by G J Ogden
Hudson smiled and then lowered the taser pistol. “The feeling is very much mutual, Mr. Cortland.”
Without the coercive influence of a weapon being pointed at his chest, Cortland seemed to relax. His attention was then turned to the man who was still standing anxiously by the door. “There is one aspect that confuses me, however,” he began, glowering at the bystander. “Why should I still pay this useless gentleman two thousand hardbucks? He resolutely failed at the task!”
The pickpocket’s cheeks flushed red and he stared at the ground, looking downtrodden.
Hudson laughed, “Call it a broker’s fee. He did, after all, bring us together so that we could come to this little arrangement. Besides, like I said, you’ll still come out of this way better off than you started. We all do. Everybody wins.”
Cortland considered this for a moment, before giving another grudging shrug of acceptance. “Very well,” he said, adding an elaborate sigh for effect. “It appears that I have little choice.”
Hudson reached into the compartment inside his leather jacket and removed the alien CPU shard, before placing it gently on the counter top. “Good. Now that’s all settled, shall we get down to business?”
CHAPTER 3
Agentle breeze carried in from across the bay and Hudson closed his eyes, allowing it to wash over him. It felt as fresh and as crisp as a Sonoma Valley Chardonnay, and was the perfect accompaniment to the warm Californian sun.
Even better, the final remnants of his hangover were gone. It’s amazing how quickly a person’s fortunes can change… Hudson mused, as he strolled towards Hunter’s Point. Yesterday, he was jobless, homeless and had only a few hardbucks to his name. Now, thanks to his new tough-talking relic hunter grit and determination, he had one hundred and fifty thousand credits. Even better, there was no-one trying to kill him – at least for the time being.
His upbeat mood took a knock as he caught sight of the rusted iron gates of ‘Swinsler’s Shipyard’. The proprietor of the bar where he’d been drinking the night before had pointed out that it was having a sale. But on first impressions, it certainly didn’t look like a place where he could buy a ship. Or at least not a ship that was capable of any form of sustained flight.
Refusing to be deterred, Hudson pushed through the gate, which screeched like a demented banshee as he did so, and entered the main forecourt. There were certainly ships inside, but each one looked like it had already been stripped down for parts. This isn’t a shipyard, it’s a damn boneyard... Hudson realized.
He was about to turn around and leave when a nasal-sounding voice startled him. A moment of dread-fear gripped Hudson as he initially expected to see Chief Inspector Wash standing behind him. However, when he spun around, he instead saw a short, yellow-haired man wearing thin, circular glasses. He must have been no more than five feet tall, and wore a bright yellow, knitted jersey with cream slacks. This made him look like a corn cob. Hudson had to force himself not to laugh out loud as the image took root in the sillier part of his mind. But the effort of forcing his mouth to remain shut resulted in Hudson grimacing as if he were desperately trying to hold in a fart.
“Are you okay?” asked the nasally man. “You look a little uncomfortable.”
Hudson thumped his chest and barked out a succession of short coughs, which he kept up until he was certain the potential for giggles had gone. “Sorry, I must have swallowed a bee,” said Hudson, but then grimaced again at the utter ridiculousness of this statement.
“A bee, you say?” asked the man, looking at Hudson as if he’d just escaped from a lunatic’s asylum. “Would you, erm, like some water?”
“No, no, I’ll be fine,” said Hudson, thumping his chest a little more. Then he rapidly changed the subject to deflect from his embarrassment. “I’m actually here looking for a ship. I saw in the epaper that you had a sale on.”
This seemed to flip a switch in the man’s brain, and he instantly developed an oily smile. “Wonderful news!” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I only have a few left – business has been booming and my ships are in demand. If you’ll come this way, Mr…?”
Hudson gave him his name and then followed behind the proprietor of the shipyard. Swinsler led him past the carcasses of long-dead ships and through another gate into a separate part of the forecourt. Inside were five ships, arranged in a wide semicircle with the noses all pointing to the center where Hudson and Swinsler were now standing. They ranged from a small, two-person shuttle that was really only good for courier runs to Earth-orbiting stations, to a mid-sized transport. The latter took up a full third of the yard. Hudson knew such a ship had great cargo potential, but there was also no chance he could crew it by himself.
