Deuces Wild: Beginners' Luck
by L. S. King
appearing in Ray Gun Revival
"Reluctant Allies, part three"
"Occupants of the freighter Manta, this is spaceport security. You have pirated that ship. Return to the spaceport. This is your only warning."
Slap gripped the armrests even tighter, his eyes widening. "Brago's Bands! What now? Freighters don't have weaponry."
"Only defensive turrets. And they are"—Tristan's lips thinned as his hands flew over the panel—"engaged. Unless you have something against protecting yourself against your planet's space patrol."
Slap snorted. "You do know that most of the cops are on the Mordas' payroll?"
"I always assume such things. Makes life much simpler. My current worry is outrunning them. I wish we had a better ship."
"Well, why did you take this piece of junk?"
"Because someone's high moral stand against stealing left me few alternatives. Stealing from a dead man didn't offend your sensibilities too much." Tristan shot a cutting glare at Slap for a second before returning his gaze to the controls.
The ship rocked and shuddered, flinging Slap sideways. He grabbed the sides of the chair. "Hey, they're shooting at us!"
"Remarkably perceptive." Tristan peered at one of the read-outs. "The turrets are operational. But there seem to be blind spots."
Two ships slid past their bow. Slap gasped. "They're cutting us off! We gotta get outta here!"
"I'm trying."
The ships now before them turned. A red light on the panel drew Slap's attention. "Incoming! I sure hope those turrets are working!" Slap leaned forward as he figured out the screen in front of him. "We have four behind, plus these two in front! Can't we go faster?"
"You want to get out and push?" Tristan snapped.
Slap ground his teeth. He knew he sounded like an idiot but he was helpless, no more than useless cargo. He knew how to fight on land—barehanded or with weapons. But being in space, on a ship with nothingness outside and no way to combat, he felt out of control, almost hysterical. If only he could do something!
A bright flash directly ahead made Slap wince. "What was that?"
Tristan chuckled softly. "So. The turrets aren't just defensive—they're offensive as well. Look at the display."
Slap glanced down. Two ships remained behind, and only one in front. He looked out the port again. Another explosion made him shut his eyes. "Brago's Bands! Lyssel knows how to refit a ship!"
"Indeed. I noticed when we came aboard that this thing has two capacitors for the jump engine, not one. And it's not the old-style heavy fusion reactor, but antimatter."
Slap laughed. "Not your typical cargo ship."
"No." Tristan sat up a bit straighter. "Hold on, we're at a Lagrange point. I'm going to engage the jump engine."
This was it! Slap was leaving his home. He had never wanted more than his family, his homestead. Others had looked up at the sky, watched the ships roar up into the atmosphere, and longed to leave, but not Slap. Yet here he was.
He wished he could see behind, see the planet. He closed his eyes for a moment in remembrance. Pale hair and blue eyes, a smile that could melt hearts—oh, sweet Shallah. Tiny arms waving above a happy baby face—little Evan, so innocent, given no chance. A long, grey visage emanating patience and wisdom—good-bye Ol' Pa. He swallowed hard and opened his eyes to see stars swirl then settle into place.
"What happened?"
"We jumped. I need to change the registry before we do anything else."
"So we're safe?"
"For now." Tristan didn't look up as he worked.
With a nod, Slap unstrapped. "I'm going to the galley. Want me to bring you something to eat?"
"No. But getting acquainted with this ship is a good idea. Take the gun and be alert in case we were wrong about being alone."
Slap grabbed the weapon and his pack and headed out the door.
The Manta, only needing a handful to man her, had merely one deck for the crew. Slap began checking the crew quarters and heads on the exterior wall, trying to tread softly on the metal floor plates so his boots didn't give a hollow thunk with each step. He left his pack in the port cabin next to the head and across from the galley. Nothing like convenience. The ship had six cabins for crew and two heads total. Four ladders led below, one fore and aft on both port and starboard sides.
When he had come full-circle to the bridge, he checked the interior rooms—the captain's cabin right across the hall, behind the bridge, a room that looked like a combination dining area and lounge, with doors that opened to the starboard and port sides of the hall. Lastly, the galley—his ultimate destination. His stomach rumbled in anticipation.
