by Nick Cole
Used to being in charge.
His only paying passenger on this run back from that eyesore at the edge of the Republic known as Wayste.
He ran for the cargo door. It was the only one that worked.
“Captain—”
“No time, girl!”
“Captain, what is going on out there?”
“The Republicans are here. They’re takin’ the capital and the fun’s over. I won’t charge you to take you out of here. Strike that—I’ll charge you half. But there’re others that’ll want to be getting out of here pretty quickly, never mind the accommodations. And I’ve got the room at the right price, for anyone wanting to avoid Republic problems, to try and run the blockade that’s no doubt strangling this planet as we speak.”
“Captain, I do not want to go with you.”
Hogus stopped, his bulk coming to a sudden and disbelieving halt. His worn leather jacket flapped open like two massive wings, his blaster bouncing dangerously at his hip. He never kept the safety on because… business.
Who in the— Why would anyone want to stick around and watch the Republic take control? That was…
Was…
The dumbest thing he could imagine anyone ever wanting to do.
“All right then!” He continued on to the hatch controls, slammed his hand on the green square that refused to light up, slammed it again, and waited as the external cargo door began to slowly retreat into the hull above. “Suit yourself. Ride’s over. Get off here. Thanks for flying. Buh-bye.”
Outside, people were still running toward the massive portage bays where big ships were already lifting away into the swirling purple of the Ackabarian sky. But no one was heading for this particular bay. It was the kind of place where derelict starships and smugglers came to avoid notice and pay lower “fees”—in the form of bribes to the local administrators.
The tiny girl looked up at him, her face worried. She had dark hair. Pigtails. She wore a long dress—torn but clean. Her boots were big and clompy, the kind a Dalovian belt miner might wear in the forests of Iskatoon. Maroon, like the blood of an ox. Her face was pale. And the hint of peach in her cheeks he’d seen when he’d first entertained the idea of transporting her off Wayste three days ago was now gone.
“You told me I could find a bounty hunter here, Captain.”
The cargo door was still only half open—it was moving dreadfully slowly. The wobanki had gone on about that as they’d made their approach through the purple, mist-shrouded twilight of ancient Ackabar. He’d tuned his first mate out then. The massive violet eruptions of the cloud storms, breathtaking and dangerous, had absorbed all his attention. He knew that with one electrical strike, the Cyclops would short out and drop like an anchor. Hogus loved his ship, but it was a flying deathtrap.
“Uh… yeah. I did. Well, here’s as good a place as any to find one of ’em. Bounty hunters, that is.”
She favored him with a withering look of contempt, as she’d done the entire trip, even when he’d offered to upgrade her to “first class”—which meant giving her his first mate’s suite. For more credits, of course.
It was clear she’d been born better than him. “I assumed, Captain, you might show me where…”
Hogus waited. If she wanted help finding a hired killer in one of the hundred cantinas and taverns where such scum lurked, he was going to make her come out and say it.
“Show me…” She hesitated, as though uncomfortable voicing her request.
The cargo door finally stopped—in a mostly open position—and Hogus ducked beneath it and descended the ramp. Several of the lights along its length were out, in keeping with the overall condition of the vessel.
The stammering girl trailed behind him, her bot scuttling after her. “I assumed you would show me where I might find one,” she finally managed.
“One what?” cried Hogus, ducking beneath the ship and opening an access hatch. He struggled, grunting and swearing, to deploy the power cable and get the Cyclops connected to the city supply grid.
“A bounty hunter!” she cried. “Where do I find one?”
Hogus was up and racing for the broken venting controls. If he didn’t vent the ship’s engines within the next three minutes, he’d rupture the hyperdrive container and warp the main destabilizer all to hell. He deployed the keypad from the external access port.
All of the command language was in Jabbari, which he’d had to learn just to fly the damned ship. How a Tellarian ship had ended up with Jabbari programming, he’d never know. The galaxy was a place of mystery and wonder—Hogus’s favorite explanation for everything. “Mystery and wonder,” he’d crowed from one arm of the Spinward March to the other.
