Space Chase (Star Watch Book 5)

by McGinnis,Mark Wayne

  Without being obvious about it, he opened up a channel so Nan could hear what he was saying to the others.

  “Again, I apologize for any misunderstanding here. We’ll leave—return to our quarters … no harm done.”

  Nan, in his comms, said, “Jason, what the hell is going on? If you’re doing anything that stands in the way of finding my nephew … I’ll …”

  Jason, interrupting her tirade, said, “Let’s go, Billy … Bristol …”

  “Wait!” Brent said. “What do you need … to … you know … get this heap fully operational again?”

  Bristol said, “A miracle.”

  Jason gave him a sideways glance.

  “If you let me take a look, I’ll tell you,” Bristol said, speaking more to Jeebrie than to Brent.

  All eyes went to the small Craing, who looked uncomfortable from the added attention on him. He nodded. “I … I could use the help.”

  * * *

  Brent ordered his brother Larry to stay and keep an eye on them. Within fifteen minutes he—sound asleep in the corner, his weapon across his legs—was noisily snoring, his jaw slackly open and head tilted back.

  Speaking in lowered tones, Jason and Billy talked amongst themselves, while Bristol worked two catwalk levels above. Jason supposed Jeebrie was up there with him, but he wasn’t entirely sure.

  “You’re still here?”

  Jason and Billy turned, seeing Nan enter the compartment. She looked cold, her arms wrapped snugly about her.

  “Sorry about all the commotion,” Jason said.

  “No, I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

  Offering a reassuring smile, he said, “I think Bristol will be able to help. He thinks once the propulsion system’s been properly tuned up, we can cut travel time in half—maybe more.”

  “This is all so frustrating,” Nan said. “We could phase-shift … be where we need to be in minutes.”

  Billy said, “Yeah, but they’re already suspicious of us. They hate the government and the military. We do anything that even hints we’re more than who we say we are, they’ll clam up, and we won’t get their crazy brother’s last known coordinates.”

  “I know all that, Billy,” Nan said irritably.

  Footsteps clanged loudly on the metal catwalk above. When Bristol, with Jeebrie close behind, emerged down nearby stairs, he threw Jason a thumbs-up gesture.

  “Go ahead and try it, Jeebrie,” Bristol said over his shoulder, approaching Jason and the others. The Craing prisoner scurried from sight.

  “Everything is out of alignment. Probably been years since anyone who knew what they were doing gave those drives any attention.”

  Nan said, “Thank you for doing that, Bristol.”

  “No big deal.”

  Jason raised two fingers to his ear. “Hold on … I’m being hailed.” He took several steps away from the others, and said, “Go for Captain.”

  Orion said, “Cap … I have an update for you.”

  Jason pictured the Jumelle, following behind them at a safe distance, as they slowly made their way across the solar system. “What cha got, Gunny?”

  “According to an emergency Consigned Freight call … another delivery craft’s gone missing. The pilot was delivering a package to the outer fringe of the solar system. She’s late calling in her status … Comms are non-responsive.”

  “She?”

  “Yeah. The delivery pilot is a … Wendy Prescott. She’s just a kid … like Ryan. Both twenty-three.”

  “You think it’s related … Ryan and her going missing?”

  Nan, at Jason’s side, her brows furrowed, mouthed the words, what’s happening, Jason!

  “Here’s the thing, Cap: Apparently Ryan and this Wendy girl are … or were … dating. They were an item. Seems an awfully big coincidence to me that she, too, is reported missing.”

  “Where was her intended delivery, in respect to Ryan’s last known whereabouts?”

  “Actually there’s three Consignment Freight craft missing now: Ryan’s, a Donald Koffman’s, and this Wendy girl’s. And yes, the other missing craft were within a relatively close proximity to Wendy’s delivery coordinates. Long range scans of the area show nothing … they’ve gone … but it’s a starting point.”

  “Good work, Gunny … Hang tight. I’ll get back to you in a minute.”

  Jason turned to Nan. “I think we’ve caught a break, though maybe that’s not the best way to phrase it. Another delivery driver’s van has gone missing … two of them, actually.”