He walked up to a YV-131 light freighter, a ship he’d flown before and knew well. It was reliable, tough as old leather and, importantly, it could be operated by one person.
“How much for the one three one?” asked Hudson, glancing back at Swinsler, who was still rubbing his hands together.
“Oh, a fine ship, one of my best,” Swinsler began, and Hudson again had to force himself to contain his emotions, though this time it was due to exasperation, rather than the giggles. He’d heard this sort of oily sales patter a thousand times before, but though it was a game he was tired of playing, he also knew it was necessary. “Lots of interest in this one. In fact, I have an appointment for someone to view it later today,” Swinsler went on, sticking to his script.
Hudson gave a disinterested sniff, “Looks a bit tired, if you ask me,” he replied, “but you may as well tell me a price.”
Swinsler didn’t react to Hudson’s lack of enthusiasm and simply stated, “A bargain at nine hundred, even. I expect it to sell within the week, so if you are interested, I’d suggest you move quickly.”
Hudson’s mouth went dry and he forced down what little saliva remained, before replying, “Seems a bit pricey; I’ll give it some thought.” It was the truest test of his poker face that he’d had for some time, and he wasn’t convinced that he’d pulled off the act, but Swinsler gave nothing away.
“Of course, take your time,” the salesman said, before looking behind and noticing that another person had entered the forecourt. “I’ll leave you to browse, and send over my assistant to answer any further questions.”
“Sure, thanks,” said Hudson, smiling amiably, though inside it felt like his world had just fallen apart. It was like Swinsler had reached into his heart, pulled out his deepest desire and crushed it in front of his very eyes. Nine hundred thousand… he repeated to himself. Admittedly, it had been some time since he’d checked the price of starships, but he’d completely misjudged how much it would cost to get one. The YT-131 was a good ship, but even after bartering, Hudson could never get close to the asking price. Even the tiny shuttle, which was only about twice the size of a taxi flyer, would be barely within his budget.
Hudson’s head bowed and his eyes fell to the floor. He may as well have been broke for all the use his one hundred and fifty thousand credits was. His dream of becoming a relic hunter had died before it had even got off the ground.
“You’re not thinking of buying that piece of crap, are you?”
Hudson spun around to see a young woman standing behind him. She was wearing dirty, blue grey coveralls that matched her striking blue-streaked hair, which was pulled back into a neat ponytail. She was studying Hudson with interest, as if he were an art model that she was about to paint. Her hands were shoved through slits in the sides of the coveralls, presumably into the pockets of whatever she was wearing underneath.
“Which piece of crap, exactly?” asked Hudson. He hadn’t intended it as a joke, but the answer seemed to amuse the woman nonetheless.
“The one three one,” she replied pointing to the ship Hudson had enquired about earlier. “Sure, she looks okay, but trust me, that thing has more miles on it than Voyager One.”
Hudson laughed, “So you’re a connoisseur of fine ships, I take it?” Then he noticed tha
t there was a patch sewn onto the chest pocket of the woman’s coveralls. It was a small, round logo with the words, ‘Royal Air Force’ stitched alongside. He frowned, “Is that who you’re here buying on behalf of?” he said, pointing to the logo. “Who the hell is ‘Royal Air Force’, anyway?”
The woman rolled her eyes, “So, you don’t know crap about ships or history. Swinsler’s going to have a field day with you.”
“Hey, I know my ships,” Hudson hit back, feeling suddenly under attack from the stranger who had rudely interrupted him, “and I’ve likely been flying crates like these since before you were even born. How old are you, anyway? Sixteen, seventeen?”
“Old enough to know that you’re about to get ripped off.”
Hudson was beginning to wonder if he had a sign on his forehead saying, ‘Hi, my name is Hudson, please insult and denigrate me!’, because it seemed to be the default reaction of everyone who met him. However, the woman’s choice of words had goaded him; he’d had enough of being ripped off.