He was thinking about that when the legionnaires stormed the bay. Shooting at everything, of course.
Blaster fire caught Hogus right in the chest, and he went down. Republican legionnaires were excellent marksmen.
***
“M’lady!” erupted the deep-voiced bot, KRS-88. “I advise we leave this bay immediately. The authorities have arrived, and they seem… murderous.”
A squad of Republican legionnaires were now shooting at the Cyclops from positions of cover near the primary blast doors. Mainly they were shooting at the cockpit, where the wobanki must still be. Their reflective armor caught the twilight purple of the sky and the arc lights that ringed the bay, and they seemed like bots themselves behind their stark, emotionless battle helmets.
Prisma Maydoon ducked behind a power converter bot as blue blaster fire tore across the bay. Shots nailed critical spots in the freighter, denying it the ability to escape. Burning hot flares erupted from exposed components and blown-out hatches.
KRS-88 scuttled forward on his spindly bot legs, his hulking triangular upper torso sheathed in servitor black. “Miss Prisma, I do suggest we depart now. Emphatically.”
“Secure the bay and hunt down any refugees!” intoned the radio-distorted voice of the legionnaire sergeant. “We’re moving on to the objective.”
A number of legionnaires hustled out of the bay.
A massive Starlifter rose up a few bays over. It angled away from the station, its hammerhead front conning tower rising up like the jutting jaw of some enormous eel. Next came the long spine of the heavy transport’s cargo pods, and finally the wide flare of her engines, all eight white-hot and spooling up for full orbital burn to achieve jump.
A missile arched up from within the city. As Prisma looked on, it punched right through the port engine compartment of the Starlifter. Debris—and people—rained down into the port. The ship crashed somewhere beyond the docking bays in the city below. The sound of rending metal was quickly followed by a terrific explosion. Even the legionnaires were shaken off their feet.
That was Prisma’s moment. She dashed for the far access doors to the dark machine shops that lined the docking bay. KRS-88 shuffled after her, constantly urging caution. Beyond the machine shops, where hulking drive engines hung suspended from rusting chains waiting to be parted out, they found a cargo elevator. Prisma began tapping in the commands to get the elevator working. A simple locking feature had been engaged by the local net, but emergency protocols allowed override access.
KRS-88 spoke in his menacing basso profundo of sobriety and caution, the very reason her father had chosen this model to oversee her daily life.
Back when he’d been able to choose.
“I do advise we seek the local authorities and alert them to our need for you to be protected from what I can only guess will be rampant hooliganism. These are dangerous times, young miss, and—”
“Crash!” Prisma shouted.
“Yes, young miss?” The bot had been ordered, by Prisma, to respond to the nickname she’d chosen for it.
In front of them the doors of the massive lift opened. It was easily as big as the one she’d seen on the Republican carrier Freedom. They boarded, and it clanked and groaned as it descended toward the main sprawl of the city.
“Crash�
�” Prisma looked about, desperate, seeking something she knew should be there. And knowing it never would be again. Ever. “Tap into the city net and find out where I can find a—”
“Yes, a bounty hunter, young miss, I know.” KRS-88 sighed and scuttled forward to interface with the local net. “Your bloodthirsty desire for revenge, young miss, is incomprehensible. This is quite a biologic concept. I admit I am distressed my master is dead, but to kill another would be illogical. It would make the wronged a killer just like the original killers. I do not understand—”
KRS-88 suddenly tilted his almost insectile head.
“Miss, the local net is locked down by Republic Mandate Order 239.0910.”
“Shut it, Crash. I need to know if there are any bounty hunters here.”
“Querying now, miss.”
Forty-five floors down, the elevator finally settled with a ka-thunk. Massive locking mechanisms disengaged, and the blast doors slid open. In front of them, the smooth surfaces of the city, angled and blocked like futuristic pyramids, rose above the narrow alleys leading away from the service lane.
