

  He waited.

  I waited.

  After it was clear that I would not respond, the scientist-administrator continued on.

  “You are familiar with history, I presume?” Again, he waited for my response with lifted eyebrows.

  “Just what I got from primary ed, and what you pick up here and there.”

  “Well, let me give you a bit of a primer.” Great, the guy was a professor too!?! I tried hard not to let out a sigh, but resigned myself in the hope that whatever crap I was about to endure, maybe some of it could be used to help get me out of here.

  “First, at the close of the Universal Rift War of 2380, all interaction between Earth and the Terran colonies were forcibly ceased. The home planet deployed a planetary defense system that allows no outsiders to access the planet. Without access to the opponent, the Terran colonial planets were forced to claim victory by default, and without the promised annihilation of their enemy.”

  He emphasized the word ‘their’. This time the pause was more deliberate, he wanted a response from me.

  “So, you’re suggesting that this facility is operated by Earth patriots?” I couldn’t help my interest now.

  “To what end. No one’s given a rat’s ass about the conflict with earth in generations.” What the hell was I in the middle of?

  “That is where you are wrong, sir. Earth never forgot the rebellion, the loss of commerce and resource, and we never will!” Helmut’s red rimmed eyes bulged like a religious fanatic as his bushy eyebrows seemed to shoot to the top of his brow.

  “Earth spent generations and untold trillions in gold to colonize space, only to be told that our investments were successful but would offer no return! Independence, phah!” He seemed to realize a need to reign himself in then.

  “So,” I ventured into the deep pause that followed, “you pick up stragglers and strays that live on the surface below the space dock to help you perform genetic research? Does that mean you want me as a lab rat?”

  Helmut smiled at that; maybe it was the rise he needed to satisfy his curiosity or something.

  “Don’t think us as barbaric as all that. Yes, we will be taking genetic, blood and tissue samples from you and
your comatose friend, but with the state of technology today, we shouldn’t need to conduct any experimentation on live subjects. Not just yet anyway.”

  Lovely.

  “So, you’ll be feeding and sheltering the homeless and all we do is give you some samples every now and then?” My nerves were really getting stirred. I knew that no one else was likely to have been given this level of information and I knew there was a ton that the good doctor was holding back.

  “It seems to be an arrangement the rest of the workers can live with. Do you think this situation will be satisfactory to you?”

  I nodded, “it doesn’t seem like I have any other option.”

  “Oh, there are always options, sir.” I knew from the way he said that, he believed that I was some sort of threat that needed to be removed; but if so, then why the ‘free consultation with every execution’ routine?

  “So, why tell me all of this? Are you in the market for a lab assistant or something?”

  “Hardly, sir. You see, you intrigue me. Your quick acceptance and acclamation to this new environment and loss of freedom, the circumstances of your friend in the lab; it’s all very intriguing.” So I was under a microscope.

  “You say you fell from the dock, from over 200 feet up. Your friend has no head trauma but is in a deep comatose state; and you suffered only minor injuries at all. Explain these things to me.”

  Okay, here we go.

  “I’d stolen something from a mobster up top and I was on the run. The kid got in the way, but helped facilitate my escape. We used a rope to repel from the docking level; it wasn’t long enough. I guess in the process of the escape, the stress might’ve been too much for the kid and he went under. I guess I’m just a little tougher.”

  I figured I didn’t have to lie if I framed the truth in a way that couldn’t hurt me.

  “What did you steal?”

  “I had a few thousand gold notes from a blackjack game. I had to leave them behind though.”

  “Hmm. I see.” He was buying it. I was hoping this meant I had given myself a little breathing room. This guy was obviously more comfortable dealing with vagabonds, rouges and thieves than whatever he initially thought I was.

  “So, once your work is done here will the workers be allowed to leave?” This would make him really comfortable.

  “Of course, sir, of course!” Helmut relaxed into the lie. I had no doubt that the work force would not be allowed to ever see natural daylight again.

  “Now, you said that you might be able to revive your friend. Have you seen this condition before?”

  “I’ve seen it happen before. Stress can do crazy things to a body, but I got a couple ideas on how we can bring him around.” Just then there was a chime that rang through the office door.

  “Just one moment, I would be most interested in these ideas, but at present, I have another matter to attend.”

  Helmut lifted himself from his chair and walked around the desk toward the door. The two guards moved to the left of the doctor as he pressed a button to open the portal and it slid quietly to the side.

  “Doctor Helmut,” I twisted in my chair to see another guard in the doorway, “your next appointment as scheduled, sir. A Mr. Dugan, Sir.”

  You’ve got to be shittn’ me!

