Death Drop (20 page)

She was comfortable with their set-up. They were moonrunners—or just ‘runners’ as they were more commonly called—and their operation was built on anonymity. Simon enjoyed discretion as much as Dezmara did, and he didn’t mind at all that she went to great lengths to ensure her existence stayed a secret; in fact, he had designed all the systems that kept them both from having to deal directly with anyone or anything outside of the ship if they wanted.

“Any word from the guv’na?” Simon asked nonchalantly between sips of oshkva.

“Nothing’s come through on the usual frequency. You sure you programmed it correctly?”

Simon feigned a look of genuine hurt as Dezmara continued to stare out the main view port at the radiant sun now more than three-quarters past the eclipsing body of the purple planet.

“’Course I programmed it correc’ly, what kind’a bloody bungler do you ‘spose I am anyway?”

Dezmara smiled over her steaming cup without looking at Simon as he double-checked the receiver frequency on the com unit with one paw while palming his cup from the bottom with the other. Simon grunted brashly as the display on the device flashed a sequence of numbers.

“There ‘tis. Still workin’ and still encrypted jus’ like I tol’ya. One day, girl, you’ll learn never to doubt your ol’ pal Simon. Looks like the guv’s jus’ not callin’.”

“Well,” Dezmara said before taking a sip, “it’s a good thing you finally got it working because the ‘guvna’ is going to call…right about…now.” She leaned forward and delicately placed her cup on the console in front of her as the com system issued four beeps in quick succession. The holodex voice that gave Dezmara her unnecessary wake-up reminder chimed through the cockpit once again, this time announcing the caller.

“Ringer, Leonardo Fellini. Authentication code LFX6239. Encryption secure.”

“Simon, would you be a dear and initiate the voice veil program? Thanks.”

Simon was staring at Dezmara with a befuddled look, and his tail was now twitching from side to side in his lap, as it always did when he was perplexed or concentrating.

“’Onestly, luv, how
do
you do that?” he said with amazement as his furry digits flew across the control console and initiated the computer program that he had designed to disguise Dezmara’s voice.”

“Greetings, Leo. What can I do for you?”

“Ghost, it is a pleasure to speak to the best runner in the galaxy,” Leo flattered in a thick, Turillian accent. “You have done such a superb job—two hundred and thirty runs and never a second place finish! For someone who doesn’t want to be known, you are making quite a name for yourself. I was wondering if you would care to make it two hundred and thirty-one?”

“That’s why I’m tuned to an illegal ringer frequency,” Dezmara chided, although she doubted her sarcasm would come across in the deep, electronic speech the voice-veiler generated on the other end of the transmission. “Destination?”

“Ghost, you never cease to amaze me! Always short and to the point—it’s always about business with you, eh?”

“There
is
nothing else, Leo. Where’s the cargo headed?”

“Hexalon in the Simokon System. A little city called Chuudagar.”

“Simokon, huh?” Dezmara paused and made a quick calculation in her head. “That’s about far enough. How much does the cargo weigh?”

“About forty wileks.”

“
Forty
wileks?” Dezmara asked with more than a hint of skepticism as she cast a quizzical look at Simon, whose raised brow told her that he was just as curious as she was. “I thought you ringers liked to divvy up your load among several runners to increase your chances of delivery.”

“There
are
others, my dear Ghost.”

“Who else you got?”

“
The
Berillica
,
the
Argonaut
,
the
Aurelia Blue
and Admiral Rilek’s outfit—Company 327.”

A slight look of concern appeared on Dezmara’s face as she breathed in through her teeth. “How many ships is Rilek planning to run?”

“It appears he is going to run the
Maelstrom
,
and his flagship
—
the
Lodestar
.”

“Hmmm.” A look of concentration suddenly changed her expression as she nodded to Simon, who immediately set his cup aside and began a lightning quick, dexterous assault on the control panel in front of him. In seconds, the holographic display was alight with three-dimensional, rotating diagrams and statistics on each of the ships Fellini had mentioned.

“What’s the matter, Ghost? It’s not like you to be afraid of a little competition?”

