by Gary Jonas
A warning klaxon sounded. Hank sat up suddenly, dropping his beer. “Elsa! What in the hell?”
“We’ve got a ship closing on us, Hank. He swooped in out of nowhere.”
“Put it on the screen.”
The star field was replaced by the battle-scarred image of a medium-sized ship.
“Marauder class with a crew of no more than three or four. A favorite of mercenaries and pirates,” Elsa reported.
“Charge up the guns and cinch up your britches, ladies. I think we’re about to have us a brawl.”
EPISODE FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Marauder was on an intercept course. Hank wrenched the controls and took the ship into a roll and a bank out to a different vector. There was a chance that the other pilot was just a hotshot jerk who liked to fly wild. They would know in a moment. Hank made the maneuver—and the Marauder adjusted its course for another intercept.
“Shit,” Hank said. “Status, Elsa?”
“We’re ready, Hank. Shields are at maximum and weapons are charged.”
“Okay. Open a line. Let’s talk to this joker.”
Elsa activated her communications unit, and a red light appeared on the console signaling Hank that he was broadcasting. Hank didn’t for a minute think about being honest. There was a price on their heads. “This is the free-trader ship Vasco. Back off, asshole.”
A gruff voice answered. “This is the hand of Thorne. Stand-to and your lives will be spared. Resist and we’ll blow you out of the sky.”
The Marauder closed fast; in only a few seconds it would be within range to fire its weapons.
“What are you going to do?” asked Sai.
“Elsa is a hot little ship, faster than this guy could possibly know. We could outrun him, but then we’d have to worry about him sneaking up on us again or reporting our position. I intend to take him out.”
He activated the com again.
“Please don’t hurt us,” Hank said sounding as pitiful as he could. “We’re just a trading ship. We have no weapons.” He turned and winked at Sai as he clicked off the com. “We’ll give them a fine wide-eyed surprise. Elsa, give me manual nav control.” A control yoke unfolded itself from the pilot’s console. “Hang on.”
Hank took hold of the control and made a couple of small course corrections to get the feel of things, then wrenched backward on the control yoke, turning the ship suddenly just as the Marauder entered weapons range.
Twin bolts of destructive energy exploded from the Marauder as it fired on the Elsa, but Hank had changed course. The blaster fire passed by harmlessly.
Hank looped Elsa up and around. “Hit it, Elsa, give him some!”
Elsa let loose with everything she had, all weapons on full computer control. She lobbed three blaster bolts and a round of plasma cannon fire at the Marauder.
The other ship obviously hadn’t been prepared for such resistance from the small trading vessel. It decelerated suddenly and changed course, but not before the tail end of the plasma round caught it across the bow.
“You got it!” Sai screamed, shaking a fist at the viewscreen.
Hank laughed. “That’ll fix you! Make me spill my beer, will ya?”
But the ship was not disabled. It turned for another pass, firing as it came.
Dull thuds sounded from the hull. They had been hit.
“Status?” Hank asked.
“Shield damage only. We’re down to seventy percent. Weapons are at half charge.”
“Okay, gear up for another round.”
“Wait, Hank, I’m registering a targeting beam. It’s tracking us,” Elsa said.
Just then a small object detached itself from the Marauder and ignited, streaking for the Elsa. It was a missile. Old but effective technology.
Hank hit the throttle. They didn’t have any countermeasures to fool the missile; they would have to try to outrun it.
“Range: twelve thousand meters,” Elsa reported.
“Sai, throw everything you can find into the airlock.”
“What?”
“Do it now! Everything in the airlock … except the beer!”
Sai ran to the aft section, grabbing clothing and boxes, beer cans and assorted junk. She threw them as fast as she could through the airlock door.
The ship shifted and turned as Hank attempted to outmaneuver the missile.
“Range: ten thousand meters.”
Sai continued to load the airlock.
“Range: nine thousand meters.”
“Sai, Hurry! Finish up and shut the door.”