  “Fine, fine. Send him in.”

  “Weeeeell, my good friend Doctor Helmut!!

  I could not believe this was happening! I turned back around to face away from the door, but there was no way that Dugan wouldn’t notice me; there was no way I could hide. Now that I’d gotten myself off the good doctor’s top ten list of things to get rid of, I’d have to pray that Dugan wouldn’t do anything that would get me killed.

  I had about eight seconds to wonder, “Oh, my! Dash, Dash is that you!?!” Emmit Dugan used the grasp of his handshake with Helmut to sling the short round man to his right as he catapulted himself toward my chair.

  With a sigh, I got to my feet for the ‘friendly’ hug I knew would be coming. Out of habit and instinct, I put my right hand over the place where I would have kept my wallet if I had pockets as I allowed the embrace.

  “DT, my goodness, how have you been!?!”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “What are you wearing? Tsk, tsk, tsk, Helmut, this will just not do! For a gentlemen of DT’s stature, you should not have him in the garb of a common laborer.”

  Leave it to Dugan to take the situation from bad to worse.

  “So, it seems that there is a reunion underway. Evidently, your name will be most necessary after all, sir.”

  Great. I turned to address Helmut, but I could have guessed that Dugan wouldn’t give up control of the situation and force me into the straight-man role.

  “This man,” he began expansively, “is the most adept individual you will ever encounter!”

  Way to oversell, Dugan.

  “Mr. Dash Tarell.” Using my old straight man alias let me know that at least Dugan was operating with a direction n mind if not with a plan.

  “A pleasure Mr. Tarell, I’m sure.” Helmut seemed to be mildly intrigued again, only this time it wasn’t about finding a reason to dispose of a threat but in finding additional value from a captive resource.

  “Please tell me, Mr. Dugan at which things are Mr. Tarell most adept?”

  “Well, Helmut my boy, whatever it is you’ve evidently hired him to do for this morbid little operation of yours, and likely so very much more. You’ll see, whatever you’ve agreed to pay him is likely only worth one fifth the value he’ll provide.”

  I only stood there and grinned like a show hound on display.

  “Indeed. Well, your Mr. Tarell was just going to help us solve a little problem with a comatose patient of ours. Mr. Jones, I believe, would be most appreciative of his assistance.”

  “Well, there you go. Already working miracles for you isn’t he? Let’s go check out this Jones and get him to rights.”

  Dugan put his left arm over my shoulder and walked me over to the door like we were all going on a picnic. The guards looked dumbfounded. Helmut just followed behind us, no doubt intellectually curious about where the whole thing would lead.

  Once we were out into the hall, one of the two guards pushed past us to lead the way to the lab where Jones lay out cold. Dugan chattered the whole way about the last place he’d seen me and regaling Helmut with lies about invented past exploits.

  As we approached the lab door, he slipped me another handshake and used his middle finger to tap my palm three times. It was the signal for ‘in’. In this case I took it for a question, like, “are you in with these guys?”

  I tapped back four times, the signal for ‘out’. I hoped he took it for, “I need an exit!”

  Then I followed up with a squeeze indicating the urgency. All the while I looked straight ahead and Dugan walked forward while his head was turned over his left shoulder engaging Helmut in parlor conversation. Dugan tapped two for yes without ever missing a step.

  He’d know to wait for a signal or an obvious opening. We both knew the routine and that gave me a little hope. The guard in front of us opened the door to the lab and moved to the side to let us enter. Evidently, I was no longer deemed a threat because both guards remained outside as Helmut followed us into the lab with the door sliding shut behind him.

  The room was obviously converted from scientific to more medical purposes. It was likely that getting Jones awake and responsive was the only reason scientific equipment seemed to have been moved to the walls to make room for medical monitors and what-not.

  “Well, Mr. Tarell,” Helmut began, “you said that you had a couple ideas on how to revive your friend Mr. Jones?”

  I ignored the question.

  “What was this room normally used for?”

  “This lab was dedicated to neural mapping and imaging. All workers are mapped as part of the intake process. We attempted to map your Mr. Jones here but it appears that the subconscious stat he is currently in prevents us fr
om getting an accurate mapping of his brain activity and the associated neural pathways.” Then, Helmut actually grinned at me.

  “Incidentally, your map is on file as well, Mr. Tarell. I’m told that it is very ordinary in every way possible.”

  I grinned back, “Well, it’s not what you’ve got, but how you use it that makes the difference.”

  He stopped grinning, “Can you revive Mr. Jones, or not?”

  “I think so,” I offered, “but I’ll need a few things first.”

