by J. S. Morin
OBJECTIVE 1: Win the contest.
It’s me. I got this covered.
OBJECTIVE 2: Scrounge Typhoon parts.
Hatchet can help out with this stuff. That’s why he’s in. For now I mainly care about parts that the Typhoon and Squall share. No weapons systems. No shields. No hull. Don’t pay any more than you have to. Non-functional scrap is fine. If anyone asks and you have to tell them something, it’s a hobby project. A fixer-upper. Hell, it’s almost Christmas; tell them it’s a present for me. Best not to say anything at all though. Most of the sorts who deal in scrap don’t ask a lot of questions.
OBJECTIVE 3: Nail down the logistics.
Once I win, I get a gig on the major circuit. Real races. Real racers. NOT ALL HERE at Velocity Prime. Squalls have to get shipped to the races. It’s small-time freight. One valuable piece, but not worth as much as a bulk freighter full of computer cores or a convoy of marine armaments. Silde Slims won’t be paying for an escort in green-sec space.
We need to figure out where I’ll be racing and when. First big event of the new year, I’m guessing. Track down past transit routes, ship types used, and who operates them. Does Silde Slims have their own or do they hire out? Where do they get their pilots? How many crew are we talking? Learn anything you can without…you know… letting anyone know you’re looking.
OBJECTIVE 4: Seed money.
I’ll deal with the Harmony Bay guy. We can write off any big payoff from them, get them out of our way, and score even bigger. I’ll negotiate for what I can, but I don’t plan on getting rich sticking my nose in their feedbag. I’ll get us square with them, but I’ll do it myself. I’ll get him out to Velocity Prime on a visitor’s badge—I’ll think up some reason.
OBJECTIVE 5: Get an inside man.
I’ll work on this. We need to get leverage on some of the ground crew or freight handlers, or whoever-the-hell moves Squalls from one race to the next. Hopefully I can wedge Roddy into the mix, since he’s my mechanic. But I need to get someone who has access to the ship that will bring my Squall to its first big race. Doesn’t have to be someone to fly it, just someone who can get on board for a couple hours without raising suspicion.
OBJECTIVE TIME LINE:
We don’t know where I’ll be racing, so we won’t know when. It might be as soon as the night after the contest ends. I want everything lined up for the end of the contest. Anything that isn’t 100%, get whatever you can.
THE PLAN:
Once I win the Silde Slims Racer contest or whatever they’re calling this thing, I get to be a big-time racer. Right? So that means I go on the pro circuit, racing all over ARGO space on a tour of all the major courses. Fuck that. This isn’t my idea of a lifestyle. So when they ship my Squall to its first race, the transport is going to run into a little problem.
I’ve got Roddy with me, and the two of us are bound to be on the freighter that hauls it. I’m not going to go prima donna and demand a first-class passenger liner or some shit. Roddy will rig some sort of emergency on the ship—maybe life support—so we all have to eject in the escape pods. He’ll sabotage the sensors and all that stuff, too.
That’s when the Mobius comes up from the deep Astral and grabs the Squall out of the hold. Set the freighter on a crash course. You guys slip off into border space; me and Roddy and the crew of the freighter get picked up by ARGO Search and Rescue. Silde Slims finds wreckage and writes off the Squall.
FALLOUT:
I swear off racing. We leak rumors that my classified background contains run-ins with mopping up pirates, and this was payback. Some pirate captain wants to ruin me. Silde Slims lets me out of my race contract, maybe with a little payout on the side, because their insurance won’t want to deal with a racer who’s got a target lock on him wherever he goes.
Then me and Roddy book passage and catch up with the rest of you wherever you dig in to wait out the storm.
Esper rubbed her eyes. It made sense in a way—a Carlish sort of way, at least. But there had to be easier ways to make money and more undeserving people to take it from. Harmony Bay, for starters. Carl’s plan only touched on the interplanetary conglomerate long enough to get them out of the way. It then used a high-profile holo-feed contest to infiltrate a race organizer just to hijack a freighter, eject the crew, and steal one thing from inside.
