“Yeah … later this morning. What time is it?”
She said, “Six-thirty.” Rubbing moisturizing lotion over her toned upper left thigh, she stopped mid-motion. “I think you work at seven.”
“Ten.”
“Uh uh. Tony changed the schedule yesterday.”
“Shit!” Ryan flung back the covers, jumping out of her still warm bed, but the sheets got tangled around his ankles and he fell face forward. He heard her laughing, which made him laugh too. Finding his pants in a crumpled heap on the floor where he’d dropped them, he searched for his T-shirt in the semi-darkness and found it lying on the other side of the compartment. Bending over to retrieve it, he felt her arms come around his waist. As he straightened, he felt her soft face pressed up against his back.
“I don’t want to wait a whole week before I see you again,” she said, her voice muffled and barely above a whisper. “Tony keeps giving you these long runs.”
He turned around in her arms and found her gazing up at him. Placing his hands on either side of her face, he gently kissed her lips—feeling himself stir.
Then came that wonderful giggle again as she pushed him away. “Oh no, that’s not going to happen. I’m already going to be late … and so are you.”
“Ryan!”
Instantly bringing his attention back to the here and now, he was only partially aware of Two-ton’s AI voice in his helmet.
“What? What’s happening?” Ryan asked, turning his head both left and right. He saw the Paotow Tanker in the distance. Three quick bright-yellow tongues of flame emanated out from the ship’s stern thruster. The tanker slowly moved forward, increasing its speed. Ryan watched, unaware he was holding his breath. Just keep going … you’re done here … nut ball … keep going.
At five hundred yards out—the bow of the tanker slowly turned in his direction. He pushed the feeling of dread away. “Ideas? Two-ton, are you there?”
“I’m here, working on a few things, but my options are limited. I’m sorry, Ryan.”
Ryan checked his rudimentary HUD readings. He had about ten minutes remaining of breathable oxygen. There was only one option he hadn’t really considered. If it came down to it, he could vacate the air tank early. Am I prepared to do that? Kill myself? he wondered.
The tanker was almost upon him and with it came a feeling of doom—of inescapable dread. As it passed by him, the hull no more than ten feet away, he felt dwarfed by the vessel’s enormity.
Reverse thrusters came alive at key positions on the vessel and the ship shuddered to a complete standstill. Ryan found himself staring at the Paotow Tanker’s substantial stern section—its tight grouping of three main thruster nozzles. Around the tanker’s outer corner, on the starboard side, was an arched hatchway. As Ryan watched, the hatch slowly slid open, first seeing feet, then legs and body and then his helmeted head staring back at him. Though his visor was highly reflective, Ryan felt the man’s glare even if he couldn’t actually see his cold dark eyes.
Ryan, only ten feet from Orloff Picket, and incapable of moving away, simply waited for what the man would do next. He was holding something in his right hand. Is that a weapon? Is he going to fucking shoot me? As the weapon lifted higher, Ryan noticed it was different—not a weapon. Pointed directly at him, he pulled the trigger and a misty plume of debris scattered out from the muzzle—a projectile emerged. Unlike a bullet fired from a gun, the projectile moved relatively slow and purposeful. It took a full two seconds to reach Ryan, before thumping against his chest and sticking there. Ryan grabbed for it with one hand and tied to pull it away, but it held fast. Then, using both hands, he tugged even harder, but it had somehow become embedded into his environ suit.
“What the …” Ryan said aloud. There was also a line attached to the projectile he hadn’t noticed against the blackness of space. He was being reeled in. Ryan stopped struggling. At five feet out, he now could more adequately assess the man’s size. He was a giant—at least six-five, maybe taller—and very broad. His shoulders were immense. The next course of events seemed clear: This crazed lunatic was going to kill him, dismember his body, and stick his head on a fucking plaque. No other two ways about it.
