Last Transport to Kepler-283c
Christopher Smith
Behm nonchalantly looked around the work site, making sure everyone was in place. Months of planning, preparation, and patience were about to pay off, as long as everything went right. Prayers to Murphy were all well and good, but he knew that specific deity was a fickle as they came. It always took a lot of hard work and forethought to increase the odds of pleasing the Great One, and he hoped that his crew had put in the appropriate level of skull sweat to win His favor.
His earpiece buzzed.
“Hey, pard.” Gene Larson’s voice crackled slightly in his ear over the unsecured channel. “If you got a sec, could use some hands near the loader.”
“Roger that, let me wrap this up.”
Behm eased off on the laser hammer’s controls, the sharp hiss of the “blade” fading as the focused beam of plasma retracted into the housing. After double-checking the equipment’s various tethers and safety lockouts, he detached his harness and started toward the loader.
He grinned as he moved in practiced, measured bounds, covering the distance in a few minutes. While he empathized with the new arrivals—on the surface for only a matter of days—he couldn’t help but feel some amusement at the way the fresh crew floundered about the camp area, overshooting their targets by meters.
As he approached the loader, Larson looked up from his tablet and nodded.
“Whatcha got,” Behm said, sliding to a gentle stop next to the machinery.
“We’re on schedule.” Larson tapped the screen in his hand. “Raider and Phantom will get in position, load us on, then get in their crates. Those suits we picked up on Musk Station will cover our body heat, so we’ll blend in with the rest of the gear if they scan us.”
Movement out of the corner of his eye caught Behm’s attention. Some of the newbies, with little self-control (and less common sense) were taking turns boosting each other, using the low gravity to achieve greater and greater heights. Behm sighed. If they kept acting like a bunch of high school cheerleaders, it wouldn’t be long before someone or something broke.
Larson glanced over and shook his head. “Looks like you might need to go have a word,” he muttered.
Behm had volunteered for the camp’s “Grievance Detail,” a group of levelheaded miners that could keep violence to a minimum.
He nodded and checked the charge on his Colt PK-5000 Infrasound pistol. The nonlethal weapon threw a tight beam of soundwaves that induced nausea and minor spasms in the recipient. The inventor named it the “Peace Keeper,” but it had been consequently dubbed “Puke Kannon” by the people who used it. Or had it used on them.
“Still find it funny. You, a cop.”
“More like an enforcer.”
“Even funnier.”
“Why’s that?”
The other man snorted. “I’ve seen you fight.”
“One bad day, and you’ll never let me live it down.”
“One day?”
“Fine.” Behm glared. “A few bad days.”
“Lessee. . . there was that guy on Clarke Two.”
“Hey now, if you hadn’t been hitting on his girl, I wouldn’t have had to step in. Besides, he sucker-punched me.”
“Fair enough, but what about the bikers on. . . ”
“Those women were inhuman. You can’t count that.”
“And what about that?” Larson pointed at Behm’s face.
Behm felt along his cheek, absently tracing the scar running from temple to jaw.
“If I hadn’t hit that guy, his shiv would’ve gotten your jugular.”
Larson was right, of course—a few inches lower, and he’d be breathing through a tube. Or dead, just another casualty of prison-gang relations. A close call like that could make a man reconsider his life choices.
“I told you, sticking your neck out would get you nothing but trouble.” He gestured at the PK. “At least you got something to even the odds this time.”
“Something besides you, you mean.” He grinned at Larson’s chuckle. “This ain’t prison, though. These boys just need a gentle guiding hand to sort their differences in a more civilized manner. Or start heaving up everything they’ve ever eaten.”
A shout brought their attention back to the horseplay.
“Looks like you get to test that theory.”
One of the newbies had apparently misjudged his launch. Now, flailing in midair, he hurtled toward a table surrounded by a group of vets. Behm bounded toward them.
Judging by the kid’s trajectory, he’d land directly in the middle of the poker game, and, barring a miracle, scatter the pot to kingdom come. Long days and hard work meant short tempers. The vets probably wouldn’t take it well.
He timed it perfectly, arriving just as the new guy landed ass-first on the river card.
“Hey, junior,” he said, “looks like you miscalculated that one.”
