The Knockabouts

by DK Williamson

  “Stamina,” Hugh said. “Stamina will serve you well, lad. Playing tired, drunk, or stupid will get you poor in a hurry. Go rest.”

  Mak went to the galley and fixed himself a cup of caffeie, then joined Ned and Ursula at the table, placing his cup and a deck of pelfre cards on the surface.

  “Teller was reluctant to explain how he knew you,” Ursula said.

  “I doesn’t surprise me a bit he didn’t tell you. It’s not a happy tale.”

  “If it’s too personal I—”

  Hugh sipped his caffeie and began cutting and shuffling the cards one-handed, seemingly without conscious thought. “Not truly personal, just not a story with mystical unicorns and happy animals dancing in meadows. Tell was a station dump. A boy of ten left on Station Six over Grernon. A place so bleak they can’t even be bothered to name the stations over the place. Happens a lot, station dumps. His folks died and the aunt that ended up with him decided halfway to home she didn’t want a child to deal with so….”

  “That’s appalling,” Ursula said with distaste.

  “Yes, and all too common as well. Most of them get predated upon sooner or later. Lured onto a ship never to be seen again. Run with a station rat gang until someone decides to play pest control. Commit petty crimes until their crimes aren’t so petty and cross paths with the authorities, and there’s a thousand more terrible fates out there.”

  “So how did Teller make it through all that?”

  “He was a tough kid who found a good-hearted and soft-headed gambler to look out for him before the universe swallowed him. Taught him the trade, but I knew he wasn’t going to be a professional gambler. He never grew the look. Still, it’s always good to know how to gamble if for no other reason than to be able to spot a cheat. After eight years traveling with me, he walked into a recruiting office on Nethar-Three and told them he wanted to be a fighter pilot. He didn’t know what long odds he faced, but I did. It didn’t matter. He got what he wanted and he was good at it. Piloting and spacer was in his blood. We’d talk every few years once he was on his own, saw each other a couple of times, then it stopped. I thought maybe he’d got himself splattered across the surface of a battlecruiser or something, then heard he’d become a spacer. I always felt he’d lead a charmed life. Glad to see he’s still in one piece.”

  “I now understand why he was reluctant to bring you into this. You are family. Did you know he wanted to be a pilot?” Jessop asked.

  “Aye, he always wanted to fly. Not the blue so much, mind you. The black, the Big Black. Soar the stars at the helm of his own bird… or a government lent one. As a lad he’d bend the ear of any spacer that’d answer his questions. A couple even let him crawl around inside and see what makes a starship tick. I figured he’d make good or die trying. Always was determined that one. Looks like he made good.” Mak gestured around the common room. “I’m no expert, but it seems a fine ship.”

  Jessop nodded. “It is. Not fancy, but highly functional.”

  “Tell me about this Latchup?” Ursula said.

  “I will. It’s a grand get-together in space, that’s all. Usually somewhere out of the way to prevent unwelcome visitors. Lots of bands, clans, families, groups, or just regular spacers do this kind of thing. They call’em Meat-ups, Rendezvous, Hatch parties, and other things, but Latchup is the proper term,” Mak said with a wink and a smile. “A gaggle of ships all linked in a bundle. For Makreurys it means those who’ve been way-going return, people who’ve not seen one another for long catch up, there’s trading, deals are struck, folks get married.” His tone hardened noticeably. “Clan disputes get settled, the council makes decisions and rulings. The others are wilder, put on by spacers, so it’s not just family or old chums. More scum, more predators and shadies.”

  “Shadies?”

  “Shady folk, those up to no good. Schemies and the like. Then there’s the Summits, the same thing but put on and attended by nothing but shadies. Steer well clear of such things.”

  “I see. If it’s not prying, why haven’t you been to a Latchup for so long?”

  Jessop grimaced and shook his head.

