Space Chase (Star Watch Book 5)

by McGinnis,Mark Wayne

  Orloff knew Wendy was aware of his stare, noting the color drain from her cheeks. He liked that. Perhaps it was a sign. Sign that he needed to do the right thing. The odds were against his success, but still he owed it to himself, and he owed it to this spectacular young woman too.

  Orloff stood, looking down at her. Drawing his pistol from the holster on his thigh, he ordered, “Stand up!”

  Wendy looked up at him, fear in her eyes. “No!”

  “You either do as I say or the very second Ryan Chase walks back through that door, I’ll put a hole between his eyes. I won’t think twice about it. You know it’s true, don’t you?”

  She closed her eyes and struggled to breathe.

  “You need to ask yourself, will it be you, or will it be him that survives? You need to determine right now how important he is to you.”

  Hot tears flowing again, her lower lip trembling, Wendy stood, staring at him defiantly.

  Orloff grabbed her arm and pulled her along toward the front door. He stopped and peered out, looking right then left. Payne and Larry were out of view. Evidently, both had taken cover between the outbuildings and were now firing their rifles toward the valley—at the unseen robot out there somewhere. Orloff looked over to the Paotow Tanker. The starboard rear hatch was open—slightly agape. Renewed resolve coursed through him as he shoved Wendy forward, into the narrow space between the tanker and the front of the cabin.

  Orloff spoke in a hushed voice, “Make a noise … say anything, and I’ll kill Ryan, then you. In that order, so you can watch him die.”

  Wendy didn’t say anything, scared half to death. But then she has every right to be, he thought. Guiding her to the bow of the tanker, he pushed her down and onto her knees, then crouched low as well. Noises were coming from the hatch. Orloff pressed the muzzle of his weapon to her temple and waited.

  The first to exit the tanker was Ryan with Brent following two paces behind. He was also gripping an oversized Glock 18 pistol in his hand, pointed at the center of Ryan’s back.

  Orloff felt Wendy’s body tense, deciding what to do—should she sacrifice her own life, or Ryan’s? She kept quiet. As soon as Ryan and Brent disappeared back into the cabin, Orloff pulled her up slightly and shoved her forward. “Hurry! Now! … go go …” Placing his free hand on her shoulder to keep her body lower to the ground, they ran. “Get in there!” She momentarily resisted—clearly having second thoughts—but by this point it was too late. Orloff swung the hatch wider open and shoved her inside—into the darkness. Following close behind, he pulled the hatch shut and tapped at the keypad. As a hidden mechanism engaged, the hatch locked tight.

  “Upstairs! Go! Where you were before.”

  “Don’t do this, Orloff … Let me go. You don’t need to do this!”

  He pushed her through the airlock and into the main cabin. The air was stuffy, tinged with a funky sweet smell. “Up the stairs … I will hurt you if I have to.”

  Wendy reluctantly complied and started up the stairs. Stumbling and tripping, she began crying like a child. Orloff didn’t possess the necessary emotional components for it to make an impact. No empathy. No sympathy. No regrets.

  * * *

  With Wendy properly secured back in her cell, Orloff hurried to the tanker’s top-level cockpit. With well-practiced movements, he fired up the ship’s drive. As it roared to life, the deck beneath his boots momentarily rumbled, then fell into a steady vibration. One of the many modifications Orloff had made to his refurbished Paotow tanker was a quick-start feature. There was no waiting time for the various intricate mechanisms to adjust, or for a reactor core to be sufficiently warmed up. Still standing, he took the controls in his hands and throttled up the propulsion system and lifted off. He watched as a set of indicators jumped to redline levels. The bow of the tanker rose, rising slightly higher than the rest of the ship. Then, yanking the controls all the way back, he felt intense G-forces pull him backwards as the ship pulled away, gravity-free, from Alaster-Rei.

  * * *

  As soon as he entered the cabin, Ryan could see Wendy was no longer sitting on the couch; that both she and Orloff were gone. He rushed to the rear of the cabin to check the bedroom, then the bathroom.

