by G J Ogden
He checked the scanners and saw that Cutler’s ship was only seconds behind them. “Shit, he must have decelerated harder than us,” said Hudson, setting a direct course for the rest stop station. “Hold on, this might get a little hairy…”
The proximity alert sounded, and Hudson thrust the Orion hard to port, as tracer rounds snaked out ahead of them. Then the alert sounded again as the space station started to engulf the cockpit glass.
The radio automatically switched on to the alert frequency, and an urgent broadcast from the space station came through the speaker. “VCX-110, M7070-Orion, abort approach immediately or you will be fired upon.”
“Hudson…” Liberty called out, gripping the arms of her seat so tightly that the blood drained from her knuckles.
Hudson pulsed the thrusters again, pushing the Orion down below the station’s belly. Another volley of tracer fire rushed past the window, and an alarm sounded on Liberty’s console. “Outer hull breach in the cargo hold!” she called out, checking the damage readout. “It hasn’t penetrated though; we’re okay.”
Hudson swung the ship up, trying to hug the space station as closely as possible. Another warning broadcast filled the cabin, and Hudson knew he’d have to break off soon, otherwise the station would start shooting at them too. Then he spotted a CET transponder on the navigation scanner and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Liberty, radio that CET patrol ship,” Hudson called over to the second seat, while continuing to weave a chaotic course. “Tell them we’re under attack.”
Liberty nodded and then grabbed her headset, before switching to the indicated channel. “CET Patrol Craft, this is VCX-110, M7070-Orion. We are under attack by bandits! FS-31 Patrol Craft Hawk-1333F has opened fire. Please respond!”
Hudson and Liberty waited anxiously until the response crackled through the speakers. “Message acknowledged. Stand by, Orion…”
Hudson checked the navigation scanner and saw the patrol craft start to accelerate towards their position. “Good work, Liberty, it looks like they’re coming to the rescue,” he said, veering away from the station and heading towards the portal gate. Then he smiled over at her. “Bandits, though? This isn’t the Wild West!”
Liberty laughed, “You could have fooled me…”
Just then the CET patrol craft shot above them and Hudson saw it fire a burst from its cannons.
“Did they shoot him down?” asked Liberty, hopefully.
Hudson could still see Cutler’s ship on the navigation scanner, and shook his head. “No, it was likely just a warning shot across their bow,” he said, but then noticed that the ship had veered away. “Cutler has broken off; now’s our chance to make a run for the portal.”
Hudson powered up the main engines and angled the nose of the Orion straight for the front of the line.
“Isn’t there a queue for a reason?” asked Liberty. Her facial muscles had already cycled through about a dozen different ways to express fear, concern and anxiety, but Hudson was impressed that she still managed to discover a new one.
“Queues are for losers and British people,” said Hudson, dismissively. A message flashed up on their screens from the gate controller. “VCX-110, M7070-Orion – you are not cleared for transit. All line jumpers will be subject to a 5000-credit fine.”
“Sounds like queues are for people who don’t want to bankrupt themselves…” added Liberty, with a healthy slice of snark.
Hudson continued to power towards the portal. He knew about the fines, and he also knew there was a risk they’d emerge on the other side of the portal directly into the path of a freighter. Like a yacht sailing in front of an oil tanker, this was something that could spoil a pilot’s day pretty quickly. But neither of these prospects were worse than the alternative.
“We could be sitting in that queue for an hour,” said Hudson, calmly. “That’s an hour where Cutler can devise any number of creative methods of cracking open our hull like an egg.” He turned to face her. “So, what’s it to be? Five thousand credits, or a cold, miserable death in space?”
Liberty shook her head and growled her acceptance. “Fine, run the portal,” she said folding her arms. “But I’m going to get that five-grand back from Cutler Wendell one day, even if I have to beat it out of him.”
CHAPTER 20
Despite Liberty’s objections, and Hudson’s own reservations concerning the risks of running a portal, the plan had actually worked. Not only had they helpfully not emerged into the path of an oncoming ship, but Liberty had re-started the engines in four minutes flat. The first was sheer, dumb luck, while the second was skill, combined with an intrinsic knowledge of what made the Orion tick.