“The city intelligence is quite frightened, young miss. But it did tell me that the Republic is searching for someone identified as Tyrus Rechs. Among many other terrible things, this Rechs seems to have a lengthy and outstanding list of warrants relating to activities often associated with bounty hunting.”
“Like what?”
“Young miss?”
“What did this Rechs do? What are his offenses? Why does the city intelligence think he’s a bounty hunter?”
“Well…” began KRS-88, as though warming gustily to some new mindless task. “It seems he has engaged in unlawful murder. Several counts. Illegal administration of the law. Again, several counts. Discharge of a blaster. Of course, several counts. Robbery. Assault of Republican personnel. Tax evasion. Hate crimes. Failure to appear to summons. Miss, all of these have several counts. Oh, and acting as a known bounty hunter in violation of Republic Mandate 20.0020567F. Pursuant to the Republic’s Law Violations Act of—”
“We’ll go with ‘known bounty hunter,’ Crash. Since that’s what we’re looking for.”
“Young miss—”
“I know. Bounty hunters are dangerous and violent.”
“Yes. I was going to say that. And…”
The bot hesitated.
“What, Crash?”
“It would seem that this ‘Rechs’ individual… ah… well, the Republican legionnaires consider him a high-value target for their current operations. Local officials have advised all bots and citizens to be on the lookout for him. His last known location is a refreshment establishment known as the Jaris Cantina. I do not know who this Jaris is, but his cantina has been the site of several murders, and it has been cited for food safety violations twenty-one times in the last sixty cycles. My! We should avoid eating there. Apparently the Bandalorian snake fritters are quite vile. Though I do not eat, of course.”
“Lead me there, Crash.”
02
The Indelible VI’s internal comm light pulsed blue on the cockpit control panel. An electronic chirp sounded with every fifth flash. Captain Aeson Keel alternated stares between the comm display and Ravi, his turban-wearing navigator occupying the seat beside him.
Ravi adjusted the lavish azure turban over his thick black hair. With a thick Punjabi accent, he said, “I am thinking you should answer.”
Keel stared at the display a beat longer, leaned his well-worn Parminthian leather chair forward, and flipped on the comm switch. “Yeah?”
A coughing fit came through the forward speakers, followed by a youthful but commanding male voice. “There’s barely any air in here for the princess and me.”
Keel frowned. Giving them an internal commkey had been a bad idea. “That’s because it’s meant for smuggling non-living cargo, General. I rerouted just enough air from the Six’s life support systems to keep you two alive. Anything more and the Republic would get suspicious.”
He switched off the comm, leaned back in his chair, and put his feet on the cockpit console. He turned his head toward his navigator. “I thought that would have been obvious. I mean, name me one freighter captain who provides life support to the non-inhabitable areas of their ship.”
Ravi didn’t look up from his on-screen navigational charts. “I am not aware of any such individuals.”
“Exactly.” Keel rubbed the stubble growing along his jaw. “How long until Lieutenant What’s-Her-Face arrives at the delivery site?”
Ravi paused his work at the navigation helm. “I am saying perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes before lead elements arrive to secure the landing zone. The rocky terrain will deny access to their main battle tanks, so they will likely move by combat sled. Otherwise you would have been having perhaps an hour.”
“I’ll gladly lose the extra time in favor of no tanks. We’d have to get airborne to use the main cannons to stand a chance. The Six’s burst turrets can handle a few sleds if things get nasty.”
Ravi nodded. “I am also thinking you should retrieve your blaster prior to meeting the legionnaire vanguard.”
Keel’s hand dropped to his hip, instinctively reaching for a heavy blaster pistol that wasn’t there. “Yeah,” he said, feeling unease over the missing weapon. “I left it on the shop table. Still trying to scrub out the last bit of carbon scoring from the pickup. You know, I thought about increasing the particle—”
Chee-chee. Chee-chee. The internal comm chirped again, and the light flashed blue once more.
