by Jason Hutt
“Wow, Hunter. I’m floored.”
Hunter smiled. “I have to admit I’m a little excited. I’ll have the brain of twenty-year old me with the knowledge and experience that I currently have. The primary will be a cakewalk.”
“And if something goes wrong?”
“I’m too valuable to the Conglomerate for that to happen. You better believe they’ve got every top medical mind in the sector ready to support. Besides, there’s no way in hell I’m ceding the nomination to someone like Takawa. Spineless bastard.”
Maria took another sip as they sat in silence. She finished the drink and quickly dipped the glass into the sonic cleaner before placing it back on the shelf.
“So what do you say, Maria? Can I get a vote from you tomorrow?”
“Not without an aid package.”
“We can’t do it that quickly.”
“Then you can wait until I come back and we take the time to get the aid package passed. You’d better decide quickly. You’ve got a whole lot of interviews to reshoot if you don’t help me here.”
Chapter 7
“If that freighter so much as lists away from us, I want you to open fire with all batteries,” Akimbe ordered. He quickly surveyed the battle projection. An old freighter, which had left port carrying a load of Republic medical supplies, was surrounded. The pilot had surrendered without a fight. Another ship, the freighter Bounty, formerly of the Maisha colony, was making a run for it.
Akimbe glanced at a wall clock where a timer was now counting up. Twenty seconds had elapsed since the pursuit began; they only had about 90 seconds before the Bounty would be able to jump.
“Can we get a tracker on it?” Akimbe asked.
“Without them picking it up?” His weapons officer asked. “Doubtful.”
“Time to firing range?”
“Fifteen seconds.”
Akimbe’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the arms of his chair. The tactical projection was the only view he had of the pursuit and the little gray representations of the ships seemed to be closing at a snail’s pace. He stood up from his chair and leaned on the projector table.
“We have lock,” the weapons officer reported.
“Fire, disabling shot only,” Akimbe advised.
A small yellow dot appeared on the projection streaking towards the fleeing freighter. Akimbe checked the wall clock; 25 seconds until the freighter would be able to jump. He turned back to the display just as the missile made contact. After a few moments, the craft started to tumble.
“Fire sonic emitters,” Akimbe ordered, “Then move into position to grapple the ship.”
Two more yellow dots moved across the projection. Akimbe checked the clock again; the freighter just passed its expected jump time. Akimbe exhaled through pursed lips as he checked the weapon on his hip. It was at full charge.
“Boarding team to the shuttle bay,” he ordered.
Roland, his always reliable second, had already entered the command on his console.
“A tremendous success,” Seles, the Conglomerate liaison, said from the gallery at the rear of the bridge. The man’s fists were clenched in victory as he stood on the opposite side of the projection table. “With this capture, you’re about to take away the one advantage that these outlaws have had. We’ll be able to revolutionize galactic travel.”
“Your congratulations are premature,” Akimbe said, “Let’s wait until we have what we need.”
“Of course, Commander, though I have full confidence that you will succeed,” he said.
“Right now the sonic emitters have released a pulse that will hopefully disable the crew of that freighter before they have a chance to destroy their drives. If they do destroy them, we’ll be right back where we started with no clue where to find the dark corner this scum has taken refuge in.”
“You worry too much, Commander. You need to let yourself enjoy these little victories.”
“There is nothing about this that I enjoy, Mr. Seles.”
“Firing tow cables,” the weapons officer reported. “Tow cables attached.”
“Full stop,” Akimbe ordered, “Deploy the docking adapter. Roland, you have the conn. I’m going to see to this personally.”
***
The boarding team swept the ship and secured the crew without incident. The freighter’s captain sat on top of an empty shipping container, flanked by a pair of Akimbe’s men. Akimbe looked over the scraggly little man and sneered in contempt. He was scrawny, unkempt, and smelled of alcohol. Blood trickled from the man’s forehead as he sat there, eyes closed.
“Well,” Akimbe asked, “Did we get it?”
A tech looked back at Akimbe and shook his head.
“It looks like the drives were scrapped as soon as the engines went offline. Probably an automatic failsafe.”
Akimbe exhaled slowly, trying not to let his frustration show. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep. They were so close. He opened his eyes and found the captive pilot smiling at him.
Akimbe’s nostrils flared. With a precision in his words fueled by his anger, he said, “Retrieve whatever hardware and code you can and send it to headquarters. Maybe they can recover something.”
“Yes, sir,” the tech responded.
Akimbe marched over to the pilot. “What’s your name?”
“Locke,” the man answered, “Sorry if I’ve put a crimp in your day.”
Akimbe curled his lips back in a snarl. “I’m glad you like to talk. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”
“You’re not getting anything from me that you can’t read from the damn chip in my neck.”
“We’ll see about that,” Akimbe said, “I can be very persuasive.”
Akimbe stood in the monitoring room as his interrogation officer confronted Locke. The weathered Captain had a silicon strip affixed to his forehead and the back of his neck. The interrogation officer did a final check of the connections and then two green indicator lights appeared on the strip.