She sighed. “I can see why pirates just blast ships and see what’s inside. So much simpler. When does Carl find the time to think up all this gobbledygook? Doesn’t he have enough to worry about with the contest?”
# # #
Carl yawned as he shuffled along amid the other contestants. It had been a morning of formation flying and official race certifications. Apparently, there was more to racing than just start-to-finish. There were flight demonstrations, pre-race parades, and post-victory exhibition laps. The contestants had to be prepared to perform precision maneuvers in sync with other pilots. There had been grades handed out—points toward a final ranking and race position for the final race.
The blinking light of the camera drone caught his eye. He looked directly at it, winked, and pantomimed a blaster pistol with his finger. July had told him not to just make nice with the cameras, but to posture for them. How much shit he could get away with would be directly proportional to how popular he became as a holovid persona.
“Carl,” the hostess called out as the line of pilots filed past. He had watched an archive episode of the show to discover that her name was Zuri Mamani. “Care to comment on your disappointing showing in the formation flying? As a former navy pilot, wouldn’t you have extensive experience flying formations?”
Carl gave an easy smile. “Fly a fighter in formation, some hostile’s gonna do some basic geometry and have himself a shooting gallery. Don’t you worry about me. I think we should take some time to give credit to the cadets here who look like they were born to fly around in formation. I think we saw some future pros out there today.”
And Zuri moved on to the next contestant. Not the next one in line, but the next one with a story. Not having a story was dangerous. If Silde Slims wanted to rig anything—or even just pick its battles to favor one pilot over another—they’d do it to keep the fan favorites at the top of the heap.
Roddy was waiting for him once the pilots dispersed. The black uniform with Silde Slims logos made him look almost professional. The bloodshot eyes and 2-liter mug of coffee dialed that pro look back a little. “You flew like shit.”
“So what?” Carl asked, checking over his shoulder for recording drones or contest officials. There were none looking his way. “This was the perfect time to shed my front-runner mystique. I keep my badass image, take an early bath on points, and put some other poor bastard in the crosshairs. You get a comm to our potential sponsor?”
“Yeah,” Roddy said. “You’re meeting him tonight after dinner. How much you think he’s worth?”
Carl tried to stuff his hands into his jacket pockets before realizing he was wearing a Silde Slims flight suit. He hooked his thumbs on his belt to keep from looking like an idiot. “Doesn’t matter. Just need something to start a pre-ignition cycle.” Carl snickered. “Money to burn.”
“Let’s grab lunch,” Roddy said. “I’m dying here.”
The two conspirators took seats by the panoramic windows of the cafeteria and watched the tractor ships haul asteroids around. Rumor had it they were upping the density on the field. Silde Slims wanted to make a maneuver like Gthaa’s trick to beat July all but impossible.
“Ain’t no one flying through that tangle,” Roddy remarked as he stared out into the shores of the Black Ocean.
“Not at racing speeds,” Carl agreed. “Makes the field look even faker than usual. There’s no place in the galaxy with asteroids that close together. Even a fresh debris field scatters in a matter of hours or days. Plus nothing’s moving out there.”
“Safe. Predictable. Sentient made,” Roddy said. “Put money on it that a laaku does their course design work.”
Roddy made an unimpressed grunt. “So what? It’s a race. First one to hide in the asteroids is the first one out of the running. They have great sensor feeds covering the raceways; that’s all that matters.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? It’s a race.”
“Maybe it isn’t,” Carl said.
“You been getting enough sleep?” Roddy asked. “Breathing coolant fumes? That—right outside this window—is nothing but racing.”
Carl nodded absently. “Yeah. Everyone seems to think that, don’t they?” A plan was forming in his head. Not a new plan exactly, but a solid backup to the one he’d just sent off to Tanny.
# # #
Tanny dropped into the pilot’s seat with a satisfied sigh. The Mobius was fueled, buttoned up, and ready to fly. There was no last-second update from the engine room that some key system was down for maintenance, no snarky commentary from over her shoulder. For the time being, Tanny was in command.
“This feels wrong,” Esper said from the co-pilot seat.