He looked around at the poker player’s ominous scowls, locking eyes with each one while resting his hand lightly on the PK.
“We’ve all been there, right fellas? Nothing an apology and a hand cleaning up won’t fix, I’d say.”
Mutters and grumbles, generally affirmative, were his answer. He nudged the newbie.
“Uh, yeah, right. Sorry, guys, I’m still getting my legs.”
Behm stuck around, easy grin on his face, hand on his pistol, until he was sure that the matter was resolved. With a nod, he returned to Larson’s position.
“Your negotiation skills have improved, pard. No new holes or missing teeth.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He paused, struggling to find the right words for what he wanted to say next. Larson noticed.
“Spit it out, don’t need to sugarcoat nothing with me.”
“Fine.” Behm let out a deep breath. “Something don’t feel right about this.”
Larson looked at him, rubbing his chin slowly.
“It isn’t too late to hit the brakes and call it off,” Behm continued. “We ain’t done a job like this before, and there’s a lot of variables. Maybe just keep our noses clean and heads down.”
“This is the cargo we’ve been waiting for.” He shook his head. “Don’t know when we’re gonna get the chance again, and the buyers don’t take well to folks that welsh on a deal. It’s not like we can just return the deposit, shake their hands, and get a friendly ‘Oh well, maybe next time.’”
“I’m just sayin’. . . ”
Larson cut him off. “Look, we’re doing this. Without you, if that’s the way you want it. Comprende?”
Behm nodded, scowling.
“Right, then.” His tone softened. “Look, there’s only one person I trust to watch my back. We’ve been through some tough scrapes together, and always come through. So, are you with me?”
“Yeah, I’m with you.”
“Good.” Larson checked his watch. “Tell the others we’re ready. Go time is ten hours from right now. Get to it.”
* * *
Even though he had just enough room to be somewhat comfortable, Behm felt a cramp starting to make itself known. That was frustrating enough. The fact that it was his left pinkie toe just made the situation irritating. On the one hand, or foot in this case, it was a minor pain that wasn’t going to affect him in the long run. On the other, it was just annoying enough to distract him from what he was supposed to be thinking about. Experience had taught him that trying to do anything about it would only encourage other muscles to follow suit in solidarity with their little brother.
To keep focused, he went over the plan.
Their crew would get on the lightly manned transport ship, subdue the security detail, and ride the ship to its first programmed drop-off point. After that portion of the load was dropped, their hacker, Raider, would go to work and update the flight plan, while simultaneously creating a ghost log that would cover the changes. As far as the law, or the ship’s owners, would know, the transport would be going exactly where it was supposed to go. They’d be effectively off the grid for the remainder of the trip.
After that it was only a matter of kicking back, riding out the remaining time before they arrived at the rendezvous with the buyer. Part of the deal was an unregistered ship and fake papers; the rest was cold hard cash.
It sounded easy, and that gave him pause. While he couldn’t find any issues in the fine print, as far as he knew, no one had tried to steal an entire transport before, unlikely as that seemed. It was one of the pros of the operation—no one would expect it. Granted, few would have put in the years of planning and preparation, either.
The trick was the updated flight plan. Normally, any deviation from what was filed would immediately alert the authorities, and you’d find yourself in hot water fast. The other point in their favor was Raider. The man was suspected to have cracked into multiple highly secure corporate systems, but the law had nothing concrete. A little bad luck, and he’d been popped for one small-time hack job.
Their pilot, “Phantom” Bigelow, had a reputation as an experienced smuggler. Like Raider, he’d only been caught once, for a minor charge. Just long enough to put him in the same joint as the rest of them, plus time off for good behavior. His job on the hauler consisted of staying out of the way until they met with the buyers, then flying everyone out in their new ship.
A slight bump told him that they had docked with the orbiting hauler. A few seconds later, another bump signaled the doors had opened. The urge to open the crate and escape the confinement was strong. Behm clenched his teeth and remained patient.
The cramp in his toe subsided, only to reappear in his calf. Behm shifted his leg somewhat, allowing him just enough space to massage the knot. Of course, this meant that the space between his shoulder blades began to itch. Not to be left out, his nose decided that a sneeze was necessary. Pinching the bridge hard brought tears to his eyes but stifled any more rebellion from his body. A few deep-breathing exercises got everything back on the same page, at least for the time being.