  “You know where that one occurred?” she asked.

  “We do, which means there’s no longer a good reason to stay here.”

  Jason looked up in time to see the sleeping Picket Larry was now awake and getting to his feet. Brent was back and verbally tearing them both a new ass hole. Looking concerned, he headed toward Jason and Billy.

  “We have definitive coordinates of my brother’s last-known location.”

  Jason was about to tell him that they no longer needed his help—to make an excuse to phase-shift off the Craing vessel, when Brent added something else.

  “Orloff’s comms are down … he’s gone dark again. But based on his last location, I have a good idea where he may be headed. He has a place … more like a hunting shack … on a dwarf planet hidden within the Oort Cloud. It’s relatively close to where those coordinates are.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Present time …

  Orloff Picket presented a good case for himself. Why he’d required Consignment Freight personnel to spacewalk over—hand-deliver the package of needed prescription medications directly to him in his vessel. Typically, deep space deliveries—although rare—were managed via the van’s delivery interface mechanism. CF drivers were never to leave the safety of their van while delivering. But Orloff, who’d strongly reiterated the fact he was handicapped, made a compelling argument that such CF regulations discriminated against those less fortunate.

  Orloff waited within the darkened confines of the Paotow Tanker’s airlock. The big drawback to abductions such as this, held in the vacuum of space, was he couldn’t hear the screams. So watching unbridled terror reflect on her face would have to suffice.

  An hour earlier, before the delivery van pulled up alongside his tanker, there was another delivery, of sorts—a CF container from Ryan. Orloff had to spacewalk to retrieve it. In his current condition of broken ribs and fingers, the spacewalk venture forced him to endure substantial pain.

  Perhaps Ryan Chase would be a worthwhile adversary after all. He’d already proven he was highly imaginative.

  Orloff sat up and stretched his back. He’d been hunched over his workbench two hours straight; so completely engrossed in his work, he’d lost all track of time. But this was what life was all about. Vacation was almost over and getting in these special moments made the long months of waiting worthwhile. He had big responsibilities. He represented the Picket name … the Picket brand … in outer space, and was well suited for the job too. He didn’t mind extended periods of isolation; or occasions when he had to use intimidation on those who worked either for, or with, the company—be it mining supervisors, union bosses, or late-paying clients. His size, stature, was only one aspect of his scary demeanor. He knew what people said about him behind his back—that he was deranged … a psycho. There was a rumor bouncing around the Oort Cloud that he’d once crushed a man’s skull with his bare hand. It wasn’t true. He used both hands.

  Orloff dipped his fingers in a nearby bowl of filtered water, then rubbed them together until the viscous matter came loose and swirled away. Wiping his moist hands on a clean towel, he readjusted the swivel light, and leaned back over the workbench. An open book lay across the workspace, on the left side of the subject. He’d spent over five thousand dollars for the rare, leather-bound codex—written by the renowned Nazi professor, Dr. Josef Clauberg. Only a few such publications remained in existence. Not only a thorough lexicon on taxidermy in general, it was dedicated to the u
nique intricacies of preserving and properly displaying the human body.

  This trophy would be Orloff’s finest to date. The delicacy of his threadwork was beyond anything he accomplished before. On the worktable before him was a complete upper torso-head mounting. Bare breasts—small and firm, the nipples pink and erect—still looked full of life. But it would be the young woman’s face—her refined features—that would first grab the casual observer’s attention. Orloff picked up a small hairbrush and began to stroke the long hair back and away from the slightly upturned face. Orloff smiled. What exactly was that in her expression? Petulance? Yes—like a petulant child.

  For his entire adult life, Orloff kept similar works of art to himself. It was nobody’s business what he did with his time. But he would make an exception with her. It seemed only fitting for Ryan to see this trophy, too … he would appreciate its accomplishment. Orloff began to whistle to himself. Still much to do: ears to attach, then the crystal glass orb eyes needed inserting. Yes … much to do.