He opened the door and felt for the lights. They came on and he blinked. He walked across to doors he suspected were storage cabinets and opened them. Empty. He went over to the next doors—empty as well. Uh oh. He snatched another door open, then another. Shelf after empty shelf. A lower cabinet revealed bowls and utensils. He went to the corner closet, but a scraping sound made him pause, his stomach lurching. He pulled out the gun. A rat. Has to be a rat. Those critters find their way everywhere. But he hefted the weapon before yanking open the door.
A woman huddled inside, eyes wide, and curly hair falling around her face. "Don't hurt me."
"Who are you?"
"I'm an engineer." She sniffled and wiped her nose. "Who are you?"
"An engineer, huh? I was hoping you'd say you're the cook. Get out."
Slap backed up, his gun trained on her, as she crawled out and stood. He stepped sideways to the wall and keyed the comm. "Hey, Tristan, I found someone. An engineer."
"Space him."
The woman gasped, and her lower lip trembled. She looked ready to drop to her knees.
Slap sighed. "Uh, I don't know that I could do that. But anyway, it's a her."
"Even worse. Space her."
"I ain't gonna space no woman!"
"Then I will. Where are you?"
"The galley."
"Be right there."
"Now wait—Tristan? Tris? Awww." Slap keyed off the comm and glared at the woman for complicating things.
She burst into tears.
Great.
Slap wasn't going to let his guard down, tears or not, but he couldn't believe this woman was Mordas. She seemed too vulnerable.
Tristan soon entered, his own weapon drawn, and she backed against the wall, whimpering.
Slap held out his arm to ward off his dark companion. "I won't let you space her."
Tristan narrowed his eyes at her, and gave Slap a disgusted look. "Her sex makes her no less dangerous. Probably more so. And if she is an engineer, locking her up is taking a chance. Who knows what mischief she could devise."
Could Tristan really mean to just kill her in cold blood? "But, you can't just space her!"
"Why not? She's Mordas. She'd space us if she could."
"I'm not!" The woman pushed her curly hair out of her face. "I'm not Mordas. Honest, I'm not! I'm just an engineer."
Tristan's lip curled. "Working at night?"
"They said they wanted the ship readied as soon as possible."
"I saw no tools or evidence of work being done in engineering, or anywhere else on the ship. And why didn't the Mordas use their own engineers? And what rate of pay does your union recommend for such unusual hours, hein?"
The woman stared at Tristan, mouth open.
He took a step closer, teeth gritted. "Who are you really?"
Slap held his breath. Tristan's voice had grown cold and hard, sending shivers up Slap's spine. Who was this guy?
With a snarl, the woman spun, one foot hooking at Tristan. He blocked. His fist shot out so quickly that all Slap could see was the result—the woman on the floor, unconscious. Slap whistled through his teeth.
"Pick her up."
"I won't space her."
"She's Mordas."
Slap clenched his teeth and hissed, "I don't care who she is. I won't space anybody!"
"You're going to get us killed with this attitude!"
"I mean it!"
Tristan's nostrils flared, and his eyes bored with black ice into Slap's. Finally he muttered to himself and said, "We can't leave her here. Pick her up."
Slap hesitated. He wasn't about to cart her away to space her. But Tristan was right; they couldn't just let her be. He started to put the gun in his waistband, then thought better of the idea—if she woke up, the weapon would be within grabbing range. He held the butt end toward Tristan. After the dark man took it, Slap leaned over and picked the woman up. She didn't weigh much, but from the kick she threw, she must know how to fight. Well, not against Tristan. Remembering how they met, he knew that his companion could take on several men at once and come out on top. She hadn't had a chance.
But what would Tristan do with her? He followed along until Tristan started down the ladder to the hold.
"You gotta be kidding!"
"Pass her down then."
Slap shook his head. He didn't trust Tristan. With a sigh, he shifted her weight and tossed her over his shoulder. He made his way down, feeling for each rung with his feet, and letting go with his one free hand to grab at the next crosspiece. Once at the bottom, he turned to his buddy. "What now?"
"We'll stow her as cargo."
"Why not just lock her in a cabin?"
"She might find a way out. But since this isn't an ordinary cargo ship, the hold has some special, hidden compartments that can be locked down."
"She'll smother if she's sealed in!"
"We can regulate air supply."
"And what about food and water?" Slap blinked, remembering. "Oh, forget about the food. We don't have any."
"We don't have much fuel either. We have to find a place to refuel and restock. And soon. We can dump her when we do."
