by J. S. Morin
Instead, Roddy gave the tech a sideways glare and stormed off for something to eat. Velocity Prime was laid out to keep imbecile humans from getting lost, so he had no trouble finding the cafeteria Carl had mentioned. It just dug at the back of his brain that he’d asked and had to put up with that tech for one extra minute that he could have been eating. He got in line just before they closed it off and grabbed a bacon burger and fries—human style, both slathered in grease. The first bite took the edge off his sour stomach and threw a regulator on his anger.
“Yo, Roddy-boy!” Carl shouted across the sea of tables. The place was mostly deserted. A few of the racers were hanging out with gaggles of friends or relatives, standing by the panoramic windows that overlooked the racecourses.
Roddy wove his way through the tables and chairs until he reached the spot Carl had picked out: a corner booth with seating for four. The extra space allowed Carl to sprawl out on his side with his feet up on the seat. Roddy was relieved to see that Carl was drinking soda. Right about then, beer was the last thing he needed to see, or smell, or be thinking about at all. Not that he was thinking about beer by not thinking about it. Never that.
“Fancy place they’ve got,” Roddy said as he slipped into the far side of the booth. “You gonna take these chumps for a quarter-million terras?”
“It’s not them I’m worried about,” Carl said, his eyes drifted to the lingering competitors taking in the view.
A rough-cut tourist with an unshaved beard slid into the booth beside Roddy. “This your mechanic friend?”
“We clear?” Carl asked.
The tourist gave a wink and patted a jacket pocket. There was a plastic thump. “No snoopers. Place is private as far as our voices carry.”
“Who’s this guy?” Roddy asked.
“Roddy, meet Hatchet,” Carl said, gesturing with one hand to each of them.
“Wait… the Hatchet? One of yours?” Roddy asked.
The erstwhile tourist offered his hand across the table. “Hiroshi Samuelson, Lieutenant, Earth Navy, retired. I haven’t gone by Hatchet since I flew with Commander Ramsey here.”
Roddy shook the offered hand. “No offense, but I had figured half your squad were bullshit stories Carl made up.”
“Still can’t get used to everyone calling you ‘Carl’ nowadays,” Hiroshi said. “What happened to just Ramsey, or even Brad?”
“Four years flying with a wife who took my name,” Carl said. “And the people I deal with these days would never take a ‘Brad’ seriously.”
“Well, nice to meet a Half-Devil,” Roddy said, recalling the nickname of Carl’s former squad, the 333rd. “But what’s he doing here? No offense.”
“He’s going to be a key player in a thing I’ve got figured out,” Carl said.
“A thing?” Roddy asked. “Racing contest for a quarter-million terras, and you’re putting together a ‘thing’ on the side?”
“There’s not a ton to do around here when the simulators are all taken,” Carl said. “So I got to thinking. But I’m getting ahead of myself. We’re waiting on one more. I don’t want to explain this all twice.” Carl’s eyes wandered up, staring over the heads of his two compatriots.
Roddy turned and saw her. Of course it was her. July’s hair had dried, leaving the violet color more vivid and no longer plastered to her head. Her clothes still clung to her, but it was in the fashionable manner meant to reduce guys like Carl and his buddy to mush, not residual dampness.
She slid into the booth and had her tongue in Carl’s mouth in one fluid motion. Roddy turned away and rolled his eyes. He couldn’t blame Carl for his species’ mating customs. If some laaku sweetheart with short-trimmed fur came waggling herself in front of Roddy, he’d have been just as helpless. Still, it didn’t mean he had to sit there and watch.
The grin on Carl’s face as he disentangled himself wasn’t fit for underage viewing. “July, this is—”
“Hatchet,” Hiroshi said, tipping an imaginary hat. “At your service, ma’am.”
“So what’s this little symposium all about?” July asked. “I don’t see any cameras around. We off the clock?”