Of course, it wasn’t debutante-grade peaches and rosebuds. While Tanny had lost the devil sitting on one shoulder, she still had the annoying angel sitting on the other. “He’s fine. I just talked to the director of XenoNative species, and Kubu’s having a blast.”
“Did you at least talk to him?” Esper asked. “It’s been days. He must miss you.”
“He was napping after playing with some tiger cubs from an Earth-like I’ve never heard of.”
“You could have had them wake him up,” Esper countered. “He’d have been happy to hear from you.”
“Happier than playing with tiger cubs?” Tanny asked. “Come on. He’s having the time of his life.”
Esper sat and watched as Tanny made her pre-flight checks. Engines: fine. Main power: fluctuating, but within safety limits. Life support: 95% efficiency. Weapons: offline but available. Shields: on standby with 20% power, which was about all the Mobius could ever manage to put through its cruiser-grade shield generator. A few minor subsystems were griping about one minor issue or another, but nothing worrisome. Esper was still just staring at her.
“What?” Tanny snapped.
“I didn’t say anything,” Esper replied calmly.
“You’re looking at me like I’m an awful person to leave Kubu there,” Tanny said.
Esper pursed her lips. “That’s an awful lot to say in just a look. You sure you’re not seeing the mirror of your conscience?”
“Quit with the One True Guilt crap,” Tanny said. “I don’t need a spare conscience.”
“You’re off to gather supplies and intelligence to steal a starship,” Esper said. “I don’t think leaving Kubu at the zoo a few days will land you in prison.”
Tanny fired up the main thrusters. “Whatever,” she muttered as she reached for the comm. “Orbital control, this is vessel Mobius, Earth registry…” she checked the placard riveted above the console. “066129-AN-9821, requesting clearance to leave Phabian.” The traffic controllers were pricks. They could just as easily get the ship’s ID from the comm feed, but she had to read it off every time she contacted them. It was probably just a laziness defense against idle requests.
“Vessel 066129-AN-9821, you are cleared for departure. Come back soon.”
“He sounded nice,” Esper said.
“Pains in my ass, the both of you.” She followed the orbital path transmitted to the Mobius and headed toward the system’s edge.
# # #
The door alarm chimed, and Carl answered. Clay Puente from Harmony Bay stood outside like a landlord visiting the tenements. Carl poked his head out the door and checked up and down the corridor. No one.
“Get inside,” he said.
Puente stepped into the dormitory room, and the door snapped shut behind him. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, his posture straight as a laser, as if he was afraid to get dirty by touching anything. Not that it was an unfounded fear. Between Jordan Myles’ habit of bringing food back to the room and Carl’s aversion to laundry, the place was a biohazard site after just a few short days of occupation.
“I am glad you have finally decided to meet with me,” Puente said. “This will work out best for both parties.”
Carl squinted at him. “That accent… Earth for sure, but I can’t place it. South Africa?” he guessed.
“Excellent ear, Captain Ramsey,” Puente replied. “Johannesburg Prime. But you’re Earth born yourself.”
“Only on file,” Carl replied. His feet were sore from a long day of milling around talking to people, getting the lay of the facility. Much as he would have liked to sit, he didn’t want Puente looming over him. Bad negotiating. “I was born in space. But that’s not why we’re here.”
“Do you have the item?”
“It’s not even in-system by now,” Carl replied. Tanny and Hatchet would be scouring this half of the galaxy looking for Typhoon parts. “But don’t worry. You’ll get it. Just not until we have a deal.”
“We are behind schedule,” Puente said. “I am authorized to make concessions, but I must insist on haste in the exchange.”
“No can do,” Carl said. “And by that, I mean I don’t think you can do. You’re going to need time.”
Puente narrowed his eyes. “What are you after? I won’t be toyed with.”
“I need a clone,” Carl said. “Of me.”
“Out of the question!”
“And the twenty-five grand we were originally supposed to get,” Carl said.
“Harmony Bay has no cloning capability beyond simple limb and organ replacement,” Puente said. “And it would be unethical to—”
“Stow it,” Carl said. “We met the cloned professor guy. Did you not get the report from the Bradbury about the time they tried to dust us? You fine, upstanding boys and girls can clone any damn thing you want, I bet. I don’t need it alive; I just need a spare all-of-me. This isn’t the safest profession in the world, and I want transplants, not cybernetics, if I get maimed in one of these races.”
