Pirates of the Outrigger Rift (13 page)

Oke sat in the back
of his sleek black limo watching the lights of the city flash by as his
chauffeur made a slow bank around the towers and descended toward the landing
platform.

The limo came to a
stop and the chauffeur killed the engine, letting the vehicle slowly settle
down on a cushion of air. The chauffeur exited and hustled around the vehicle.
He stood waiting to open Oke’s door until the second limo, the one carrying Oke’s
personal guards, landed adjacent to them. It was a study in pure waste and
ostentation.

Four men in polished
black exo-armor stepped out of the second limo and took up their positions. They
quickly scanned the area, then the squad leader gave the chauffeur a nod.

The chauffeur opened
Oke’s door. “Here we are, sir.”

“Are we on time?” Oke
asked.

“Fifteen minutes
late, milord,” the chauffeur said, “as you requested.”

Oke nodded and
stepped out. “Very good, Bittleson. My cloak.”

Bittleson draped the
silver cloak over Oke’s shoulders. Oke chose the mirrored epaulettes because
they always caught the overhead lights and flashed, drawing attention to him.

Oke held his head up
and strutted along the carpeted path toward the entrance to the south tower. His
guards followed, flanking him, two on each side. Out of the corner of his eye,
Oke saw people watching him from the windows on the north side. He smirked,
pleased, but made sure not to acknowledge the common folk. It was enough that
he allowed them to feast their eyes upon him at all.

The doorman saluted
sharply and opened the door as they approached. “Good evening, Lord Oke,” he
said.

One of the guards
shoved the man back as they walked by. Oke continued as if the man were a piece
of furniture.

Oke frowned as he
approached the restaurant. There was no one standing at the maître d’s station,
forcing him to wait. He seethed with anger. A lord should never have to wait!

For fifteen seconds
he stood there. He should have delayed his exit from the limo. Finally, the
maître d’ returned from escorting another customer to a table.

“Good evening, milord.”
The maître d’ bowed deeply.

Oke rolled his eyes.
“Yes, too bad I’m wasting it waiting for service.”

“A thousand pardons,
milord. I’m dreadfully sorry. I humbly beg your forgiveness.” The man seemed
genuinely upset.

“Please just shut up.
I am dining with Mr. Maxwell this evening.”

“Yes, sir. Mr.
Maxwell is already here.”

“Take me to him then.”
Oke waved the man on.

“Yes, milord. Right
this way.”

Maxwell sat across
the room at a table facing the windows, sipping at a glass of red wine. As Oke
arrived, he stood and bowed.

Oke made sure he
twisted to catch the light with his epaulettes as he walked toward the table. He
wanted people to know they were in his presence. His bodyguards followed, eyes
scrutinizing the patrons with deadly intensity. When he reached Maxwell’s table,
he allowed the maître d’ to take his cloak. Beneath it, he wore a hand-painted
silk kimono decorated with a confusion of erotic scenes.

“Vincent,” Oke said
with a nod.

“Milord,” Maxwell
said.

The maître d’ pulled
out Oke’s chair. “Please, be seated.”

“Thank you,” Oke said,
sitting down and folding his hands in his lap.

The leader of the
bodyguards quickly stepped over, scanned Maxwell with a small device, then
moved to take his position around the table with the others. They looked like
obsidian pillars.

Oke looked through
the windows at the people on the north side of the restaurant. Many of them
stared across the walkway at the privileged few who rated high enough to sit on
Oke’s side. His generosity suddenly got the better of him, and Oke blessed them
with a wave of his hand.

The maître d’ offered
menus, which Oke dismissed. “Have the chef create something.”

“Certainly, Lord Oke.”
The maître d’ bowed and withdrew.

“Such a dreary
evening this is, Mr. Maxwell. The flight over here was horrid. I really don’t
know why I agreed to meet with you.”

Maxwell smiled. “Milord,
I believe that you might come to think of this evening as one of the most
fateful in your life.”

Oke was intrigued,
but he refused to show it.

“Really? How quaint
that you think so.”

Maxwell leaned
forward, keeping his eyes locked onto Oke’s. “I have information for you, milord.
What I’m about to tell you must go no further. I’m telling you this in the
strictest confidence.”

Oke heard this sort
of thing every day. Everyone thought they had information that could be
divulged only to a lord. “Yes, yes, what is it?”