A final bump to the crate itself meant he was in position. A few more minutes of agonizing patience, and he was able to crack the lid and check the storage room.
All clear, he extruded himself from the crate, removed the faceplate of his suit, and breathed deeply. Then sneezed multiple times in rapid succession.
As he recovered, he saw Larson, Phantom, and Raider emerge from their crates.
“Well, the easy part’s done,” Larson said, shrugging off the top half of his suit. “Everyone get a good nap?”
Glares from the others elicited a grin.
“Great, good to hear. Stash the suits in one of the lifeboats, and let’s get to work.”
* * *
The mining company, in an effort to minimize potential human loss, used only the barest number of staff on their haulers. At least, that was the official line the PR department fed to the general public. In reality, and known to all employees, paying triple overtime to a full crew would cut into profits considerably. As it was, the ore transport had at most three, but more likely two, humans on board.
The one thing Larson couldn’t get intel on was exactly how many would be up here. There was always the possibility that additional crew would be “deadheading” from the nearest stop to the next one. Behm had hoped that, if this was the case, anyone on a short hop would have gotten off where his crew got on. He’d have to access the logs on board to be sure. The problem with that was he’d have to go where the crew would be housed, making the exercise moot.
He worked his way toward the galley, following the map on his pad. Most spacefaring vehicles were arranged in a similar pattern, no matter what they looked like. To maximize human safety, the crew’s quarters were in the center of the ship, surrounded by the largest number of decks and storage containers. The ore and ship’s hull would block any radiation, micrometeors, and random debris.
Again, that was the official reply from PR. In practice, this meant the ship’s hull could be as thin as viably possible, meaning more mass in ore, and therefore profit. To their credit, there had been relatively few crew deaths in relation to number of flights. Officially.
“Report in,” Larson said over the comm.
“No sign of life yet, Chief.”
“Same. Location?”
“Approaching the galley. How’s Raider coming along?”
“When I left him, he was muttering under his breath, but seemed to be making progress.”
“And the flyboy?”
“Last reported in the cargo control room.”
“Roger. I’ll swing by there when I’m done here.”
“Roger and out.”
It was eerie, going from the bustle and noise of the mining camp to the deathly still and quiet corridors of the hauler. Behm pushed away all thoughts of the horror vids he’d watched as a young boy. There were no killer alien bug monsters lurking around the corner.
Well, maybe in that one with the flickering light. He chuckled, the sound relieving some of the ominous silence, and with it the minor anxiety.
Still, a small sigh of relief escaped his lips once he entered the galley. He keyed his comm as he moved towards the terminal near the door.
“Galley clear. Logs show no crew transfers since the hauler left orbit of Benford Three.”
“Excellent. Still nothing from Phantom.”
“Right. Heading that way now.”
Behm rerouted his map to highlight the path to the cargo control. The glowing blue line showed his path leading through the handful of crew quarters.
He made his way down the corridors, checking each room. All empty. A small, but persistent knot formed between his shoulder blades, radiating pain up to the base of his skull. He stopped walking, taking deep breaths and forcing himself to relax.
“Phantom, come in,” he said into his comm. No reply. “Phantom, what’s your location?”
He swore at the answering silence and started toward the cargo control at a faster pace. Another thirty seconds and he’d be there.
He approached the closed control room, stopped, and positioned himself on the keypad side, out of view of the interior. He pressed the button, waited, then risked a quick look inside.
Phantom lay on the deck, either dead or out cold, next to a small table. One of the two chairs was on its side. Aside from several control screens, the room was otherwise empty. Behm ducked back, counted to three, then entered.
And immediately staggered as a fist caught him in the jaw. He rocked sideways, cursing himself for not clearing the door. Pain shot through his side, his legs crumpled, and his nose bounced off the deck. Vision blurry with tears, legs twitching, Behm just managed to avoid the guard’s next tazer shot.
The other man cursed as he reloaded.