#
"But who is she?" Slap dogged Tristan's heels all the way to the bridge. "I mean, if she were a guard, she'd have a gun, right?"
"I don't care if she's the captain, the captain's mistress, part of a cleaning crew, or the mascot. She's Mordas." Tristan keyed the lock and entered the bridge. He sat, his eyes scanning the read-outs.
"But we can't—"
"Look," Tristan twisted to look up at the tall irritant. "I have more important things to worry about. Like getting fuel."
Slap nodded. "And food."
Tristan turned back to the controls, not deigning to answer.
"Where can we get fuel and supplies?"
Leaning back, Tristan said over his shoulder, "If you see a flashing sign for a quick-stop way station on an asteroid, let me know."
The chair spun, snapping Tristan around to face the cowboy. Slap's face snarled close to his. "Stop treating me like an idiot. I'm outta my home pasture, and I know it, but I ain't stupid! I think I asked a fair question. Where can we get fuel?"
Tristan nearly retaliated but held himself in check. The cowboy had a point. But Tristan's temper tended to be proportionate to his stress level. And being saddled with this sidekick definitely had spiked the latter. He inclined his head in acquiescence.
Slap slowly straightened.
"Let me check our position and see what might be nearby." Tristan hesitated, adding, "Nearby being relative. Keeping this ship operational until we can refuel might mean limiting power."
"Wouldn't it be a good idea to do that now? Just in case?"
"Can't hurt." Tristan pointed at the other chair. Might as well teach the man something so he could earn his keep. "You can pull up the power read-outs and see where we can conserve. But don't cut power to anything without asking, it might have repercussions you don't realize."
Slap sat with a grateful look, glancing over the board. "How do I access 'em?"
Tristan bit back a smart reply. Instead he tried a small smile. "I bet you can figure it out."
Slap looked surprised, then snorted and pored over the board. Good deed for the decade done, Tristan turned his attention to the nav display. There had to be some place near—a colony, base, mining operation, something. He checked the distance of the choices the computer presented. Not good.
The blessed quiet broke when Slap shouted, "Ha! Got it!"
Tristan closed his eyes for a moment, before resuming his search for something close and workable.
"You know, it looks like we could cut most power to this deck. The rooms are all empty." A low rumble made Tristan look over. Slap glanced down toward his stomach and shrugged with a sheepish grin. "Even the galley isn't being used."
"Makes sense. I'm sure you'll want to keep power to that aft compartment where the stowaway is."
Slap shot him a dirty look, and nodded at Tristan's board. "Find anything yet?"
"Our choices are spare. And dicey. I'd suggest we shut down anything we can."
Tristan didn't mention spacing the woman again although that would save energy. Slap didn't understand the danger they were in, and had enough morals to get them killed. He had to find a place to leave the cowboy. And soon.
"So what is it we need? The hydrogen or anti-hy?"
"Hydrogen. The anti-hy is only available at deep space depots, for obvious reasons. They had filled up before landing."
"I don't get it. Why didn't they have the hydrogen tanked up?"
"Same reason the galley isn't stocked. They weren't planning to go anywhere, so they didn't have the ship ready."
"Great. Do you usually run into this problem when stealing a ship?"
Tristan glared. "I'm not in the habit of stealing ships." Often. "We were a bit pressed for time and limited in choices, if you remember." Tristan let his breath out in a sharp exhale. "If I keep this ship for any length of time, I'll have to outfit this tub with a hydrogen scoop."
"What's that?"
"Just what it sounds like. A large portion of solar wind that flows out from a star is pure hydrogen plasma. If we had a scoop, we'd not have to worry about running short of fuel. But Lyssel must only have used this ship for specific, short trips."
"So do we have any other alternatives? I mean, is hydrogen all you can use for the matter?"
"Anything that can be turned into a gas can be used, if the ratio of matter and anti-matter is adjusted. But other than the ship's atmosphere, we don't have much available. And I don't want to give up breathing just yet. Now if you don't mind, I'm trying to calculate which is our best destination."
"Um, wouldn't that be the one that's closest?"
This is why I prefer solitude. Tristan took a deep breath. "Not necessarily. The closest is a low-tech colony, agricultural. They have a reputation for not liking visitors. The next is a military installation."
"Agricultural, huh? Just farming, or do they have ranches too?"