“One of my employees
uncovered some files that point to corruption high up in the corporation.
Extremely
high. If I read the information correctly—and I went over it thoroughly—it
would seem to cast suspicion on a lord.”

“Your employees dared
to investigate us?”

“No, milord. This
employee was doing a routine file check and came across some accounts that did
not balance. When he checked to see whose account it was and cross-referenced
the deposits and withdrawals, he brought the files to me.”

“What did you
discover?”

“Well, milord, it
seems that Lord Randol has been receiving unusually large amounts of money
from, shall we say, suspicious sources. If it were anyone else, I would assume
that he was profiting from some illegal enterprise.”

“What? That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s what I
thought, too, milord. I went over the information again and again and it keeps
coming up the same. This in combination with his reluctance to admit Casey’s
guilt creates a certain …
impression
.”

“Have you talked to
anyone else about this?”

“Not yet. I wanted to
advise you of the problem first. I’m on shaky ground here. I feel that you’re
the only lord with the strength and insight to properly deal with this
situation. What should I do?”

Oke considered this,
tapping his forefinger against his lips before nodding. “It’s vital that this
scandal be kept quiet—especially in light of the impending stock sale. Continue
your investigation and keep me apprised of what you learn, but maintain a low
profile.”

Oke leaned back as
the waiter arrived to set salads before them consisting of three blades of
Altairian lime grass and a single drop of blue dressing.

“Can I get you
anything else, Lord and sir?”

“Go away,” Oke said.
He waited for the man to leave before pushing his salad bowl to the side,
leaning toward Maxwell. “Anything you uncover, you bring to me first. Is that
understood?”

“Yes, milord, but
what about Lord Randol? What if he suspects? He’s already attacked me in open
council.”

“Don’t worry about
him. I’ll speak with Lady Hemming about this so she’ll side with me. Not to
fear, I’ll be discreet. You’ll have our support.”

Jonesy was a bustling spaceport
floating in the middle of a galactic crossroads. The planet was generally
considered to be worthless, but at one time the airless, barren hunk of rock
had been valuable real estate. A small war had been fought over control of the
region, once important when the influence of the old empire depended upon
strong supply lines and tyrannical discipline. The port had been domed to hold
the artificial atmosphere so that its inhabitants could engage in commerce
without vacsuits. Palm trees and grass had been imported to beautify the filthy
rock, and the turd was polished thoroughly. There had been great plans for
Jonesy.

Now, with the empire
dead and gone, and the Confed a weak substitute, Jonesy had degenerated to a
dingy oasis—a place to take a real shower and grab a bite of home-cooking on
your way to somewhere else. Hank thought of it as a glorified truck stop.

Even so, a steady
stream of goods poured in from all corners of the galaxy to be bought, sold,
and traded. It was a place of diverse cultures and alien races, where many
people had secrets to hide, and no one asked too many questions. Hank had
chosen to refuel there for that very reason.

He docked the
Elsa
under an assumed registration as the
Vasco
, which he’d used successfully
in the past, complete with the proper forged documents to back it up. He
intended to refuel, check the local buzz, then space out quietly. There was no
sense in attracting unwanted attention, particularly by security.

Sai sat back in the
copilot’s seat with her feet up on the control console. “Can we order out for
food? I’m already sick of this synthetic crap.”

“At least I can cook,”
Elsa shot back.

“Oh yeah? What do you
call this? Electric Mystery Meat Surprise? Wait a minute. What makes you think
I can’t cook?”

“Nothing, just the
fact that women like you normally dish out their specialties on their backs.”

“Metallic bitch!” Sai
yelled, kicking at the controls.

Hank sat with his
face in his hands quietly muttering to himself. “I’m in hell. I have died and
been sent to everlasting perdition.”

Finally he could take
no more, and he stood and took a deep breath. “Will you both just shut up!”

“She started it,”
Elsa said.

“I did not! Besides,
where do you get off telling us to shut up?” Sai said, pointing her finger at
Hank.

“Exactly,” Elsa said.
“Who do you think you are?”

Great, Hank thought,
they found a common enemy.

“Listen. We’re going
to be stuck with each other for a while longer, so please, for all our sakes,
try to get along. We can’t risk leaving the ship, so why don’t we do something
constructive? How about you two work on analyzing the corporate security net
for any news about us. I’ll order some Xai food and a couple of beers.” He
stopped and looked in his cooler. “Make that a case.”

