Space Chase (Star Watch Book 5)

by McGinnis,Mark Wayne

  Ryan did as asked and the robot began inspecting the arm—first turning it over, then side to side, then end over end.

  “Promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That when this is all over you’ll find me a better host robot. I mean, I already know mechers were poorly built … probably put together by some third-world hourly worker late for his lunch break … but come on …” The robot positioned the mechanical limb’s upper ball joint, lining it up exactly with the open, receiving socket hole at the shoulder. “Okay, now give it a good whack.”

  Ryan had observed how the robot clutched the detached arm in its functioning hand, doing its best to keep the arm still—the ball and socket lined up.

  “While we’re young … would be nice.”

  Ryan smacked the robot’s detached upper arm and heard it click into place. He looked at its distorted face for some reaction. “Well?”

  Two-ton turned the arm—facing it up, then facing it down; raising it up then lowering it. Flexing each finger, one by one, and then all five together, it made a fist. “Works good enough. Probably will fall off when I need it most … but good enough for now.”

  “Can you stand?”

  * * *

  Orloff knelt down next to Wendy. Her head was down and her long disheveled hair covered most of her face. He took a look behind the tree and saw that her hands were still bound. “You haven’t called out.”

  Her head tilted up and he saw her eyes, cold with hatred, staring up at him through strands of hair. She shook her head. “You’ve got me … you’re not getting Ryan, too.”

  “I could have grabbed Ryan … killed him any number of times.”

  He tapped a holstered side arm, strapped onto his thigh. She didn’t recall seeing it there before. “I need water.”

  Orloff raised two fingers and glided them down her cheek. At first, she thought it was an affectionate gesture but noting his eyes—how he was looking at her more like a scientist observing an experiment—she quickly realized what he was doing. He was inspecting her face—her flesh—for defects.

  “Yes … you’re right. We must keep you properly hydrated.”

  Renewed fear restricted her chest. She felt adrenalin course through her—bringing her, once again, to the very brink of sanity. The crazed man—with his near-perfectly round head and awkward, weird-shaped body, stuffed into oversized pants synched ridiculously high above his belly—left for several moments. Returning with a canteen, he lifted its top opening to her lips and let her drink. When she’d drunk as much as her stomach could hold, she jerked her head away and coughed. “Enough!” she sputtered.

  He twisted the cap back on the canteen and started to walk away.

  “I need to pee … it’s been hours.”

  He turned and looked down at her. “No one’s stopping you.”

  She glared up at him. “Fine, then I guess you don’t mind a rash all over my skin down there.”

  Orloff shrugged. “I don’t. Nothing down there is utilized.”

  Wendy’s mind flashed to the trophy wall—all heads and partial torsos. No legs.

  “You’re beyond sick. I hope I have the chance to see you get what you deserve.”

  Studying her, he tilted his head. She knew, beyond a doubt, the psycho enjoyed prolonging her torment—was actually having the time of his life. Where are you, Ryan?

  CHAPTER 41

  The wraparound display gave him an expansive view of what lay directly in front of the Jumelle. Jason sat in the captain’s chair and watched the constant flow of spinning asteroids move past at astounding speeds. He looked beyond to the distant small planet. What an odd spatial configuration—no heat-generating star—no great mass, like Earth’s sun—to keep Alaster-Rei locked into a definitive orbit. But it all seemed to work.

  He turned his chair to face Orion. “How many phase-shifts?”

  “It would take a minimum of four … probably five,” she said.

  “I still don’t get it. A phase-shifted object displaces the mass situated at the drop location. How many times had we shifted The Lilly right into the hull of another ship? We could do a multiple-shift.”

  “This is different, Cap.”

  “How so?”

  “Those ice rocks are moving along at many thousands of miles an hour. Even when progressing through a pre-programmed multiple phase-shift routine, there’s a split second where the Jumelle would be there … fully present in open space … and potentially in the path of an oncoming asteroid. No displacement of mass in that case. Captain, this ship is a third longer than a football field. The odds are high enough … of being struck … that I would not suggest we chance it. But you’re the one sitting in that chair.”

