Slave World (5 page)

Chapter Two

“Breaking thrusters engaged in three…two…one. Inertia dampers on,” John said with toneless, mechanical leisure. A series of jerking shudders passed through the Tramp, while the popping of super heated metal reverberated through the hull, heralding our decent into Orvus Prime’s dense stratosphere.

“Atmospheric drive engaged, taking manual control.” I grasped the joystick loosely in my hands, now in control of the 1200-ton bulk of my ship that suddenly became a lumbering, ungainly super-sonic aircraft.

“A woman driver? Holy shit, run for your lives!” Mark blared frantically through the headphones of my helmet.

“Shut UP! I swear to
God,
I’m going to-”

“Margo,” John hastily interrupted. “Initiate restart sequence on drives two and three, the phase imbalance is off by 24.34.”

“Ugh! Okay, I got it.” One
more
thing I didn’t have time to fix.

“The Cartel’s homing beacon just went active, change your heading to 312 degree’s.”

“I see it John, taking us in.”

I banked left, pushing my thrusters to the breaking point, and our altitude plummeted, followed by my stomach lurching in protest.
Oh yeah, just like the good old days.
I switched the digital display of the armored canopy view screen to real time, and the dark plastisteel flowed smoothly into the panoramic view of a vibrantly forested surface, rocketing closer at 600 kilometers per hour. My helmet visor automatically darkened to compensate for the sudden change in lighting. Even though piloting on sensors alone was a snap, I still liked to see what was coming at me with my own eyes, when possible.

“Transmitting authorization code.”

A frantic warming beep snarled in my ears, followed by a dump of adrenaline. There were multiple air-defense weapons locked on to us now. My mouth went dry, and I gave John a nervous look. This wasn’t an assault boat, and even moderate fire could punch holes in us like Swiss cheese.
Please don’t let this be a set up?

“Powering up main armament battery, status red-hold. Point defense guns active-standby,” I muttered more out of habit, than necessity. The Cartel contact on Darien IV had been a different guy this time, not one of the usual drop men, and anything out of the norm in this line of work could mean trouble.

We hit the 30-kilometer mark, skimming at treetop level towards an open stretch of ground in the middle of a heavily wooded and isolated area. Enhanced view showed several prefab buildings, and a group of men standing near the landing zone, looking up in our direction. I was about ready to abort the whole thing; it was getting just a bit too hairy even for my taste.
They should have sent the-

“Authorization confirmed, Margo, they’re giving us permission to land. I won’t repeat the precise wording, but it would appear they’re extremely annoyed at how fast you made the approach. According to them, they almost shot us down.”

I grinned under my visor. I guess that maybe I do get a bit overzealous at times. “I’m in the pipe, taking us down.”

I throttled up the Tramp’s breaking thrusters, cutting back on the main drive, while reversing the gravity capacitors dotted the ship’s hull. A deafening roar, accompanied by the heavy vibration from slowing much faster than this old boat was designed to do shook the living daylights out of me.

“Damn, what are you trying to do, tear me apart? Take it easy will you, this piece of craps’ my body now.”

“Quit your whining Mark; I know what I’m doing.”

“I know you know what you’re doing, you should think about a career in the sex industry, but I was referring to your flying.”

I groaned, eyelids fluttering in aggravation.

“Come on, Captain, I want to hear the whole southern belle thing you’ve got going on when you get pissed? It’s
really
sexy.”

“Mark, are you intentionally trying to make us crash?”

“No, I was-”

“Well, if you don’t shut the hell up and let me concentrate, that’s exactly what’s going to happen. This is a lot harder than it looks.” Thankfully the fear of being destroyed
did
finally shut him up.

Our velocity slowed to a hovering stop, and I turned the cargo bay door towards the buildings, setting down. I undid my flight harness with an explosive breath; even with all my experience, manual piloting was stressful coming in that fast, but it was fun, and arousing. Big surprise, I’m horny again.