  * * *

  Two hundred miles away, Ryan, overcoming physical and mental exhaustion, awoke. Intending to take a half-hour or so nap, he sat up in his rumpled bed with a start.

  “What time is it? How long …”

  “You’ve been asleep for twelve hours and thirty-two minutes. I tried to wake you four separate times.”

  “Well, you should have tried harder!” Ryan, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, rubbed his face, trying to clear the fog out of his head. Once on his feet, he staggered into the small head. In the process of relieving himself, he remembered the other small spacecraft.

  “Hey … what happened with that other craft?”

  “Now you ask … the other craft is a Consignment Freight delivery van, Ryan. I’m really sorry. It’s been positioned alongside the Paotow Tanker for over nine hours and why I kept trying to roust your ass out of bed.”

  Ryan burst from the head, still zipping up. “No … no … no …. are you shitting me? Damn it, Two-ton!” He ran through the living compartment, up the stairs, then into the cockpit. Leaning in close to the display, he saw both the Paotow Tanker, and the freight van’s icons, virtually sitting on top of each other. When sudden realization set in, he covered his mouth with an open palm. Oh God no … please no.

  “Can you determine the DSCVID from this distance? Without having a Communications Transmission Beacon?”

  “I have the DSCVID … you’re not going to like …”

  “Well, what the hell is it!” Ryan asked, spinning around to face the AI-Pac.

  “429. It is Consignment Freight Van number 429. Ryan … I am so sorry.”

  Disbelief turned to panic. “Wendy … that’s Wendy’s van! The son of a bitch, he’s lured her there. Oh my God … he’s got her.”

  “Yes, he undoubtedly has.” The AI’s voice, only slightly above a whisper, said, “Ryan, there is something else.”

  “What?”

  “The CF container you sent over to that tanker earlier, well, it’s on its way back.”

  In that fateful moment, Ryan felt he was looking through someone else’s eyes—living someone else’s life. Tears, brimming in his eyes, overflowed and streamed down his cheeks. Sitting down, he stared at the console display and watched the newly added tiny icon move steadily across the screen.

  “I need to suit up … to retrieve—”

  “No, Ryan, I can maneuver the van into place with thruster micro-bursts. I’ll use the van’s DI to grab the container.”

  * * *

  Ryan stood within the hold compartment, staring up at the Delivery Interface, the DI. He swayed on his feet, feeling nauseous. He had no idea what he would find inside the box container and didn’t want to know. Only one thing made his life worthwhile—Wendy. He never told her how he truly felt; perhaps fearing she didn’t feel the same way. When they broke up—again—it wasn’t because they weren’t crazy about each other. On the contrary, it was the complete opposite. Their passion was beyond anything he’d ever encountered, but they both were guarded. Jealousy and game playing became the new norm, Ryan wondering if perhaps there was someone else. Maybe, God forbid, Tony Post? Damn! Why hadn’t he told her how he really felt? How he wanted to move in with her? Now it was too late.

  “Okay … here it comes, Ryan,” the AI said.

  The DI’s articulating arms began to swing around—positioning and re-positioning. And then there it was. As the bottom of the container popped into view, it lowered out of the DI like some alien birthing. The articulating arms handed down the large container to Ryan, who grabbed the box in both hands. More weight to it—something clunking around inside—he set it down on the deck.

  Kneeling next to the container, Ryan made no move to open it. He heard the telltale mechanism click and saw one flap partially pop open.

  “The container is open, Ryan.”

  “I know that!”

  He took a deep breath and opened the two top flaps. Looking inside, and to his utter surprise, the first thing he noticed was the Tavor and three mags, lying at the bottom of the container. He retrieved them and placed them on the deck. What remained inside was a note, written on yellow-ruled pad paper. Noting there was a second sheet stapled to it, he disregarded the hand-written note and flipped the page over. In horror, he stared at a printed out, full-color photograph. Immediately, his stomach twisting and churning, he threw up into the empty container box.