“Hold up,” Behm said as he backpedaled, feet scrabbling on the deck, trying to get some distance between himself and his attacker. He fumbled for the PK at his waist. “I’m a. . . ”
As the guard raised the tazer, an arm slithered around his neck, stopping him cold. He struggled, face turning red, then let out a soft gasp as his eyes rolled back. He crumpled to the deck, revealing Raider holding a bloody screwdriver.
“Ah, hell,” Behm muttered. He wiped the tears from his eyes, careful to avoid his throbbing nose. He keyed his comm. “Larson, need you in the cargo room.”
* * *
Larson swore softly as he entered the room. The dead guard, blood pooling beneath the hole in the base of his neck, lay where he’d fallen. Behm sat with Raider and Phantom, tenderly pressing a rag to his bloody nose.
“You shouldn’t have killed him, dammit,” Larson growled.
“He’d already taken down Phantom, and Behm was in trouble.” Raider looked up from the now useless tazer. “He wasn’t important. Some low-level rent-a-cop that would’ve caused more trouble than his life was worth. I was just thinking ahead.”
“That’s the problem, you didn’t think! You just added twenty years if we get caught.” Larson stood over the dead guard, shaking his head. “My rules are rules for a reason. You know what happened to the last guy that broke them?”
“Yeah, he’s freeze-dried jerky somewhere near Titan.” Raider grinned. “But you didn’t need him—dumb muscle is a dime a dozen. I can do my part with one hand tied behind my back.”
“That so?”
“You know damn well it is.”
Larson unclipped the dead guard’s keycard ring, bouncing it in his hand thoughtfully. “Catch.”
Raider’s left hand shot up to grab the tossed keyring, a smug grin plastered on his face.
A grin that disappeared as Larson’s knife thunked into the table, vibrating slightly as it pinned Raider’s right hand.
Larson covered the distance like a cheetah, clamping his hand around the now screaming man’s throat, choking the anguished cries to a hoarse whisper. It was easy to hear the even, measured tone of Larson’s voice.
“Today’s your lucky day. You get the chance to prove it.” With his free hand, he eased the knife from the table, twisting it as he did. “Next time you break my rules is the last time.”
The tendons in Larson’s arm tensed as he tightened his grip, then relaxed as he released his hold on the man’s neck.
“Phantom, dump the body in one of the emergency pods. We’ll deal with that issue later. You,” Larson said, looking at Raider, “get that patched up and get to work.”
* * *
“He ain’t going to let that slide, you know,” Behm said, as the others split up.
“Counting on it. Counting on his greed not letting him do anything until after we’re clear, too.”
“You think that’s so?”
“He was in the joint a few months before you got there. Seen him take a few lumps to get what he wanted, then get his own back after.” Larson rubbed his chin. “He’ll wait until he thinks my guard’s down, then make his move.”
“Uh-huh. You gotta sleep sometime, you know.”
Larson grinned. “Good thing you owe me, then.”
* * *
After finishing the sweep of the ship, Larson and Behm met on the bridge.
“Looks like that guard was the only one on board, thank God.” Larson plunked down on one of the station’s chairs, kicking his feet up on the console next to him. Behm sat as well, spinning slightly to look at his friend. After a moment, Larson pulled a locket from under his shirt, sliding its delicate chain over his head. There was a soft click, and the image of a young girl appeared.
Not for the first time, Behm contemplated the other man. They’d been cellmates, spending the better part of two years in Riker’s Seven, and close compadres since. It had become somewhat of a tradition, during the quiet moments on a job, that Larson would stare at the locket. Behm knew better than to interrupt.
After a few silent minutes, Larson looked up.
“How old is she now?” Behm asked.
Larson took his time closing the holo locket, as if it would be gone forever once extinguished. “Sixteen, next month.”
“You able to talk to her?”
“Can’t. Not since her momma filed the court order. ‘No contact due to possible corruption of a minor.’ Like I’m some kind of pervert.” He shook his head. “I mean, robbin’, defraudin’—that’s honest crookery. I’ll admit to all that. But I’m no kiddy diddler. Never even had the urge, much less to my own kid. And the judge just let it slide.”
Behm had heard it all before, of course, but kept his trap shut. His friend needed to vent, and he was going to let him.
