Cherook’s Cantina sat on the edge of the spacefield, one of three such places that held the advantage over other similar establishments by being the first place with inebriants encountered by spacers just off-ship.
The noise from the saloons was audible from a considerable distance, the competing sounds combining to create a discordant noise that was far from pleasant.
There was no confusing Cherook’s from the other watering holes, the huge electrodisplay made sure of that, even in bright daylight.
“Stay close,” Ord said to Ursula as they drew close to the place. “May be many rude beings inside.”
Several Humans approached them, all out of work spacers if their empty stix-fix panels and worn shipsuits meant anything. Teller raised a hand with a single finger extended. He shook his head and waved the hand back and forth. “No hires. Top ship. Rigs only and we full up,” he said.
All but one of the spacers held their hands up, palms out before they turned away, the remaining woman walking backwards just in front of Teller.
“Cap’n, me rig on big rides. Four Standard. Make better comp than groundling woman,” she said gesturing at Ursula.
Ord struck the back of one fist into the palm of his other hand. “Woman, boss. Charter.”
The spacer grimaced.
“Disembark! No hires,” Teller said, waving her away with the back of his hand.
The woman held her palms up before she kicked the sand and walked away without saying another word.
Ursula’s expression showed her confusion about the affair and Jessop noticed.
“They’re flotsam, or lubbers if you prefer. Terms for low-skilled spaceabouts looking for a gig. You’ll find them in bars, hiring halls, and spaceports on every station, moon, and planet.”
“What was the odd talk? I couldn’t follow.”
“Guild Talk,” Teller said.
Throughout Human space, and many other regions as well, most spaceports and spacefields had starship crew guild lodges or hiring halls where spacers might find assistance or jobs. Despite the predominance of Syndicate Standard Speech in Human dominated areas, there were hundreds of other languages, lingos, and dialects spoken. Because of this, a simplified language developed among spacers, one that allowed the relay of basic meaning, ideas, and sentiments between those who otherwise could not speak coherently to one another. Over time, the language and gestures acquired a name, Guild Talk.
Jessop nodded. “Flotsam are the bottom of the spacer food chain. Good for menial tasks and little else, unless they prove themselves otherwise and work their way up to positions that are more skilled. Those that have been at it for years with no progression are stuck. They’d be better off finding another line of work, but space has a way of getting in the blood, and once there, is hard, if not impossible, to shake.”
“I’ve heard of that, the Guild Talk,” Ursula said with a nod, “but what was the woman saying about me?”
“She was claiming to be a rig, for four Standard Years no less. A lie.” Teller said. “What she was really pushing was her talents as a companion, a comp in the lingo.”
“And a groundling is…?”
“A non-spacer who dwells planetside. A landlubber. Ord told her you’d chartered our ride. Once she believed she’d just insulted the boss, she gave up the ruse.”
The quartet walked through the open doorway into Cherook’s. There were but a few dozen spacers present, the time of day accounting for the small crowd. The four garnered some looks, most of them reserved for Ursula, but no one approached them. Neither Teller nor Ord wore ship patches on their garb, the stix-fix panels on their shipsuits bare—one person who might recall seeing an ARC Lance crewbeing could turn a cold trail warm if trackers came to Loc Saun. Even so, Teller knew they would likely be identified should someone came looking.
“You know, we’ll be easy to remember,” he said over the music and bar noise. “A dashing pilot, a distinguished engineer, a giant Human with a cannon draped over his back, and a dark-haired beauty in a business getup isn’t a typical party that walks into a spacer bar.”
“It almost sound like the start of a joke,” Jessop said. “If we weren’t in such a fluid situation it might even be funny.”
The quartet walked to the back of the place where it was dark and less crowded. The smell of disinfectant told of a recent cleaning. As they walked along the length of the bar, Ord tapped Teller on the shoulder. “Nurnbeck,” he said with a point at a man behind the bar slotting bottles into a rack.
