Fringe Runner (Fringe Series Book 1) (5 page)

Infinite Problems

Even after Boden worked miracles in patching the hull, the
Gryphon
docked at Ice Port on Playa three hours after their delivery deadline. No matter how fast Reyne hustled from the docks, he knew he was in for a penalty. He hadn’t even stepped through Kason’s door before his usually stoic handler jumped to his feet.

“You’re late. In all the years we’ve worked together, you’ve never missed a deadline. Not once. Please tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

“Well,” Reyne drawled. “If you’re thinking I no longer have the package, then yeah, it’s exactly what you’re thinking.”

Kason fell back into his seat and dropped his head into his hands. After a string of curses, he leaned back and sighed. “What happened?”

“Our friends in the CUF are what happened,” Reyne said before taking a seat across from Kason. “What I’ve been trying to figure out is how they even knew about the package. The contract was privately negotiated through Genics Corp, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. Nobody knew about the contract except for us. Genics put out feelers for anyone who had a hauler in that sector, and I signed us up. You sure the CUF stopped you for the package? After all, they had no reason to care about a private package, let alone have it show up on their radar.”

“Oh, they cared all right. They cared enough to divert a warship to intercept it.”

Kason’s jaw loosened as he stared at Reyne.

Reyne’s lips thinned. “Tell me what was in that crate, Kason.”

The Alluvian shrugged. “I have no idea. It was no-questions-asked contract. A simple grab-and-go.” After a moment, he sighed. “But I guess it’s out of our hands now. The CUF never returns anything they take. I’ll tell Genics Corp that you weren’t able to reach the hauler before the star swarm hit. Better they think their property was destroyed than sitting in a CUF cargo hold. Best-case scenario, we don’t get paid. Worst-case scenario, they blacklist us.”

Reyne winked. “I’m sure you can sweet-talk Genics Corp into giving us another shot. After all, you’re a citizen.”

His handler chortled. “I’m an
Alluvian
citizen. Genics Corp is a
Myrad
corporation. In case you haven’t gotten the memo, Myrads think Alluvians are beneath them.”

“They think everyone’s beneath them. At least you have your citizenship. Colonists rank lower than the mud on their boots.”

Kason smirked. “A proper Myrad would never have mud on their boots. They’d ride the backs of tenured across anything not paved with silver.”

Reyne chuckled. “Good point.” He pushed to his feet. “Now, back to business. Tell me you got an after-hours pass for me. I need to get my regular cargo dropped off before a penalty kicks in.”

Kason held up a hand. “Sorry, mate. You’ll have to unload in the morning.”

“But that’ll put me at a thirty percent penalty. I’ll be taking a loss.”

“I know. I tried everything I could to get you in tonight, but Vym called me personally. She said in no uncertain terms that the stationhouse would not reopen for—and I quote— ‘some ne’er-do-well who thinks the rules don’t apply to him’.”

Reyne gave a crooked grin. “Sounds like she missed me.”

“I was paraphrasing.” Kason’s gaze narrowed. “You’re not thinking about talking to her tonight to get her to change her mind, are you? She’ll put your nuts into a vise just for knocking on her door at this hour.”

“I’ve got a broken ship and not nearly enough credits to fix it. Vym is the only one who can waive the penalty fee, and—if she’s in a really good mood—loan me some credits.”

“You are an idiot, Aramis Reyne.”

“Desperate,” Reyne corrected, holding up a finger. “That’s an entirely different thing than being an idiot.”

“Sounds awfully close in my book. Go right ahead. It’s your gonads. Enjoy the torture.”

“Ah, Kason. You always say the sweetest things.”

The man waved him away. “Now, shoo. I’ve got contracts to line up before I head back home for United Day. Tell Boden if he wants me to bring anything back from Alluvia, he needs to stop by before morning.”

“Will do.”

Reyne left Kason’s office and took the long way back to the
Gryphon
to delay sharing the bad news. The bitterly cold wind seeped through the seams between his goggles and hood. Everything else was covered by his puffy, thick anorak, its length covering his entire body, all the way down over his hefty boots.