Sai kicked the debris out of the way and hit the door control. “It’s closed!” she yelled.
“Range: five thousand meters.”
“Range: four thousand.”
“Range: three thousand.”
“Two thousand.”
“One thousand.”
“Dump it, Sai! Dump the airlock. Now!”
Sai hit the emergency purge and the airlock opened, sucking the junk out the side of the ship. At the same time, Hank pulled a gut-wrenching maneuver that threw Sai across the cabin.
The missile passed harmlessly through the garbage and struck the Elsa in the aft section. Main power failed and the dim red lighting of the secondary system kicked in. Hank’s sweating face looked demonic.
“That didn’t work at all,” Sai said.
“Son of a bitch!” Hank jerked the control yoke to the side. “What’s the damage?”
“Glancing blow. It caused an overload in the hyperdrive, still operational but barely. I think the junk caused the hull-piercing payload to blow too soon. Nothing penetrated.”
“Yeah, that’s what she said. One more time, Elsa. Let’s give it to him. All shields to forward.”
Hank turned the ship around and gunned it for all she was worth. He streaked directly toward the Marauder, the shields angled for maximum protection to their prow.
The Marauder must have been somewhat damaged because it was slow to respond. It wallowed over, exposing its broadside.
“Fire!” Hank screamed.
Elsa’s fury rained upon the ship like lightning from the hand of God. The vessel erupted into a blue flash of short-lived flame, then into a burst of broken and twisted metal shrapnel.
Hank pulled back sharply to avoid the expanding debris field. He closed his eyes and sat back, drawing in a deep breath and blowing it out loudly. “Take over, Elsa,” he said.
He unbuckled the G-harness and stood. He turned as Sai rushed into his arms. “That was fantastic!” she said, squeezing him tightly. “I can’t believe we did it!”
They held each other a little longer. Their eyes met, and Sai slowly pushed away from him. He saw her in a different light in that moment. He wondered if she felt it, too. It could just be the rush of having survived certain death, but she looked lovely and alive. She blushed and looked away. The moment passed, so Hank winked and looked through the threshold at the now clean cabin.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. “There was a floor under all that crap. I thought the layers went down forever.” Hank smiled at Sai. “First corporate hit squads, now pirates. You are one popular gal.”
Sai smiled back and did a curtsy. “What can I say? Some girls got it.”
“Hank,” Elsa said, “there’s something out there.”
“Other than all my dirty laundry?”
“My sensors are picking up a life pod. Someone managed to eject before the ship blew.” Elsa put it on screen. The cylindrical pod spun slowly with its frozen human contents—a lone pirate.
“Let the bastard rot,” Sai said.
Hank rubbed the stubble on his cheeks. “Can’t do it,” he said. “Wouldn’t be right. Nothing scares me more than the thought of floating through space forever in stasis.”
“If it were us out there, they’d leave and never look back,” Sai said.
“That’s exactly why we’re not going to do it,” Hank said. “Elsa, lock on a tractor beam and pull him in.”
&nb
sp; Elsa did as he asked. They moved to the viewscreen mounted next to the rear cargo airlock. Elsa manipulated the pod in the tractor beam and neatly lined it up with the entrance. The outer door opened. She eased the pod inside, closed the door after it, and then repressurized the hold.
Hank and Sai opened the door from the main cabin area to the hold and took a look at the pod. “Looks intact. He should be fine,” Hank said.
“Are we going to wake him up?” Sai said.
Hank shook his head. “Naw. No sense in it right now.” Hank said. “We can keep him in the storage hold and turn him in later to Nebulaco or the Confed.”
They secured the pod with cargo harnesses and then returned to the cockpit. Hank flopped down in the pilot’s chair and entered the course corrections that brought them back on line for the Trent System. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sai stare out the viewport, wide-eyed in almost childlike wonder. It was all new to her. The stars were like some immense playground. Hank remembered when he had felt that way—it seemed like centuries ago.
