Flotsam

by R J Theodore

  “Been, what, about ten years?” She kept her voice amiable. But not too much so. They had been less than friendly last time they spoke. Not much reason to pretend to be old pals now.

  “I’d have thought it would be far longer before we met again,” he said, with a cocked eyebrow and a matched tone in his voice. “Once I heard you’d quit the service.”

  She smiled instead of speaking. The only response that came to mind was a quip about how relieved he must have been that, with her gone, he’d have finally been at the top of his graduating class. Could be satisfying to take him down another rung, but it wouldn’t get him off her deck any faster.

  With the pleasantries out of the way, he held out an open hand, and one of his crew appeared to place a dossier into it.

  “You are under arrest, charged with illegal salvage operations, evading Imperial forces, and”—he looked around the ship again—“I’m certain a search of your vessel will only reveal material for additional charges.”

  She’d talked her way out of plenty of situations by playing dumb and weak, but that wouldn’t fly with Hankirk. He knew her as well as she him. Fortunately, their cover story didn’t hinge on her acting the role of bumpkin. She’d stick to what they’d planned, because she honestly didn’t know what else to do. And, if her crew was separated for questioning, they all knew their lines.

  “Salvage?” She played a little laugh into the statement. A touch of relief. But not too much. “There’s been a mistake. It wasn’t a salvage.”

  She had to sound mournful, too. She let her eyes go big, hoping he still found them as pretty as he once told her he did.

  “We lost one of our crew. A line came loose on the lift balloon, and she fell. We hoped if we got down after her fast enough, we could get to her in time.”

  “Crew overboard, then?” There was a glint in his brown eyes. He was on to her.

  She nodded anyway, not ready to give up on the plan until she had something better.

  “Safety violations can be added to the list, then,” he said, curtly. “Perhaps we might have aided you, but you attempted to ghost from the area as though you had something to hide from an Imperial ship.”

  Talis shook her head. “I found her. It was too late to help her.” She gestured over her shoulder at the direction from which they’d come. “And as for running—did you see that alien ship? We’ve never been so close to it before. Spooky thing. We know the stories. They’re all curious and nosy, right? Might come aboard and get too friendly.”

  “The aliens.”

  “Right, Captain. Wasn’t your ship we were running from.”

  She hadn’t meant for it to sound like a dig at the enormity of his presence, but the twitch at the corner of his eye told her that’s how he’d taken it. She had no problem insulting him, but right now she needed him to lose interest in her, real quick.

  “We’re just a transport,” she said, a little too urgently. This was all falling apart. Their ruses depended on the officiating Imperial captain being uninterested in anything more than properly filling out his reports before moving on again. Hankirk was all sorts of interested.

  And Dug was barely content to go along with the act as it was. He always argued that it saved time to open necks and send bodies headfirst over the railing. Talis sensed him, still as a stone behind her, growing impatient.

  “Freelance? With a black hull and canvas.” Hankirk’s tone was full of opinion. One of the officers who had been sent off to search Wind Sabre returned and whispered in Hankirk’s ear. He nodded stiffly to the officer, and the search party returned to The Serpent Rose. The look of disappointment was obvious. They hadn’t found anything, or anyone.

  That left eight Imperials plus Hankirk on Talis’s ship.

  “That’s right,” she said, running a hand through her hair. The guards, still holding her back with their rifles, pushed aggressively at her motion. She shot them a scalding look before continuing. “Just not as fond of the gold trim as you are. Licenses are in order, as you’ll no doubt want to see.”

  Hankirk spared a glance at Dug. “And does your refugee have the official paperwork to be on this side of the border?”

  Talis tensed. Hankirk’s men chuckled, not so animated that they lost their disciplined demeanor, but to her it was as loud as tearing canvas. Heat pulsed off Dug like someone had opened a furnace door. Talis shifted her weight into one hip, moving subtly in front of him to warn against any action he might be considering.

  “He’s got his license stamped for all four territories, if that’s what you mean.”