“Okay, smart ass, which one would you choose? I’ll allow you to regale me with your sage wisdom, before you go back to school, or wherever you’ve bunked off from.”
The woman pulled her hands out from the slits in the coveralls and folded them in front of her chest, matching Hudson’s defensive posture. “I wouldn’t buy any of them. But, if you’re too pig-headed and stubborn to take the advice of a girl, it’s your funeral.”
The woman turned on her heels and was about to leave, but she had piqued Hudson’s interest enough to make him take the bait.
“Okay, okay, you’ve got my attention,” he said, holding up his hands, “and I’m sorry for being snippy. I’ve had a hard few days, which has included me getting ‘ripped off’ as you put it.” The woman stopped and turned around again, but her arms were still folded. “How do you know that none of these are worth buying, anyway?” Hudson asked, with genuine interest.
The corners of the woman’s mouth turned up, “Because I’m the one that had to fix them and cobble them back together.”
CHAPTER 4
The wicked smirk on the young mechanic’s face was infectious, and Hudson found himself grinning back. He’d come across a wide variety of sales tactics in his many years flying around the galaxy, but openly admitting your stock was junk was a new one to him.
“I guess that’s why Swinsler does the talking,” said Hudson, “I doubt you make many sales with a pitch like that.”
“You mean being honest?” shrugged the woman, before shoving her hands back through the slits in her coveralls.
Hudson nodded, “You’d be surprised how rare it is to find an honest person these days.”
“Believe me, I wouldn’t.”
Hudson smiled again and stepped towards the woman, stretching out his hand. “Hudson Powell, pleased to meet you.”
“Liberty Devan,” the woman replied, taking Hudson’s hand and leaving an oily smear on his palm. “Sorry about that,” she said, as Hudson brushed his palms together, trying to remove some of the grime. “Occupational hazard.”
“Don’t worry, I’m used to getting my hands dirty,” said Hudson. “So, what’s your story? How did you end up here, fixing up old wrecks for Swinsler and then warning his customers not to buy them?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” replied Liberty, with a lazy shrug.
“I mean it, I’m interested,” Hudson persisted. Then he looked back at the row of five ships. Even if what she’d said was true about them being old jalopies, it was still some feat to fix up a fleet of starships on your own. “With handiwork like that, you’d could easily get a position with the CET or one of the commercial fleet operators.”
“Did you miss the part where I said they were all junk?” said Liberty, maintaining her default standoffishness.
Hudson regarded Liberty for a moment. He didn’t buy her ‘not bothered’ act for a second. The one three one may have done more mileage than Swinsler would admit, but Hudson could clearly see it had been fixed up well. Hudson may not have been a great mechanic himself, but he was a good judge of character. And he could tell that Liberty Devan was the polar opposite of her oily boss.
“No, but unless I’ve deeply misjudged you, I don’t reckon you’d let Swinsler sell them if you weren’t confident that they were space worthy,” said Hudson. “If one of them did crash and burn, you’d know it was on you.”
Liberty studied him again for a few moments, before pressing her lips into a pout, “Fine, you got me. They’re all good enough to fly,” she admitted, but then hastily added, “but they’re still junk. Best I could do, though.”
Hudson shrugged, “To tell the truth, I can’t afford any of them, anyway, so it’s a moot point. I might get close to a deal on that little shuttle, but it’s no good for what I need.”
Liberty’s pencil-line eyebrows rose up and the pout returned. “So, what’s your story, Hudson Powell? What do you need a ship for?” However, before Hudson could answer, she added, excitedly, “No, don’t tell me – let me guess. I like this game.” She began to stroll off towards the rear of the boneyard, beckoning Hudson to follow with a roguish nod of her head. “Okay, so here goes… Your wife left you for a ruggedly handsome starliner pilot with a perfect smile and a six-pack. So, you’re buying a ship out of some midlife crisis act of rebellion, to show her what she’s missing?"
“What? No!” Hudson scoffed. “Hell, have you got any more clichés hidden inside that boiler suit?”