“That idiot Raider just made everything more complicated. This was supposed to be my retirement, one last clean job so’s I could get out of this life, set up a nice nest egg for the kid, and sleep with a clean conscience.” He looked up as the door opened. “Speak of the devil.”
Raider came onto the bridge, bandaged hand slung across his chest.
“Larson,” he said, “got an issue you need to take a look at.”
“Oh? What’d you screw up now?”
Raider chuckled, sliding a hand under his sling to scratch his arm.
“Nah, nothing like that—Phantom says there’s something screwy in the engine room.”
“All right.” Larson stood up and looked at Behm. “You got this under control?”
Behm waved a hand. “Yeah, go see what’s up.”
As Larson moved towards the door, Phantom came through it.
“Whoa—sorry ’bout that, boss.” He stopped, apparently sizing up the situation. “Something wrong?”
“Nah, Raider said there’s something you need to show me in the engine room.”
“What? Just came from there to tell you everything is running smooth.”
“Dammit,” Raider muttered.
Larson turned, just as Raider pulled his hand out, bringing a compact pistol with it. He leveled the gun at Larson, aiming squarely at center of mass.
Behm maintained his position, only rotating his chair slightly away from the other men. Phantom took a step back and raised his hands.
“Had you figured wrong, Raider,” Larson said, eyes not straying from the other man’s. “I thought you’d wait until you had a better drop on me.”
“Man’s got to take his opportunities when he has them.” Raider’s shoulders barely moved as he shrugged, keeping his focus, and pistol, firmly on the other man. “Now, why don’t you head back to your seat, and we’ll discuss our new terms.”
Larson nodded, moving in between Raider and Behm’s chair, effectively blocking Raider’s view. Behm took the opportunity to draw the PK, letting it hang at his side while he spun his chair back toward the others.
“Your cut just wasn’t enough, is that it?” Larson stayed where he was, staring Raider down.
“Oh, it ain’t that,” Raider said, “the money’s just fine. The new terms involve just how much groveling you do before I put you down. The more you do, the fewer parts I’ll cut off.”
Larson snorted. “Best sharpen that knife, boy. It’s gonna be a long night.”
“We’ll see if you feel that way after the first three toes.”
Larson turned around, locked eyes with Behm, then winked. He took a step forward, hesitated, then dove to his left. Behm swung the PK up, firing as the muzzle swept Raider’s chest. The other man clutched his stomach, doubled over, and fell as his spasming legs failed him.
Behm jumped up, sprinting for the fallen man. The pistol barked once, followed by an electric sizzle somewhere behind his back.
“Get that damn thing outta his hand before he kills one of us!” Larson lunged for the pistol as another shot rang out.
Behm dove forward, grabbing the gun as Raider went into another convulsion, just managing to get it pointed at the ceiling before it went off. A light exploded, sending a shower of sparks toward the deck. Larson wrenched the pistol away, cleared it, then tucked it into his belt.
“What do we do with him?” Phantom asked, as Raider retched, twitching. Larson stepped to the side to avoid the puddle of watery vomit working its way toward his boots.
“For now, secure him, and put him somewhere he won’t choke on his own puke.”
“You sure about that? Spacing him would be safer.”
“May need him later. If not, we go to plan B.”
Phantom removed his belt and bound the other man’s hands behind his back. He used Raider’s to tie his ankles together.
“Check the damage.” Larson jerked his chin towards the control panels. “And pray he didn’t hit anything important.”
The pilot walked to the controls as Behm examined the wall.
“Nothing over here,” Behm said, “Bullet just lodged in the plastic. Appears to be cosmetic only.”
“Oh, crap,” Phantom said from the front. “This screen is blown out, and it looks like the board is fried.”
“How important are we talking about?”
“Looks like the manual navigation controls for the main thrusters. Both steering and acceleration.”
“That shouldn’t be too big of a problem, right? Everything’s in the computer.”
“Yeah, unless there’s an emergency.”
Raider’s gagging chuckle caught Behm’s attention.
“Something funny?”
“You think I didn’t have a plan B of my own?” The hacker retched again. After getting himself under control, he continued. “Check the updated flight plan.”