  “What things?” I could tell that the scientist in our host was itching to discover whatever new technique I would employ to do what his lab techs could not. But I could also sense that the administrative side was getting a little impatient with this whole situation.

  “I’ll need a vibro-razor, a knife, a bucket, and a couple inches of plexiform tubing.”

  I had no idea if this would work, but I could tell from the grin on Dugan’s face that even if it didn’t at least he was enjoying the show. Helmut blinked a few times then yelled for his technicians to get the supplies on the double. I wondered how far he was willing to let his scientific curiosity take him; it’s compulsive traits like that that’ll get a man killed if he’s not careful.

  Dugan began chatting with the technicians that remained in the lab, while Helmut studied me in puzzlement. Meanwhile, I studied the reclined chair Jones was strapped into, the hydration IV that lead from his arm and the diodes and monitor leads taped to his now bald head, chest and stomach.

  When the lab techs had finally assembled the items I had asked for (I had to get them to replace the plexiform bucket they brought with an old fashion aluminum one), I got to work.

  I removed the bucket handle and used the knife to cut the tubing into a long whistle. I had the techs move the chair into a more upright position, and then I put the tubing into the hole in the side of the bucket where the handle was just removed. When I tested the whistle, the pitch seemed a little off, but I was really winging it so I figured, “what the hell,” if it didn’t work at least I had a knife to work with.

  “What are you doing, Sir?” Helmut’s administrative side was evidently overcoming his inner scientist.

  “Just two more minutes, Doc. If I can get this to work, we’ll have old Jonesy up and about in just a bit.”

  “Oh give the man a chance, Helmut. You just need to unclench your ass-cheeks and relax once in a while.”

  Helmut’s face went flush at Dugan’s comment, but if he was anything more than embarrassed, he chose not to act on it.

  I took the heads off the vibro-razor, exposing the high powered nib, and then I started the show.

  I put the metal bucket over Jones’s head and held it in place with one hand. I then placed the end of the tube-whistle in my mouth, and with the vibro-razor in the other hand, I put the nib flush against the site of the bucket.

  Everyone looked on with faces ranging from incredulity to outright frustration, like it was their asses on the line if this crazy idea didn’t work.

  “Bzzzzzzzzzzzz, treet! Bzzzzzzzzzzzz, treet!”

  I really hoped that there was nothing in the particular pitch of the beep that did the trick, because it definitely sounded off to me. I counted to three then tried again.

  “Bzzzzzzzzzzzz, treet! Bzzzzzzzzzzzz, treet!”

  “Mr. Tarell, I am losing patience with your display of…”

  “Just a minute, dammit!” I tried again.

  “Bzzzzzzzzzzzz, treet! Bzzzzzzzzzzzz, treet!”

  Another three count.

  “Bzzzzzzzzzzzz, treet! Bzzzzzzzzzzzz, treet!”

  “Doctor, look! The subject’s hand just registered movement” One of the techs had noticed movement in Jones’s fingers. As the monitors started to show activity I hurriedly removed the bucket and tossed the entire apparatus to the side. I leaned Jones forward knowing the headache he would have would elicit a moan or groan or something.

  “He’s really going to need to pee! Where’s the nearest restroom?” I was quickly removing the leads and connections between Jones and the monitors. Dugan leapt onto the cue.

  “Oh, it’s right this way! Helmut, please be a help and have a couple of your riot boys escort us to the nearest lavatory.” Dugan was already under one arm as I lifted the other over my shoulder.

  “But, but we have to examine…” Helmut sputtered. He seemed to have trouble keeping control of the situation now that the pace had increased.

  And, just when most needed, Jones groggily uttered his first words to me, “H-have t-to piss.”

  “Helmut my friend, if you don’t get out of our wa-ay,” Dugan fell into that sing-song voice I hate so much, “you are going to be the recipient of what I am sure is not your first golden shower.”

  The doctor turned beet red at this but moved to the side, hitting the door release as he did.

  “Take them to the Lavatory and escort them back here when they are done.” Mentally, I laughed at Helmut’s half-assed attempt to re-assert his authority as we walked Jones through the door.

  “Lead the way boys!” It always amazed me how Dugan could make any situation seem like we were off to a picnic in the park on some tropical pleasure resort or something.

  We followed the guards down the corridor and after one right and two left turns; they opened a door to the head. As we passed through the door, Dugan spoke to the guard on the right, “you boys better come in with us in case we need some help.” They followed us in.

  We held Jones up between us at a urinal and each pulled down one side of the shorts he had on and leaned him in. Once he started I thought he’d never stop! The kid must’ve been there for at least three minutes before he drained to a trickle. When he did I could feel him take a little more weight off my shoulders. I guess Dugan figured this was the best moment we’d get ‘cause everything happened pretty quick after that.