Before Hank could
reach for the com unit, it signaled an incoming message. “Answer it, Elsa. Keep
us out of the vid.” He hoped it was just the dockmaster confirming his fuel
order.

Elsa answered the
com, putting up a phony holographic simulation of herself as a human. “Hello,
who is it?”

A holo image of a
pudgy middle-aged man appeared in miniature above the com unit. “Elsa, that’s
a good look for you. Is Hank around?”

“Shit!” Hank said. He
recognized the man as Tazi Lippman, an ex-pilot, ex-friend, current rummy who
turned up now and then to hustle credits for liquor. “Lippman! How in the hell
did you know it was me? I tried my damnedest to be incognito.”

Elsa’s fake image
dissolved, allowing Lippman to see Hank. Lippman smiled. “Ah, you can play all
you want with registration codes, but I recognized Elsa’s lines. I hear you’re
into the passenger trade these days.”

“Well, you do what
you can to make a buck.”

“I’m talking about
one special little wench, one with a price on her head. Sai Collins. Where
might she be?”

Great, Hank thought,
news travels fast. One of these days I am going to slit your throat, you old
lush. “What? Price on her head? Damn! And I let her off on Matilda just a
couple of hours ago. How much was it? Maybe I can still find her.”

Lippman shook his
head, laughing, but it was forced, and his eyes had a cast of desperation. “Now,
you wouldn’t want to lie to me, Hank old boy. After all, we’re friends. Friends
share things with each other. A fifty-thousand-credit bounty makes for a strong
friendship, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

Lippman’s face
tightened. “Come on, Hank. Why would you be so secretive if you didn’t still
have her on board? Tell me, are you going to turn her in, or has she paid you
enough to help her?”

“You’ve been sucking
down the wrong fuel, my friend. You’re imagining things.”

Lippman flushed red.
“Don’t screw with me, Jensen! You’re so smug, sitting in your fancy ship, free
to do what you want! Remember this, you and I are just the same. You could be
scraping the bottom just like me after a bad piece of luck. I deserve a piece
of this, Hank. I need it. And you’re either gonna pay me my due, or you’re
gonna have to face Security. Remember, there’s a price on your head, too. Which
will it be?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I
t didn’t take long for one of his larcenous little birds to
whisper in Chandler’s ear that someone had just bought an Athena-class yacht
and was looking to refit it into a pleasure cruiser. Chandler used some of
Randol’s money and was able to get a name.

Louie “The Finger” Rocco specialized in providing
entertainment to those unfortunate souls in the remote boomtowns of the
Outyonder. He was a humanitarian soul who enjoyed spreading love and
companionship—for a price—at his pleasure domes and casinos. This selfless
impulse had made him one of the richest men in the sector, though still a
pauper when compared to the lords of the megacorporations. Louie’s well-known
philosophy was: “So what? They got more money, but I get laid more often.”

Louie Rocco was the proud new owner of a yacht listed in the
records as the
Swan Princess
. Chandler reasoned that Rocco was not one
to purchase a ship legally for full price, and if he could examine the ship, he
might be able to prove it was the
Aurelius
and connect another dot
leading back to Helen.

The problem was that, after spending a few million credits,
an owner wasn’t likely to admit that the ship might be stolen. In order to get
close, he’d have to get creative.

Chandler knew the ship lay dry-docked at the Atlas Ship
Yards awaiting renovations and that Rocco needed a designer to help him remodel
and refit. Chandler figured he could fit the bill, so he set an appointment.

Louie Rocco conducted business from the upper floor of his
pleasure dome on the Tarkus Mining Station, floating a safe distance from a
deposit-rich asteroid field. The miners came to the station to sell their ore
and spend their profits at the gambling tables, in the bars, or in the pleasure
suites. Fortunes passed from their fingers into Rocco’s pocket in a
never-ending stream.

After grabbing a quick shuttle from the station’s small
port, Chandler stepped into the Gold Digger Lounge. They cranked the music up
so high that the beats slammed into his chest like clubs. The smells of
unwashed bodies blended with tobac, spilled drinks, and piss filled the air.

Filth-covered miners, who looked and smelled like they’d
never bathed, crowded the dance floor. Their clean, scantily clad male and
female escorts didn’t seem to notice the stench. Money was the ultimate
deodorant.

The dance floor occupied the middle of the room, bordered by
the gaming area. Off to the left stood a row of blackjack tables and off to the
right were nova tables. The bar wound around the outside edge of the room in a
squared U.

