Pirates of the Outrigger Rift (4 page)

The men took hold of Kendrick, who tried in vain to fight them off. They restrained him in seconds.

“Please, no! Listen to me! I told you everything I know! I—”

The doors closed behind the men as they dragged Kendrick off.

Silence.

Maxwell called the cat back to him. It gave him an annoyed look and walked off. Maxwell smiled; he had something to report to the council.

Hank Jensen grinned as the small woman exited the bar. She was a tough one. He couldn’t help liking her. Maybe she was his salvation, but more likely, like most women in his life, she would turn out to be the devil incarnate. Either way, he couldn’t turn down money right now.

He went over his options. Nearest he could figure, he didn’t have any. A free-trader’s life was always a gamble. How could he have known that the market for Polytungstan would collapse almost overnight? How could he have planned around that rebellion on Carthas? It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t fair, but fair or not, those two financial disasters had broken his back.

Still, he had to admit he’d reaped the benefits of chance and fate often enough in the past. You had to take the bad with the good. That was the price of freedom.

Jacbar, the bar owner, was one of the lucky ones. He got out with enough in savings to start a business. Most free-traders ended their lives in starport gutters. The odds were always with the house.

But there were the exceptions, those trader lords who struck it rich. They were fabulously wealthy, living in pleasure palaces on the rim of Manspace, free from corporate interference. The call of El Dorado still lured men to their deaths.

Hank wished, maybe even daydreamed, but didn’t believe that load of shit for a heartbeat. He was content that for at least a while longer he would be free to roam the spaceways, master of his own destiny. The ride was what interested him, not the destination.

He checked the time on the comlink at his wrist. It was late. There was a lot of work to do before he spaced out. He activated the unit to call the one woman he loved. “Elsa, it’s Hank.”

A voice answered from the wristband. “Who else would it be? What’s up?”

“We have ourselves a gig, honey. A passenger. I’m fixing to make a deposit right now. We blast out of here in an hour.”

“What’s the destination?”

Hank hesitated. “She says we’re going to Raken.”

“Oh no. Tell me you didn’t,” Elsa said.

“What?”

“You know what I mean. You said ‘she.’ This is another one of those hard-luck cases, isn’t it? A damsel in distress?”

“Honey, I am the original hard-luck case. We can’t afford to be too choosy. I haven’t eaten in so long my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut. I’m so poor that—”

“Enough! Just make the deposit and I’ll handle the details. It’s just that I have a bad feeling about this.”

Hank grinned. “Are you sure it isn’t jealousy?”

“I should say not! You’re the most egotistical man I have ever known. You, my friend, are not the great prize you think yourself to be.”

“Ah yes, but you love me anyway, don’t you?” Hank switched off the com. Things were finally looking up.

He ordered another drink and started contacting the dockmaster to deposit funds to pay for his berth fee and fuel. After that he’d call his creditors. He was sure they’d be surprised that he was actually making a payment instead of an excuse.

CHAPTER THREE

T
he docks stretched for several kilometers. They were arranged like spokes shooting out from a central hub. Spaced evenly down the spokes were the individual berths, flat concrete segments crisscrossed by conduits and cables, highlighted here and there by spaceships rising majestically to the sky.

Protected walkways ran underground with blast doors leading to the outside at every berth, open until the time of launch.

Sai stood for a time, then began pacing back and forth at the blast doors to dock B, berth ten. She’d been waiting an hour and a half.

“Shit!” she said for the hundredth time.

She heard someone whistling down the walkway. Sai ducked in the threshold and readied her blade. The echoing tunnel prevented her from locating where the sound was coming from.

Then she heard singing.

“
…
The next thing I heard was that lonesome sound, the drive kicking in, as they left the ground. And that’s how my baby spaced out …”
It was Hank’s voice.

Sai put away her whisperblade and stepped out of the doorway, hands resting on her hips.

Hank saw her and waved. “Hi, honey. Sorry I’m late.”

“Where were you? I’ve been waiting for over an hour!”

“I had to take care of some business that got a little more complicated than I thought. We can leave in a few minutes.”

“What about the fuel?”

“Already loaded. I paid the dockmaster to send one of his guys over and do it earlier,” Hank said, walking to the ship and keying the door mechanism. “Any more questions?”

“No, let’s just get off this damn planet.”

The door opened. “After you, darlin’,” Hank said, motioning for her to enter.

Sai gave the exterior of the ship a once-over before going inside. It was a squat, well-worn Pioneer-class scout ship, renovated for use as a trading vessel. “Can you even get this shit bucket off the ground?”

