Planet Hustlers: Mission 15 (Black Ocean) Page 2

  The robot withdrew and the door clanged shut behind him.

  Carl rubbed his hands together. “Well, now that we’ve got that settled, let’s call it a night.” He extended a hand to Amy.

  “How is anything settled?” Amy demanded, folding her arms.

  “When was the last time that robot was right about anything?” Carl asked. He looked around the room. No one was offering him evidence to the contrary. “He’s a pessimist. Probably a consequence of getting his mind trapped in a robotic body. Do we want to start 2562 off as pessimists, assuming the worst, not helping people in need, and getting all the bones in our bodies broken?”

  Roddy had been raising his hand until the end, when it shot down suddenly.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  # # #

  The door thudded shut, and Roddy breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a long day to cap a long year. He was beat. He gave his lady a sappy grin and headed for bed.

  Shoni wasn’t changed into her night smock. She sat on the edge of the bed, arms and legs crossed. Her frown could have de-iced a coolant line.

  “Hey, soft thing,” Roddy said disarmingly. “‘Bout ready to hit the hay? Cuz I’m in no shape to roll in it.”

  “Rodek, we need to talk.”

  It wasn’t fair. It had been a long day… a long year. Didn’t she get that? Roddy was beaten down, bone weary, and ready to conduct the snoring symphony.

  “Can’t it wait till morning?”

  He knew the answer. Asking was just for form’s sake. That was how these conversations had to go. If he didn’t make these ‘need to talk’ moments at least a little painful, they’d be having them daily.

  “This isn’t what we discussed. You promised we were going to gracefully extract ourselves from the criminal lifestyle or at least the dangerous sort. What happened to opening a hangar and repairing smugglers’ ships?”

  Roddy ran a hand over his scalp. Somewhere, there was a right amount of drunk to be discussing this crap. At the moment, he couldn’t tell whether he was too drunk or too sober, but he wasn’t at that happy theoretical medium—if it existed.

  “Look. We were having a good time on Cedric’s little pet rock. Lemme ask you this: if we’d built up a nice little cottage on that world, maybe install a food synthesizer, drop a proper astral relay into orbit—you know, the works—would you have stayed?”

  Shoni pursed her lips and frowned. “Potentially. We’d need starship access, though. I may be willing to live on a rock in the middle of nowhere, but I’m not willing to stay there the rest of my life. We’d need vacations, supply runs, visitors. And I’d probably also—”

  “But you’re willing to consider it?” Roddy cut in before that moderately long answer became an essay.

  “Given a manageable list of surrounding circumstances, yes.”

  “Great, then let’s go to sleep.”

  Without waiting for an answer or shutting off the lights, Roddy collapsed face-first onto the bed beside her.

  # # #

  Carl had gotten used to the view of New Garrelon from orbit. It was a blue, green, yellow orb a little larger than average for a habitable world. It wasn’t pretty. With all the vast grain farmland spread across the northern continent, it looked like the planet was sick.

  Now, with a fleet of pirate vessels crowding its orbital space, for the first time Carl’s impression of the planet was accurate. It was infected.

  “Time to cure that disease,” Carl muttered.

  Amy looked up from the pilot’s chair. “Huh? What was that?”

  “Nothing. I was just… never mind.”

  They spread out like the blanket of satellites and orbital habitats around Earth. Carl hadn’t realized how many ships that band of pirates had at their command. What had made them decide to relocate from Carousel was anyone’s guess. Maybe the mines ran dry. Maybe there had been a disaster. Maybe some upstart Earth Navy captain had decided to make a name for himself ousting them.

  The latter was a sobering thought. It meant that these pirates weren’t fools. Sure, a fleet that size could stomp even a Pandora-class battleship like the ENV Odysseus. Sure, it was worlds better than anything the pirates could dream of owning, but numbers would win out. Flip that around though, and the instant the Poet Fleet downed an Earth Navy battleship, the hammer of ARGO would fall on them.

  “They’re hailing us,” Amy said, waving a hand toward the comm while leaning subtly away from it.

  The ship was On the Pulse of Morning. The sender identified as Captain Angie-Lou Martigan. There was probably some clever poem thing about the ship name, but Carl wasn’t in the mood to look it up in the omni. Too much trouble talking to these guys if you played their game by their rules.

  Carl accepted the hail.

  “Mobius, stand down and prepare to be brought aboard,” a gruff female voice ordered.

  Keying the comm, Carl put on his friendliest conversational voice. “Hey there, Pulse of Morning. Nice to chat. We’re here at the request of the New Garrelon government. Go right on ahead and check with them. We’re expected.”

  Amy jammed down the button to make sure the comm was off when Carl stopped broadcasting. “You know, for an ex-fighter pilot, is it weird that I hate when a ship is big enough to land us inside?”