  “They’re gone! I told you not to trust that lunatic with her,” he shouted at Brent, in that moment wanting to kill him. To feel his fists smash into his face, feel the bones break as he pummeled him into pulp.

  Brent raised his gun. “Shut up … we’ll find them. We weren’t gone that long.”

  Running, Ryan was out the front door. Loud rifle reports, crack crack crack crack, continued pouring from the nearby outbuildings. Only now there could be heard sporadic return fire, coming from somewhere in the valley below. Two-ton had obviously figured out how to aim and fire. Ryan briefly wondered where he’d found the ammo. Maybe Orloff had left a sack of .50 caliber rounds either in the sand crawler or back at the campsite?

  Startled, Ryan flinched as a thunderously loud sound came from the stern of the tanker.

  Brent said, “Shit! He’s taking the tanker … he’s taking off!”

  Ryan started toward the ship only to be roughly shoved aside. Staggering, he immediately felt a scorching-hot blast of heat on his back. As he scrambled away from the tanker’s flaring rear thruster, he half-turned to look back, holding his arm up to shield his face. The ground shook as the Paotow Tanker rose ten feet off the ground. Ryan yelled over the noise, “Stop him! Do something! He’s got Wendy!”

  Brent watched—angry and confused. It took him a moment to begin fiddling with the SuitPac device clipped to his belt.

  “Hurry up!” Ryan yelled.

  “Shut up … I’m trying,” Brent said, finally getting the suit to initialize—segment out over his body. For two seconds that seemed more like two hours Ryan watched Brent’s face through his visor—his eyes frantically roving over the HUD menus. Then his gaze changed focus as he looked up to the sky—off to the far distance where the last vestige of the Paotow tanker was still in view—and then it was gone.

  Ryan continued to stare into the empty sky.

  “I’m sorry … I don’t know how to use this … damn suit,” Brent said.

  Slowly, Ryan brought his attention back to Brent. He watched as the suit segmented back into the small metallic device hanging from his belt. “I’m going to kill that psycho fuck brother of yours,” Brian said.

  Brent shrugged. “… Yeah? Not in this lifetime, you’re not.”

  CHAPTER 46

  The hillbilly’s nonchalant shrug triggered something: Pure, unadulterated, rage. Ryan was seeing red. It was all too much. Wendy was gone—again. Abducted by a crazed lunatic who had only one horrific intention in mind. This entire family—these backwoods bastards were at the root of everything. Ryan no longer cared that Brent easily had six inches in height on him, plus an extra one hundred pounds. And he no longer cared about the mean-looking Glock still gripped in Brent’s hand. Coming off his back foot and stepping into it, he swung and punched with everything he had. He swung as if his life, and Wendy’s life, lay in the balance of the kind of punch he could deliver—right then and right there. As if things were transpiring in slow motion, his punch was a solid right cross—one that hit Brent on the lower left side of his jaw and lifted the big man up and off his feet. The strong blow catapulted him five feet away. First of all, he landed flat on his back; second, his thunderous downward momentum flung his larger-than-normal cranium backward and cracking it hard onto the rocky ground.

  Ryan stood over the prone, now unmoving mountain man. Brent was definitely out for the count. He knelt down and took the Glock from Brent’s hand, along with the SuitPac device hanging from his belt. Standing, about to turn away, he thought better of it. Once again, he delivered a momentous—akin to a full-on punt attempt from the fifty-yard line—kick to Brent’s unconscious, somewhat placid-looking, face.

  Gunfire continued noisily from the outbuildings, where the other two brothers were hunkered down. Sporad
ically, other gunfire sounds came up from the valley—the robot firing back. Ryan quietly moved around to the back of the first building then stopped to listen. They were over one—probably between the second and third structure. He crossed over to the second outbuilding and, hurrying along, stayed low. As he approached the far back corner he stopped and peered around the side of the building. He could see both brothers now. One had taken cover behind an overturned tractor of some kind. The other brother, Larry—with the frizzy red hair—was lying prone, shooting between the open gaps of a five-foot-tall stack of firewood.