Ryan’s decision to empty his oxygen tank was, by that point, a simple one. An environ suit, such as the one he was wearing, had numerous built-in safeguards against the type of action Ryan was preparing to undergo. One by one, he scrolled through the menus, defeating each safeguard as it appeared. Proceeding through four separate warnings, he affirmed after each that he did indeed want to vacate his air tank. At the final prompt, he hesitated. This was it … the end of his life. As the big man’s gloved hand reached out for him, Ryan selected YES—dump the damn air!
The rush of air spewing from the back of his environ suit was constant and loud—like a waterfall—the sound of a life venting freely into the cosmos. Again, he thought of Wendy. Damn … I really like her.
There was movement in his peripheral vision. Ryan turned his head just in time to watch something that didn’t seem possible—the fast approaching stern of his own delivery van.
The roar of oxygen leaving his air tank stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Everything turned quiet and he knew he was taking his final breaths.
Orloff Picket stopped reeling Ryan in and watched in apparent confusion as Delivery Van 412 continued backing toward his pursuer.
Struggling—feeling the first effects of oxygen deprivation—Ryan heard Two-ton’s voice say, “Wait for it …”
In a blur, something shot out from the back of the van. Whatever it was, it missed Orloff Picket’s head by mere inches. Retracting, it again shot back out—this time nailing him in the upper torso—momentarily flattening him against the tanker’s outer hull. Like a piston—in and out—striking the huge man again and again, Ryan realized it was the van’s metal gangway, being used now as a battering ram. Obviously, the Two-ton AI had somehow modified the deploy-and-retract timing mechanism. Ingenious!
Unfortunately, Ryan found himself quickly suffocating. Tunnel vision and spasmodic convulsions were sure indications the end was near.
The violent pounding movements ceased suddenly and all became still. Lightheaded, Ryan had already come to terms with his own fateful end. At first, the ongoing shouting in his helmet was difficult to comprehend, the AI was upset with Ryan’s decision to vacate his oxygen tank.
He recognized the gangway as it floated near him—right up to him. And there … just beyond it, the open hatchway—as if beckoning him into the van’s awaiting airlock. Eight feet away and it may as well be one hundred miles.
CHAPTER 18
Eleanore Hatfield landed on the back of a molt weevil and just as quickly slid off and toppled to the ground. Amidst a blur of skittering legs, she screamed bloody murder and curled into a ball, her arms and hands covering her head.
Jason broke from Brent’s grasp as easily as if he were a child and jumped away. Since he’d already depressed both tabs on his SuitPac device, by the time he landed within the dirt pit his battle-suit’s segments nearly covered his entire body. Surprised to see both Billy and Rizzo arriving below too—their suits nearly initialized—the trio raised their arms up simultaneously. Jason aimed his integrated wrist plasma cannons at the molt weevil closest to the fallen woman.
“Stop!”
Ready to fire, Jason, Rizzo and Billy hesitated and looked up at Mamma Picket as if they were peering up the pinnacle of a mountain. Her expression was hard to read—perhaps a cross between bemusement and confirmation. Clearly, she had fully expected their attempt to rescue the fallen woman.
Sounds of muffled laughing broke Jason’s gaze away from Mamma. On the ground, Ellie peeked up at them through crossed arms and oily strands of hair. “Don’t shoot them, … they’re just pets. Won’t hurt nobody.” Uncurling herself, she got to her feet. One of the molt weevils nudged her gently with, Jason surmised, its head. She gave it a couple of pats, fearing it no more than if it were a golden retriever.
“Relax, they’ve been … modified. Pinchers cut off and they can’t spew anything. Brent took care of that. He’s real good with that knife of his.” Jason saw Brent smile back at his mother.
Apparently a molt weevil moved in too close to Billy, and he kicked at it with a solid blow to its mid-section. Squealing, it hopped backward. Jason saw black nubs emerge below its eyes where once pinchers, long and sharp enough to sever a man’s leg—before Brent mutilated the molt weevil.
“Hey! No need for that!” Ellie yelled. “Dory won’t hurt nobody! That was just mean.” She looked up at Mamma, and said, “He’s a mean man.”