  For several long minutes a series of dry heaves racked his body. The image of what he’d seen stayed present through closed eyes. It was the most disturbing, most grotesque, thing he’d ever seen. The beautiful woman was mounted, just like Two-ton, onto a wall plaque. He felt guilt seeing her face—because he was thankful—grateful, that the now stuffed and mounted woman was Olivia Baldacci—Wendy’s partner. Consignment Freight almost never dispatched freight vans with a lone driver, especially if two women were consigned.

  So where then was Wendy?

  CHAPTER 27

  Ryan read Orloff Picket’s handwritten note three times.

  Dear Ryan,

  Q: What do you get when you have 32 hillbillies in the same room?

  A: A full set of teeth …

  Do you like that one? Thank you for your letter. It’s good to keep a sense of humor. The Tavor is my gift to you, Ryan. Over the days that follow, that weapon may very well mean the difference between life and death … yours.

  By now, I’m assuming you have adequately recovered from what must have been a shock. Seeing Olivia that way would be jarring. But I’m hoping you can appreciate the care I’ve taken to preserve her likeness — what was, and still is, a beautiful woman. I do not take lives indiscriminately — I am not a barbarian. With that said, I am not delusional, either. What I am is a diagnosed psychopath … although that is not the politically correct terminology these days. Yes, I admit it. I am a killer. Here’s the thing. I allow myself these indiscretions just once a year, for a two-week period. I live for these fourteen days of vacation, Ryan. I hunt, I kill, and I practice my skills with needle and thread. Up until now, this has been my little secret.

  Other than myself, you are the only one still alive to have observed my trophy room. I cannot allow this knowledge to be passed on.

  So let me tell you what will happen next — that is, if you want to see Wendy alive again.

  1) You will hasten to the spatial coordinates provided at the end of this note.

  2) I already know your delivery van’s comms are down — keep it that way. You bring in anyone else — tell anyone else — and Wendy will be keeping Olivia company on my trophy wall.

  3) Sleep, eat — do everything you can to prepare for what is to come. You will be hunted — you will be my prey, Ryan. If you want to rescue Wendy, if you want to keep both her and yourself breathing — you will need to find a way to outsmart me — you will need to kill me. See you on Alaster-Rei.

  Good luck,

  Orloff Picket

  Ryan held up the piece of
notepad paper. “I take it you’ve read this?”

  “Over your shoulder … he’s a sick fuck.”

  “Where is Orloff now?”

  “Moved out an hour ago.”

  “And Wendy and Olivia’s van?”

  “Obliterated. Apparently that older tanker retrofit has a fair share of weaponry on board. Nothing that would stand up to Star Watch, but enough that the average commercial craft—”

  Ryan cut him off, “Wait … Wendy’s ship was obliterated?”

  “Completely,” the AI replied. “Since it provided a means to use its comms to call for help. Which we need to do.”

  “Did you not read that deranged hillbilly’s letter?” Ryan asked, again raising it high in the air. “I’m not doing anything that will get Wendy killed. No, I’ll play his game and I’ll beat him at it … somehow.”

  “That’s the spirit, Ryan. With that said, Consignment Freight has already contacted our district Star Watch people by now. They may be a few days behind us, but I seriously doubt they’ll have much problem figuring out what’s going on. They’ll be looking for the missing three CF drivers, and perhaps for Orloff Picket as well.”

  “Then we need to stop yammering and get moving,” Ryan said.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of inputting the provided spatial coordinates into navigation. But you do realize where you are going … he’s probably going to kill you … both of you. It’s his kind of game.”

  “Agreed. For now it is … but we’ll see about later.”

  * * *

  Orloff Picket sat down on the corner of his bed and stared at his left foot with growing contempt. His multiple bruises and contusions—even his broken ribs—were slowly mending, but his broken foot had not improved.

  Even that simple act brought tears to his eyes. Hurts like a mother fucker! he thought. He unwrapped the last few windings of bandage and the deep purple-blue bruising, along with much-too-much greenish-tinged flesh, came into view. More than aware he was running a temperature, he could tell his foot was badly infected. If he didn’t take care of it soon, gangrene would set in.