After a quick fly-by of Chopin Four, they had transited though the portal to Brahms Three in less than an hour. This was in part due to another uncomfortable two-point-five-g burn, and the fact that no-one else appeared desperate enough to want to travel to Brahms Three. In that time, there had been no further sign of Cutler’s ship. With any luck, they had been arrested by the CET, Hudson hoped. However, knowing Cutler Wendell, he assumed the mercenary had probably slimed or bribed his way out of trouble again. Either way, he knew it wouldn’t be the last he saw of him.
Hudson touched down the Orion in the small spaceport on the edge of Brahms Three’s scavenger town, and powered down. His body ached from the force of their prolonged acceleration. However, even without the added g-forces, the ordeal of their escape had caused his muscles to remain tense.
“I don’t know about you, but I need a drink,” said Hudson. He unclipped his harness and then stretched his arms and legs, like a cat that had just woken from a long nap.
Liberty got up too and straightened out the kinks in her neck, “I think we just blew all your drinking money getting away from Cutler.”
Hudson quickly checked the credit scanner, noting that the CET had already automatically deducted the fine for running the portal. Typical bureaucrats… he thought. Useless at pretty much everything, apart from collecting money. “We still have enough for the docking fee and to top up our fuel,” Hudson said, sliding the scanner back into his pocket. “But after that, we are going to need to bag another score.”
Hudson headed out of the cockpit, beckoning Liberty to follow him. “Anyway, the bar I have in mind doesn’t accept credits.” He stopped and smiled back at her, “And I know you’re still hiding away some hardbucks inside that snazzy getup of yours.”
“If by ‘snazzy getup’ you mean my clothes, then I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Liberty answered, haughtily.
“Come on, don’t hold out on me,” replied Hudson, stepping down the short flight of stairs to the main deck. “Besides, there’s someone I want to introduce you to.”
Liberty shook her head and followed, “Looking at the state of this town, I shudder to think who…”
Hudson took care of the landing fee, while Liberty refueled the ship. Considering the relative sportiness of their recent maneuvers, it hadn’t used nearly as much fuel as Hudson had expected. Liberty put this down to a number of personal modifications to the fueling system and engines that had improved efficiency. Hudson just nodded and smiled as she detailed the various changes, not understanding a word of it.
Once they were done, Hudson led Liberty out of the space port and into the stifling heat of the scavenger town. As usual, the streets were filled with the reverberant, deep bass thud of the nightclubs, and the musky scent of street food, sweat and incense.
“You take me to all the nicest places,” said Liberty. She was frowning at the streets, lined on either side by converted shipping containers stacked two or three high. As she was taking in the new setting, a man in a long black coat that seemed entirely inappropriate for the stuffy climate sauntered up to her. He slid a sweaty, grime-smudged hand out of the coat and held up a clear bag, containing a leafy, yellow substance.
“Hey, darlin’, looking to buy some…”
“Walk away now, or I break all your fingers�
��” Liberty interrupted, before the man could finish his sentence. The man peered back into her eyes, glanced across to Hudson, who merely shrugged, and then quickly withdrew his hand and hurried away.
“See, you’re a hit with the locals already,” said Hudson, cheerfully.
“Someone’s getting hit, that’s for sure,” said Liberty, coolly.
Hudson laughed; Liberty’s mastery of passive aggression never ceased to amaze him. “Come on, the place we’re headed to is just a couple of streets along from here.”
They continued on, playing a game of counting the number of different types of proposition that each received en route. Liberty reached seven by the time they arrived at the door to the Landing Strip, compared to five for Hudson. However, Hudson still declared himself the winner. This was based on the fact that two shady underworld types had actually offered to buy Liberty from him, and he had selflessly refused. Liberty disputed this claim, saying that the old crone who’d asked, ‘how much for an hour with your dad?’ trumped them all. In the end, they called it a draw, and pushed through the door into the bar.
“Hudson Powell!” bellowed Ma, as Hudson’s boots clomped across the wooden floor of the Landing Strip. “Well shit – you’re not dead!”
“Not yet…” said Hudson, who was then pulled into a tight bear-hug by the wiry older woman. Hudson could feel his feet lifting off the floor as Ma continued to squeeze the air from his lungs. He thought he might pass out, before she eventually released her hold on him. His feet thudded to the floor, as if he was an empty beer barrel that Ma had just changed.