“Company outfits change the odds, Leo—you know that. It’s in their interest to work together so their ships finish at the top of the pack, and Rilek is one of the best at fleet strategy and defense. No doubt he’ll try to captain
the
Lodestar
to a win while sending the other to slow me down. What are the odds in Trillis?”

“They’re expecting Admiral Rilek to be victorious this time. I think they feel that he’s due and that The Ghost’s luck may have run out.”

“Bad bet,” Dezmara said confidently. “Gonna be a lot of broken hearts in Trillis after this run. I hope you’re not one of the casualties, Leo.”

“What can I say, my dear Ghost. I play the odds.”

A smirk danced across Dezmara’s lips as she reviewed the
Lodestar’s
thrust to weight ratio and maneuverability stats. Her Zebulon star freighter had almost the exact hauling capacity and far outmatched the rival ship in speed and agility. Rilek was certainly counting on the captain of the
Maelstrom
to run interference in order to gain the advantage.

“What’s the payoff?” she asked coolly.

“The winner gets one hundred thousand tolocs. Second place gets
—
”

“No need,” she said matter-of-factly as she cut the Ringer off mid-sentence. “I don’t ever plan on knowing what second place gets paid. Count me in and put me down for all the winnings plus my credit on the
Ghost
to win.”

Simon’s large, yellow eyes looked like they could explode at any moment as he stared at Dezmara.

“That’s over four million tolocs,” Leo gasped as his usually smooth Turillian accent wavered in astonishment. “Ghost, I hope you know what you are doing…you could lose…
everything
.”

“What I wager is my own business, Leo. Place the bet, please. I’ll take my winnings in the usual manner—half on credit and the other half loaded onto my ship when the run’s over. What’s my pick-up point?”

“
The
Ghost
should arrive at Luxon Station in the Trinity Straits in four hours. Approach from the third moon and stay tuned to this frequency—they’ll contact you with the station’s current position. I’ll tell them to expect you.”

“Have my money ready, Leo,” Dezmara said flatly and then terminated the connection.

Chapter 20: Rilek and the
Lodestar

O
tto spent the next seventy hours in the cargo hold and his quarters. He was a better than average mechanic, and Bertie was beginning to look like his old self again. Otto used the hoist in the cargo bay to lift Bertie high enough that he could repair any damage to the primary cog mount. After the cog was back in place, Otto separated Bertie’s displaced tread by removing two pins in the master link. He carefully laid the heavy tracks back on Bertie’s interlocking gears with more help from the hoist before inserting two new pins in the master link and pushing them into place with a hydraulic press. Once Bertie was mobile again, Otto went to work welding and grinding all of the cracks in Bertie’s chassis. Bertie was gaining power with every passing hour on the charger, and Otto had to scold him more than once for picking up tools with his various hands and trying to pitch in. Otto didn’t want anyone to know that Bertie was back on-line just yet. He didn’t know why, but something told him to wait.

Sparks sprayed from Bertie’s undercarriage as Otto applied a grinding wheel to a fresh weld with deft strokes. The golden-orange showers arced beautifully into the air and fell to the floor, skittering a few inches before the quick ember of their lives flickered out. The sparks cast a dazzling luminance on Otto’s hood and goggles, and with each pass of the grinder his shadow danced in an eerie glow on the wall behind him. Light from the corridor poured into the dimly lit room as the hatch slid open, and Otto immediately stopped his work and removed his protective gear. He was pulling off thick gloves that covered his slightly webbed fingers, and he gave a welcoming smile as Malo stepped into the hold.

“Malo report. Two hours from Rilek,” the Moxen said as he looked forlornly at Bertie. Otto read his saddened expression and thought about what he could say to ease his regret without letting on that Bertie was every bit alive as he had been when they had left the shipyard on Satiri 9.

“Don’t worry, Malo. There might be some of Bertie left in this old can,” he said optimistically while patting the warm spot he had been grinding just moments ago. He pulled his bare hand back quickly from the heat and shook it vigorously before smiling up at Malo.

“Malo hope. Malo like Bertie,” he said, frowning slightly. Otto’s eyes were full of sympathy for the big soldier but he couldn’t help but flash them momentarily at Bertie. He was certain Malo’s sentiment would cause the emotional machine to either salute the Moxen or hug him, and Otto braced for the inevitable; but, much to Bertie’s credit, he played dead flawlessly.