I snuck a lurid peep at John, wetting my lips. After the cargo pick up I’m going to have some serious playtime with John, but enough daydreaming; it’s time to get to work.

“Okay John, just help with the cargo and assist the service bot anyway you can, same as usual.”

“Yes, Captain, I’ll begin making room for the loaders.”

I didn’t expect to have any problems with the cargo transfer, but you never know. Most of the Outer Rim Cartels, as the generic term for them went, could trace their lineage all the way back to ancient earth, primarily Central and South America. As far as galactic organized crime was concerned, the Mandolin’s were all right, but they were ultimately self-serving, ruthless criminals just like all the rest. Whenever you forgot the kind of people you were dealing with, it usually meant you didn’t live for very long.

Unfortunately John couldn’t cover me if the deal started to go south for some reason. His programming as was the case with all synthetics except combat variants, forbid any hostile action against sentient life forms. Causing the death or injury of a human, even accidental, would result in the deactivation of a synthetic’s brain, and nothing short of sending them back to the manufacturer, followed by a full investigation by Federation Internal Affairs, would bring them out of it. John programming was even more rudimentary than most, lacking even basic self-defenses protocols; he couldn’t even
touch
a firearm in a show of force on my behalf, but maybe…

“Mark, I want you to cover me with the point defense guns during the cargo transfer.”

“As much as the idea of ‘covering you’ makes me think of all kinds of naughty things I want to do to that bearded oyster of yours, you know I can’t do that. My directives-”

This guy is too much
. “Is there any time you’re not thinking about sex?”

“People that live in glass houses, shouldn’t throw rocks. Is there any time
you’re
not thinking about sex?”
Touché, Mark, you asshole.

“Look, just target anything around the Cartel members: rocks, grass, the ground, a building, whatever. If something happens, just open fire and buy me some time to get aboard, okay?”

“Captain, I don’t know, one of them could still be inadvertently injured? The risk associated with voluntarily disregarding my directives may still place human life in danger due to collateral damage? I’m sorry Captain, but I’m not prepared to face the chance
of deactivation for you at this point in our tentative relationship.”

I took off my helmet, setting it on the console, before slipping on a multi-optic targeting visor and set of clamshell body armor from the small weapon’s locker in the rear of the cockpit.

“Let me explain this to you another way then; these guys aren’t as nice as I am, and if something happens to me, they’ll take possession of the ship. I can tell you right now, that they’re not going to put up with your bullshit attitude like I have to, either. You’ll be lucky if they don’t scrap you on the spot, or sell you off to some El’lini junk dealer. If that’s the case, you can look forward to piloting an automated garbage scow for the remainder of your very long and boring life. So in other words, it would
behoove
you to figure out a way to make sure nothing happens to me.”

“I see.” Mark’s faint pause of thoughtful understanding was the closest he could come to showing fear. AI didn’t have emotions, not real ones at least. “In that case I will make every effort to ensure your safety, while staying within the confines of my programming.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” I snorted.

The faint whine of internal servos tickled my inner ears, when I hefted my favorite ‘dumbass be good’ rifle from its storage rack. It was 60-pound monster firing 20mm caseless rounds that would put anyone, armored or not, down in the blink of an eye. I cradled it effortlessly in my arms, throwing its wide sling over my head and shoulder. My cybernetically amplified strength definitely paid off in situations like this. It was one of the few enhancements left behind from my Fleet days, that couldn’t be removed without permanent scarring, disability or more than likely, just killing me.

Shit, it wasn’t like I was technically listed as disabled for my ‘condition,’ as it was?
Most of us that had made it out of that ratfuck alive, known as the Seth war, had wound up with a slew of mental and emotional disorders to some degree or another. In addition to that, I couldn’t get pregnant any longer either; one of the numerous, yet unexpected side effects of all the experimental crap Fleet pumped into me over the years.