Phantom, using a screen adjacent to the damaged section, punched several buttons. Long moments passed as he read the display. Finally, he turned to face the rest.
“He’s got us on course for the Bova Field.”
The asteroid field was a small, but densely packed, pocket of rocks. Small, in relation to a planet. In relation to their current ship, it was massive, over five hundred klicks across. A smaller, more maneuverable ship could stand a chance. The hauler, made to fly straight and narrow through mostly clear space, would barrel into the Field like a freight train.
“What’s the ETA?”
“Approximately four hours at current velocity.”
“And the point of no return?”
“We’ll be unable to change our trajectory sufficiently in. . . ” Phantom pulled up some nav charts, and had the computer run the numbers. “. . . a little more than an hour.”
Larson swore, turned, and planted a solid kick into Raider’s stomach. Raider’s grin faded briefly as he dry-heaved, then returned.
“So about that negotiation?”
His answer was another kick.
“We need options, and fast.” Behm’s thoughts raced. What little he knew about flying haulers could fit on a fingernail. In large print. “Phantom, what are we looking at?”
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” He scrolled through several screens, silently. Behm watched him, clenching his jaw, but not saying anything. Finally, Phantom spoke up. “I have an idea, but I’ll need to check something in the cargo control room.”
“What do have in mind?”
“The ship has stabilizers that auto fire when cargo is released. It counteracts the movement of the launching mechanism. If we can override that. . . ”
“We can use it to adjust course,” Behm finished. “In theory.”
“It’s a long shot, but maybe our best shot.” Larson ran a hand through his hair. “How long do you need?”
“Not long, only a few minutes once I get there. About ten, fifteen tops.”
“Right. Get on it.”
Phantom bolted from the room.
“We need to know the mass of the ship versus the mass of the cargo.” Larson started toward the screens. “Gotta be something here.”
“I’ll see if I can kill the main thrust,” Behm said, scanning the controls. He punched a few buttons near the destroyed panel. Smoke and sparks shot out. “Dammit!”
“It’s gonna be tight, but I think there’s enough here to make this work.” A red light flashed next to him. “What the hell?”
“Looks like our friend just took the smart way out,” Raider said. “Can’t say I blame him. He’ll have a tough time convincing anyone that asks that he wasn’t part of the plan, though.”
“Maybe we should do the same, Larson,” Behm said. “This plan only works if nothing else goes wrong, and I wouldn’t take that bet.”
“I’m not going back inside,” Larson promised, voice level. He touched the locket under his shirt. “I can’t. It’s my third strike, and I’d never get out.”
“There’s a chance you could get some time off for helping turn in this murderer.”
“Highly unlikely, considering the circumstances.”
“Right.” Behm stood over the hacker. “Reprogram the ship.”
“Oh, man, you know, I would. But your little act of heroism took out the only way to do that.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I? What makes you so sure I’m keen on becoming an industrial accident?”
“Fine. What do you suggest?”
“There’s one pod left. I say we get cozy in it and take our chances with the law.”
“No. I’m not going back.” Larson looked at Behm. “You take the pod. He and I’ll ride this out.”
“I don’t reckon that’s gonna happen,” Behm said. “Not unless it’s the only option. If you stay, we all stay.”
Larson nodded. “All right, let’s see if we can get this boat turned.”
* * *
Behm pored over the schematics, brow furrowed, muttering. After several minutes, he felt a grin spread across his face.
“Got it!”
“Oh?” Larson came over to stand next to him.
“Yeah, there’s a breaker panel in the engine room. Figure if I pull these here,” he tapped the screen, “I can bypass the stabilizers. Then we can fire the cargo on the port side. The loss of mass should make the next set more effective.”
“Excellent. The roll thrusters have a second set of controls at the hatch. They’re only for minor corrections when docking but should have enough fuel to get us in position for the second launch.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Very little. Barely enough.”
“Let’s do it.”
Behm made his way to the engine room. Finding the breaker panel was easy, even with sweat dripping into his eyes. No matter how efficient the design, the sheer size of the engines meant several degrees difference in temperature between the engines and the rest of the ship. He flipped the switches in rapid order before keying his comm.
“Ready when you are, Chief.”