  Not quite true. Dug was unwelcome in his own people’s skies, but Hankirk had no right to that information. Or to know how close the word ‘refugee’ was to the truth.

  Hankirk wrinkled his nose, then opened the dossier. He feigned scanning the page, but when he spoke he glared at her directly. He’d memorized the contents. The motions seemed rehearsed.

  “You accepted a contract for an unlicensed salvage in this sector, and you are acting as the agent of one Jasper, a Breaker goods receiver operating out of the Corrugated District of Subrosa. Under this contract, you agreed to salvage an ancient pewter and pearl ring from the flotsam and return it to the Breaker man for the promised sum of thirty-five thousand silver presscoins.”

  She felt her face contort with surprise, and quickly tried to guide it into a look of confusion. Her mind raced. Superstitious, she hadn’t even told her crew how big the payoff was, much less blabbed about it to anyone in Subrosa. Sure, she visited the bars after taking the deal, but no matter how deep in her cups she got there was never any doubt that she didn’t trust a single bastard in that bottom-hanged black-market city. So how’d Hankirk know? Jasper wasn’t likely to be intimidated into divulging client information by any show of force or authority. His business depended on it.

  If Hankirk noted her reaction, he didn’t say. He continued, “Of course I don’t have to remind you that any items in the flotsam layer are the exclusive property of the Empire, from the moment they cross into Cutter skies, until such a time as they orbit into another territory.”

  There was only one way Talis could think of that Hankirk might know about the deal.

  Tisker stepped forward, protesting. “Look, clearly we have some sort of misunderstanding.”

  Imperial hands moved forward to intercept him, rifles raised. Tisker put his palms up and stopped talking.

  “What you clearly misunderstand,” Hankirk said, still addressing Talis, “is that I have you tightly pegged, and nothing is going to prevent me from searching your ship plank-by-plank, finding the contraband, and bringing you all to hang for your crimes in the capital province.”

  Talis sensed Dug’s tension like a physical force pushing against her back. He hadn’t moved, but she knew he was thinking about the knives tucked up his coat sleeves. She had to figure a way to defuse this situation and get away clean, or it was going to come to violence. Fun as that might be, and satisfying, attacking an Imperial crew was no way to untangle themselves from consequence.

  Where’s Sophie?

  She manifested what she hoped was a charming and not venomous smile. “Okay, fair enough. It’s like you said. We have a ring.”

  Now Tisker tensed, too. Trust me, she willed him silently.

  “You want the ring. We want our thirty-five thousand silver.” She took a casual step forward and found confidence in the fact that no one pushed at her with their weapons again. “The deal can still be made. Surely you were going to be paying Jasper more than that. His commission rate still the highest in Subrosa?”

  Hankirk chuckled and shut the file.

  So. She was right. The job had been a setup.

  Knowing that didn’t make her feel any better.

  Hankirk closed the gap between them, and the two riflemen moved aside. Shorter than her by half a hand, he had to look up a bit
to meet her gaze.

  “Look at my ship, Talis. First of its class. I told you I’d be taken care of. Look at the strength of my crew. I will take the ring, and I will bring you to face the only reward that you deserve.” He looked at Dug over her shoulder and said, “Justice.”

  Knuckles popped, this time her own. Her arm tensed to swing a hook at his pompous face. If they were going to get in a fight, let her please, please, at least break that pretty nose of his.

  But an outcry from his crew snatched his face out of her reach, as he turned to see flames climbing the lines of his ship.

  Talis resisted the urge to laugh. Felt a bit of the tension lift like steam evaporating off the deck. Thank you, Sophie.

  Deckhands on The Serpent Rose ran for the suppressant tanks, their academy-drilled discipline requiring no order. If enough of those lines burned through, the weight of the ship’s hull would do the rest of the work. Of course, they’d get the fire put out before it got to that. This was just the distraction.

  “Oh, I’m looking at your ship, Captain,” Talis said, unable to resist. “Not sure I’m seeing what you want me to, though.”