“Okay, this is beyond a fucking freak show,” Bristol said, standing on the lip of the pit above them.
Ellie turned her attention up to Bristol. As quickly as though a switch were flipped, she smiled up at him. “You want to come down here and pet ’em?”
Bristol stared down at her with revulsion. “I think I’ll pass … as tempting as your offer is.”
“What’s going on, Mamma?” Nan said. “What’s this all about?”
“I wasn’t expecting to see the technology you all possess, but I needed to know if you were good people. Like I said before, we don’t usually work with outsiders.”
Jason asked, “A test?”
She nodded. “Thank you. The three of you didn’t think twice about your own wellbeing. That says a lot about who you are.” Her eyes left Jason’s and came to rest on Pope and his men and finally on Bristol. Her expression turned to less than warm.
“I’ll get a rope,” Brent said.
“No need,” Jason said. He took ahold of Ellie’s small arm and phase-shifted them up with Billy and Rizzo following suit. They immediately reappeared several paces behind the onlookers above.
Ellie yelped and ran toward Mamma’s side.
Startled, Brent said, “That’s Caldurian shit, Mamma. Only military has that kind of tech.”
“That true … Mr.? You military? Or associated with the government somehow?”
Nan interjected, “You won’t tell anyone, will you, Mamma? Stolen battle-suits could get these boys five to ten in a U.S. fleet brig somewhere.”
Mamma continued to study the three outsiders. She smiled, exposing several gaps teeth once filled. “Look at them, boy …” her eyes fell on Billy. “This one’s some kind of Mexican, and that one over there looks like some kind of skinhead.”
Jason unconsciously ran his hand over the stubble on the top of his head.
“No, those three ain’t no military men. Maybe that one is … though,” she said, pointing a finger in the direction of Colonel Pope, then gesturing with her chin toward his three men.
This time Jason spoke up first: “They’re ex-military. Mercenaries … guns for hire. As you probably know, space mining is a contact sport. Turn your back and space pirates will slit your throat for a carton of coffee grounds.” He continued, “The Mau. Ever work with them before?”
Mamma shrugged. “No.”
“Takes a while to get used to them. But they’re honest … won’t screw us if we don’t screw them. Like the deal they’re offering for the Tanzamine. They’ll pretty much buy as much as we can deliver and that’s good for all of us. Your operation’s already up and running within that section of the Oort belt, and it just so happens there’s a whole lot of Tanzamine right there. Ready to be mined. All we need to do is verify purity and quantities. Run a few tests.”
“That’s not a problem,” Brent said. “What are those Mau willing to pay per standard gravity-free barge?”
“Not delivered?” Jason queried.
“I suppose. Yeah … not delivered.”
“All depends on the purity of the mineral. But I would guess five million dollars per barge … payable in gold bullion.”
Brent and his mother exchanged a quick look.
“Make it eight and we have a deal,” Brent said.
“I’ll make it six and we’ll pay your delivery costs,” Jason said. “And the Mau’s paying our commission.”
“That’s a fair deal,” Mamma said. She turned to Nan. “Tanya … that work for you?”
“Like my broker said, we need to verify the product as well as your operations. Make sure your outfit’s up to the task. That’s going to be a lot of Tanzamine.”
“Oh we’re up for the job, don’t worry about that,” Brent said.
“Excellent!” Jason said, holding out a hand for Mamma Picket to shake on. She stared at his outstretched hand for several beats before taking it in her own and shaking it.
Jason turned to Brent. “You’ll be joining us, then? We’re heading out there, directly.”
“No,” Mamma said. “I have another son … one you haven’t met yet. Orloff. He’s in charge of our mining operations there in the belt. Problem is, he’s on vacation right now. Taking some personal time away from the mines.”
Jason rubbed his chin, looking concerned. “The Mau … are looking at other suppliers in the area too. The timeframe was a primary concern for them. Maybe this won’t work after all.”
Mamma looked at Brent first then at her other two sons—Payne and Larry.