Hank’s life on the spaceways had been lonely, with only Elsa to keep him company, never staying in one place long enough to know any women longer than it took for a cargo transfer. Not that he ever complained. There were advantages to relationships on a cash-and-carry basis. You only had to worry about losing your money, never losing something that hurt inside.
Sai noticed him looking at her and smiled. “What are you thinking?” she asked.
“Nothing much. Just about how old I am and how young you are.”
“You can’t be that old.”
“Honey, I’m so old I remember wearing ear plugs during the big bang. I’m so old my first starship was a horse. I’m so old my galactic ID number is three.”
Sai laughed and shook her head. She sat on his lap and laid a hand on his arm. “Stop it. That’s enough.”
Hank laughed with her for a moment, his eyes settling on the warm hand that rested on his biceps, the delicate fingers. He stopped laughing and looked up into her eyes. They were soft and blue. They held as much wonder for him as the stars held for her.
“What are you thinking about now?” she asked, knowingly.
“That maybe, just this moment, I ain’t so damn old,” he said, then leaned forward and kissed her. After a moment the length of a heartbeat, she returned the kiss.
Elsa quietly dimmed the lights and killed her vid sensors to let them have their privacy.
The Atlas Ship Yard was an enormous structure orbiting the planet Matilda. It branched out in all directions like a mutant tree, each arm providing berths for ships under construction or repair. Nearly one hundred ships were docked at the facility, from freighters large enough to be colony ships to one-man hoppers.
Chandler entered the office of the yard master. It was a utilitarian room with uncomfortable-looking gray chairs and battered desks. A rough woman wearing oil-stained overalls shuffled through a stack of hard-copy documents. She didn’t notice Chandler come in.
“Excuse me,” Chandler said.
“What do you want?” the woman said, not looking up.
“I’m Elray Pinchon. I’m doing an estimate for Louie Rocco on the Swan Princess. I need to get access to the ship.”
“No problem. Soon as the boys get it rehabbed so it’s safe for you to check it out. Wouldn’t want any accidents.”
Yeah, they needed time to make sure the ship was gutted before an outsider examined it.
“How long does that take?” Chandler said.
“What is it today, Tuesday?” She checked her comlink. “We can probably get back to you by next Monday.”
“You have got to be kidding!”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Sure, you can see how hard I’m laughing. I live to entertain. Show business is in my blood. Now get the hell out of my office. I have things to do.”
“I can’t wait that long. Rocco wants his estimate tomorrow.”
“People in hell want ice water.”
“I don’t think he’s going to be very happy with you,” Chandler said, shaking his head.
“Like I care. That yacht is a minor project here. I have work to do, bud. Here’s a blank complaint form loaded up—knock yourself out.” She held up a notescribe board.
Chandler laughed and crossed the room to her desk. “Thank you,” he said, taking the notescribe. “You’ve done a fine job.” Chandler extended his right hand. “Ben Dover, Galactic Trust Insurance.”
The woman shook his hand with a bewildered look on her face. “What?”
“Just a test to make sure you’re fulfilling the safety requirements needed to keep your premiums low. You see, even though we pass rigid rules and regulations, many officials don’t follow through. I was just testing your procedures, and I must say that you did very well. I could not be more pleased. You can be sure that your name will be mentioned in my report so that the owners can reward you appropriately. Let me just make a note here, what was the name?”
“Neena, Neena Landow. I don’t remember ever seeing anyone here from your office before.”
“Most of our investigations are done undercover. It’s easy to be up to spec when you know you’re talking to an inspector.”
Neena nodded. “Well, I suppose that makes sense.”
“Splendid. Well, that about wraps it up for your office. Now I need to check out the yard itself. Do me a favor. Don’t let it get out that I’m here. I want to be able to observe the work without being noticed. I don’t want the workers to feel like they’re being spied on.”
“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me,” Neena said.