Oh, what an easy solution if he could just dump the cowboy on those people! But no. He shook his head. "You can't just land and ask for a homestead. They have about a year's worth of red tape to get approved. They're Separatists."
Slap sniffed. "So were my folks. But it didn't stop others from trying to horn in on them. You think they'd help if I gave them some pretty patter?"
Tristan whirled around in the chair and stared at the cowboy. "You don't seem to be a very smooth talker."
"Yeah, not like you. But I know these type of folk." Slap scratched his chin and grinned. "I can talk their language."
"If they don't help us, we're stuck."
Slap chortled. "If they don't help us, they're stuck with us."
Tristan looked the cowboy over as if seeing him for the first time. Was there more to the man than met the eye? Blue eyes sparkled as if Slap knew he held a winning hand. What the hell, let the kid try.
"We have just enough charge in the one capacitor to make a short jump. From there, we'll be near enough to the colony to do a quick burn on the plasma drive and drift in. That saves just enough fuel that we should be able to safely land. So that puts our ETA at five hours."
Slap nodded, frowning. "What about the woman?"
"Let's worry about fuel before we worry about her. If I were you, I'd take care of any personal needs now. Once we're drifting, we'll need to be strapped in. I have to cut inertial dampers, or we'll lose too much velocity. And if you're a praying man, pray. Because we're vulnerable the whole time we're adrift."
#
Tristan closed his eyes. He hadn't slept yet since meeting his new companion. No wonder he felt so testy. He could doze for a few hours and might as well, since he couldn't do anything until they reached the colony. He let himself fade into blessed oblivion—
Tp tp tp t-t-t-tap. Tp tp tp tp t-t-t-tap. Tap.
Tristan's eyes shot open, and he glared at the cowboy's fingers drumming on the arm of the chair. "Do you have to do that?"
"Hm? Sorry. I'm bored." Slap subsided, sighing, then sat up straight with a gasp. "Say—what about the woman?"
"What about her?"
"We didn't warn her. What if she gets hurt?"
"That's her tough luck. If she stays still, and nothing hits us, she'll be fine."
"But—"
"It's moot. We can't go warn her now."
Slap leaned back. Tristan closed his eyes again.
"So where are we going after we get fuel?"
Tristan blinked. "Look, I'd like to rest a bit before we reach the planet. Do you mind?"
"Huh? Sure. No problem."
Slap hummed to himself, and Tristan gritted his teeth. Only four and a half hours more.
#
"What's the new name of this bucket?"
"Giselle."
"What's that?" Slap asked, wrinkling his nose.
"A name. Now go ahead and call."
"Um." The cowboy keyed the comm. "Cargo ship Giselle calling Voolmurra Colony. Request permission to land."
After a wait, the answer came: "We have no record of cargo due, Giselle."
"Yeah. I know. I'm sort of in a bind. I just need fuel and supplies. I can pay."
"We don't do much off-world trade, and we don't like outsiders."
"I hear ya. My folks were Separatists too."
"Were? You're not?"
"Were meaning they're dead. And I was turned off my homestead. Guy who sold me this ship cheated me on top of it. That's why I need supplies."
"You were cheated, yet you have money?"
"I hired on a captain, seeing as I don't know much about ships." Slap cut his eyes over to Tristan. "He has a little stake he'll give, seeing as his belly is as empty as mine, and he's as stuck in space as me if we don't get some fuel."
"And you're really a Separatist?"
"I had a great spread. Third generation. Fertile land, lots of cattle, and some pretty mustangs too. I lost it all." Slap's voice caught, and he continued on in a softer voice. "I lost my family."
Silence. Tristan held his breath. The cowboy had to be convincing; he was telling the truth. But would these people believe him?
"Switch on your viewer."
Slap did, and a man's weathered face peered through the monitor.
"Young one, aren't you? But your face is tan, not pale like a spacer." The man hesitated then asked, "You aren't looking for a new stake here?"
"Naw. No offense, but I wanna get farther out. Know what I mean? The Dusties are all over this sector."
Tristan frowned for a moment then realized that Dusties was a slang term for Industrialists. A term to note and remember.
"Yeah. Hold on." The Separatist looked down for a moment and sighed. "Permission granted. The beacon will guide your ship to its dock. But only you are allowed off the ship. Your captain will have to stay aboard."
"No problem. Thanks."
After transmission ended, Slap slumped back in the chair, letting his breath out with a loud whoof.