“This calls for a celebration!” Ma declared, slapping her hand on the bar. This had the effect of waking up a white-haired old man at the far end of the counter, who had apparently passed out. He, along with five others sitting at various tables, were the only others in the bar.
Ma ducked down under the counter and returned moments later with a square whiskey bottle and two tumblers. She was half-way through pouring the first measure when she noticed Liberty. She was still standing mid-way between the door and the counter. Liberty had the look of someone who’d walked into a party and suddenly realized she didn’t know a soul there.
“Who’s the girl?” Ma whispered to Hudson, while pouring the second measure.
Hudson twisted back and ushered Liberty forward. “Martina Nunes, meet Liberty Devan.” Then he turned back to Ma and smiled, “Co-captain of the good ship, Orion.”
“You got a ship?” said Ma, beaming first at Hudson and then at Liberty. Hudson nodded. “And you got a crew?” Hudson nodded again. “And you two are relic hunters?” Hudson laughed, and nodded for a third time. Ma suddenly let out an excited shriek that almost knocked Hudson off his stool. Then the former relic hunter reached over and grabbed Liberty, pulling her into a hug and practically smothering her face against her bosom. She then dropped Liberty and reached under the counter for another tumbler, before slamming it down on the counter with gusto.
“So, how did you two meet?” asked Ma, filling Liberty’s tumbler from the anonymous, square bottle. “I’ll bet it was saving his ass from another one of his dumb schemes.”
“Hey!” protested Hudson, but Ma just shushed him.
“I warned him off buying the crappy ships on sale at the yard I worked at,” said Liberty, picking up the tumbler, “but then I decided he was a sort of okay-ish kinda guy, and decided to allow him the honor of being my pilot.”
Ma laughed and raised an eyebrow at Hudson, who was scowling.
“That’s not exactly how it went down,” sighed Hudson, “but I guess it’s close enough.”
“Some kind of bad-ass you got here,” said Ma, nudging Hudson’s arm. “And about time too. You’ve been kicking your sorry ass around this galaxy on your own for too long.” Then she picked up her tumbler, waited for Hudson to raise his, and proposed a toast. “To the hunt.”
Hudson and Liberty repeated the toast and then they all drained the contents of the tumblers. Hudson had almost forgotten just how potent Ma’s distillation was. It stole the breath from him, like Ma’s hug. He glanced across to Liberty, who had one eye shut, the other twitching involuntarily. She was slapping her hand on the bar as if tapping out to an MMA submission hold.
“Shit, Ma, are you making this stuff stronger with each batch?” said Hudson, after he was finally able to speak.
“Yeah, this one has a nice, smooth kick to it,” she said, as if describing a bottle of mild hot sauce. Then she re-filled all the tumblers and looked at Hudson intently. “So, what really brings you back to Brahms Three? I’m sure as hell it’s not the scenery.”
Hudson took a sip of the whiskey and became more solemn. “To tell you the truth, we need your help,” he began. This time, Ma didn’t respond with a jibe or witty quip. She just held Hudson’s eyes and listened attentively, while Hudson detailed their adventures so far.
Several minutes and another two whiskeys later, Hudson had finished, and Ma rocked back on her heels, looking deep in thought.
“And you say this Logan Griff and Cutler Wendell won’t stop coming after you?” Ma asked. Hudson shook his head. Ma again thought for a moment, before saying, “Okay, Hudson, I’ll do you a deal. I’ll act as a bank for any relics and hardbucks you want to put in safe storage. And I’ll make sure that your ship,” she hesitated and glanced at Liberty, “what was its name again?”
“The Orion,” said Liberty, smiling.
“I’ll make sure no-one messes with the Orion, while it’s docked at Brahms Three,” Ma continued. “And, this place will always be a sanctuary, should you need it. In here, I don’t care whether you’re a hunter, an RGF cop or a CET soldier. This is my place, and it’s my rules. In here, you’re safe.” Then she looked over at Liberty again. “Both of you.”