  Suddenly, one of the logs at the top of the stack exploded into wood chips and splinters. Obviously, Two-ton was a terrible shot. Even without an operational scope, unless there was something else seriously wrong with the .50 caliber Barrett, the robot should have nailed either one, or both, of them, without a problem. After all, they weren’t that well hidden.

  Ryan stepped quietly between the two buildings and moved forward. He raised the Glock, holding it in front of him, both arms extended. He crept up behind Larry and pressed the muzzle to the back of his head. “Take your finger off the trigger, Larry, and slowly put the weapon down. You even twitch funny and I’ll blow your head off.”

  Payne suddenly looked over and noticed Ryan and the current predicament his brother was in.

  “You too, Payne … real slow-like. Put the Tavor down on the ground and stand up.”

  Payne did as he was told. “Now you, Larry. Up with you … stand up.”

  Ryan gestured with his pistol. “Stand over there against the wall. Did I say you could lower your hands? Keep them up!”

  Both brothers stood still, their backs up against the side wall of the third outbuilding. Ryan yelled, “Two-ton! Come on in … it’s safe now.”

  He heard the sound of the distant sand-crawler coming to life, and then the drone of the hovercraft coming closer. Moments later, Two-ton appeared—sitting inside the small cockpit. Pulling to a stop, the robot cut the engines. Ryan saw the muzzle of the Barrett sticking up from the back seat. Two-ton unfolded the mecher’s seven-foot-frame from the cramped fuselage and stepped down. Ryan did a double take, for the robot had seen better days. Half its face dented in, there were several new bullet holes on its upper body—three in both shoulders and two lower down.

  “For God’s sakes, how many times were you hit?”

  “Too many,” Two-ton said flatly.

  “Are your … mental processes okay? Was the AI-Pac damaged?”

  “A few rounds came close … but all’s well in that regard.”

  “Good! Grab those SuitPac-thingies from their belts.”

  Two-ton did as directed, first taking the SuitPac from Payne’s belt but then, bent over Larry, hesitated. He stood and looked at Ryan. “Larry doesn’t have one. Are you sure he even had one?” The robot passed Payne’s over to Ryan.

  “Yeah … pretty sure.” Ryan shoved the one into his pocket with Brent’s and said, “Thanks. Can you help me find something to tie these two thugs up with?”

  * * *

  Every minute that passed was another minute he was delayed from catching up to the tanker and rescuing Wendy. But was that even possible? He was certain Orloff had navigated through the asteroid field numerous times—had followed that complicated, invisible pathway through the ice-rock obstacles that by now had become second nature. He probably knew all the tricks—maybe even some shortcuts, if there were any. But Orloff didn’t have Two-ton along. Ryan hoped the battered robot would be his one big advantage—his ace in the hole.

  “So … what do you want to do with the three yokels?” Two-ton asked, after he finished tying the still unconscious Brent’s legs together.

  “They can stay right where they’re at, for all I care,” Ryan said, staring up at the sky—like he had some kind of super vision that could see far beyond the surrounding atmosphere and into the blackness of space.

  Two-ton looked down at the ground where the three bundled up men lay, wrapped like mummies, near the side of the main cabin.

  “So … no water for them? Nothing to eat? It could be a long time before anyone returns here … if ever.”

  “This affair is their doing. They deserve worse … much worse.” A long silence ensued. Finally, Ryan brought his attention back to Two-ton. Smiling, he asked, “You didn’t miss … did you?”

  “Say what?” Two-ton asked.

  “Don’t play dumb. What is it … some kind of internal AI directive? Never deliberately take a human life, or something like that?”

  Two-ton did the equivalent of a shrug, though it came out all wrong—seeming more like an unintentional spasm or maybe a belch.

  “You want to get them a few water bottles, fine with me. But don’t free their arms or their legs. They can figure it out on their own. Give them something to do over the next few days.”

  The Two-ton mecher disappeared into the cabin, returning a few minutes later with ten bottles of water. He dropped them near the three brothers.

  “Is it going to be a problem, hooking you back up to the van’s system panel?” the robot asked.