Chandler carried his notescribe in one hand and a handful of
swatches in the other. He approached the bar, catching the bartender’s
attention. “Hey, bud, I’m looking for Louie!” He shouted to be heard over the
roar of the music.

The bartender glanced at him and jerked a thumb back toward
a staircase carpeted in red velvet. Chandler nodded and moved through the crowd
toward the stairs, where a large man wearing exo-armor stood guard. He held up
a hand as Chandler approached.

“What’s your business?” the man asked.

“I’m here to see Louie about his new yacht.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Elray Pinchon, the decorator. I called earlier.”

“Hmm. He’s expecting you.” The man scrutinized him. “You don’t
look like a decorator type to me. They’re usually more artsy.”

“How do you know I’m not? I’ve got artsy coming out of my
ears.”

The man raised an eyebrow and then waved him on, speaking
into a comlink on his wrist. “Got one coming up.”

Chandler climbed the steps to the second level. A white-haired
man in a green suit met him at the top of the stairs. “Mr. Pinchon?”

“That’s me,” Chandler said.

“Come this way.”

The man led Chandler past the rows of doorways to the
pleasure suites. Signs hung above each door indicating whether or not they were
in use. Chandler thought the signs were redundant since the howls of pleasure
could be heard clearly through the thin walls.

They arrived at an ornately carved door featuring a
debauched scene that Chandler tried not to notice. The man in green touched the
palm lock, and the door opened.

Chandler set the notescribe and swatches on a table and
looked around. To say the room was colorful was an understatement. Striped
lizard-skin rugs covered the floor. Red velvet wallpaper accented with gold trim
stretched around the room. On every wall were at least three portraits of
Rocco.

The man himself sat behind a gold and leather desk, smoking
a stubby tobac cigar. He was engaged in a heated debate with an obese woman
whose clothing exposed entirely too much flesh. As soon as he looked up and saw
Chandler, he waved her to silence. “Whoa, whoa, get the hell outta here, what’s-a-matter
with you? Can’t you see my appointment just walked in? Go away.”

“But what am I gonna do, Louie? They’re draining me dry!”

“Believe me,” he said, “you can afford to miss a few meals! Now,
I dare you to talk to me again. Get the hell out.”

The woman gave Chandler a dirty look, flipped her hair back,
and walked out of the room with her nose held high.

Rocco stood and threw his arms into the air. Rings flashed
on every finger. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you. I got a friggin’
yacht sitting in dry dock waiting for a refit. So far, I can’t find anybody who
has any friggin’ taste to redecorate the damn thing!”

Inwardly, Chandler cringed. What a pig
,
he thought. But
he kept the appraisal off his face. This was going to be fun. It was all about
rapport, so he threw his arms up and just went for it. “Yo, Rocco, I’m your
man! I got taste out the wazoo! You don’t want one of those namby-pamby sissy
boys messin’ with your boat. You need someone with class,” he said shooting him
an O with his index finger and thumb. “Like yourself. I can tell just by
looking at you that you’re a man of refined taste.”

Rocco slammed an open palm on his desk. “That’s what I’ve
been trying to tell these bozos! What do I care about this classic color
coordination crap? If I wanted to live in the lobby of a friggin’ doctor’s
office, I would buy one!”

“Exactly!” Chandler said. “What are all those colors for, if
you don’t use them? This office, for instance. I don’t mean to pry, but whose
work is this? I have never seen such a fine application of design technique.”

Rocco grinned and nodded. “You’d never guess if I told you.”

“Probably not,” Chandler said.

“Yours truly,” Rocco said. “Me, myself.”

“Really, with talent like this, why would you hire someone
else to decorate your yacht?”

“Well, you know, takes a lotta time, doin’ what I do. I
mean, I gotta check out the new girls and I gotta make sure the older girls are
still qualified. Of course, collections, that’s a nightmare of its own. So I
don’t have time to oversee the job as closely as I might like. Therefore, I
need to find some guy—or broad, I ain’t picky—who shares my artistic vision.”

“How’s this?” Chandler said. “I see the master bedroom done
in striped black-and-white fur, but the bed is like this orange that kinda
jumps out at you. The bedroom, it’s gotta be a place of excitement. You know
what I’m saying?”

“I hear ya!”

“The ceiling is like a big holoscreen where you can show
whatever you wanna show, while lying back and enjoying the ride.”