“Yeah. Show’s over for the day,” Carl said. July immediately slouched into a more relaxed and less amorous posture. “Come on, let’s head down to the hangar. “
Roddy scarfed down the burger and fries a little faster than his stomach was hoping for. No hangar boss in his right mind was going to allow food or beverages (except maybe water) anywhere near his facility. He lagged behind Carl and his new lackeys until he finished, then hustled to catch up. The meal sat like lead in his gut. The empty, sour nausea gave way to the overfilled, smoking volcano sort, threatening to erupt any minute. The only thing keeping him from plotting a gruesome death for Carl was the prospect of running his hands along a real racing ship. If he killed Carl, they probably wouldn’t let him have free access to the hangar—which was a shame.
They all piled into a magnetic lift. The plaque on the inside wall listed the maximum occupancy of the cabin at twelve, but Roddy still felt closed in. He didn’t get claustrophobic squeezing into a ventilation duct too small to kneel in, but suddenly the walls of the lift cabin felt too tight. Loosening the collar of his shirt, he found himself panting to cool off.
“You OK down there?” Carl asked.
The lift lurched. Without its own artificial gravity, Roddy felt the downward acceleration as a moment of semi-weightlessness. That was the volcanic moment. A burger, fries, and some fair portion of the coffee he’d drunk all came back up. It was all he could do to limit his vomiting to the corner of the lift.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” Carl said.
“I’m fine,” Roddy said. He crouched on all fours, trying not to breathe in the smell of his stomach’s contents.
“This is the guy you want as your mechanic?” July asked.
Hiroshi just looked down at him with a puzzled frown.
“He’s had a rough day,” Carl replied. “Cut him a break. Besides, I’m not asking him to prepare food or keep the lifts clean. He’ll be fine with a Squall.”
Roddy spat into the corner. With no coffee and no prospect of refreshments in the hangar, there was nothing to wash the taste from his mouth. When the lift doors opened, he struggled upright. Though his insides were still jittery, he managed to walk without retching again.
Carl fished a keycard from the pocket of his jacket and waved it in front of a scanner pad next to the door. A light flicked from red to green, and something inside the wall clunked. The door slid open.
Inside, there were rows of Squalls, all different colors and markings. Many had their own shimmering forcefields preventing unauthorized access. The rest of the space had been given over to equipment for scanning, tuning, and maintaining the racing crafts. An overhead gantry drifted past, a three-coil main drive thruster dangling from its grip. As Carl led everyone through, their footsteps echoed on the steel floor panels. He waved to one of the few techs milling around, and received a lax navy salute in response—probably some retiree who Carl had sweet-talked.
July stared around in undisguised awe, clinging to Carl’s arm so she didn’t have to watch where she was going. “The big time,” she said breathlessly. “So smooth…”
Hiroshi strolled along, taking in the sights like he was shopping at a dealership. “Not sold on these stripped-down models. The hull is just for show—no composite plating. They’ve got no shield generators…”
“These are top of the line,” July countered, not taking her eyes from her gawking. “Not a bit of wasted weight. Engines almost twice as efficient as the Typhoon class.”
Carl swiped his keycard at one of the security force field controls. Four three-meter-tall posts fenced in a single Squall. Energy barriers ran between them—and across the top, Roddy noted. With that one swipe, the force fields buzzed, wavered, and winked out of existence. The four of them stepped inside and Carl reactivated the force fields behind them.
July let go of Carl’s arm and rushed over to the Squall. It was sleek black, with red stripes across each wing and one running down the center, interrupted where it ran into the cockpit. Every surface was unblemished, gleaming, and sculpted. Through the glassteel of the canopy, the black leather seat promised form-fit comfort. There was barely a hint of where the seams and access panels could be found. It smelled like coolant, fuel rods, and a fresh coat of polish. Roddy reached out to feel the surface, but stopped himself short.
“Go ahead, put your fingerprints on it,” Carl said. “You’re going to be working on it plenty. This one’s mine.”
“Wow,” July said. “It looks factory new.”
“Almost too pretty to fly,” Hiroshi said, finally looking impressed.
“2561 model. This contest is part of the marketing roll-out. They said it’s got two hours of logged flight time, and that was at the quality-control check before it shipped,” Carl said. He crossed his arms and leaned up against it. Roddy had seen Carl self-satisfied before, but the bastard had outdone himself this time. “What do you think? It is me?”