Chandler snapped his fingers. “Oh yes, I almost forgot. I need a listing of the ships you have here, their berth numbers, and their ownership records.”
Neena had the computer compile a list and she gave it to Chandler. She didn’t even notice when he left with her notescribe board.
Chandler left the administrative offices, put on a vacsuit, and caught a car tram to berth twenty-nine, where the Swan Princess was docked. The blackness of open space contrasted with the spotlighted forms of the huge ships. Men scrambled over the hulls in magboots, repairing hull breaches and communications arrays.
He still held the notescribe; it tended to ward off people with questions and made him seem important, like someone official. No one likes to talk to an official, since they tended to write down names and make reports.
When he got to the Swan Princess, he took a look at the outside of the sleek vessel. It was massive for a private ship and had obviously been damaged. There was evidence of fresh repairs in the aft section. He keyed the com unit on the wrist of the suit to examine the ship data provided by Radje. He hoped he would get lucky inside.
A guard stood at the main airlock, but he looked half asleep—at least until he caught sight of Chandler approaching with a notescribe. The guard immediately straightened up and looked serious.
Chandler waved his notescribe at the guard, smiled, walked straight to the airlock, and cycled through to enter the ship. He was relieved when his vacsuit’s pressure sensor indicated that he could remove his helmet. The air inside smelled of solvents and paint.
The corridors were lined with real wood, darkly stained red and polished glossy. This was a luxury yacht that only the foolishly wealthy could ever afford. He sighed. No doubt Rocco would replace the wood with purple crushed velvet and lay orange shag carpet everywhere.
He checked the cargo hold and engineering sections first. He crawled into nooks and crannies, taking images of equipment serial numbers with his comlink, because they could be traced back to their manufacturer. Then he went to the crew’s quarters and located what would have been Radje’s shared cabin. He counted the air vents along the wall. Third from the left.
He fished in his pocket for a multi-tool, unfolded a driver, and popped off the vent cover. There it was: Radje’s stash of liquor and stims along with stolen credit sticks and a stack of pornographic datastores. Everything matche
d Radje’s description.
He pocketed the credit sticks and walked to the crew’s common area and down the central passageway to the crew’s galley. On all ships this is where crew members tended to spend a lot of their free time eating and playing cards. There were several tables reserved for the crew’s mess, and he walked to the one farthest from the door. Chandler reached under the tabletop. He fished around for a while until his fingers felt what he had hoped for. He pulled out a joker right where Radje had said it was stashed. Not only was he a sneak thief, but he was also a dirty card cheat. Chandler looked at the back of the card. It was one of the special decks printed for Randol with the logo of the Aurelius as part of the design.
“Well, well, why am I not surprised?”
Chandler had plenty to prove it was the Aurelius. He pocketed the card, donned his helmet, and exited the ship, then took the tram back to the transport dock. He boarded the Marlowe and left the shipyard.
Chandler keyed his comlink and made a call to an old friend.
The viewscreen displayed the scarred, grim face of John Richmond wearing a Confed lieutenant commander’s uniform. His eyes narrowed. “Mike Chandler? How the hell did you get this number?”
“You gave it to me.”
“Huh. I must have been drunk.”
“Believe me, John, you were.”
The man laughed. “How the hell are you? Finally sick of civilian life?”
“Not sick enough to join up again. I’m still doing the private security thing.”
“Not much money in that these days,” Richmond said.
“Sad, but true. I see you’ve moved up in the world. Your lips must be getting sore from kissing all that ass and taking orders.”
“I mostly give orders now. I have an ensign that I farm out to do all the ass-kissing for me. So tell me, why are you contacting me after all this time? I assume you need a favor.”
Chandler shook his head. “Nope, not quite. This is an equal swap, favor for favor. I’ve been doing some work that’s spilling over into Confed intelligence territory. I think I have something you want but I need something in return.”
“We don’t normally pay for information unless it’s big.”