  Jason turned back forward.

  “Captain, there’s an incoming hail from Liberty Station,” Seaman Gordon said from the comms station.

  “Designated private?”

  “No, sir … it’s Omni Reynolds.”

  It had been a while since Jason spoke to his father. “On screen … let’s see what he wants.”

  A new display segment feed interrupted the 360-degree view of open space. The upper third of his father appeared. Dressed in his red Omni uniform, he was looking down at what Jason presumed was his virtual notebook. He looked up and gave a quick nod and even quicker smile. “There you are! We have a situation.”

  “Good afternoon to you too, Omni.”

  “Apparently, the Jumelle was fired upon … recently.”

  “That’s right. It’s all in the report I’m guessing is right there in your lap.”

  “Was your Annapolis education so lacking that you didn’t learn that it’s not a good idea to tolerate enemy fire without reciprocity?” the Omni said—he was not happy.

  “No damage, and we were on a mission. It’s all there in the report. What’s with the third degree? It was a judgment call.”

  “Well … your judgment call, as you put it, has had serious repercussions! Those were pirates. They’ve been pouring into the Oort cloud over the last year. There’s some kind of range war going on. Mining claims on designated open … Alliance … territorial space. They’ve set up some kind of gunship parameter. An Earth-bound freighter, the Bumble Bee, crossed over and was fired upon. Three casualties—vessel’s put out a distress call.”

  Jason spun around to look at Orion. “Gunny?”

  He watched her review her tactical display.

  “Okay … I see it now. It was directed directly to Liberty. We work on a dispatch system now.” Orion glanced to the Omni. “It wasn’t a general mayday.”

  Jason turned back to his father. “Are they in immediate trouble?”

  “Did you not hear what I said? Three crewmembers were killed. Damaged ship. I want the Jumelle to phase-shift into that sector and give the Bumble Bee protection while she makes her way to a friendly repair station.”

  “That could take days. You know why we’re here, Dad … Nan’s nephew …”

  “Look, I’m sorry. But the Jumelle is the Star Watch vessel assigned to this district.”

  Exasperated, Jason said, “Call in the Minian from District 2.”

  “I’m not going to do that. This is your district, Captain Reynolds. Now manage it!” The feed went black. The segment disappeared from the wraparound display.

  Pirates … I hate fucking pirates.

  * * *

  Jason met Nan within the Jumelle’s mess. There was limited time.

  She was there when he arrived—sitting alone at a table nursing a cup of coffee. Jason sat down across from her.

  “I already heard,” she said.

  “Then you know we have to attend to another matter … shouldn’t take more than a few days. We can return—”

  “I’m staying.”

  Jason could tell by her expression—one he’d seen a thousand times before—she was resolute.

  “Leave me with a pilot … and the Goliath. We’ll go get my nephew ourselves.”
/>   Jason stared at his ex-wife for several beats before answering.

  She started speaking first. “Ryan is down there on that planet with a known psychopath. There’re two other CF drivers gone missing. Wendy and Donald. You know as well as I do that that … crazy man … took them too. Come on, Jason … I thought Star Watch was set up to help … To protect people!”

  “There’s a freighter with several hundred crew on board that is in serious trouble … It wasn’t my call.”

  “Fine … I said I’ll go myself.”

  “That asteroid field is impregnable. Probably why the nutcase chose it. I’m not putting one of my pilots in that much danger. And phase-shifting is not an option.”

  He watched as Nan turned her eyes down to her coffee cop. Her bottom lip began to quiver. A tear disappeared into her coffee.

  Jason looked off toward the stern of the ship. Toward where he knew the flight bay was situated. Where one particular two-man open space fighter was parked. It was designated as his ship—no one; no other pilots touched her. When he’d discovered the Jumelle—months ago beneath the frigid surface of Endromoline—he’d discovered her. Identical to his long lost Pacesetter. He’d designated her the Pacesetter II. Now he took her out fairly often—during his private time—traveling at incurable speeds. Learning death-defying maneuvers he had no business even attempting. He’d honed his piloting skills to a level unattained by anyone on the ship. But was it possible?

