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  STARSHIP ROGUE

  Chris Turner

  Fantastic Realms

  Copyright 2019 Chris Turner

  Cover design: GooKingSword

  Published by Innersky Books

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in these stories are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  CONTENTS

  THETIS 3

  STARHUSTLER

  STARVENGER

  THETIS 3

  BOOK I

  Chapter 1

  Wandering, wandering…way back in the mists of time I walked the starry mile, across a lightstorm of shattered dreams, a galaxy of endless possibilities, wondering what it would be like to fly a starship. An X-class starship. Well, I wasn’t flying one of those now, but I was certainly captain of a dingy VH3 maintenance craft, out in Veglos sector. Wow, Rusco, you’re a real top gun. Gonna pin a medal on that chest myself.

  Marty, my partner in crime, a short, heavy-boned bully with fleshy lips and swarthy complexion, was acting navigator. We were off to heist a bunch of beryl on Thetis Station.

  Why beryl? The heart of the Varwol space drive, crystal beyond value.

  Yet this sector was no safe zone for old men, as near inside enemy territory as could be. A cesspool of warlords, cons, thieves, murderers, creepo gangsters, come to scavenge anything and everything, using Skgurian raiders, those mutant cannibals, as muscle, every low life imaginable.

  The free sectors had gone to shit—as had most of the rest of the colonized worlds—except some notable planets fighting for and maintaining their independence, but those were fast falling to scumbag warlords. Marty was a real warthog today—jittery and curmudgeon material, riding my ass about every detail. He’d been cracked high on Myscol, just a few hours ago. Still running paranoid. I told him not to gulp down so much but he patted me on the back a little too hard and flashed me his fox-like grin, “Relax, Rusco. You always worry too much. I need that fix to set my aging nerves straight.”

  Too many schemes gone bad lately. And Marty had crossed from irritant to pain in the ass.

  “When we going to make our approach? How we know they’re going to buy it?”

  “Everything’s in order, Marty, relax.”

  Gras, our shaven-headed pilot, snuffled and cast him a disgruntled glance. “Yeah, muzzle it. You’re going to jinx this whole mission.”

  “Yeah, well that blip on our holo-radar is not just a figment of my imagination.” Marty waved a chunky finger. “Check it out.”

  I scanned the holo grid and swung my gaze about. “Just one of Sharki’s patrols. We’re all good. The ship is lock tight, drive signatures in order, maintenance logs in place. Our two birds here can’t squawk either.” I motioned to the two trussed-up bodies, backs huddled against the console.

  Marty grumbled and let his fingers crawl over the nav pad.

  Timing? Fate? Luck of the draw? To fly a stolen craft with kidnapped crew into the hornets’ nest meant a lot of shit-feathers were going to fly. Anything else was just lies.

  That cautionary voice went off in my head like a dull schoolbell: Commander Dakker’s last commendation before I went completely rogue, “I’m hiring you, Rusco, because you’ve done good work in the past. Keep my product out of the hyena’s grip. Don’t mess up.”

  Well, I messed up, and here I was on a thieves’ run to hijack some high end beryl out from under some serious scumbags’ noses. Give me an A for Audacity.

  So, life had taken a plunge since I’d lost Dakker’s commission and inevitably turned to vice. But in the long run I was just following my path, wasn’t I? Whatever destined path that was. Some middling success out in Ganymede had stoked my fires, gained me a bit of confidence and ready cash. I hoped I could make this heist work, that there was some method in the madness. But unexpected upturn plus confidence can set one flat on his ass.

  While the captain and his crew member struggled at the thick cord wrapped around their torsos, wrists and legs, I thought of all the bad things that could come out of this caper.

  Marty seemed to read my thoughts. “These two monkeys are liabilities, Rusco. Let me waste them.”

  Good old Marty, volatile and violent to the end, ready to plug shells into a problem rather than think it through.

  “Remember last time you deep-sixed our pigeons? We needed them and almost got our throats cut.”

  “Stop bringing that up.”

  A rough boy with bullet-shaped head, Marty had a patch of mustard-colored hair and eyes cold and unblinking as a viper’s. He was as tough as nails, as hardy as they come but maybe too impulsive for what I required at the time. Leaning toward the reckless, he was light on the thinking side. Yeah, Rusco, like the wolverine calling the tiger a predator.