  “Whoa, he’s going down!” Dugan yelled as he let go of the kids’ right arm and at the same time gave a stealthy little kick to the kids’ right Achilles tendon. One of the guards rushed over to help and as he grabbed for Jones, I literally dumped the kids’ weight and my 220 pounds on top of the guy. We were all in a heap on the bathroom floor with Dugan looking down at us with his hands on his hips.

  “Just lovely!” He waved the other guard over as we struggled to get out of the dog pile we created. “Would you mind giving us a hand here?”

  But as soon as the guard was close enough, Dugan grabbed his right wrist, twisted it around his back and lifted up at the elbow until the pop of a dislocated shoulder echoed off the clean white tile walls. Before the guard could get more than half way into a full throated yell, Dugan pushed the arm further and pressed the guards own palm against the back of his head and activated the taser plate in the palm of his glove. Less than a second later he was in a heap on the floor.

  I continued to pin the second guard on the floor. When he realized the situation he tried to zap me but he had to settle for a partial contact with Jones’s shoulder. I could hear the crackle of the contact on raw flesh. That’ll leave a mark for sure. And, in Jones’s still groggy state it was just enough to make him pass out cold. Dugan finished the second guard with a booted kick to the face that knocked him out cold and likely broke his jaw as a bonus.

  “Take those off and put on the guard uniform.” Dugan was all command now. All pretense toward being the friendly gentleman and fallen away, now he was all business. He locked the door and then began to undress as well.

  “What now?” I was almost finished stripping my guard and Dugan, in his underwear was rolling Jones over to get to his.

  “Now we get the kid and get the hell outta here. When you’re finished dressing, get the boy up and put him in your coveralls. Splash some water on his face or something, he’ll need to be awake if we’re going to have a chance at making the exit.”

  In a few minutes we were ready to go. The kid was up but still a little shaky from the taser. Dugan and I each grabbed an arm and marched
him down the corridor away from the lab.

  “I figure we’ve got about two minutes before they send someone to check on us.” We walked quickly but at a controlled pace just in case we encountered anyone.

  Dugan answered, “That’s about right I guess, we only need about that much time to get to the lift to the surface.”

  “Will they be able to stop the lift,” I asked.

  “I think I’ve got that covered.” We turned down a long hall and moved toward the double doors at the end. “They’ll only be two guards in the lift room. When we get to the door, you hold onto the kid and I’ll take care of them.”

  Dugan left me outside the door with Jones pretty much awake now. Just as the door closed behind Dugan, the alarms went off. The noise was so intense that I could barely make out the sounds of the struggle inside. It was a matter of twenty seconds or so and Dugan cracked open the door.

  “Come on you two.” We moved into the room. When the doors closed behind us, Dugan motioned me to help him move a heavy plexiform table across the doors.

  “That’s not gonna hold them for long.” I said. Dugan actually looked at me like I was a moron or something.

  “Whatever,” I looked around and found the lift access doors on the other side of the room, “let’s just get the hell outta here.”

  I grabbed Jones by the arm and we walked over to the lift. I opened it and got ready to press the big green arrow pointing up. I could hear the sound of booted feet coming down the long hall outside.

  “You still got the knife you lifted from that tech?” I handed it over to Dugan. He used it to pop a panel outside the lift. He pulled a long blue wire out of the panel and stretched it until he had about four feet of it in his hand, then he got in the lift.

  I knew better than to ask what he was going to do. I mean, who gives a crap if it works. After all Dugan was just as deep into the soup as I was and I was ready to trust in his sense of self preservation.

  “Hit the doors.” Dugan readied the knife blade at the loop of the wire. I pressed the round red button to close the doors. As they slid shut, I could hear voices shouting about the jammed door outside the room.

  “You ready?” I asked.

  “Hit it!” I hit the green arrow pointing up and the lift began to rise. At the same time the couple feet of wire Dugan had gathered in the lift with us was slowly drawn out of the door.

  “Brace yourselves!” Dugan cut the wire and the lift accelerated suddenly. We were all forced to the floor by the increasing pressure as the lift continued to pick up speed. Then, about five seconds later, the lift slammed into the top of the shaft launching the three of us to the ceiling and then slamming us back down to the floor.

  “Damn, Dugan.” I hurt from heel to head in the back and from toe to nose in the front. Jones let out a groan.

  “I got us out didn’t I?”

  Dugan and I crawled to the doors and on our knees we managed to pry the doors apart. I grabbed the kid and led him out into the sunlight.

  “What did you do to the lift?” I asked.