“I like that.”

“Okay, before I go any further here, you and I both know
everything boils down to money. How much do you intend to spend on this
project? Are you a man who limits art? Or are you a man who feels that art
should be allowed to develop free of constraint?”

“I figure I can afford about a hundred and fifty K worth of
artistic freedom,” Rocco said.

“Well that might be okay, I guess. I could cut a few corners,
but a job like this should really be two hundred K.”

“One seventy-five.”

Chandler shrugged. “Fair enough. When do you want me to
start?”

“Right now. Let me give you a deposit.”

“No need,” Chandler said. “I am an artist.” Chandler paused.
“Then again, now that I think about it, I will have a few expenses. Say, twenty
thousand credits. Let me take a look at the ship. I’ll make a few sketches and
get back with you.”

“Done,” Rocco said extending his hand.

They shook hands and Chandler started to leave the room.

“Oh,” Rocco said. “Feel free to enjoy the facilities. On the
house. About an hour’s worth of the facilities and then I’ll have to start
charging you. But stay away from my A-list girls—they’re extra.”

Chandler smiled, but he planned on running as fast as he
could back to the
Marlowe
to head over to the Atlas Ship Yards before
Rocco wised up. But first, he was itching to take a shower.

Helen Randol was not settling well into her new
surroundings. The cell was dimly lit and stank of human waste. Food came
regularly, but it consisted of some tasteless muck that she ate only to keep up
her strength. She was determined to escape and she needed energy to do so when
the opportunity arose. And it would soon.

As far as she could tell, her captors were imbeciles—uneducated
brutes who did what they were told and didn’t have any ambition beyond making
easy credits and getting laid. Although she didn’t have access to her finances,
she did have ready access to her charm. But that was like playing with
explosives. She didn’t want a flirtation to win a few favors to turn into an
invitation for a rape attempt.

She still didn’t have a good handle on the limitations the
guards had been given. She was certain there would be no hesitation to beat
her. She had seen another prisoner beaten unconscious the day before. But she
imagined that the powers that be probably frowned on sexual fraternization, as
it would compromise both the guards’ resolve and her value as a hostage. It
might make them hesitate to do what needed to be done to an uncooperative
prisoner. That was good because it might help protect her from molestation, but
bad, in that it might also work against her attempts at manipulation.

It was almost meal time. If things went as they had in the
past two days, a single guard would hand a bowl and a cup through the bean-hole
in the cell door. She worked on untangling her hair as best she could without a
brush or comb. The shapeless pullover shirt and loose pants weren’t very
appealing, but she had torn a deep V in the collar of the shirt so that her
cleavage could be clearly seen. When the guard arrived with lunch, she was
going to strike up a conversation. A smile here, a hair flip and a heavy sigh
there, and she might be able to gain some extra favors that might lead to a
mistake and an opportunity. If nothing else, perhaps she could get him to break
a simple rule so she could threaten to expose him and gain some leverage. The
discipline appeared to be severe, and that could work in her favor.

She heard footsteps, so she arranged herself at the edge of
her bunk, lounging, facing the door, propping her face in her hand and draping
her hair along her shoulder and down her elbow. But the guard who came to her
door wasn’t the same as on previous days. He was taller, and he had a sharpness
in his eyes that was surprising.

“Lunch is served,” he said with a smile.

“What are we having today?”

“Well, I have to be honest and tell you that I have no idea
what this is supposed to be,” he said.

She made a show of stretching herself, then slowly rose and
stepped to the cell door. “I don’t suppose there’d be any way of me getting
something else, maybe?”

The man smiled. “Hello, my name is Angus Brock, and you
are?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Again, I have no idea. I just got here. I’m still learning
the ropes.”

“I’m Helen Randol, daughter of Lord William Randol of House
Nebulaco.”

Brock nodded. “That’s a mouthful. It also explains your
unfortunate position.” He handed her the bowl of muck and a cup of water. “Here
you go. I’m sorry about your situation. If I could do something without dying
in the process, I would certainly make it better for you. I have nothing
against you, and I actually think this is horrible. However, I want you to
clearly understand that neither your social status nor your obvious feminine
charms are going to make me step one hair outside my orders concerning you.
Besides, if you got out of that cell, you’d have no possible method of leaving
the station. That being said, if you have a request that I
can
fulfill,
I will go out of my way to make it happen. Does that work for you?”