  “They’re not looking too happy,” Marty pointed out.

  “Yeah, well that’s the price of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “You’re real compassionate, Rusco.”

  “Glad you approve.”

  The larger captive with the tawny hair, rasped. “When Drayer finds out we’ve gone awol, you’re going down—”

  “But he ain’t, is he?” snorted Marty. “Now shut your gob or I’ll stuff it full of lead. We’ll be in and out of Thetis, and maybe keep this tub here for our own use and ditch you two on a far off planet. Any more lip and it’s bye-bye.” Marty stuck his piece in the man’s ear.

  “Dial it back, Marty,” I warned. “These minnows aren’t worth it.”

  Our pilot Gras seconded the suggestion.

  “We need access codes to dock?” Marty jabbed the captain in the ribs. The man thrashed around, giving back an angry snarl.

  “He’s not going to tell you anything,” I said. “Leave it alone.”

  The prisoner’s buddy beside him, a lieutenant or such, gave us an equally black stare. “Drayer’s the least of your worries. Boss Sharki’s going to murder your asses.”

  “Sharki can lick it,” said Marty.

  The captive’s eyes bulged. Under the stringy hair plastered to his brow, sour sweat dripped. This captain’d resigned himself to a beating or a grungy death, but I saw pride in those glittering eyes, resentful at being sandbagged down on Tyrone City and his ship commandeered by what he could only assume were a couple of amateur opportunists. Pride amongst us males is a dangerous thing. He’d be in a shitload of grief when Sharki learned of his incompetence and negligence.

  Thetis Station was fast looming up: a long spidery, gunmetal silver weave of steel, somewhat of a dove-tail shape with double docks mid center equipped with landing apparatus. The biggest ore refinery this side of Pegasus. Cargo bays swung to rear and port side. The honeycomb partitions stored vats of beryl. At each end of the station stood massive parabolic reflectors, a solar gun technology channeling the high intensity rays of Thetis’s sun for the hyperpolarization and ionization of the beryl that would make superior Varwol crystal for ship drives.

  Not going to lose much sleep over Sharki’s loss of a shipment or two. Not over one who’s selling black market crystal to warlords out to build lethal weapons and warp drive engines to enslave worlds.

  The plan was to rig some diversion in this beryl-processing station orbiting Thetis, steal one of the ore ships and pocket some serious cash. Whether we needed security codes was another matter. If worse came to worse, we’d have to squeeze the captain with knives and fire.

  Gras radioed in and we made our approach. The bright crisp voice came over the com. “Captain Ganx, here. Algernon, transmit security code.”

  Marty spat out a curse, “The code, fucker.” He jabbed our Captain in the ribs with the butt of his weapon.

  The captain snarled. “Eat sh
it.”

  Marty pushed the muzzle of his R4 into the man’s mouth. “We ain’t playing around here, smart boy. We die, you die, fucker, so I’ll ask you again.”

  The man wheezed out a groan. At last he spat out a monosyllable. “A264. A264. Back the fuck off.”

  “That’s better.” Marty retracted his weapon. He nodded to Gras.

  Gras punched the code into the console.

  “Get ready to abort and hightail it out of here if this gig goes sour,” I murmured to him.

  The authoritarian voice spoke again over the com. “Maintenance 1 crew, you are cleared for dock at Hangar 6. Proceed to Bay 6. Drop your maintenance supplies there.”

  “10-4, control.” Gras signed out.

  I flashed Marty my dog-toothed grin. “See? All good to go.” They were falling for it. The docking port opened like a wide oval eye. A few feeder vessels shuttled in and out of starboard port, likely more maintenance craft like ours. We passed under the shadow of the conning tower and on through the main gate.

  Algernon swept in and I saw the pressure lock aperture close behind us. We were floating under low impulse through the double bay protection screen past grey-black hypertensized steel walls. The chamber pressurized. Like dutiful soldiers, we headed over to dock at the dim-lit Bay 6 where three other vessels sat parked. Gras dimmed the landing lights. I nodded to Marty. We took our weapons and our makeshift gear: pry tools, portable scanners, compact explosives and a tin of flesh regen in case we got banged up. Gras sat tight to guard our trussed-up prisoners and signal us in case of trouble.