To his credit, the freighter pilot appeared calm, though Akimbe knew that was about to change. With the strips activated, the officer exited the room, leaving Locke strapped in the chair. Akimbe watched as the smuggler closed his eyes and mouthed some words of encouragement to himself that Akimbe couldn’t make out.
The interrogation officer came pushed in a cart that contained a small cylinder filled with a sloshing silver fluid. The cylinder was connected to a monitor visible only to the officer. He punched something into his wrist computer and then nodded at the room’s security camera.
The officer turned to Locke. “The strip on your forehead and neck now control your nervous system and your brain’s motor functions. You will respond to my commands. You will be able to speak. Most importantly, you will feel pain. You will now place your hand over the container.”
The officer watched with satisfaction as Locke’s right hand moved roughly six inches above the cylinder.
“Palm up,” the officer commanded.
Sweat started pouring from Locke’s forehead and Akimbe suppressed a smile.
“Now, as you can see, it is impossible for you to resist. Your hand is currently resting over a cylinder of nano-disassemblers, also referred to in many corners of the Republic as ‘gobblers.’ These nanomachines, when activated, are programmed to rend organic molecules down to their base elements. Observe.”
The Interrogation Officer held a small, green grape in front of Locke’s face. He then placed the grape in the palm of Locke’s hand. “Hold your hand six inches above the cylinder, close your fist around the group, turn your hand over, and drop the grape.”
Locke’s eyes widened as his hand closed around the grape, turned over, and lowered an inch closer to the cylinder. His hand opened and the grape dropped. It landed in the fluid as if landing in wet sand. Seconds later, the grape was sucked into the fluid and disappeared.
“I am going to ask you a series of questions,” the officer said, “For each question you refuse to answer we will lo
wer your hand by an inch. If you answer a question truthfully, your hand will remain in its last position. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Locke said. A small tendril of sweat was now trickling down Locke’s cheek. His cheeks quivered.
“What is your name?”
“Andrew Locke.”
“What was the purpose of your current mission?”
Locke hesitated briefly and his hand started to move. “Medical…Obtain medical supplies for the others.”
“The ‘others’ you refer to are your fellow insurgents?”
“We are refugees fleeing a corrupt Republic,” Locked said through clenched teeth.
“Where are those refugees now?”
Locke, his whole body shaking, refused to answer. His hand lowered.
“How many ships do the refugees have at their disposal?”
“Two.”
“What kind of weapons do the refugees have at their disposal?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not an answer.”
Locke’s hand lowered, hovering just two inches above the cylinder. Blood vessels throbbed in Locke’s forehead.
“I don’t know. I’m a god-damned freighter. I pick crap up and deliver it. I forgot to take inventory before I left.”
“How many of you escaped?”
Locke’s hand shook furiously.
“I don’t know.”
The Interrogation Officer frowned and Locke’s hand lowered again.
“I don’t know. Over two hundred. Please.”
“Good enough.”
“Where is your base of operations?”
Locke’s head shook as he refused to answer. His hand started to dip toward the fluid.
Akimbe’s wrist computer beeped as Locke’s pulse spiked.
Locke’s fingertips hit the surface of the disassemblers. He screamed.
“Where is your base of operations?”
Locke’s lips trembled, tears streamed from his eyes, but he did not answer. His fingers lowered to just past the first knuckle. The old pilot wailed.
Again, the interrogation officer asked, “Where is your base of operations?”
A blood vessel burst in Locke’s left eye. His body trembled violently. After five seconds, his hand started to dip again.
“EVERGREEN!” The motion of his hand stopped. “They’re on Evergreen Station! Please, for the love of Christ, make it stop.”
Akimbe smiled and left the observation room and opened a comm channel to the bridge on his wrist computer. “Assemble the battle group. Plot a course for Evergreen Station.”
***
With a clunk that reverberated throughout the ship, The Guardian docked to a relatively modest space station that basked in the blue-white glow of Vega. Max cautiously surveyed the wrecks that surrounded the station. He could see dozens of makes and models floating through the deep space junk yard. He even caught a brief glimpse of an old Venali medium-class freighter which momentarily flooded his mind with memories.
He stood up, blinking them away. His right-hand trembled and he slowly but firmly massaged the center of his palm with his thumb. The shakes would not go away.
Max gestured to Reggie and the robot commanded the hatch open. It lifted up and Max stood still. A short, stocky, raggedly-dressed man with a wild head of hair stared back at him.
“Welcome,” the man bellowed, “To Rufus B. Sellin’s Secondhand Treasures, where you build your dream from the ashes of others.”
“Charming,” Max said, offering an uneasy smile.
“How are you this fine day, my good sir?” The man said with just the right amount of enthusiasm.
“Just fine,” Max said, “I suppose you’re Rufus?”
The man nodded and smiled a gap-toothed grin.
“You are correct, my fine friend. A very astute deduction. Come in, come in, and tell old Rufus just what I can do to help you find what it is you seek.”
“I need a ship,” Max said, still standing in the hatchway.
“You certainly don’t look like you need a ship, my friend,” Rufus said, “Looks like you’ve got a mighty fine one already. Though I can’t say I recognize the model and I thought I’d seen them all.”