“You three find a table,” Teller said. “I’ll talk to him.” He leaned against the bar and waved away another bartender with a gesture at Nurnbeck. He waited for the man to complete his task.
Ord, Ned, and Ursula sat at a table with chairs that looked sturdy enough to support the giant’s bulk. A quartet of older spacers at a nearby table paid them scant attention, wrapped up in talking shop. A pair of Human men, a woman, and a Morlok—a small grey being with long high ears and a common species in Human space—sipped from mugs and gestured at another quartet across the barroom.
“I know he’s young, but if he keeps running his ride with that getup he’ll find himself dead,” said one man.
The Morlok chittered a quick laugh. “I recall a guy who did that very thing. Cobbled together ship, no sense at all but for adventure, and a few friends to help him on his way til he could do better for himself. Who was that…? He’s sitting at this table….”
The other two Humans laughed.
“Smoke you, you goblin,” the first speaker said. He cracked a smile. “I’m invoking the ‘do as I say, not as I did’ rule.” He paused. “Lucky we all survived those years.”
The woman raised her mug. “Here’s to Spacer’s Luck!”
“And may those young dumb hackabouts have our fortune,” the first said.
“They’re gonna need it!” all four said in chorus.
The trio from the Lance smiled at the exchange.
Teller waited until Nurnbeck was down to the last few bottles before speaking. “They haven’t fired you yet?”
Nurnbeck looked over his shoulder. “Good help’s hard to find, and until they hire some, I have a job,” he said with a smile. “You haven’t made a crater in the ground on some stinkhole world yet?”
Teller returned the smile. “Keep trying, keep missing.”
The bartender laughed as he slotted the last bottle. He wiped his hands on a towel and turned to face Teller. “What can I do for you?”
“Looking for Farga. Word was he passed through here.”
“He did. Drank for two days straight, left five days ago… that’d be local,” he said looking upward, doing math in his head, “six Standard. He didn’t say for certain where he was going, but he mentioned a girl on Vael, and a job on Relga-Two. You know’im better’n I do. Take your best guess.”
“Thanks. I’ll buy a round for the house next time in.”
“You say that every time. Yet to see it happen.”
“This time I mean it.”
Nurnbeck laughed. “You say that every time too. Not keeping the gear down?”
“On the way to a job and might could use Farga, but we don’t have time to chase him down.”
“Gotcha. Were you here?”
“Depends on who is asking. For the most part, no. If Rael happens to turn up, tell him we’ll be in the Durall system for awhile.”
“Awright, Tell. Durall’s a long haul. Hope you stop by sometime, ‘cause it’s been awhile. Anyone pushes about it, I’ll tell’em you went to Hades to visit your uncle. Stay out of trouble.”
Teller nodded, then waved at his companions. As they walked out Nurnbeck smiled and waved at Ord. “Keep your pal on the straight, big man.”
Ord grumbled and shrugged.
Nurnbeck laughed. “I know!”
The quartet headed for the Lance.
“You hear what Nurnbeck said?” Teller asked.
Ord grunted an acknowledgement.
�
��We have two leads or can try a wildcard. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Girl,” Ord said.
Teller cracked a smile. “Exactly. I recall Farga saying she’s a Denubian living in Shoqael, costly but worth it. Vael it is then.”
They boarded the Lance and found Ho waiting for them. He snapped a military salute and said, “Nothing to report, Captain. All secure and quiet.”
Teller glared at the Mech for a few seconds. “You sure as smoke aren’t a bot. I think I might be happier if you were.”
“Just following orders, sir!”
“Among the many, many items on my long, long list of things I do not miss about military life, the ‘yes sir, no sir, may I wipe you clean, sir’ poog is near the top. This bird and her pilot are ex-mil, got me?”
Ho dipped his head. “Understood, Captain.”
Teller shook his head and shrugged. “I really don’t get this Mech. Ord, you deal with him,” he said as he pushed his way past.
“Teller sometimes knows less than he thinks he knows,” Ord said. “He can learn. We talk once in slipspace, but now preflight.”