Tristan silently agreed. And he had to admit, the kid did a great job. Now if those Separatists just didn't change their minds.
He leaned forward and passed an e-pad to the cowboy. "Here. I anticipated they wouldn't let me aground. I made a list of what we need. And don't let them try to trick you into deuterium—we need cheap. I'm not worried about a more efficient energy yield."
Slap nodded, reading the e-pad.
Tristan tapped the cowboy's arm to make sure he had his attention before continuing. "Now, they may not take the quel from your planet or credchits. Ask, but be prepared if they say no. I have an account they can pull from, or if they demand cash, I have enough stellars to buy whatever we need. They'll probably hike the price, and I don't know how much dickering you can do—they know we have no choice."
Slap stood and crossed his arms. "I was bargaining horseflesh and selling cattle for my father when I wasn't but two spits tall. I'll get what we need."
#
Slap shook his head, trying not to sweat. "I'd have expected those prices for deuterium, not hydrogen. I can't spend that much on fuel. We need food, or we ain't going nowhere."
"That's my best deal, son." The man said, leaning back on his desk. "Take it or leave it."
Slap let his shoulders slump and scratched his cheek. "Then I guess I'll be seeing about hiring on somewhere. My captain won't be happy, but if it's a choice of sitting on a ship and starving, I'm sure he'll work to earn extra so we can buy what we need. How long do you think it would take for us to earn the difference between what I've got and what you're asking?"
The man straightened. "You serious?"
"Dead serious. I told you. I was cheated when I bought that bucket. I wouldn't have this much to spend if my captain hadn't had some stake put away. I'll be back." Slap turned and put his hand on the door. "Some time."
"Wait."
Slap hesitated, and slowly turned, keeping his expression sorrowful. Would the threat of outsiders stuck here outweigh this guy's greed?
The man rubbed his neck. "If I cut the price much lower, I'll take a loss."
"I understand. I just can't pay. Thanks anyway." Slap opened the door.
The man groaned. "All right. But it's got to be cash up front."
Slap squinted, hunching his shoulders. "All I've got in cash is quel. My captain has some stellars. Are they all right?"
"Yeah, I'll take both. Quel is as good as stellars, being so close to the Three Systems."
#
The dock hands left, and Tristan checked the cargo one more time. All the supplies were aboard. Everything was going well. Only one problem remained. Gun in hand, he went to the compartment where the woman was and unlocked the door.
She sat huddled in the corner, arms around her knees. Blinking, she covered her eyes against the light. Then she began cursing.
"Softly, softly." Tristan backed away from the opening. "You can leave."
"What? You lock me in the dark and leave me forever, then I get bounced around and bruised—"
"You're lucky that's all that happened. I said you can go. Or I can turn you over to the port authorities as a stowaway."
She lifted her chin while rubbing her arm. "Who do you think they'll believe?"
Tristan gave her a cold smile. "I know whose story they'll buy. So it's your choice."
The woman bit her lip, doubt on her face. She stood and sidled past him, eye on the gun, then ran across the cargo deck and down the hatch.
Tristan sighed in relief. Now, where was that cowboy? He secured the bay and headed up to the bridge. He opened the door and stopped. Slap sat, chewing and gulping.
"Hey, Tristan, lookee what I got!"
Tristan slid into his chair, and secured himself. "Don't tell me you bought something that wasn't on the list."
"Strawberries!" Slap grinned and held up the box. "Not many cuz they go bad fast."
"Why in the world did you buy fruit?"
"When was the last time you had real strawberries?"
"I can't remember. What did you spend?"
"Altogether? About one hundred less stellars than you expected."
Tristan stared. The cowboy might just come in handy. He nodded. "I've taken care of our other problem."
Slap scowled then his eyebrows lifted. "The woman? What did you do to her?"
Tristan shrugged. "I let her go."
"You what?" Slap's eyes bugged out. "Why?"
"I told her she could be turned over to the authorities as a stowaway—and who would they believe, us or her—or she could make a break for it. She took off." Tristan paused a moment as he scanned the read-outs. "Too bad we can't stay and find out how she likes being stranded on a Separatist planet."
"But, what if she tells them she's Mordas? That we stole the ship?"
Tristan smiled. "Doesn't matter. We're leaving. Strap in."
return to "Reluctant Allies, part one"
return to "Reluctant Allies, part two"
© 2006 - 2010 L. S. King