“Roger,” Larson said in his ear. “Launching and heading for the docking station.”
Without the stabilizers, the ship lurched as the containers broke free. Behm stumbled, catching himself before he ate deck plates. After he recovered, he ran back to the bridge.
Raider had managed to work his way to the bulkhead, and now sat against it. The effects of the PK had worn off, though his puke- and snot-crusted face still had a pale green tint to it. Behm ignored him and checked the telemetry, strapping into the chair in preparation for the next set of maneuvers.
Tense minutes passed as the screen showed the pitch and roll of the ship changing slightly, then more dramatically when the second set of containers launched. Behm felt a surge of satisfaction as Raider swore, the sudden change of direction throwing him to the deck again.
“How’re we looking?” Larson’s voice came through the comm.
“Computer’s running the numbers now, but I think this may have just worked.”
“On my way to you.”
Raider’s chuckle grabbed Behm’s attention. He looked over at the man, who had managed to right himself.
“Something amusing?”
“Yeah, actually. My momma always said I had to do things the hard way.”
“No argument here. Don’t seem like you thought this through.”
“Oh, no, that’s where you’re wrong, see.” Raider’s grin widened. “It was a good plan, just not in the way you think.”
Behm spun the chair to look the other man in the eye.
“Got your attention, do I?”
“You could say that.” Larson entered the bridge. “What’re you on about?”
Raider shifted his gaze between the two men, stopping on Behm.
“You wanna tell him, or should I?”
Larson frowned. “Tell me what?”
“No clue, Chief,” Behm said.
“Aww come on, Behm. Don’t be shy. Tell him who you really are.”
The silence stretched for long seconds.
“No?” Raider’s melodramatic sigh came with a chuckle. “Humble to the end, aren’t we, Marshal?”
Larson’s eyebrows shot up. Behm stayed quiet. Raider continued.
“Guess it’s up to me, then.” Raider shifted slightly. “What the good marshal won’t cop to is that there is no buyer. Not a real one, at least.”
“Oh really.”
“Yep. See, this has been nothing but a long-term sting op, with our buddy here as the inside man.”
“Right. And this isn’t just a last-minute ploy to set us against each other.”
“Oh, absolutely. Well, except for the ploy part. See, I did a little digging recently. It seemed like this job was just a little too neat and tidy. And you know how I get paranoid. So, went down a few rabbit holes on our friend here, and I gotta say, whoever scrubbed your profile did a fantastic job, except for a few small quirks here and there.”
“I find that hard to believe.” Larson’s face made that statement a lie.
“Well, of course you do, but those quirks stand out to someone like me. Nothing obvious, but there’s a way to check when things were filed, if you know the right place to look. Those stints in various prisons? The in-processing file dates didn’t match the actual date they were uploaded. It’s all in the bits and bytes, if you know what you’re looking for. And I do.
“Now that brings us to this little predicament. Things kind of went to hell when our boy zapped me, but I did us all a favor by changing our trajectory. See, the original rendezvous would’ve put us right in the middle of a bunch of Feds. We’d all get rounded up and shipped off to different systems to do our time. I’m sure, at some point, we’d get the tragic and convenient news that ol’ marshal here was done in by someone about to get his last meal, never to be seen again. Meanwhile, he’d get some accolades, a gold watch, and a fat pension. And for what? Selling out the suckers who believed in him.”
“I’ve heard just about enough of this,” Behm said. He pulled the PK and gave Raider another dose. Raider’s head thumped against the bulkhead, then the deck as the spasms wracked his body.
The computer gave a soft beep. He checked the screen and swore.
“Problem?”
“Yeah, the last maneuver didn’t get us clear. We’ll need to eject the rest of the cargo.”
“Right. Let’s go.”
Behm followed Larson down the corridor. As they passed one of the lifeboats, he took careful aim and pulled the PK’s trigger. Larson collapsed, retching.
“Sorry, pard,” Behm said, approaching his friend. He waited until Larson quit gagging before continuing. “I’ve got different plans for you. Don’t struggle, we ain’t got much time now.”
He removed Larson’s sheathed knife and pistol, then worked the incapacitated man’s arms into his suit.
“Raider. . . was. . . truth?”