I chambered a round, striding heavily through the nearly empty cargo-hold past John, while he rearranged some of my personal gear. I stopped beside the cargo-bay door control panel, clearing the seal, opening it with a squealing thump that lowered to form a wide ramp. A blast of cool, fresh air rushed inward, buffeting my face with the strong smell of cinnamon and spicy dirt.

I kept my rifle low but at the ready when I stopped before the group of six heavily armed, yet exquisitely dressed men of Hispanic heritage. One of them I recognized.

“Buenos Dias, senorita Winters, como estas?

“Hi, Carlos. Could we do this in English, you know how bad my Spanish is?”

Carlos Mandolin, the sixth man in the food chain for their entire Cartel, and nephew to Don Fillip Mandolin himself, burst into a throaty, over-joyous laugh. He was a dark skinned and brutally handsome thirtyish-something, with a mouthwatering build and an incredibly sexy voice. Yeah, I’d do him any day of the week and then some.

“Si, your Spanish does suck. It’s a good thing you’re not being paid for your linguistic skills.” His good-natured bantering, and misleading friendliness, vanished in the blink of an eye. “Hey, what the fuck’s wrong with you coming in that fast, you crazy
puta
, huh? You were about five seconds away from getting slagged…crazy gringo…” He slipped back into Spanish, rambling a triad of obscenities. My universal translator had crapped out on me long ago so I had no idea what he was saying other than that, but I’m sure it wasn’t good.

Personal confrontations had never been a strong point for me, and as much as I loathed the thought of it, it was time to play the hard-nosed bitch or things would only get worse from here. One thing I’d learned over the years when dealing with any of the Cartels’, especially being a woman, was as soon as you started taking shit from them, letting them bully or intimidate you, it never stopped. They respected power and anyone who could wield it effectively; it was just a matter of knowing your boundaries. It was like walking along the edge of a knife, one wrong step and you’re dead. Sometimes, even if you made the right step, you’re still dead.

“Hey Carlos, I’m not dick-dancing around here. The longer I stay in the air, the better chance there is of someone spotting me, and you know it. Remember I’m the mule; I’m the one that’s going to spend the rest of my life counting rocks on Hades II if the Fed’s get wise to us. I’m the best pilot you have and you know it, so stop trying to bust my balls over some piddley shit, all right?”

Carlos’s face grew dim, and I wondered if I’d just taken one wrong step too many. “I’d cut off my brothers
balls
for talking to me like that let alone some gringo woman.”

“Yeah, but he can’t get your cargo through a Fed blockade like I can though, can he?”

Carlos was silent for a few moments before his infectious grin of satisfied respect returned. “S’okay, Margo, your ship and your ass, no? As long as my cargo gets to Regilain alive and in one piece, I don’t give a fuck how you fly.”

He turned, yelling in Spanish to a group of men waiting near the largest building. The door slid open and a procession of wheeled loaders carrying large, cylindrical cryo-tubes began moving toward my ship. Something didn’t feel right about this pick-up though; Carlos didn’t usually show up for a drop unless it was big money, bigger than what I was being paid, or something
very
important to the interest of the Cartel.

“What are you doing here anyway, Carlos? This isn’t your run of the mill slave haul, is it?”

He sniffed with an air of indifference, nodding to the man next to him. His flunky stepped forward, slotting an unregistered cred-stick in his wrist-com, transferring funds to it from a secure account. “What makes you say that? What the fuck does it matter anyway, we pay you, you haul it?” The man offered me the cred-stick in his outstretched hand. “125,000 as per the agreement.”

I wavered, this isn’t right at all.
The bastard
Carlos is trying to screw me over.
“I want 200,000 or I walk right now.” His face turned beet-red, cheeks puffing in explosive rage. The air around me took on an ominous chill while weapons were gripped just a little tighter.

“
Que te Joden
, this is bullshit! Who do you think you are, trying to fuck me over? We had a deal! Nobody fucks with…” Carlos’s ranting morphed into another dizzying display of incompressibility, and I took a step back, targeting him in my visor sight display.