  “I’ll go,” he said.

  Nan looked up. “You? Like by yourself?”

  “I’ll take the Pacesetter II … she’s small and maneuverable. I’m not risking another pilot’s life, Nan.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “No.”

  “Yes!”

  “No! I mean it!”

  * * *

  Jason didn’t tell Dira, to the full extent, just how dangerous what he would be attempting was.

  She insisted on walking with him to the flight bay. She took his arm in hers and held it tight—kept him pulled close. They talked about this and that—kept the subject matter light. He could tell she was worried—had told him as much. She didn’t want him to go and didn’t understand why he was doing this.

  They entered the flight bay where numerous shuttles, manned and unmanned fighters, and drone crafts sat at the ready. The massive compartment that spanned the width of the vessel was relatively quiet. Approaching the sleek, bright red Pacesetter II, Dira lifted her head and spoke in hushed tones. “What is she doing here?”

  Nan was standing by the two-man fighter. She held the straps of a small duffle bag in both hands. She returned a nervous smile.

  “It’s her nephew … she insisted.”

  “I thought you were the captain of this ship?” Dira said in a snarky tone he hadn’t heard from her before.

  He stopped and turned to face her. He took her face in his two hands and kissed her for a long time. He looked into her exquisite violet and amber eyes and said—so only Dira could hear him, “I promise you … I’m coming back. But I need to do this.”

  She nodded. “I know. But I don’t have to like it.”

  * * *

  Nan was quietly situated in the rear seat. He’d need an unencumbered view out the front of the canopy. Both had previously initialized their battle suits. Jason ran through his pre-flight checklist and checked then double-checked the Pacesetter II’s HUD display readings. He knew, while trying hard not to think about it, that he was attempting to deliver the very thing the Picket boys down on Alaster-Rei wanted most—Nan Reynolds.

  CHAPTER 42

  Ryan and Two-ton closed in on Orloff’s makeshift camp as the sound of the sand crawler came to life. Its sudden, low rumble idle startled a small flock of birds that immediately took to the air—squawking angry protests.

  Ryan moved closer through the trees, keeping low. He saw a flash of red and chrome in the distance. Orloff was there and Wendy too. She looked tired—beaten down—vulnerable and frail. Orloff was helping her into the rear seat of the crawler, which was difficult, since her hands were bound behind her.

  Blinded by white hot rage, Ryan readied himself to charge. He wanted to beat the big man to a pulp, rip his head from his neck then smash it with a rock. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  Two-ton leaned in close and whispered, “I’d unpack your weapon first.”

  Ryan tried to control his breathing, to somehow bring his heart rate down. Hatred was driving him and he knew that was dangerous. Stupid. That’s how mistakes were made. Wendy could get killed. He felt Two-ton rooting through the pack on his back and a moment later the Tavor was handed to him.

  Ryan crept closer, his footfalls swallowed up in the sounds coming off the sand crawler. Orloff was attempting to mount into the vehicle, but the oversized pack on his own back kept him off balance. Trying again, this time he got one leg over the edge and inside the small cockpit. Standing off balance, in the process of pulling in his other leg, Ryan rushed forward into the clearing.

  “Stay where you are! Don’t move … don’t do anything or I’ll fucking blow your head off.”

  Wendy’s head came up. Confusion turned to recognition, and recognition to an eruption of emotion. “Ryan! Oh God … Ryan!” She moved to stand but had difficulty with her wrists still bound.

  With the Tavor held high—secured tightly into his shoulder—Ryan aimed at the mountain man’s heart. He stepped closer with his finger on the trigger, and the compulsion to squeeze—end his worthless life—was winning.