  “Audacious one, isn’t she?” Mak said with a smile at Ned. “Ah, but beauties can get away with brashness. It’s prying all right, but I’ll tell you anyway. Like all good tales, it involved a woman… and honor… and clan politics. Never a good mix,” he said with a shake of his head. “There was a woman I loved. First time we spoke I knew she was the one and only. ‘Good to meet you, Hugh,’ she said with a smile. That was that and I was utterly smitten. She was a woman from a branch of the Makreury clan that followed all of the old ways, a woman named Sorcha. Don’t get me wrong, I respect and follow most of the old ways, but old ways aren’t always the best ways. In this case, Sorcha accepted my proposal for marriage, as did her father, as was their custom. He set the brideprice, the amount I’d have to pay for her hand. I—”

  “Brideprice? That sounds archaic. How could—”

  Mak held up a finger. “I said old ways are not always the best ways, but they were their ways, so I had to abide and abide I did. Henry, her father, set the price and I had two years to raise the credits. He was one of the stalwarts, a patriarch of the old line, so it wasn’t any small amount I had to raise. After a year of hard work, I knew I would fail unless I tried something else, and fast. Gambling came to mind. I found a mentor, an old Morlok named Daisho who was a first-rate gambler and inveterate cheat. He said I had the eye, the look, and I was to pay him for his teaching when I knew what it was worth. Turned out he was right. I was good at it. Not a thrill seeker or an addict, no, I was a pro. The old goblin thought he was teaching me cards, but he was giving me life. What’s the worth of that? Still trying to figure it out. Anyway, in less than a year I had the creds.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I got spaced, so to speak, that’s what happened. Right up the old… you know. I show up with the money and Henry says he’d not accept it. I ask why. He says it’s because I had acquired it illicitly. There’s no such custom in the old ways. Money is money. He knew, I knew it. He just wanted me off. It didn’t take long to discover why. It turns out another old-line Makreury by the name of Orkney came along and offered more and that was why Henry tried what he did. It’d keep Sorcha in the fold as well. I took the issue to the clan council at the next Latchup and they ruled in my favor. A deal is a deal. Seeing how Henry was the leader of the old-line branch, they packed up and left in a huff, taking Sorcha with them. They ceased coming to the Latchups and I figured that’s that.”

  “You didn’t try to find Sorcha?”

  “I knew where she was, but knowing meant nothing. What was I to do, launch a one-gambler raid and rescue her? Hire a band of mercs and storm yonder castle?” He shook his head. “I’m but a wee man who has a bit of sense and be a wizard with cards. As hard as it was, I had to accept the situation and I lived my life with a knot in my heart. Years went by. I bided my time hoping for an opening of some sort. Daisho passed and left a daughter I swore to keep an eye on. I ended up with a kid named Teller that turned into a teen. Some years later, the old-line branch sent some envoys to a Latchup to patch things up with the rest of the clan. They did. My hopes soared… for about fifteen chrono units. For the good of the clan, the council decided to honor Henry’s decision and recognize the marriage between Sorcha and the bastard she was forced to marry. I saw red. I was going to invoke the old law of the feud, wee man or no. Me or them I figured, but a wise seventeen-year-old named Teller convinced me it was madness. Said I should abide and watch for the time. He said it was coming, but not yet. So I let it go. He left the next year to fly and I’ve never been to a Latchup since.” He set the deck of cards on the table and tapped his chest. “Still have the knot though.”

  “So why now?” Jessop asked.

  “I owe Teller a debt and he called it in. It be his right. I presume it means his troubles, your troubles, are serious. He’d not have done it otherwise. It will be interesting
to see what happens at the Latchup.”

  Jessop shook his head. “Interesting? That’s an understatement.”

  Mak smiled. “You be a smart man, Ned Jessop. D’ya happen to play cards?”

  . . .

  Ho’s head turned nearly 180 degrees to face Teller. “I’m picking up faint signals. One I cannot pinpoint as yet. It’s a repeating broadcast, but made to mimic interference or background noise.”

  Teller nodded. “That’s what we’re looking for.”

  “The tricky bit is finding the next one,” Hugh said from his seat behind Tell. “After that it’s lining up the sources and following the course.”

  “And not flying into a rock along the way,” Tell said.

  “You’ve survived this long flying these things, lad. I’d imagine you know how to dodge a few rocks. Your friend Ord says you have a knack for the job, a right wizard.”

  “Despite how he butchers Syndicate Standard, he still talks too much.”