  Thus far, the maintenance craft with its artificial grav and solar backup power was serving its purpose. The flight manifest roster had entries detailing the previous pickup of backup spare parts and supplies from Tyrone City proper. A good cover for us—maintenance men garbed in grey uniforms with our black service bags full of ‘repair gear’. Just a couple of M-men out for a service check on the power grid at G4.

  I regretted we couldn’t use my ship Starrunner for this op. She was a fast ride that I’d pimped up pretty good and would get us out of here if it came to that. I’d debated camouflaging her to look something like Algernon to get inside Thetis Station, but the makeover convoluted what was essentially a simple plan.

  We’d studied the schedule. Planned to come in on a shift just before launch of the cargo vessels to the hub world, Mixr. A little dodgy if the wrong people got suspicious, but what’s to gain without some risk?

  I recalled the massive solar guns mounted half way below the parabolas and a shudder touched my spine. The power of reworked tech from the past centuries had fallen into the hands of gangsters like Sharki, accelerating his heating and refining operations and pumping out mega product. Good that some of that loot could go toward the Jet Rusco poverty fund.

  Marty grumbled on and was toying with the prisoners again. A belligerent SOB, and mean as a snake, but plenty of iron-hard muscle when it came to nasty business. This was nasty business, kid nobody not. An op run by thugs who wouldn’t think twice of pulling out one’s entrails and wrapping them about one’s neck like a hangman’s noose. This heist idea was mostly mine. But feeling the sweat budding under my brow of purple-dyed hair had me wondering what compulsion had thrust me into this hare-brained scheme.

  “Play it cool. No embellishments or sudden moves,” I said. “All by the book.” I swung my long legs down the companionway to the cargo hold. Marty trailed at my heels.

  The ship’s engines glided us in and I felt a thrill of anticipation touch my spine. Showtime.

  Gras parked the craft in as unobtrusive a spot as possible over at the farthest end of the landing depot. I’d studied the layouts on the 3D image. Marty and I hefted our black bags, the weight reassuring on my shoulder while Gras stayed put on armchair alert to monitor the depot on the holo screen. We came out of the cargo hold in our grey uniforms, moving with as much casual ease as possible.

  “Remember, 15 minutes max,” I hissed at Marty. “Then we’re out of here regardless. Anything goes wrong, we come out blasting.”

  Marty gave me a gruff acknowledgment.

  Five ore freighters sat to the side with double cargo doors open showing gleaming bins of treated beryl inside. Two stealth airguard V-Zon ships hung way back, parked at the opposite end of the landing dock. Their purpose, to protect the shipment when the convoy went out into deep space. I didn’t like the look of those menacing fuselages or the elongated forward cannon. Could make mincemeat of a few ambitious raiders. One of those ore-freighters was our target. I picked the closest one—for luck. I could read the nameplate on the grey side—‘Goliath’. Fitting. I wondered if she were a fast ship. I liked the look of her twin cannons. Some extra features were installed there too. Once out in space, Gras would act as rearguard to protect our flanks.

  I was glad we weren’t using Algernon as a getaway vehicle. The maintenance ship was not equipped with much firepower. No fareons or modern blaster tech. If things went awry and we had to hotfoot it, in a shootout we’d be sitting ducks.

  I motioned. “I bid for the nearest hauler of those raw supply ships over there. Goliath. Premium ore. En route to high end worlds like Mixr. When the pandemonium is in full swing, we strike.”

  “What if some security jock decides to board Algernon and finds our two pigeons?”

  “Gras can stall them. It’s a risk we’ll have to take. No more than 15 minutes. You chicken-shitting out?”

  “Don’t insult me, Rusco. I’m always game.” Marty gave me a saccharine smile that turned to a feral look that could bring down a charging rhino. Good old Marty.

  Uniformed, maintenance crew milled about in scrap-happy moods; hauler personnel too, fussing with odds and ends around the loading dock. Last minute protocol. All of these five monster vessels measured 200 feet in length. Impressive, despite their vintage.