Hudson blew out a relaxed breath, “Thanks, Ma, I knew I could count on you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” said Ma, keenly, “It’ll cost you ten per cent of whatever you stash here.” Then she tapped the bottle. “And you’re going to have to start paying for all the damn whiskey you’re drinking too.”
Ma’s mention of payment seemed to jolt Liberty into action. She lowered the zip on her jacket and then reached inside, before pulling out a small stack of hard bucks.
“See, I knew you were holding out on me!” said Hudson, slapping his hand on the counter, triumphantly.
Liberty offered the hardbucks to Ma, but she just waved them off. “This is a celebration, and it’s on me,” said Ma, “so, shove them back where you found them.”
“Thanks, Martina,” said Liberty, tucking the notes away again.
The former hunter smiled, “Call me Ma.”
Just then the door swung open and heavy boots thudded inside. Hudson could see Ma’s eyes sharpen, like a hawk that had spotted a potential prey.
The door closed again, and Hudson heard one set of boots walking up behind him. A stool screeched across the wooden floor as it was drawn back from under the counter top, and a woman sat down. Hudson looked over, noting the body-hugging, but rugged-looking pants, and the fitted jacket that reflected the strip lights in the bar like Samurai armor. He didn’t need to look up at the woman’s face to know who it was.
“Whiskey,” said Tory Bellona, looking at Ma, before twisting on her stool to face Hudson.
CHAPTER 21
Hudson knew that Tory’s arrival meant that Cutler Wendell wouldn’t be far behind. He glanced up at Ma, indicating the danger with a simple raising of his eyebrows. Ma acknowledged the gesture with an almost imperceptible nod of her head, and then walked over in front of Tory. Peering into the mercenary’s cold blue eyes, she placed an old, chipped tumbler on the counter top, grabbed a bottle of her cheapest whiskey, and filled the glass.
Hudson glanced over at Liberty, noting that she had already shifted position, ready to spring into action if required. Then he slid off his stool and turned to see Cutler Wendell, standing just inside the door, as if waiting for an invitation.
&nbs
p; “Fancy seeing you here,” said Hudson, as Cutler stared back at him glassily.
“You know, I’m getting really tired of chasing you around the galaxy,” said Cutler, taking a single step forward. It was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic or genuine, given the measured, almost sinister way in which he spoke every word.
“Then why don’t you stop doing it, dumbass?” replied Hudson. He decided that his more macho, ‘relic hunter’ persona was merited, given the circumstances. Then he noticed that Cutler was armed, and that the strap on his holster had already been popped open, before he’d entered the bar. Hudson was still wearing the shoulder holster and pistol that Tory had given him, but it was still fastened in place. That, coupled with the numerous whiskeys he’d already knocked back, didn’t give him much confidence of coming out on top in a quickdraw contest.
Hudson stole another glance over to Tory, who had downed the first shot. She was rudely tapping the chipped tumbler with her index finger, while staring at Ma. The last time Hudson had seen anyone look at Ma the way Tory was now, that person had ended up in the infirmary with a shattered nose. Hudson noticed that Tory was also armed with her signature single action revolver.
“Oh, I intend to stop, right here, on this shitty little world,” Cutler continued, drawing Hudson’s attention back to the mercenary. “Because I can shoot you right now, and be gone before the CET even realizes what happened.”
Hudson could see Cutler’s fingers twitching, like a Wild West gunslinger, and he felt his pulse quicken. Cutler wasn’t bluffing, and he was also correct; he could shoot Hudson and be gone, before he would be able to react. And from what he’d seen of the CET forces on Brahms Three, it was also true that their response would likely be less than effective. He tried to think of a way out, but the truth was he was cornered.
Cutler’s hand moved towards his weapon, but before his fingers reached the grip, Tory had drawn her revolver and slammed it down on the counter, finger on the trigger. Tory’s action was like springing a trap. The instant her weapon had been drawn, chairs screeched and the sound of hands clasping metal echoed around the room. The six other occupants of the bar had woken from their apparent stupors, and all drawn weapons. Three barrels each were now levelled at Tory and Cutler. Even the white-haired old man, who had been passed out at the far end of the counter when Hudson arrived, had pulled a gun. He was aiming it at Tory with a steadier hand than Hudson could have managed in that moment.