  “Yup.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, it’s the getting locked up inside a hostile vessel—period—that ought to be sizzling your synapses.”

  “Not reassuring.”

  Carl just shrugged. It wasn’t really meant to be.

  A moment later, they received another comm. This time it was from a lieutenant, but the ship had changed. “Mobius, this is Lieutenant Masha Mallory, traffic control officer of the Look Upon My Works Ye Mighty and Despair. Please follow the guidance I am transmitting and land in hangar bay two. Admiral Chisholm will see you.”

  Carl grinned and shot Amy a wink. “See? We’re going places. Still inside a ship, mind you, but now we’re seeing the lady in charge.”

  “This is the one you claimed was off her rocker,” Amy reminded him.

  “Yeah, but in a useful way. She’s got a hang-up for ancient philosophy. You’ll hardly find a more well-versed expert in Free Love Era musical poetry that me.”

  Amy arched an eyebrow. “So that’s what we’re calling your rock music fetish now?”

  “Today it is. I’ll put Bob Dylan up against Shakespeare and Thoreau any day.”

  The Look Upon My Works Ye Mighty and Despair was the longest-named vessel Carl had ever encountered. Outside of naval vessels, it was one of the longest he’d seen in person, too. The ship loomed ever closer, growing until hangar bay two engulfed them.

  Carl thumped the shipwide comm with his fist. “Heyo, everyone. We will be landing aboard a pirate vessel any second now. I’d like everyone on some version of their best behavior. Archie, keep out of sight in case someone realizes you’re worth more than the ship. Yomin, I’d like you not to interface with any Poet Fleet vessels. They will have counter-hackers, and I’m not willing to risk getting caught. Cedric, you’re going to work zero magic unless they try to take the ship. Roddy, I want no broadcasts on the external speakers; I don’t care how funny it would be to taunt them with limericks.”

  The laaku had suggested just such an amusing—and potentially diplomatically disastrous—prank on the journey from parts unknown.

  “Repeat that back to me, fuzzball,” Carl ordered. The rest of them he trusted to follow directions.

  “I’ll make sure,” Shoni replied on Roddy’s behalf.

  “So,” Carl said, looking down into Amy’s eyes. “You wanna hang here with the ship or come meet the crazy poetry nerds that just conquered Rai Kub’s planet?”

  “Ship,” Amy replied. “Definitely the ship.”

  # # #

  Carl exited the Mobius via the cargo ramp, Esper and Rai Kub in tow. If any of the crew could keep themselves out of trouble in polite company, it was those two. The hangar wasn’t
half bad as hangars went. It had somber lighting without seeming shadowy, and there was ornate etching and relief work on just about every surface, including the floor. Carl’s first step onto the Look Upon My Works Ye Mighty and Despair was onto the stylized face of an anthropomorphic lion.

  The jumble of creatures that met the three Mobius delegates could have been an honor guard or just the regular kind. They had fancy-looking military style blaster rifles, but that was the closest any of them came to looking professional. Every color, every fabric, every style and cut of garment imaginable appeared to all combine in a mere six outfits, no two remotely alike. It was like being backstage at a holovid recording studio, walking among the extras from six different programs—all of which were a bit off in the head.

  “Hi. I’m Carl Ramsey. You may have heard of me from the Silde Slims racing show I did last year. This is Esper Richelieu and Rai Kub, of Mars and New Garrelon, respectively.”

  A woman in a blue-and-white checkered halter top and sequined hoop skirt stepped forward, slinging her rifle over one shoulder as she curtsied. Her face was hidden behind a domino half-mask and dusted with gold glitter where the skin showed. “I’m Cupid Lestrade. I’m originally from Mars, too.” She shot Esper a smile that showed metallic dots on each tooth—cosmetic retractors, usually for kids with crooked teeth. God these people would go to any length to stand out. “I’ll be taking you to see the admiral.”

  The six escorts fell into a loose circle around Carl, Esper, and Rai Kub. Carl ended up behind a beast of a guy wearing nothing but a body paint mural of a mountain landscape, a tortoise shell codpiece, and platform cowboy boots. A woman dressed as a fairy tale Bo Peep with a spider tattoo on her face had taken Esper arm in arm—which Carl considered a brave move. The pair prodding Rai Kub along reluctantly were an Elizabethan nobleman in flatvid cloth and a lady in an outfit made primarily of coins and jangling chains.

  Carl felt it best to make chitchat. He assigned the task to Carl Who Sees Weirdly Dressed People All the Time. “So, Cupid. What’s the lowdown on the new gig? You boys and girls get tired of breathing the stink on Carousel? Decide to do a little jumbo-scale manual farming? I heard Thoreau was into that sort of thing.”

  He’d brushed up on major poets on the way and was eager to show off.