“Really?” shouted Keel, dropping his feet from the console. He lurched forward and keyed open the channel. “Yeees?”
A female voice, parched and strained, came through the speaker. “As a royal princess of the Enduran system and a member of the Mid-Core Rebellion against the Republic, I appreciate your saving the general and me from the attack on Jarvis Rho. You saved our lives by stowing us in your ship. But I fear it is all for naught. We are suffocating in your smuggler’s hold.” She emitted the dry hack of a patient recuperating from a bio-strain of tuberculosis.
Keel opened the channel to speak. “Your Highness, I assure you this is entirely mental. You’re not actually suffocating.” He muted the comm and looked to Ravi. “She’s not suffocating, right?”
Ravi shook his head. “The hold shielding prevents my reading any life scans, but I’ve been monitoring air quality. I can see no toxicity levels in the smuggling hold harmful to humans or near-humans.” He made a circle of his thumb and index finger. “They are A-okay.”
The cockpit speakers came to life again. “There must be something you can do?” The princess was almost pleading.
“So demanding.” Keel chewed his thumb, considering what to do next. Getting in good with a princess could lead to an untold number of advantages down the road. Even if it meant a death mark on his head should the Republic ever find out. But then, they were idiots, and who could they send that could take him on in a blaster duel?
“Ravi, I don’t think she’s going to stop calling until I pump more air in there. What’re the chances a scanning crew notices?”
“Ninety percent, sir.”
Keel’s eyes bulged. “That bad, huh? How likely are they to notice if I mute both sides of the comm channels and let it blink?”
“Seventy-five percent.”
Grimacing, Keel asked, “Well, what are the odds the scan officer would investigate?”
Ravi twirled the pointed tip of his black beard. “There are a number of variables, including temperament, ambition, schedule, threat awareness…”
“Just give me an average.”
“Fifty percent.”
“Too high.” Keel frowned, calculating whether the extra money he would get from the Rebellion, coupled with special consideration from the princess and her boy-toy general, was worth the risk of withholding them from the Republic. If they found out that he had spared two of their biggest targets during the attack on the rebels—an atta
ck that Keel himself had planned and executed—they might fine him, or insist on half pay after they took her into custody. On the other hand, if the rebels found out that he had wiped out their moon base on Jarvis Rho and taken eight VIPs, including the princess and her general, to the nearest Republican outpost, they’d probably kill him. Or at least they’d give it the old MCR try, which was about all the pitiful Rebellion was good for.
Maybe the loose ends beneath the Six’s decks needed tying up.
Keel stood and walked past the second row of cockpit seating. Just inside the walkway leading from the cockpit to the ship’s common area, he pulled open a panel, exposing breakers and wires.
The comm squawked again, relaying the voice of the princess. “Captain? Captain Keel?”
“Switch the comm relay off mute, will you, Ravi?”
Ravi flipped a switch, then looked back at Keel and nodded to indicate that the comm was live.
“Princess,” Keel yelled from the corridor, “I think I can fix the problem.”
“Bless you, Captain Kee—”
Keel ripped a wire from the open panel. A shower of sparks danced down his vest before extinguishing themselves on the impervisteel deck. The comm light switched from a blue pulse to a steady red glow.
Dusting his hands, Keel sauntered back into the cockpit. “That’s that. We can fix the comm system next time we’re in port.”
Ravi looked scornfully at the captain. “This is a very dishonest thing. You made her to be thinking you were to provide help with fresh air.”
Keel put a hand on his chest as if Ravi’s words wounded him. “Dishonest? Me? Ravi, she’s a princess. I have to at least make her think I’m doing all I can to bend the knee in her presence, or she might not be so willing to pay back the favor down the subspace lane. And cutting the comms is a hell of a lot easier than explaining Republic scanning procedures. You heard her—she was getting psychosomatic. What?”
Ravi’s curled mustache moved upward in a tight smile. He laughed his low, quiet laugh, “Hoo, hoo, hoo.”
“What?” asked Keel. “What’s so funny?”