  “Search The Rose,” he barked to his crew as he turned back to glare at Talis. “They’ve got a man aboard!”

  Dug moved, taking advantage of the break in their attention. His knives flashed purple and gold, reflecting the morning skies. Talis cursed him for it. She had been holding out hope that Sophie’s distraction would get Hankirk and his crew off her deck long enough for them to escape cleanly, without spilling blood and without ending up on the top of the Imperials’ warrant pile.

  That was no longer an option she could consider.

  A few steps from the gangway, Dug wiped bloodied knives against his moleskin pant legs. Two officers and their rifles lay in a heap on Wind Sabre’s deck. The two Imperial guards nearest Talis turned to challenge Dug next. That was that, then. Not much reason to be polite anymore. The instant that Hankirk’s men left his side, Talis took a swing.

  Chapter 5

  Hankirk saw the punch coming and leaned back far enough to dodge it. Talis felt his breath on her knuckles as they swept through the empty air in front of his face. But her elbow was in pursuit, and she slammed it into his jaw. He staggered, momentarily dazed. She brought up the opposite knee and struck him hard in the ribs. He tumbled to the deck, grunting. Off balance, she went down after him, but rolled and came up on the balls of her feet, ready for more.

  The four remaining officers circled Tisker, who stood unmoving in the middle of their group. The spring-loaded blade he’d hidden up his sleeve had found its way to his hand. It was gripped casually at his side, ready to come up and answer the first move any of them might make.

  Talis wanted to help, but Hankirk wasn’t done with her. His guards were finished, though, at Dug’s feet. So Dug and his knives went to Tisker’s aid.

  Hankirk climbed up on one knee, the arch of his cheekbone already bruising. His arm was across his chest, tenderly holding his ribcage. He struggled to catch his breath, but looked as pleased as if he was the one who’d landed the blows.

  “You could never take me down in a fight.”

  Rot him and his boasting. It was true, though. In their academy days, their matches had always ended in his favor. About the only thing he did better than her. He’d broken her arm once. But she’d broken his wrist, collarbone, and several fingers in the same match. His advantage was that he could always ignore his injuries and keep going. He was tenacious, fighting like a demon to best her, even earlier on, when the sparring was meant to be friendly.

  “That was ten years ago. Bet I’ve had more practice than you since then.” Talis twisted her head around to relieve a pressure on her neck. The vertebrae popped as they realigned.

  Dug liked to spar with her twice daily to keep his skills honed. And when a Bone warrior insisted on full-contact sparring, you learned fast or wasted precious supplies in the med cabin.

  Hankirk pretended to stumble as he stood, then kicked one leg out in an attempt to sweep her feet out from under her. But she knew the trick and was ready. That fake had never worked on Dug when she tried it. She put her knee down on his back to pin him as he kicked, then got her hand under his arm and up. Hankirk twisted loose from her grip as she tried to lock her hand behind his neck. He threw his head back, and just missed her nose. Got her in the mouth, though. She tasted blood as she blinked back the flash in her vision. She rarely went unscathed sparring with Dug, either.

  Talis and Hankirk scrabbled clumsily for advantage. He bent her fingers back and twisted around to face her, throwing her off balance. She swung her left arm with that momentum, finally got a good crack in on his nose. But he swept her other arm and wrenched her shoulder. His arms couldn’t reach her throat, but he yanked on her hair and managed to get a boot up under her jaw. She used the side of her forearm to strike his knee so that it twisted out of place. The hit didn’t land hard enough to tear anything, but the pressure removed itself from her throat and Talis coughed away the feel of the boot heel against her windpipe.

  She heard a deep laugh as she tried to torque his arms into submission, and then Dug cracked Hankirk across the back of his skull with the pommel of his knife. Dazed, Hankirk fell backward, his head hitting the deck with a thud. Talis shoved him away, untangling her legs from his. She blinked against the blood that had gotten into her eyes.