“What? My
Elsa
? Why she’s as fine a ship as I’ve ever flown. Sturdy as a rock.”

“Rocks don’t fly.”

“Look, if you’d rather wait for a commercial liner, that’s fine with me, but the deposit is non-refundable.”

Sai grumbled, but she followed as Hank led her up the ramp to the inner airlock. They cycled through and stepped into the cramped living quarters, which consisted of two sleeping bunks, a nutrition station, and a small workspace. Mostly it was cramped because of the trash that littered the floor and the piles of dirty laundry.

“Oh my,” Sai said. “When’s the last time you cleaned this place?”

“Clean?” Hank said, as if he’d never heard the word.

Sai fanned a hand before her face and wrinkled her nose. “It smells like something died in here.”

Hank shrugged and walked forward to the cockpit.

“We need to get going. You can sit up here with me if you promise not to touch anything.”

Sai followed him.

“Take a seat.” Hank punched a few buttons and the engines thrummed to life.

Sai sat in the copilot’s chair. “Thanks.”

She watched as he deftly checked status lights and ran through pre-launch checklists. He moved efficiently, with military precision. It was obvious that the man was in his element. Perhaps there was more to Hank Jensen than his drunken buffoon act.

“Clearance codes coming through. You’d better strap in,” Hank said, fastening his G-harness.

He hit a bank of switches, and the engine’s dull throb cranked into a high-pitched whine that set Sai’s teeth chattering. Hank pushed the nav-control, and fusion fire erupted from the exhaust ports. The ship shot skyward as the G-forces slammed her back in her seat.

Out the front viewport, Sai watched the ground retreat and rush by in a blur as the ship shot up and forward, apparently on automatic. She scanned the control console, reaching out with her mind to sense the control circuits. The finer points of the navigational controls eluded her, but the computer interface was remarkably sophisticated. She scanned deeper. Complex patterns flashed across the control net. Her mind reached out to the circuitry and began to sort through the pathways of impulses.

“Stop it!” Elsa said, her voice emanating from the com.

“Oh my God,” Sai said.

“What’s wrong?” Hank asked.

Lurking beneath the navigational controls, the life support monitors, the hydraulics and cables, Sai detected a sentient entity. “What kind of hardware do you have controlling this thing?”

Hank stared at her. “It’s some surplus military gear, why do you ask?”

“It’s more than that.”

“Why do you say that?” Hank shifted uneasily in his pilot’s seat.

“I just know. This isn’t a normal ship.”

“I don’t like her,” Elsa said.

“Elsa, you aren’t helping. Go back to plotting our course.”

“She’s a cyber-psi, and she has no respect for privacy!”

Sai had dealt with this all her life. When people discovered she was a computer telepath, they were uncomfortable and guarded. But usually it involved privacy of their bank accounts, or personal writings and images; this was the first time that she had actually entered another entity’s mind. She had never experienced anything like it. Part of her felt ashamed because she truly had invaded Elsa in a way that was inexcusable.

“We all have our secrets it seems,” Sai said, speaking toward the ship’s console. “I am truly sorry. I had no idea that you were …
you.
Tell you what. You keep quiet about my secret, and I’ll respect yours. I don’t want to cause you any problems.”

“I suppose in light of the circumstances, I should go ahead and formally introduce you to Elsa,” Hank said. “She can’t hide from you. Elsa, meet Sai.”

“I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I’m still mulling over that shit-bucket comment, and I don’t take kindly to uninvited guests snooping around in my thoughts.”

“Again, Elsa, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I won’t do it again.”

“See that you don’t. I’m not as easily distracted by a pretty face as Hank.”

Hank smiled and shrugged. “Elsa’s program is based on an actual scout, a woman who patrolled the Outyonder during the Psi Wars. I knew her then. She was a friend. And now, she’s a hell of a lot more than just a ship: she’s my partner.”

“Unfortunately, it seems like I’m mostly a silent partner. I must say that I would occasionally like to have a bit more say-so when Hank tries to make the occasional boneheaded move—such as taking on this run. You, little miss, are trouble.”

“Now, now,” Hank said. “Don’t get catty. You two are going to have to get along.”

He didn’t speak again until they were free of Nebula Prime’s polluted atmosphere. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll have you on Raken in no time. If you want to catch a few hours’ sleep, there’s an extra bunk.”

“Clean sheets?” Sai asked.

Elsa piped in. “Don’t count on it.”

“Hey,” Hank said. “I changed those sheets last year.”

Sai reclined the copilot's chair. “I think I’ll just stay here, thanks.”

“Wise decision,” Elsa said.