Payne said, “I’ll take them. The heavy is again operational.”
Both Jason and Nan looked toward the youngest brother. Payne must be referring to the Craing heavy cruiser situated up on the hillside. What they really wanted was a clue where Orloff could be found, bringing them one step closer to finding Ryan—if Orloff hadn’t already killed him.
Jason said, “That sounds fine. But I’m sure your boys are as much an expert on the Tanzamine mining process as … I’m sorry, what’s your other son’s name again?”
“Orloff. No, Orloff is the one you probably should talk to,” Mamma said, sounding frustrated. She exhaled and appeared to be pondering her options. “First things first, we’ll need to find him. Whether he’s here in the Smokey Mountains, or out in space, when he goes hunting … he’s unreachable.”
“Hunting?” Nan asked.
The three sons smiled. Brent said, “There’s some good hunting up there. Orloff is just about the best tracker … hunter … anywhere. He lives for it.”
“What in hell would he hunt for within our own solar system?” Billy asked.
Mamma’s face became serious. “Whatever he wants … I suppose.”
Brent said, “He checked in yesterday; I have those spatial coordinates. He went dark again after that.”
Jason raised his brows. “We’re not bad tracking people down ourselves. What do you say we go find your brother so we can all make a shitload of money.”
CHAPTER 19
Ryan awoke inside the freight van’s airlock. His head was pounding and he could smell vomit—undoubtedly his own. When he turned from his side to his back he felt the soupy mess flow down both sides of his face and collect at the back of his helmet. His visor was open and he didn’t recall opening it. For that matter, he only partially remembered making it safely back inside the van. His last memory was of floating in space—resigned to dying. Running out of oxygen, he was on the verge of losing consciousness. Then, suddenly, an open hatchway appeared close by. At some point, he’d obviously made it to safety, somehow getting back inside. But that part he didn’t remember.
“Rise and shine, Cupcake, there’s things to do. That is, if you want to stay alive.”
“Ugh. You saved my life.”
“More than once, but we can celebrate my wonderfulness later on. Get up and head to the cockpit,
” Two-ton’s AI voice commanded.
Slowly, Ryan began to stir and sit up, but his throbbing head—added to the rank smell within the confined space of the airlock—was too much for him. A series of dry heaves ensued that only relented after several breathless minutes. “You should have let me die,” Ryan said, meaning it.
“That just might happen, anyway. We’re not out of trouble yet; not by a long shot.”
Ryan remembered the Paotow Tanker and its crazy owner, Orloff Picket. He also recalled the merciless beating the bearded man underwent from the relentless jack-hammering of their gangway into him. “He lived through that?”
“Yes, although he’s injured. Multiple fractures … his clavicle, two ribs, plus three fingers. He also suffered a concussion from two solid smacks to the head.”
Ryan swayed as he rose to his feet and removed his helmet. Next off was his environ suit. He opened the inside airlock hatch and breathed deeply in the wonderful fresh air. “How do you know all that? His specific injuries?”
“Once he climbed back inside, he queried the SpaceNet. Searched various medical conditions for what he could do without a doctor’s presence.”
Ryan, stopping at the small sink in the kitchenette, leaned over and drank directly from the faucet. Upon straightening, he used his sleeve to wipe his mouth. “Again, how would you know all that?” Though Ryan, entering the cockpit, suspected he already knew the answer. The Paotow Tanker was still there—right alongside the freight van. “I’m betting we’re close enough to pick up his SpaceNet link. Even with our van’s Communications Transmission Beacon gone, at this close range I’m betting you’re tapping in.”
“That’s right! You’d be surprised at what I picked up about Orloff Picket. Remember when I told you he was bat-shit crazy? Well, there’s even more. I delved into his SpaceMail account. He’s suspected of murdering three people over the past year. Perhaps his hunting hobby eclipsed his day job. And now that Orloff’s been injured, be assured he’ll chase you until one of you is dead.”
Space Chase (Star Watch Book 5) Page 9