  “You fight like siblings.” Dug held out a hand to help her up, lifting her an inch into the air with the strength of his pull.

  Tisker, wearing as much blood as Dug, grabbed Hankirk by the short hair of his crown and held his knife against the reddened flesh of Hankirk’s neck.

  “Hold on a second, leave him,” Talis said to Tisker.

  It would be hard to keep their heads down and her ship in the air if the entire Imperial fleet was after them for killing one of its prized and privileged commanders. She needed a better way out of this knot.

  “Unhand the captain!” The shout came from the opposite end of the gangway.

  Sophie, one eye swollen shut and her lip bloodied, stood on the deck of The Serpent Rose. Her hands were bound in front of her. An Imperial gripped her by the shoulder on each side. An officer held his service flintlock to the side of her head, half-cocked with his finger hovering over the trigger.

  Sophie’s face was blank. Either they’d rung her bell hard, or she was masking her thoughts and putting on a brave face for everyone.

  Dug stepped forward to help Tisker get Hankirk up off the deck. He teetered a little as they got him to his feet, but tugged the hem of his coat to straighten it and stood proudly, chin lifted. No doubt certain he’d won the day already.

  “Send ours over and you’ll get yours,” Talis called across.

  The crew of The Serpent Rose had gotten the last of the flames doused, and some were already working to replace the worst of the damaged lines. There was an arm’s length of deck railing that had caught fire as well. Some poor crewmen would be refinishing and painting that tonight. Tomorrow you’d never know the ship had suffered the indignity of ­Sophie’s arson.

  They just needed to get Sophie back and get themselves away before the crew figured out what else the freckled imp had been up to. No doubt the Rose’s crew would find a way to answer that insult. No doubt Hankirk knew how to file the paperwork to make it look like sinking them was the appropriate and just response.

  Hankirk’s first mate called over, her alto voice carrying easily over the distance, “Send the Captain over and after, we’ll return your woman.”

  “Bad idea,” Talis called back, noticing with annoyance that her own, rougher voice didn’t sound half as commanding. “He got a good knock just a moment ago. Might take a tumble off that plank into open air. Come get him, if you still want him.”

  They weren’t expecting that. There was some hesitation among the officers, until final
ly one motioned to Sophie’s guards and they made for the gangplank, grabbing rifles on their way.

  Sophie was pushed roughly across and stumbled once. Only the firm grip of her escorts kept her from falling off the narrow walkway herself, and they let her lean a little too long before pulling her upright again. Talis added another mark against them to her mental tally.

  Tisker met Sophie at the railing, and put an arm around her, drawing her away from the other crew. She sagged against his side, slack with relief. Tisker walked her backward, his eyes never leaving the Imperial crew members on the deck. Sophie’s eye was going to need a close look, her jaw was bruised, and her lip was split. But she was in one piece. Her eyes flashed, and Talis didn’t miss the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her bloodied mouth. It had been done proper, and no one yet the wiser.

  Hankirk took a step forward, and his officers moved to sling their rifles over their shoulders in order to help him back to their ship, but he waved a stop to that motion, and rolled his shoulders to square them before stepping up onto the plank with his dignity intact. He eyed Talis as he passed her, but she had no interest in provoking them further. She’d gotten her crack in on Hankirk’s face. A trail of blood ran from his broken nose to his chin, and dripped onto the pale blue of his formerly pristine uniform jacket. She probably would live to regret that. Now she just wanted to get her crew out of range of The Rose’s rifles before Sophie’s work was discovered.

  As Hankirk stepped down onto his own deck, he turned back to face her. She stood firm, expecting another insult against her and her ship. Expecting him to point out she hadn’t bested him without help.

  She didn’t expect him to say, “Fire on their hull.”

  Talis marched forward and kicked the board free of her railing as Hankirk’s crew were spurred into action. The carefully painted board with narrow sand-textured grip rails tilted, scuttling the pair of officers still stepping down on the other side. Then it dropped off the railing of The Serpent Rose and tumbled out of sight below their ships.