  It didn’t take Ho long to snatch traces of the next broadcast source from the Big Black, and from there it was simply a case of flying point to point… and dodging a few rocks.

  . . .

  “Hugh, the approach codes the same you think?” Tell said.

  “How in blue blazes am I t’know that? We both last attended a Latchup at the same time and you be the one who knows of such. I’m but a card player. I’ve kept tabs, but I don’t know the comings and goings. Use one of the old and proven ones.”

  “We’ll find out then.”

  Lance’s sensors had picked up evidence of the Latchup a while before. It was now simply a matter of time before someone challenged them.

  “Approaching vessel, identify yourself,” said a voice with the same lilting accent as Hugh’s.

  “Makreury,” Teller said in response. “If you tell me I’m daft, I’ll spit in your face when I see you.”

  “What’s that one? Hold on.”

  Another voice came on the coms, the voice of an older man with the same lilting speech. “It’s valid, lad. A line from a time long before you became your pappy’s biggest regret.”

  “That stings, dad. I see why mum hates you to the core.”

  The older man laughed loudly. “You wound me. You’re getting there m’boy. Who be on our new arrival, if you don’t mind the askin’?”

  Teller looked over his shoulder at Hugh.

  The old man nodded. “Tell them. If there’s to be blood, let it start flowing.”

  “Hugh of the Cards, Teller ‘Bandoned, and baggage.”

  “Baggage? You attest?”

  “We do.”

  The older man laughed again. “Dog my hatch and color me blue! Hugh o’ the Cards! It’s Rory. I’ll beacon and you can latch with us. An honor it be. See you at the hatch!”

  Hugh smiled. “Rory the Pack. I’d forgotten how much I missed the scoundrel,” he said, his accent thickening noticeably.

  “I have the beacon signal,” Ho said. “On your panels.”

  Ord looked over the displays in front of him. “Stay on course, slow approach. Caution, overlap. Latch port to port airlock.”

  The Latchup soon came into full view, a knot of starships haphazardly attached to one another in clumps all latched onto a large vessel at the center of it all. From a distance, the jumble of ships resembled a bizarre nest of insects floating in the black. The bewildering array of ships represented vessels of all sorts, with most appearing to be freehaulers like the Lance.

  Hugh pointed at a beetle shaped craft five or six times the size of the sloop they traveled in. “That’s Rory’s, isn’t it?”

  “Has to be the Me-and-Her. It’s the only Scarab I can see.”

  It didn’t take long to latch onto their host, an airlock to airlock joining near the bow of the Me-and-Her, Lance’s left winglet just ahead of the other ship’s command deck view panels. Before they could complete shutdown procedures came the faint sound of someone pounding on the outer hatch of the port airlock.

  “Go. Ord will finish.”

  Teller stood and slapped his friend’s shoulder. “Thanks, pal. Make sure you limber up those fists of yours before you leave. There might be need if things go sideways.”

  Tell opened the hatches and was assaulted by the festive smell of beer, smoke, and foods. He stepped aside and let Hugh cross through first. He looked at Gus and smiled. “It’s not as wild as it smells, trust me.”

  The ex-soldier smiled in return.

  The two men followed Hugh aboard the Me-and-Her, a tight fit with every available space stuffed with boxes, bags, packages, and a vast assortment of open items.

  “Not a bit! You look just the very same as last we met,” bellowed Rory as he hugged Hugh and pounded him on the back. The man was heavily built, short and sturdy with the muscled arms and rough hands of an indie long mover.

  He released Hugh and hugged Teller as well, burying his face in the spacer’s chest. He let go and grasped him by the shoulders. “Tell Skellum. Good to see you, boy. Figured you were gone for good or dead. Glad it be not either. Heard you took up fighters.”

  “That’s right. Took to the freighter game a decade back.”

  “She looks fast that bird of yours. Better be since she’s so small. You be Teller of the Wing now. I’ll declare you that inside.” He looked to Gus. “Don’t remember you, lad, but never mind!” He bear-hugged the young man.

  “We’ve not met before,” Gus grunted as the long mover squeezed him.