“It’s a custom build,” Max said, “Does certain things real well, but I’m looking for something a little different.”
“Well then, will we be taking that one off your hands?”
“No,” Max said with a laugh, “I’m not ready to part with it. I need something else though, something more comfortable for a long trip.”
“Well then you are in luck, sir. Secondhand Treasures has the finest collection of used starships this side of the Crab Nebula. If we don’t have what you’re looking for then I’m confident no one does. Please, come in, come in. Don’t be shy.”
Max looked around the corridor which was empty save for one small maintenance robot that was dutifully scrubbing the deck. Max took a step forward and the man put his hands up.
“It does occur to me, good sir, that if you are carrying a weapon, I’ll have to ask you to leave it on your ship. I’m sure you understand,” Rufus said with a pained expression.
“It’s all right,” Max said, “I’m not carrying.”
The man’s overly gracious smile returned and Max stepped through the hatchway. Rufus offered his hand and Max shook it. The salesman’s grip was firm; he held on for a heartbeat too long and Max had to fight the urge to not pull his hand away.
“Now, what are you interested in today, Mister…”
“Jones,” Max said, “John Jones.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mister Jones,” Rufus said with a wink and a nudge with his elbow, “You don’t have to worry because we know the value of discretion here at Secondhand Treasures.”
Max gave the man a forced smile and knowing nod as Rufus led him down the corridor. A moment later, they arrived in the showroom where projections of dozens of different makes lined the walls.
“What exactly did you have in mind, Mister Jones? We have a wide variety of spaceships that can meet your needs. So what tickles your fancy? Speed? Cargo space? Passenger space? We even have a couple of models with military-grade gun emplacements. What are you in the mood for today?”
Max hid his trembling hands in his pockets.
“I need a ship with room to spread out and some robust systems. Redundant life support, power, avionics. I’m going out on a long expedition. Need something that’ll keep me going in deep space for a while.”
Rufus furrowed his brow and rubbed his hands.
“I see,” Rufus said, “And how many people will be going with you on this expedition?”
“Big party,” Max said, “Thirty to forty. Doing a family pilgrimage.”
“Before we start looking at the wide variety of models we have to offer, would you care for a drink?”
Max’s eyes widened. “Sure,” Max said, trying not to sound too eager.
“What’s your pleasure, good sir?”
“Scotch?”
Rufus’ smile widened. “I can see you’re a man of very refined tastes.” A minute later, a serving robot rolled into the room with a small glass of the amber-colored liquid.
Max smiled. “Rufus, I think you’ve just made yourself a sale.” He took a sip and felt warmth spread throughout his chest.
“That’s what I love to hear! Now, let’s take a look at the Kendall-class yacht. It’s an older model, renowned for its durability.”
Rufus gestured at one of the projected ships and the projection flew away from the wall and hovered in the center of the room. It gave Max a profile view of the ship and then rotated 90 degrees.
“Not bad,” Max said.
“Just wait until you fly it, my good sir.” Rufus waved his hand and the projection of the ship dissolved and was replaced by a projection of the ship’s cockpit. He smiled widely at Max and said, “Please, have a seat.”
Max chewed at the inside of his lip before sitting in the chair tha
t had risen out of the floor. He looked over the cockpit controls and started playing with the pilot’s displays.
“She’s in good shape,” Max said, “What’s the capacity?”
“The Kendall can accommodate fifty people for a thirty-day voyage with no required maintenance.”
“Thirty days, huh? Got anything rated for longer?” Max asked.
“Well of course we do. Let me call up a Starbright Liner. It’s a small passenger liner that may suit your needs,” Rufus said, cycling through ship projections with gestures of his hands.
As the projection of the Starbright’s cockpit loaded, Max finished his glass. The cockpit once again appeared around him and Max arched his eyebrows at the obvious luxury. He leaned forward and dug into the maintenance logs. “This ship was commissioned seventy years ago,” Max said, “Got anything newer?”
Of course Rufus did. He smiled widely, handed Max another drink and loaded the cockpit of a relatively new Solar Sailor. The cockpit of the ship was spartan, but it was new and its systems were in good repair.
“This thing flies slower than I walk,” Max said, greedily taking another drink, “What else ya got?”
Four ships and four drinks later, or was it five, and the world started to feel a little soft around the edges. Max blinked heavily and dismissed the Corvair Rufus was peddling. Max finished the glass.
“How about a Tesla Cruiser?” Rufus asked. His wide smile hadn’t faltered throughout the last hour.
Max tried to resist staring directly into the man’s grin. That smile seemed freakishly large. Max swayed and reached out to catch Rufus’ arm.
“Whoa there, big fella,” Rufus said, “Why don’t you have a seat, Mister Cabot?”
Max did as he was told, feeling incredibly tired.
“You just rest here,” Rufus said.
Max’s eyelids drooped and his head bobbed. Just before he lost consciousness, Max realized that Rufus had called him his real name.
Hannah sat in a maintenance closet in the aft of The Guardian monitoring the video feed from the ship’s passenger hold. Her legs were pulled in close to her chest; her muscles ached slightly. She stood and stretched. She just had enough room to bend down and massage her calves.