“Yeah, ’cept he missed one thing. I sent the telemetry data to them after the last change. They’ll be here soon, so we got to hurry.”
He dragged Larson into the pod, strapped him into the chair, and sealed up his suit.
“I used the lowest setting—you should be good to go in a few minutes. You need to launch the boat as soon as I throw the load. Count to three after the first one, then launch.”
“Why?” Larson asked, voice muffled by his face plate.
“We’re even.” Behm smiled, tapping his scar. “Lay low, keep your nose clean, and stay dead. Find your girl and be the father she’s never known.”
He exited the pod and shut the door.
* * *
The woman’s voice over the ship’s comm came through stern, businesslike, and clear.
“This is Federation Ship Asimov hailing. We have matched your velocity and will be docking shortly. Prepare for boarding.”
“Roger that, Asimov,” Behm replied. “Be aware that the ship’s controls have been compromised, and we have no way of stopping.”
“We’re aware and will initiate emergency control once docked. Please do not try and interfere.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Asimov.”
Minutes passed in silence as the two ships came together. Seconds after the slight bump, lights on his console flashed to life as the Asimov took control. He watched as the hauler’s speed dropped to zero.
He checked Raider’s restraints and makeshift gag, patted him on the cheek, and took a seat facing the door. His PK, Raider’s cleared pistol, and Larson’s knife lay on the floor in front of him, well out of reach. Just because he was one of them didn’t mean they trusted him.
First through the door were two deputies, rifle barrels swinging to cover the room.
“Hands where we can see them,” the first said, keeping his weapon at low ready. He raised his voice slightly. “Two men, one bound. Clear.”
A woman in dark blue fatigues entered the bridge, her polished boot heels clicking on the deck. The four men behind her looked bored, but alert.
“Captain Urbanek, Federation Security,” she said. “You are under arrest.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Behm didn’t move. “Marshal Radcliff, badge nine-oh-two-ten, reporting in.”
Captain Urbanek unslung her datapad and typed. After a few moments of reading, she looked up again.
“Well, Marshal, it looks like you’ve had an interesting day.”
“More like years, ma’am.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, ma’am. For example, the gentleman to your left is Jason ‘Raider’ Campbell. He’s wanted in at least two systems for suspected industrial espionage. I’ll be adding attempted murder, blackmail, and murder to the list as soon as I come in.”
“Murder?” Urbanek tapped a finger on her chin. “And what of the others?”
“‘Phantom’ Bigelow, our pilot, ejected a few hours ago. His last known coordinates should be in the computer. The man Raider killed was in that pod as well.”
“Bigelow? I don’t know that name.”
“Smuggler, ma’am. Not a particularly brave one. May roll on anyone he’s dealt with.”
“Anyone else?”
“Not now, ma’am. Gene Larson was with us but suffered a fatal heart attack shortly after arrival.” He lowered his eyes. “We decided to honor him with a burial in space.”
“Is that so?” She tapped her pad. “We are aware of a pod launching just before our arrival. However, there were no life signs on board.”
“Yes ma’am, needed the additional mass to change our course. Every little bit helped.”
“I see.” She turned to the men behind her. “Search the ship. While I’m sure that Marshal Radcliff is on the level, I’m a firm believer in ‘Trust, but Verify.’”
The squad saluted as one and left the bridge.
“This seems like a lot of trouble for a small-time theft, Marshal.”
“Oh, there’ll be plenty in my report, ma’am. Don’t you worry.” He smiled. “Seems that mining company has a few things in those containers they don’t want the Federation to find out about. The coordinates are logged.”
Urbanek keyed her comm and whispered into it. After a few moments, she got a reply too low for Behm to hear. Eyes narrowed, she approached him.
“Well, Marshal, it seems you’ll be my guest until the repair-and-rescue team arrives. As I don’t have the resources to chase down every aspect of your story, I’m required to take your word for it.” She paused. “As much as I hate to do so.”
She moved toward the door, stopping only to face her remaining deputies.
“They will remain here until further orders.”
At the men’s “Yes, ma’am” she nodded and walked away.
Radcliff leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head.
Godspeed, my friend, he thought toward the void of space. May you make the best of your second chance.