July shook her head, grinning. “I’ve seen you race in a simulator, but that bucket of yours seems more your style. You’re working class. These little angels cost over two million terras apiece.”
“Funny you should mention the cost,” Carl said. “Because we’re stealing it.”
# # #
The door to Carl’s dormitory quarters snapped shut behind the four of them. It was a cramped, sterile little space, all engineered plastics and dura-thread fabrics. The place was meant to take a beating without showing it. Probably saw a good thrashing or two at the hands of sore losers in its day, but didn’t show it. The two-bunk arrangement made Roddy instantly suspicious.
“You’ve got a roomie?” Roddy asked.
“That punk Jordan Myles,” Carl replied. “The holo-feed big wigs have a twisted sense of funny.”
“Security risk?” Hiroshi asked. Roddy should have picked up on it instantly that any of his naval buddies that Carl still kept in touch with would be the larcenous sort. Hiroshi hadn’t balked at Carl’s plan. Of course a Half-Devil would be suicidal.
“This whole damn thing is a security risk,” Roddy replied. He climbed onto the bunks, searching the walls for hidden cameras and transmitters.
“The place isn’t bugged,” Hiroshi said. “That’s not what I meant. What about that kid racer?”
“He’s showing off for his parents and girlfriend,” Carl said. “Giving them the tour. We can work around him. Minor annoyance.” He plopped himself down on the edge of his bed.
July opened her mouth. She gestured with her hands. No words came out.
Roddy hooked a thumb at the violet-haired racer. “You want a security risk? There’s your security risk. You were thinking with your plumbing getting her involved with this.” He looked Hiroshi in the eye and saw a common understanding there. It made solid sense for Carl to trust this guy. Navy buddy. Years of track record. Been under fire. July was a grenade with the pin out. It wasn’t a matter of whether she’d blow; it just boiled down to when.
“It’s no… It’s just… I mean, really?” July said, throwing up her hands. “You’re not just joking about this?”
“I get that a lot,” Carl said. “But no. This is for real.”
“You’re criminals!”
“Keep your voice down,” Roddy snapped. “You’ve been seen coming and going from the Mobius. You’re as good as an accessory for all anyone’s going to believe.” There were times for truth, and times to put a little lie behind them. July hadn’t done anything but hook up with an idiot spacer and crash one night on his ship. Phabian wasn’t Earth; she’d get cleared of any charges if she turned them all in right now. Roddy had to trust that Carl knew that, too.
“You said you wanted to be big time,” Carl said. “After this, no one’s going to forget your name, and no one is going to know you had anything to do with a Squall going missing.”
“Not that I doubt you,” Hiroshi said with a smirk. “But how the dusted legions of Plouph are you going to pull this off?”
Carl dug a hand into the pocket of his jeans and came out with a data crystal. “Tanny’ll know how to decrypt it. It’s got the whole plan. Hiroshi, you’re going to consult and take care of some stuff off-system—not to mention be our ace in the hole against Harmony Bay. July, you’re our liaison to the Mobius.”
“What do you need from me?” Roddy asked. It seemed like he’d be more use on the Mobius than dried out and miserable on Velocity Prime, even if the local toys were nicer.
“For this plan to work, I need to stay in the running to the final race,” Carl said. “You’re going to make sure I race with the best of them and watch my back so no one dusts me. Plus it’ll be fun.”
# # #
Tanny plugged the crystal into her datapad. She had no idea what the factories made them from, but once Carl was done with one they were constructed of little more than lies and larceny. Whatever was on this one was probably good for twenty years of judicial confinement. The crew and the two newcomers hovered over her; since when had the kitchen table of an old diplomatic shuttle become the hub of daring heists?
“You need a hand working that thing?” Hiroshi asked. She shot a glare at him, but an insouciant grin kept her from minding the jab. It was like old times having him around—pre-Mobius times. Shore leave on Farin III, drinking on the beach after Brick’s wedding, that camping trip to Centaris… Hiroshi had been with a different girl for each of those. Most of the other Half-Devils had been like him: single, hard-drinking, and eager to cram as much living as possible into lives under constant threat of a quick, violent end.