“To where do we depart?” Ho said.
“Vael.”
. . .
A tone on Director Blake Sodall’s desktop console sounded. He looked up from his work. “Yes?”
“Julia, Hector, and the other members of your staff are here. Should I send them in?”
“Please do.”
Sodall slid his chair out and stood as a quartet of people walked into his office.
“A datacube with news from Boddan-Three just arrived, Director,” Julia said.
He nodded. “Have you viewed it yet?”
All four shook their heads.
Sodall smiled and gestured at the chairs and sofa across the office from his desk. “Well then, let us see how trampled our carefully laid plans are.”
As they sat, one of the staffers pushed the data cube into a slot in the top of a cabinet next to one of the chairs. A moment later, a rectangular image appeared on the wall nearby. A series of listings slowly descended the screen.
“Julia, if you would,” Sodall said with a point at the image.
“Scroll down,” she said to the vid deck. “Stop. Play entry One-Five-Two.”
The listings disappeared, replaced by a logo, “Akara News,” a whispered voice said as the logo disappeared.
“An incident in the Boddan System leaves several dead and wounded while questions abound as to the cause of the violence,” a woman’s voice said as an image of a starmap appeared, then zoomed in to show a likeness of the system of Boddan. Another zoom brought the spinning image of Boddan III and then a likeness of Commerce Station to the screen.
“This is Lana Moore reporting from Commerce Station over Boddan-Three. A violent confrontation between police and unknown individuals resulted in the deaths of at least nine people, including an undisclosed number of station law enforcement officers. Officials are tight-lipped, stating they cannot comment during an ongoing investigation. While official information is sparse, an eyewitness I spoke with claims one of the dead is an Altairie Corporation executive. A Commerce Station cargo handler stated that an Altairie vessel did dock with the station just prior to the shootout. Station logs are not available making confirmation impossible. If true, the location of this ship is at present, unknown. Akara News will update this story as information presents itself. Lana Moore, Commerce Station, Boddan System.”
The listings returned to the display.
“Is that all?” Sodall said.
“Yes, Director,” Julia said.
“It’s only been a matter of hours since the ship arrived at the station,” another staffer said. “I am surprised we have information already.”
Sodall nodded. “Good point, Hector. The information is understandably sparse, but it seems as if things might be going well.”
Julia nodded, but her face showed concern. “There were police killed. Might that potentially be an issue?”
“Many things could be issues, potential or otherwise. Our plan is a robust one. More than capable of withstanding a few dead policemen. In fact, it adds to the authenticity we intended this operation to have. The who, what, when, and why have been addressed and the additional bloodshed serves to add more guilt on those who will bear the blame.”
Hector nodded at the Director. “Hopefully Miz Gomez will send word of confirmation with the next pod or ship coming from there. Word from the other systems should be bound here as well.”
“Such is the nature of interstellar communication,” Sodall said with a smile. He stood. “News travels only marginally faster than beings can carry it. I will go inform the chief executive. We will be very busy for the next few days, so rest and be ready to work.”
. . .
Teller stepped into the common room squinting at the lights. Yawning, he went to the galley counter and poured a cup of caffeie.
“Did you sleep well, Captain?” Ned asked. He and Ursula played pelfre at the table.
“I did, and stop calling me Captain.” He took a sip of his beverage and sighed. “Sorry, old man. That Mech’s got me on edge and I’m grumpy until I have some caffeine in me.”
Ned smiled. “I’m the same way, about the caffeine that is. Have a seat.”
Teller grabbed a nutrition stick from a cabinet and joined the pair at the table.
“We should be at Vael in a couple of hours,” Ursula said.
Tell glanced at the display on the bulkhead near the hatch opening and nodded.
“Something you said on Harab. My clothing. I have nothing but business attire. If we are going to be even a few more days at this, shouldn’t I find something more appropriate for shipboard use?”