Playa was the Collective’s ice world, far from the temperate planets of Myr and Alluvia. Without the right gear, a man could face hypothermia in fewer than five minutes standing outside in its freezing temperatures.

His goggles iced up, and he walked alongside a wall to not lose his way. What little sunlight Playa days brought was long gone. His headlamp pierced bare inches of the icy slivers tearing through the wind. A blur of tall green anorak plowed into him, and he found himself slammed against the wall.

“Watch where you’re going, fella,” Reyne said as he pushed himself off the wall.

The eight-foot-tall stretch put his hands on his hips, indignant. “Wat you talk ‘bout? Ain’t no man.”

“Oh. Sorry, ma’am. I couldn’t tell through your coat.”

She shoved past him. “Outto my way, viggin’ out-worlda.”

“Hey, I’m no off-worlder,” he snapped back. “I’m a Playan, like you.”

She ignored him, and ran off.

“Viggin’ rude stretches,” he muttered as he watched the rail-thin woman run into the wind. Playa’s gravity was so low that colonists who couldn’t afford gravity suits mutated over the generations. Folks called them stretches because they grew so tall and thin. After a couple decades in Playa’s low-g without gravity suits, those colonists could never travel to another planet without their lungs collapsing and their hearts giving out under the pressure. They’d become fated to never leave their home world. Reyne imagined stretches would reach ten feet tall within a few more generations.

Even though Playa was one of the few Collective worlds to contain breathable air before terraforming, it had been more expensive and took more time to prepare the ice world to sustain life. After nearly two hundred years, there were still only three cities, the smallest population of any of the Collective planets.

Most citizens found no pleasure in making the long trip to the cold, dark planet. Kason was one of a few citizens to have ever stepped foot onto Playa. A wanderer at heart, he spread his time equally across all the Collective worlds.

The CUF was also an exception. A CUF ship docked at Ice Port every month for one very important resource—conscripts. By law, the CUF could enlist any able-bodied colonist into five-year service. Stretches were excluded from service, and fringe doctors could be paid to mark a person down as unfit for service. But, Reyne wasn’t a stretch and had no money. He left Playa a week after his eighteenth birthday to serve a government he’d never seen or benefitted from.

Collective law required only five years of service, but colonists who performed well rarely received their dismissal papers in fewer than twenty years without having connections or money. He had served eleven years on a CUF warship as a chaser before he’d earned enough money on the side to expedite his dismissal papers.

That was a lifetime ago.

A lifetime he’d rather forget.

When the space docks came into view, Reyne blew out a frosty sigh of relief. He flashed his pass-card to enter the massive building and jogged down the ramp to where the
Gryphon
waited. She was smaller than most haulers. Scratches and dents marred her rilon hull, and he noticed a new, six-foot-long dented slice she’d acquired from the star swarm. Still, she looked good considering the rough life she’d had. He found an uptick in his mood as he walked up the steps to her port.

Inside, he found everyone in the commons. Doc was reading a book to the crew—with Throttle in her wheelchair, Sixx on the floor with his eyes closed and hugging the biome kit he’d managed to hide from the CUF, and Boden leaning against the wall. When Reyne entered, Doc stopped reading.

Sixx sat up. The bruising under his eyes accentuated his Asian heritage. “Are we getting paid tonight?”

“Still working on it.” Reyne nodded to the mechanic. “Gear up, Boden. You’re with me.”

“Where are we going?” Boden asked.

“We’re off to pay Vym a little visit.”

He grimaced. “I hate going there. She always touches me.”

“Maybe she won’t this time.”

“I’ll go,” Sixx volunteered.

“Hell, no,” Reyne retorted. “She said she’d shoot you if you came within eyesight of her.”

“What’d Sixx do now?” Throttle asked.

Reyne tossed a sideways glance. “He slept with Vym’s niece.”