“Does anyone else remember that we came to Phabian to stay out of trouble for a while?” Esper asked from behind Tanny. The ex-priestess watched over Tanny’s shoulder.
Tanny stood. “I need space,” she said. “Give me ten minutes to go over this. If it’s one of Carl’s get-us-all-killed plans, I’m deleting it.”
“Hey, who put you—” July started to ask.
“Carl,” Tanny said. “When he’s not here, I’m in charge. And if he’s planning on lucking his way through a job right in the brightest green security this side of Sol, I don’t want any of you getting it in your heads to try anyway. Someone on this tub has to think things through, and it’s certainly not Captain Fishing-for-Trollops.”
“Excuse me?” July said. She grabbed an arm as Tanny shouldered her way through the knot of would-be race-ship thieves. A half second later there was a thud, and July was lying on her back, staring up through the glassteel dome over the common room.
Hiroshi winced. “I remember how much that hurts.”
“Maybe cooler heads ought to try prevailing,” Mort said.
“If you tried to read Carl’s plan, we’d miss our time window before you found the file,” Tanny replied. “As much as I don’t want to get us all arrested—most of us, anyway—Carl might have come up with something worth pulling. It’s been known to happen.”
Name the last time. She could almost hear Roddy’s voice, even though the laaku was out at Velocity Prime watching Carl’s back. “But fine,” she said, tossing the datapad to Esper. “Let Miss Conscience give it a once-over. If she’s OK with it, I can’t imagine it being anything the rest of you would object to.”
“Um, sure,” Esper said, juggling the datapad until she cradled it against her chest. “Hopefully Carl doesn’t plan on getting anyone hurt or killed or arrested or anything. Maybe if we get enough money, we can do some good with it, other than just scraping to get by.”
“Do what you want with your cut,” July said. “I can’t go spending mine for a long, long time if I want a racing career. Too many people know I’m broke. Hell, I had to do a damn interview about my childhood and dreams of racing. I mean, I played it up for the show, but I’ve never had money.”
Esper nodded. “I know how that goes.” It was easy at times to forget that
Esper’s past went back much further than her stint as a priestess or her family turning into the nouveau riche. Her father had piloted a shuttle-bus or something.
“Should have joined the navy,” Hiroshi said. “Pay’s so-so, but your overhead dries up. You can muster out with a nice pile of terras if you play it right. ‘Course, that would’ve meant no more plastic-and-paper Squalls.”
“Yeah and coming back to a life of crime to pay the bills,” July said. “You and Carl are so set for life thanks to Earth Navy.”
Hiroshi smiled. “I’m not doing this for money. I’m not even getting a cut.”
“What?” July asked.
“Go ahead and tell her,” Tanny said, crossing her arms.
“I’ve owed Carl a debt so long, the thing’s about old enough to grow a beard,” Hiroshi said.
“Lemme guess…” July said, slouching against the wall.
“Classified,” Hiroshi replied, grinning.
“And you know about it?” July asked.
“Yup,” Tanny said. “Carl’s shit with keeping secrets. How he ever got clearance for anything classified is a mystery.”
“He’s better at it than you think,” Mort said softly. There was a gravel in his voice that gave Tanny a chill.
For a long while, no one spoke. Mort had a weird way of imposing silence. Tanny had known him for years, but there were still dark corners of him that he kept locked away. How much more of his past did Carl know? He was a kid when Mort had signed on with Chuck and Becky Ramsey as their ship’s wizard. They’d known each other twenty years.
Somewhere amid the arguing, Esper had slipped away to read Carl’s instructions.
# # #
It was a strange plan. That was Esper’s first thought as she finished reading through it. Something wasn’t right in the head of a person who could conceive of a heist that had so many moving pieces that all needed to fit tight to work. Cycling back to the top of the file, she read through it again, hoping a second attempt might make sense of it.