  Rory stepped back. “Well… I hugged you, so you be one of us now. Can’t undo it. Lots of rules to learn. And we’ve got to give you a name.” He offered his hand. “Rory Makreury, and before you say it, I know, it sings!”

  “Rory the Pack,” Hugh said gesturing at the jumble of items everywhere. “Look at this menagerie of… things. That’s what he does, he takes things from one place and moves them somewhere else.”

  “And sometimes beings buy them,” Rory said.

  “And sometimes they don’t,” said a younger man as he wound his way across the deck to the small gathering.

  “And there be my sharp-mouthed son, Hugh,” Rory said with a toothy smile, “embarrassment to the Clan Makreury, and as bad a businessbeing as his dear old pappy.”

  A booming laugh came from the hatch. It was Ord, pointing at Teller. “Sharp-mouthed. Ord was right.”

  Rory and his son were taken aback by the giant, but the shock wore off almost immediately.

  “How do you haul such a being in that puny little ship of yours?” Rory said.

  Teller smiled. “It’s not easy. Big engines and enough grub to feed an infantry squad. He has his uses though.”

  “I’d imagine. Well, come aboard oh vast one. We’ll clear a passage for you before we go aboard the Follies. Some baggage! If that’s all, we’ll hoist a few in honor of long lost and now found friends.”

  “Three more,” Ord said.

  “Three? Baggage indeed. I guess we clear things out right now.”

  It took several minutes and a friendly exchange of insults between Rory and Son before there was deck space for everyone aboard Me-and-Her’s command deck, but once there was, a keg and glasses soon appeared.

  “So where be Martha?” the older Hugh said after draining his glass.

  “Aboard the Follies,” Rory replied. “Seeing to dispensing a vat of ale we picked up on Tritican. Makko and I were doing a stint of watch, but that’s past and done so we’ll join the festivities soon enough.”

  Gus looked confused. “Makko?”

  Rory laughed. “That’d be my boy,” he said with a point at the younger Hugh.

  Gus nodded. “What’s that mean? Is it a nickname?”

  “Of sorts,” the younger Hugh said. “We call it a moniker. Hugh ‘Makko’ Makreury. That’d be me. Named after Hugh o’ the Cards, and called Makko because it’s an old, old word for Sonny. Dad felt there were enough Sonnys already, so he changed it up. I’ll be called ‘the Pack’ when he gives up the game, but gods wil
ling, that’ll be quite some time from now.”

  Rory laughed again. “There he goes, turning a festive occasion maudlin. We’ll need a name for Gus.”

  “Have to get to know him first, dad.” Makko said.

  “True. You show him the ways here. Maybe he’ll keep you from trouble.”

  Before long, the conversation turned serious.

  “Henry and his folk here?” Hugh asked.

  Rory shrugged. “You might say that. Things have changed, become… complicated recently and the clan council has some issues to sort out. You’ll have to see it for yourself.”

  “You think things will get bloody?” Teller said.

  “Pope of Perdition I hope not. I doubt it will get to that, but I’m sure it will be interesting.”

  . . .

  Rory led his son and the seven from the Lance through the crowded upper deck of Me-and-Her’s cargo hold, the arching overhead just high enough for Ord to walk upright.

  “See anything you like, make an offer,” Rory said.

  An airlock near the stern of the Scarab class freighter stood open and led into a short dockway that extended from the next ship, the large vessel at the center of the Latchup. A small yellow metallic plate beside the hatch read MAKREURY’S FOLLIES.

  The murmuring of voices and lively music became audible as soon as they stepped aboard. A right turn and journey down a passageway brought the noise level up with each step until the group turned into a large open area normally used for the transport of bulk shipments, now serving as a festival ground. The music of Gael fiddles and harps, accompanied by drums, horns, singing, and dancing along with the voices of men and women and a smattering of other beings speaking was not what most might expect aboard a ship in space.

  Hugh couldn’t help but smile as he looked down on the gathering. He patted Tell on the back. “That’s a fine sight, whatever the circumstances,” he said over the noise.

  Teller smiled as well. “I’d forgotten.”

  “It appears far more festive than a Rendezvous,” Ho said. “Less violent as well.”