She rolled her eyes. “Smooth move, Sixx.”

Sixx leaned back down and waved a hand in the air. “What was I to do? She threw herself at me. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“She was eighteen.”

“She knew
plenty
for an eighteen-year-old.” Sixx pouted and blew out a breath. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go. I had an appointment scheduled for later tonight, but unless you get me my paycheck, I’m going to have to cancel on Naughty Naomi. Too bad, too, because she is a
very
naughty lady.”

“Ew,” Throttle said.

“You, you, and you, behave.” Reyne pointed to each crewmember staying behind. “Boden and I will be back in no time. We’ll unload the cargo then.” He turned to Boden. “Let’s go.”

None of them were happy about sitting in the docks with a ship full of cargo and empty pockets. With equal parts hope and doubt, Reyne and Boden headed to Vym’s. Ice Port’s stationmaster had shown a fondness for the Alluvian mechanic the moment she’d met him. If anyone could help sway the old woman’s mind, it’d be Boden.

For negotiations involving any other woman, Reyne would bring Sixx. He had a body built for fantasies, a smile to melt hearts, and renowned sexual prowess to make even the most resilient woman weak in the knees. Women flocked to the thief like mice to philoseed. But not Vym. Most definitely not Vym. He could only hope that seeing Boden would improve her mood tonight.

The stationhouse, which was located within the fringe station’s center, was only a couple hundred meters from the docks. Even then, the winds had doubled in intensity during the minutes Reyne had spent on the
Gryphon
. The winds would continue to pick up speed throughout the night. Anyone caught outside during the four “dead hours,” as the Playans called them, would be blown into the frozen abyss. Reyne and Boden had nearly three hours before that time.

When the men reached the stationmaster’s office, Reyne chipped ice from the comm on the door and spoke loudly into the panel. “Aramis Reyne here to see Stationmaster Patel.”

They waited outside for several, freezing seconds before the door opened and one of Vym’s overly muscular lackeys motioned them inside. “No weapons,” he mumbled in a baritone voice.

“We’re clean,” Reyne said, though between him and Boden, they had two photon guns and several knives. It was an unspoken rule on any fringe world. A colonist without weapons was either stupid or dead, with one usually following the other. Vym would be disappointed in Reyne if he showed up disarmed. After all, the woman had practically raised him after his mother was caught outside in the dead hours. His father had been killed while in conscripted service two months before that. Reyne had been only eight at the time.

The lackey—one of Vym’s regulars—led them down a stark hallway to Vym’s office and living quarters. Unlike her fellow stationmasters on the other fringe worlds, Vym showed no interest in luxuries or formalities. She looked hard, spoke hard, and was an even harder negotiator.

Reyne and Boden entered to find Vym honing one of her many knives, a sharp contrast to her thin, grandmotherly looks.

“Hello, Vym,” Reyne said.

Her response was the rough sound of her blade against the whetstone.

Reyne glanced over at Boden, who shrugged.

She spoke after a lengthy moment. “Kason said you had a package for me.”

“His statement was a bit premature,” Reyne replied, “as said package is no longer in my possession.”

“And just where might said package be now?”

“On a CUF warship.”

“On exactly which CUF warship?”

Reyne frowned in surprise at why she would care. CUF was CUF in his mind. “On board the
Arcadia
, the last I knew. It’s captained by Commandant—”

“Gabriela Heid,” she finished. “Yes, I’m aware of the
Arcadia
and her crew. I keep myself apprised of all the Collective’s senior dromadiers.”

Vym Patel didn’t speak like a Playan. She spoke like a citizen, even though she was born on Playa. She looked like she drank tea in dainty cups, but Reyne knew she could drink any man under the table when it came to whiskey. No one knew her history, but it was obvious she’d served a length of time off world. Reyne had often wondered under which CUF division she’d served and in what capacity. To become a stationmaster took a long reach with the Collective’s powers that be, a reach longer than any fringe money could buy. Vym had clearly made an impression somewhere along the way.