Sai closed her eyes and spent the rest of the uneventful flight napping.

Chandler arrived at Tyree’s Emporium on the planet Raken for his rendezvous with the courier early enough to take a walk around the block, searching out of habit for anything that raised a warning flag: a conspicuous stranger hanging around a street corner, an occupied parked floater, a pedestrian who did a lot of walking but never seemed to get anywhere.

It paid to be cautious in his line of work. The job covered the rent, but it could also make a man dead.

On the job, some dicks liked to wear leathers and exo, which made them stand out like a corporate lord in a slum. Chandler favored the opposite strategy. For this job, he wore oil-stained tech-crew coveralls and a weathered jacket to blend in with the crowd and avoid attention.

He reached into his jacket pocket and repositioned his blaster, which weighed him down like a tombstone. He glanced at his watch. It was important to stick to the timetable.

Dusk, and the streets were busy, as usual. Day or night didn’t matter: the ships came in at all hours, and thirsty, horny spacers poured into the city like wild dogs. Raken enjoyed the bounty of being a crossroads world where several major trade routes intersected. Hemdale City had the planet’s largest starport, and the wildest Starman’s Quarter to go with it.

Whorehouses and gin joints appealing to human and alien tastes were boom industries. Tyree’s would be raking in the credits tonight.

The streets were still slick and reflective from the afternoon rainstorms. Floaters swooped overhead as the pedestrian traffic made its way across the pavement below. Colored lights danced from the street signs, and music blared from several bars. Savory and not-so-savory aromas from sidewalk food vendors teased and assaulted his senses with exotic meats and spices from across the galaxy. One stand offered a particularly exquisite-smelling snail the size of his fist, swimming in garlic sauce, which might have tempted Chandler except that he knew those critters lived on the droppings of something unspeakably vile.

As Chandler walked along a back alley, a hairy bisteen wearing drellskin pilot leathers staggered by arm-in-arm with a human female. The woman’s hair was dyed blue, with lipstick to match, and she wore expensive leathers. The bisteen stopped suddenly and doubled over, vomiting a green mush.

The woman stepped back and covered her mouth and nose.

The bisteen spoke between heaves. “What’s your problem?” He wiped his face with a hairy paw and reached for her.

She turned and walked away from the alien pilot.

“Your loss,” the bisteen snarled, stumbling away down the street.

Chandler avoided the pair and walked out of the alley.

He looked up as the sun threw the last of its light across the red clouds and struck the sign, featuring a glowing green caterpillar wrapped around the word “Tyree’s.” One of the caterpillar’s arms stuck out and raised and lowered a long, thin pipe to and from the bug’s smiling lips. Every third puff, the caterpillar blew smoke rings that floated above its head and formed the word “Emporium” magically in the air.

Tyree’s stood at the edge of Starman’s Quarter and attracted a wide range of interesting guests. Apparently the local execs loved to slum there.

Chandler crossed the street toward the entrance and stepped through the winged doors into the smoke-filled bar. As he entered the room, his eyes scanned the crowd. Typical collection of spacers, down-and-outers, whores of multiple sexes scattered around, with a few exec-types trying to look spiff and, even though Tyree’s didn’t specialize in non-human activities, a couple of aliens. He couldn’t make out an obvious courier anywhere, and the transponder key in his pocket was still.

The dimly lit club spread out in a circle. A catwalk lined with booth tables stretched around the circumference. Before him, a short staircase dropped into a central pit that held more tables, most of which were occupied. In dead center stood the bar, with six bartenders mixing drinks and quite a crowd lined up before it.

Chandler took a seat off to one side, facing the door. He checked his watch. If everything went smoothly, it wouldn’t be long.

A slack-jawed waitress in a black dress sidled up to him. He told her his poison and in a few minutes she returned with a double Blackjack.

Chandler took a sip of his drink and considered his current situation. He’d already spent a portion of the retainer, making one more payment toward the
Marlowe
, his combination transportation, office, and home. In another three years, he’d own it outright, just in time to haul it to the junkyard.

He observed the patrons. Something nagged at him about the guy at the bar wearing the tattered trench coat. The man’s hair was messed up and he needed a shave. He held his drink with both hands, cuddling it like a baby. But something didn’t seem right.

Just then, he felt the transponder begin to vibrate in his pocket as a woman entered the bar. Her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders and rained down the back of her black jacket. Under the jacket she wore a silver half shirt that exposed her taut belly. Her skin-tight mesh pants tucked into her boots at the knee. She didn’t look like a spacer so much as a girl who wanted to be
with
a spacer. He shook his head. Way to stay low-profile.