  But everything changed in an instant. An instant filled with multiple, bright white, flashes. Ryan spun around, seeing someone standing there in a battle suit. Sensing other movement behind him, he turned and saw two more men, similarly dressed in battle suits. Ryan knew this was advanced Caldurian tech, but the faces behind the helmet visors were not from Star Watch, nor the U.S. Fleet. Bearded, dirty, and scraggly, these three looked more like Orloff, sharing a common resemblance. Now there were four mountain men where only a moment earlier there was one.

  “Drop the weapon, Ryan,” the first man said. “No one needs to get hurt here.” He raised his palms up in mock surrender.

  None of the three seemed to be armed.

  Wendy yelled, “Ryan! Orloff’s …!”

  Ryan turned to see Orloff pull the pistol from his holster and place the muzzle tight against her temple. He recognized its distinctive shape as a Glock 18. One of the only fully automatic pistol machine guns available. Not for civilians, they were strictly used by law enforcement and the military.

  Now it was Ryan’s turn to raise his palms. “Let her go … she’s done nothing to hurt anyone. I’ll go with you. I won’t resist.”

  The man to his left, the tallest of the lot, and the first one Ryan had noticed, said, “My name is Brent … Brent Picket.” He took the Tavor from Ryan’s hands. “The two behind you are Larry and Payne. I gather you already know my younger brother, Orloff?”

  “Yeah … I know him. He’s sick … needs to be locked up.”

  Brent gave him a crooked smile, momentarily hitching up a shoulder. “What can I say … Orloff is an odd duck. But he’s family, so what can we do?”

  “Try shooting him in the head,” Wendy said, her expression cold as stone.

  Brent ignored her. “Orloff … hop on out of there and help the young lady out too.” Orloff, doing as told, helped Wendy to stand then guided her out of the sand crawler. Once again on terra firma, with her arms still bound behind her, she ran over to Ryan. He wrapped his arms around her as she cried into his chest. He felt her tears seeping through his shirt. Speaking softly into her ear, he said, “I’ll get us out of this somehow … I promise.”

  She didn’t reply, only stared up at him. Big tears streamed down her dirty cheeks.

  “Larry, Payne … grab an arm,” Brent said.

  Payne pulled Ryan and Wendy apart. Larry stepped in and taking Wendy by her arm pulled her away.

  Brent walked over to Orloff an
d placed a hand on his beefy shoulder. “Time to go.” He took a last quick look around and in a flash all six were gone.

  * * *

  Twenty paces away, peering through thick tree branches, Two-ton continued to stare at the spot where Ryan and Wendy stood mere moments before. Hesitantly, the robot moved out into the clearing. The sand crawler was still there—still idling. They’ll hear me coming. The robot climbed in behind the controls and engaged the three turbine engines. Cranking the controls all the way around, the sand crawler fish-tailed, a backward spray of dirt and small rocks hit the air. Two-ton, gaining control of the hovercraft, steadied its course—then headed for the Picket compound.

  * * *

  Ryan and Wendy sat close together on a threadbare couch inside the Picket compound’s main cabin.

  The four brothers, seated together at the rough-hewn timber table in the center of the room, were eating. Heaping forkfuls—like little skip-loaders—delivered franks and beans into their gaping, wide-open mouths.

  Brent, mouth full, said, “Eat!”

  Wendy and Ryan looked down at the metal pie pan full of beans and two partially submerged spoons.

  “We should eat … keep up our strength,” he muttered.

  Wendy made a face. “There’s chunks of something in there.”

  Ryan shrugged. “Yeah?”

  “Orloff made this … I saw him cooking in the kitchen.”

  Ryan leaned forward and reached for the pan. “Looks to be cut up frankfurters.” He handed Wendy a spoonful of the mud-colored mush. Then taking a heaping spoonful himself, he ate. Chewing slowly at first, his eyes brightened. Perhaps he was simply beyond hungry? But it was good. Excellent, in fact!

  Wendy took a partial bite and chewed; raising her chin up she looked down her nose at the remaining half-spoonful of beans. Ryan knew that look. She wasn’t going to give Orloff the satisfaction. Making an it’s okay expression, she spooned the rest of the beans and franks into her mouth. Together, they ate everything in the tin pie pan.