Liberty smiled, “Okay then, so how about this… You’re an aging, jaded college art professor, searching for adventure in the outer portal worlds, before he gets too old.”
“Where the hell do you get, ‘college art professor’ from?” Hudson replied, indignantly. “And what do you mean old?!”
“What, you’re annoyed that I think you look intelligent?” Liberty hit back. “And the leather jacket sort of says ‘art professor’ to me. Or maybe music? Anyways, you’ve got to be forty, right?”
“Wow, you really are a charmer, aren’t you?” said Hudson, wide-eyed. “With people skills like those, I’m beginning to understand why you’re stuck here fixing up old wrecks.”
Liberty rolled her eyes, then led Hudson around a corner before stopping in front of a ship. Unlike the wrecks they’d just walked past, which had all been dissected for parts to varying degrees, this one looked fully intact, if a little rough around the edges. Hudson took a pace back to take it in fully, then smiled because he knew exactly what it was.
“That’s a VCX-110 light courier runner,” he said, after blowing out a low whistle. “Man, that’s a good ship.”
Liberty’s face lit up at Hudson’s enthusiasm for the ship, as if he’d just shown appreciation for her pet dog. “It’s my own personal project. I love this ship, and one day it’s going to be mine.”
“You’d better hope Swinsler doesn’t sell it,” said Hudson, “a ship like this should be in demand. I used to fly these beauties from Earth all the way out to Chimera Four in the OPW territories. They never let me down once.”
“Except she doesn’t fly; she’s crippled,” replied Liberty. “That’s why she’s back here, till I manage to fix her up, anyway. Swinsler wants to break it down for parts, but I just threaten to down tools and he backs off pretty quick.” Then she became more contemplative again, “So, you’re a courier runner? That’s actually kinda anticlimactic…”
Hudson’s eyebrows raised up, “There’s nothing wrong with doing courier runs.”
“I didn’t say there was,” replied Liberty, “it’s just a bit ordinary and, well, you don’t look like an ordinary guy to me.”
Hudson stroked the bottom of his chin with his forefinger, contemplating how much to tell the curious young engineer. He wasn’t sure why, but she engendered trust, and trust was a commodity that Hudson had run low on recently.
“I guess it depends on your definition of ordinary,” said Hudson. Then he pointed up to the cockpit, “Mind if we take a look inside?”<
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Liberty smiled again and waved him on, before following him up the metal staircase to the open docking hatch. Hudson went directly to the cockpit – he could have found it with his eyes shut – and dropped into the pilot’s seat. Liberty arrived a few seconds later and slid into the second seat.
“If you really want the truth, until a few days ago I was an RGF cop,” said Hudson, admiring the switchgear and the layout of the cockpit. It was a hundred times better designed than the stripped-down RGF Patrol Crafts. Then he looked over at Liberty, who had been strangely quiet. She was staring back at him as if he’d just spat on the deck.
“You’re in the RGF?” she asked, but in a manner that sounded like she was enquiring whether Hudson was in league with the devil.
“I was…” Hudson said, emphasizing ‘was’. “I quit, but then they fired me anyway, bankrupted me, and stranded me on Brahms Three.”
Liberty’s mouth fell open a little, “Why did you get fired?”
“I quit before they fired me…” Hudson reiterated; this was still a point of honor for him. Then he grabbed the control column of the VCX-110 and let out a slow breath, as the past again entered his thoughts. “It’s a long story, Liberty. But the short version is that they represent everything I don’t want to be. They take advantage of people, and sometimes they hurt people too.”
“But you must have known they were corrupt, before signing up?” asked Liberty.
This had been a common question, which always came off sounding like an accusation to Hudson. Basically, they were saying, ‘you should have known better.’ It still riled him, but only because it was true. “A few people told me, but I didn’t listen,” Hudson replied.
Liberty again went back to studying Hudson as he continued to stroke the controls, lost in his own thoughts. She didn’t press him further; instead, they both stared out of the cockpit glass across the bay. The sight of the calm ocean waves helped to soothe Hudson’s battered soul.