“Too many dead.” The soft words rang with all the hurt Malo had felt in his lifetime, and Otto’s heart sank into his feet as he caught Malo glancing toward the covered cryolech that encased the body of his closest friend.

“Long before Talfus or Bertie were lost, there were too many, Malo.” Otto’s own memories sent a sting of misery up from his chest into his eyes. He shook off the urge to succumb to the familiar melancholy and caught Malo’s gaze again. “You can pay your respects, Malo. I’m going to get ready to meet Rilek.” Otto turned off his work light and whispered a farewell to Bertie. As the cargo bay door slid quietly closed behind him, a familiar Moxen reverie—like the voice of sadness itself—touched his ears for a moment and then disappeared behind the heavy portal.

Otto returned to his cramped quarters on the Hellion to prepare for his meeting with the admiral. He bathed himself, paying particular attention to the grease and oil that had turned the fur around his fingers black. After he was sufficiently clean, he donned his aquatics brigade uniform and attached a belt, complete with a holster for his service revolver and compartments for extra ammunition, to finish the ensemble. He was straightening his outfit in the full-length mirror on the inside of his door when the holodex interrupted him.

“Major, approaching
Lodestar
. Request dock.” Malo’s deep voice rumbled through the com.

“Permission granted, Malo. I’ll be up in a second. Otto out.” He punched in the key combination for the infirmary on the holodex and waited for a connection. “Doctor, are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” Blink’s voice squeaked back.

“Right. Meet me at the helm in three. Otto out.” Otto adjusted the neck of his uniform one last time and stood as straight as he could as he gave himself a final inspection. “Sure beats going naked. You look fit to greet an admiral,” he said confidently, then turned on his heel and headed for the bridge.

The
Lodestar
loomed dead ahead and stretched past the edges of the viewing panes on the small Hellion fighter. Rilek’s Runner outfit, Company 327, was legendary, and Rilek himself was renowned across every charted galaxy as a great sailor and a fearsome warrior. Not much was known about the man himself—he never spoke of his people and his mysterious manner was known to turn as cold and hard as metal if anyone dared to pursue a line of questioning that might relate to his past. He was what sailors and pilots called a “duster”—a man who had sailed untold seas on countless planets, charted unknown stars in the deepest regions of space, and fought an incalculable number of battles.

Although he had several ships under his command, the
Lodestar
was Admiral Rilek’s pride and joy. It was shaped like a blade. The top deck was flat except for the conning tower that rose from its barren expanse three quarters of the ship’s length from the bow, like a smooth rock majestically rising from a river bed, shaped by the endless flow of water and air pouring around its edges. The gunwales were lined with ominous, darkened slots that ran the length of the top rail. The keel was the cutting edge of the blade and ran in an arc from stern to bow. The angle where the keel met the bow was more abrupt than at the stern and it gave the front of the ship a savage point that looked like it could split a rogue asteroid in two without flinching—and by the looks of her finish, she had endured such activities and then some. She was scratched and gouged fore and aft and only trace patches of her once-proud gray coat shone in the light from Enok’s sun.

At first glance, she didn’t look like she belonged in space. In fact, if another sailor was passing by, he might think that the ship was a deserted salvage, a rusted-out derelict once in tow to some planet with a waiting sea that would become her watery grave, somehow set loose from her tethers and abandoned—a lost and forgotten ghost ship left to drift among the stars. Closer inspection would reveal four bullet-shaped attachments just aft of the bow, two on each side of the ship and parallel to one another, all of which could be retracted within the hull to carry on the façade. At the moment, their shiny casings were exposed, and they offered the only evidence that the
Lodestar
might be more than she appeared. The attachments were propulsion engines and they were currently pointed
ahead.
The battle ship would have been cruising forward at incredible speed for a vessel her size except there was no glow from the back side of the turbines: a tell-tale sign that her engines were on
all stop.
There were also various lines in the big ship’s hull—too straight to be scratches or battle scars—that hid unknown surprises for her would-be attackers.