  “No … not at all. I won’t need a physical connection for that. How about the van’s Communications Transmission Beacon? Since we’re on the ground, anything you could do to fix that?”

  “We won’t need it,” Two-ton said. “Not with that pocketful of SuitPacs you’re carrying around.”

  “We need to go … now! As for the SuitPacs, I don’t know how to use them.” Ryan hurried over to the van. “Come on … let’s go!”

  * * *

  Ryan got the CF van’s drive fired up and they lifted off from Alaster-Rei. He throttled up and headed for the upper atmosphere, as both he and Two-ton stood at the cockpit console. While Ryan was concentrating on getting them into space, Two-ton was fidgeting with one of the SuitPac devices that Ryan had handed him earlier.

  “I told you, I don’t know how to use those things,” Ryan said irritably.

  Two-ton found the two spring-loaded inset buttons and pressed them simultaneously.

  Startled, Ryan watched the robot become fully encased in a battle suit over the course of several seconds. Seeing the robot’s misaligned face staring back at him through the suit’s visor made Ryan laugh out loud.

  “Well, look at you … all ready for combat.”

  Two-ton turned the mecher’s head left and right, next up and down, then stayed still.

  “What are you doing in there?” Ryan asked.

  “Reviewing all the menu options and saving them to memory.”

  “Huh … I didn’t know a robot could even wear one of those things.”

  “Ryan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s a hail coming in … it’s for you.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Jason was notified by Ricket, on the Jumelle, which possessed long-range, high-powered sensors, that a battle suit had been recently activated on a small ship leaving the planet Alaster Rei’s atmosphere. At last! I finally have the means to talk to someone down there directly, Jason thought. Ricket also mentioned that the one wearing the battle suit, peculiarly, was not showing any life signs—none at all. Jason sloughed it off; probably only interference from the millions of asteroids milling about, or some other spatial anomaly. When he adjusted the settings on the Pacesetter II’s HUD, he also could see the faint battle suit icon.

  Hailing the individual in the battle suit, he expected it to be one of the Picket brothers, since they had taken his team’s SuitPac devices earlier, but Jason was surprised to hear a voice he’d never heard before.

  “Um … yeah … hello?”

  “Who is this?” Jason asked.

  “I’m the ghost of Donald Koffman. Better known by my friends as Two-ton. Actually, that’s misleading too. In my present form I’m a robot … a piece-of-shit mecher, to be exact.”

  Jason, at first, didn’t know how to respond. “So you’re … a robot?”

  “Bingo.”

  “
Can you tell me if Ryan Chase is there? Nearby?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  “This is Star Watch Captain Jason Reynolds. Can I speak with him? Right now, if possible.”

  It took another couple of minutes. Jason connected Nan into an open channel and then a second icon came alive on the HUD, right next to the first one.

  “This is Ryan Chase.”

  Nan yelled, “Ryan! Is that you, Ryan?”

  “Yes … is that you, Aunt Nan?”

  “Oh God, it’s so good to hear your voice. Are you safe? Are you hurt? Where are the Pickets?”

  “I’m fine. Three of the four Picket brothers are tied up down on the planet. But Wendy—my girlfriend—she’s Orloff Picket’s prisoner on his ship.”

  Jason asked, “Where? Here within the asteroid field?”

  “That’s right. He left the planet ten or fifteen minutes before we did. His ship is powerful. My van’s sensors aren’t very accurate, but the robot thinks it knows where he is.”

  “Hold on, Ryan,” Jason said, reviewing the Pacesetter II’s HUD. He then saw the tanker ship—so dense—solid—that it was practically invisible amongst all the other space objects flying around.

  “Listen to me, Ryan. We’re coming your way. My ship is close to the tanker … maybe ten minutes out. Leave Orloff to me. He’s dangerous—”

  “No!” Ryan said emphatically. “That’s not an option. And I already know he’s dangerous. One look at his trophy wall on that Paotow Tanker and you’ll know he’s dangerous. I know that ship. No offense, but I’m not leaving Wendy’s rescue to anyone else.”