  “Why even have a refinery here on a station?” Marty asked. “Seems a hell of an inconvenient place.”

  “I don’t know, something about raw beryl not electron charged enough for warp coil production. Needs a vacuum and a serious electromagnetic boost to qualify it for Varwol drive construction. Whatever the case, it’s working for them.” I motioned to the loaders full of polarized mineral backing up to the last ships.

  Over the hum of voices and tumult of forklift engines, a bulky man with raven hair, dressed in a silver spacer’s suit barked out surly orders to a gang of dockhands. Likely our space rogue, Sharki. Never met the man, and never wanted to. Heard a lot about the fellow, but one never knows what to believe. A mean brute either way. Killed hundreds, maybe more. Fork-lifts and cranes loaded the last of the vessels with the remaining beryl from the loaders into their cargo holds.

  I gripped the stock of my R4. The sleek metal felt warm in my palm. I gave a grunt of satisfaction. Keep them busy over there while we do our business at the control board over here. I snuck up to the control room that fed the station its juice, midway down the depot.

  Trouble found us soon enough. Nosy parker security boy, bitchfaced sod waved his R3 at us. “Problem’s back there, boys. What’s with you running off in such a hurry? Going for a ham sandwich and a pint down in the mess hall?”

  I nodded in easy jocularity. “Drayer told us to come down, fix a bad pipe at central control. We’ve got it writ here on this requisition form. Want to see it? Unless somebody countermanded the order.”

  He shook his head, a tinge of frustration in the darting eyes. “Whatever. More help is needed on the solar grid at tower B3 than fixing any damn pipe. Four men nearly got bodies scorched the other day.”

  “You don’t say. What gives?”

  “Bad gyro.”

  “Yeah, I heard something along those lines. Drayer shuttled us off to the pipes. Didn’t mention—”

  “Fuck Drayer. Who’s in charge of priorities around here? Fat turd Drayer?”

  “Seems so, and I hear you, man. Preaching to the choir. Tell you what—we’ll get this pipe fixed, then hustle
over to B3 to help you guys out. Sound fair?”

  He gave a curt nod. “Make it snappy.” He moved off before turning back to us. “Whole station’s going to shit. Whole place could catch on fire. Yesterday Bonli, working power gyros, near got his head fried.”

  My lips parted in appreciation. “You know what they say about old stations.”

  “Yeah, parabola’s super old. Solar gun has gigawatts of power, lethal as hell. Not enough maintenance crew here to keep this old rig running safely. Security’s a downright pig these days. Any two-bit meister can waltz in and start hacking away with clippers.”

  I nodded in sympathy. That’s why we picked this joint, you dumb fuck. Now bug the hell off and let us work.

  The security man stalked off, mouthing orders into his com.

  Marty gave a grim chuckle. “Rusco, you’ve a knack for ladling out the BS.”

  “Let’s just say I’ve had lots of practice at it. We may not be so lucky if someone else surprises us.”

  We made it to the steel door of the control room, past some of the hubbub of dockhands and load-lifters but at enough of a distance to keep a sharp lookout on the cargo vessels. The control room, with its small six-inch square thick glass window placed beside the door, lay in plain view. Marty acted as lookout while I set to jimmying the knob with the wrench-like tool I dug out of my bag of tricks. Something like a small Alan key but fancier with better dexterity and some electro-gizmos inside to trip the tumblers that kept the door locked. There was always danger of an alarm going off—sure, nothing to do about that. But I thought I’d covered that base by flashing my kill disc first, which blew the alarm sensor. A common mechanism. Didn’t look as if this door had any fancy tripwires or devices. The guy on watch said security was lax here and who would try to steal from Sharki and his cutthroat hirelings? Dangerous thinking, Rusco, but these were dangerous times. Risky—with oodles of wealth at stake for a daredevil like me. That was the beauty of this operation—no second guessing. Either win big time or get blown to shit. Anyways, we’d know in a second. I heard a snap and a click, some more hard clicks in the tumbler mechanism and the door slid open. I beamed. No strident klaxon or shitbox robot laser thingy beaming down on us. All good. Marty grinned. I slipped in after him.