“Not a bad idea. Might make us less noticeable. I doubt you’d want to wear one of Ord’s shipsuits. Vael has a lot of open markets, especially where we’re going. I know one the locals use. The prices aren’t thrust up for tourists. Now if we could just find a way to make Ord seem smaller….”
Teller’s breakfast companions laughed.
“Going to higher traffic space, won’t we show up on some scans or some kind of tracking system?” Ursula said. “I don’t know the terminology, but in star systems with traffic control, don’t they keep records?”
“Sure they do, but we’re far enough out that we’re ahead of any news or inquiries, so nobody will be sifting through transponder or ship registration records. Even if there was a galaxy-wide search for us, we can stay ahead of it for some time. I doubt there’s that big of an effort. Rael Farga can help us lay low and sniff out the deal. If it becomes necessary, the Lance can put on a disguise.”
Ned chuckled. “Not the first time you’ve had to alter the transponder and registration and flare-tail it for calmer space?”
Teller smirked. “You know how it is.”
“More or less. Never had to do it myself, but I know some people….”
. . .
The planet Vael was a small and lush world, populated mostly by Humans, Denubians, and Lupinus, three races often at odds with one another. Not a technologically advanced place, it was by no means primitive. The lack of widespread state of the art systems was by design, an outgrowth of a war four centuries before that nearly destroyed all life on the planet. The survivors found unity in the rebuilding and reseeding of their world, and peace had finally come to Vael.
Vael’s primary source of extra-planetary income came from tourism, the planet’s vast tracts of land in their natural state luring beings from across the galaxy to wander the restored and unpopulated woods, jungles, deserts, and oceans.
Flight over the planet below high altitude was restricted to narrow corridors linking the large population centers. It was through one of these the Lance traversed to the oasis city of Shoqael in the Forlut desert region. Within this city dwelled a large portion of the planet’s Denubian population, a fierce yet pleasant branch of Humanity that developed orange-brown skin, blue-black hair, an
d lithe and long-limbed bodies due to conditions on their planet of origin, Denube.
Teller put the Lance down among tourist shuttles from orbiting starcruisers, suborbital craft from on-planet hotels, local and in-system runabouts, and other freelancer vehicles. The spacefield’s small administration office was located nearby.
“Do you know the name of this girl?” Jessop asked as they readied to leave the ship.
“No,” Teller said. “Don’t need it. We’re looking for Farga, so if his ship is here, he’s here. If so and he’s not aboard, we should be able to find somebody that can direct us to where he is.”
“If he’s not, do we try the other lead?”
“Yes. There are some other places we can try, but we’ll worry about that when the time comes.”
As Teller extended the narrow ramp that served the port side airlock, he looked at Ord. “Tell the Mech to stay on board and keep an eye on things.”
“I heard, Captain. I will alert you should any incidents occur,” Ho said from his place near the hatch to the command deck.
“Ho, can you monitor news?” Ord said.
“It is well within my capabilities. I shall do so.”
“Great,” Teller said flatly. “Let’s go.”
Once Teller secured the Lance, he joined the others waiting for him at the bottom of the ramp. “Let’s go,” he said curtly.
“Teller grumpy,” Ord said.
“It’s that Mech. He goes against my grain.”
“Not surprised. Ord knows why.”
Teller glared at his friend. “Why’s that?”
“The telling may take some time. Later,” he said with a point at the door to the administration office.
A common feature in facilities that handled spaceship traffic was some form of messaging and tracking point, usually called a spacer’s relay. These could be a simple board with handwritten messages on plascards or pulpsheets, a console for electronic entries, or in busier stops were often offices tended by live beings. In the case of the admin office in Shoqael, it was a small booth near a bank of lift columns.
A Lupinu sat in a seat built for his kind, the bottom of the chair fashioned to accommodate his canid legs. The Lupinu saw the quartet walking at him and smiled, a frightening sight to those not used to canid expressions, the curling lips exposing the teeth of a predator.
The Knockabouts Page 9