“What you’re asking isn’t possible,” Puente said. “I can’t agree to any such deal.”
“Then my crew ditches your little plastic mystery box in a sun somewhere,” Carl said. He plopped himself down on his bunk. Now that he had the advantage of momentum, he didn’t need to look Puente level in the eye.
“I’ll take your request back to my superiors.”
“Good,” Carl said. “We’ll set up the funds transfer as an advance on a sponsorship deal for when I win this contest. And you’ll need this.” Carl pulled a small vial from his pocket and tossed it to Puente. Carl grinned at the tidy, dignified Harmony Bay flunky unclasping his hands and panicking to catch it. “I pocketed this from my medical exam. Blazes knows what they needed to take it out for, with scanners these days. Figured I needed it more than them.”
“Will that be all, Captain Ramsey?” Puente’s voice was stiff and formal, with a hint of gritted teeth.
“Deliver it to my crew by December 27th,” Carl said. “Ask for Mriy; she’s not squeamish. You don’t get your box until then. And it’s guarded by a Convocation wizard, so don’t get any smartass ideas about snatching it.” Carl paused, waiting for Puente to depart. “Go. Get out of here. I’ve got shit to do, and you’re on the clock.”
# # #
Roddy tapped a foot as he waited for Carl to separate himself from the crowd of pilots. The textured polymer of his foot-glove slapped against the polished glass floor, sticking a little each time he raised it. It was routine by now. Contestants would get put through their paces for a couple of days—drilled, monitored, mentored—then run out for some competition that had nothing to do with an actual race, then get awarded points. It was a crock. The whole production, from ho
lovid camera crews to phony news reporters, was just a big fluffy nothing wrapped around the promise of a big race at the end.
He was stationed with the rest of the mechanics. Each of them would pair off with their pilots to go over the results of the day’s contest—twitch-reflex starts—and discuss engine and control modifications. He and Carl were very likely the only two who had a heist going on the side. As such, he was less worried about Carl’s performance and much, much more worried about system law enforcement getting wise to them.
Too many amateurs. That was the problem. July was around too much. Esper needed seasoning out in border space before she was ready for green-security system work. Carl vouched for Hiroshi, but Roddy had no idea how much actual skill he had at black market work. Roddy would trust the guy with his life based on Carl’s word alone, but rookie mistakes didn’t care about intentions. But at least the rest of them had the Mobius, and they had Mort. Carl and Roddy were a long way from a fast starship. Squalls were racers, but real-space was no way to make an escape.
The camera drones caught Carl, as usual. Roddy couldn’t make out the substance of the interview, but he could read Carl’s body language like a picture book. Condescending. Jovial. Flirting with the news girl. Perfunctory ending. The Silde Slims people were past trying to correct Carl’s flippant treatment of the contest and his competitors. He was a personality. There were sites popping up on the omni where people guessed at his military background, traded doctored photos, and just generally did what fans did with new celebrities—they devoured him in effigy. The big dope was oblivious to it, too. Esper had been the one to clue everyone in.
“Hey hey, Rod-ster!” Carl called out, pointing a finger from each hand in Roddy’s direction. Occasionally insufferable in the best of times, Carl had taken his front-running villain persona too new depths of annoyance. “Excellent throttle modifications. Asked how high when I told her to jump.” And now all of a sudden his Squall was a ‘her.’ Wonderful.
One beer and this would all go away. Someone would smell it on his breath. He’d get reported, tested, and kicked out. There’d be some trouble with the Substance Control Board, but Tanny could get him off Velocity Prime and out of the Phabian System before anyone could arrest him—maybe. But the risk seemed so worth it. One beer, and he’d feel like himself. Three and Carl would start making sense. Ten and Roddy wouldn’t care whether Carl was singing off key or ruining the tuning on his guitar. “Let’s grab something to eat,” he muttered instead. He’d put on two kilos since they arrived.