  “It was pneumatic. Once we were moving, I cut the regulator wire. I pretty much put it in high gear with no way to shut it off. There’s another way out but it’s over five miles away on the other side of the complex. We should be able to get to the space dock and book three tickets on a charter ship in the time it takes them to make their way here. Come on, let’s get moving.”

  True to his word (this time) Emmit Dugan got us all on a charter flight to the continent on the other side of the planet without any further incident. Once we were on board and seated, I figured now was the time for a few answers.

  “So, you mind telling me how you got tied up with Helmut and the gang?”

  Dugan let out a long sigh and leaned back in has chair as the ship lifted from the dock. Jones was asleep already, just as quiet and docile as he seemed when awake.

  “Well, about a year ago I got myself into small time hustle with our old pal Mr. Lump.”

  Hell, I’d almost forgotten about that guy.

  “I can tell by your expression you remember old lumpy bottom. Well, don’t worry about him. He’s dead.”

  “Dead?” I knew it wouldn’t have been a fall in the shower.

  “Yeah, you don’t mind, do you?” Dugan smiled at his own sarcasm, and then continued on, “Lump had me running up table bets in the casino. You know, bet a bunch of his cash and win enough to make others want to cash in on my luck. Once the stakes were high enough, everyone would lose, except old lumpy. Anyway, Lump was running his own hustle as facilitator for those stuffed lab coats and making his money off the top. I don’t think he knew what he was into until they wanted him to run some cargo to Earth for them.”

  I perked up a bit, “You mean they were running Jones to Earth?”

  “Yup, turns out that our little buddy Jones here is a secret weapon.”

  I looked at Jones, “you gotta be shittn’ me!”

  “Nope, I shit you not. It seems as though those Earth boys have been trying to engineer a neuro-chemical bio-toxin that will bond with the varied and diverse brain maps of the citizens living in the Terran colonies. Believe it or not, they’ve been working at it for generations.”

  “But why?” This was getting too weird.

  “Money, why else? They engineered this weapon to make everybody with similar brain maps as docile as our little friend here. They could introduce it into the water or food supply, and in a matter of years they’d own the place.”

  “But what about the chemical affecting their brains,” after all, I figured we are all still human, right?

  “The brain bomb they were developing would affect only the neuro-patterns of the Terran colonies because after several hundred years of separation brain maps of Earthers and brain maps of Terrans are, well, just different.”

  “So, who killed Lump, you?”

  “Now, come on DT, I may be a lot of things but a killer isn’t one of them. No, seems as though there was a malfunction on the ship you and Jones were supposed to be on. Something regarding a broken hull access door. Of course the ships systems send out a distress signal when it couldn’t revive the crew. When Lump had to report that Jones wasn’t on board, the Earther functionary he reported to just killed him out of hand. At least that’s what Ramón told me.”

  Dugan smiled again, “He said to tell you hello, incidentally.”

  “Well.” And here was the real rub for me, “How did you know to come down and get me an Jones out of there?”

  “Oh, Dash, I had no idea you were down there; you or Jones. I ran into you two completely by accident. After Lump was, well, disposed of dear Ramón thought that he could connect me with someone safer in the operation than the connection Lump had anyway. That’s how I got in touch with our little swarthy buddy, Helmut. I was supposed to act as his Terran facilitator.”

  “So how come Helmut didn’t know Jones was his own secret weapon?”

  Dugan laughed, “Bureaucracy! With five miles of underground pathways, offices and laboratories, I doubt that there are any ten individuals who know anything more than their own job. Helmut may not have even known that the project had reached the prototype phase. It’s possible that Earth doesn’t even know.”

  “Well,” I asked, what do we do with Jones now?”

  “We turn him over to Ramón, of course.”

  “What!” That didn’t make any sense.

  “Dash, Ramón is an operative for the Terran Intelligence Agency. I’m sure they want to see how secret weapon boy works and how to disarm him if possible.”

  Well, all I could hope was that they wouldn’t be too rough on the kid. It’s not like he’d raise a fuss about it if they did. After a while there was one burning question Dugan hadn’t answered.

  “So, what made you turn patriot?”

  “Deeee Teeee,” he knew I hated that, “sleeping beauty over there will bring you enough gold notes to buy yourself three Nelly Belles!”

  “Okay, o
ne more question, Emmit?”

  “Ask whatever you like.”

  “What’s your take?”

  “My dear boy, have you ever seen a platinum note?”

  Dugan smiled and leaned back in his chair. All I could do is shake my head. It seemed to me that cold war politics was the biggest con possible. I closed my eyes and wondered what a platinum note actually looked like.