  Cupid turned without breaking stride. “I’d sooner slit my wrists and lend my blood to the soil than sully my hands with peasant labor.” She glanced up at Rai Kub. “Some people just have different tastes. I suspect your friend would be equally unhappy with a life of wine and cultured debate.”

  “I imbibe little,” Rai Kub answered without being addressed directly. “Well, for me. I suspect my occasional indulgences would qualify as a lethal case of alcohol poisoning for a frail little thing like you.”

  Carl jutted his jaw and gave Rai Kub a quiet nod. Good for him. Nice to see the stuunji stand up for himself a little. When he considered that these were the people who’d conquered Rai Kub’s adopted homeworld, the insult to Cupid’s drinking prowess lost a litter luster.

  “Does the pretty one talk?” Cupid asked, shifting subjects.

  What was it about top-notch cosmo work that drew the creeps? Sure, Esper had that holo-star look, fake without looking implausibly fake. But she was bundled up in a pink sweatshirt that was getting a little careworn and wore a look that could have shamed a church statue. Maybe it was the fact that Carl knew she could twist the heads off of everyone present. Maybe it was that Esper’s mind housed the Mobius crew’s weekly bowling league. But somehow, he just couldn’t wrap his head around how she drew leering eyes like rotting meat drew flies.

  “I sure do,” Carl cut in, diverting the question. “Some people wonder whether I ever shut up. But I can take a compliment when I hear one. You’re not so bad yourself.”

  Thanks to the miracle of a segmentable mind, Carl not only pulled off the flirting with a straight face, he had Cupid tilting her head in consideration. “A reminder for after your meeting with the admiral: anything is allowed here between two consenting sentients. Anything…”

  For a second, Carl plodded along in stunned silence. Then a brand new Carl Who Routinely Gets Scary Sexual Offers jumped in to save him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  There was a lift ride and a hover-transport ride. Carl kept his mind off other rides that were on the table. When they arrived at a conference room, the doors opened and the six guards fanned out to block any direction but inside.

  Within, there was a pair of attendants. Carl guessed they were assassin and wizard, respectively. But the woman in the harlequin uniform caught his attention and held it.

  Admiral Emily Chisholm was younger than Carl imagined her. They hadn’t met face to face or on video comm last time. Only Esper had seen her, and the omni was a little spotty on images of major criminal underworld bosses. Carl spared Esper a “you never mentioned she was hot” look.

  Esper replied with a weary eye roll that Carl struggled to parse.

  “Captain Ramsey,” Chisholm greeted with a formal nod. “Good of you to come. I must say, I was surprised to discover that the New Garrelon Exile Government chose a human negotiator and doubly so to discover it was you.”

  Carl chuckled. “Funny story. I was mentioning that to my mechanic, wondering why everyone wanted to see me for their underworld dealings. He pointed out that a few years back I took out an omni advert with just about that exact promise. Either it had something to do with the stuunji finding a four-year-old advert on the omni, or maybe they remembered the last time I helped them out, when I stole that starship you chased off.”

  Chisholm listened to the diatribe with a patient, dignified smile, then addressed Rai Kub. “I assume you are the token representative of the pastoral stuunji people?”

  “Yes,” Rai Kub replied. “It seemed right to have one of our people present. I do not intend to interfere in the negotiations.”

  Without waiting for Rai Kub to finish, the pirate admiral swept over to Esper and kissed her on both cheeks in ancient European style. “Esper, my darling. You haunt my dreams. We simply must adjourn these proceedings until I’ve heard all about the life you chose over remaining with us. Refreshments for all. Ta-ta.”

  With that, Admiral Chisholm placed a hand on Esper’s back and guided her out the far door of the conference room. Through it all, Esper didn’t remove her hands from the front pocket of her sweatshirt or alter her expression.

  “That was… odd,” Rai Kub stated.

  “You’re telling me.”

  The assassin muttered something into a comm piece. Then he smiled with razor-pointed teeth. “Hors d’oeuvres will be here shortly.”

  # # #

  Emily Chisholm relinquished Esper’s arm upon reaching her quarters. Esper recognized them from the time she was kept prisoner there. It was a nice suite, not gaudy but showing off a certain flair for the expensive and exotic. The pirate admiral took a deep, cleansing breath upon the door closing behind them.

  “My dear, the months have treated you ill,” Emily said with a spreading of her arms. “That soul inside you is shriveling like a plant kept from sunshine. You are a flower—a delicate rose, not some fungus to be cooped up in a tiny starship. You’ve clearly made the best decision of your life coming back here.”

  “I’m here as a delegate of the stuunji,” Esper pointed out.

  Emily wasn’t paying heed to her words, though Esper had no doubt she’d heard them clearly enough. The admiral tugged and teased until her braids came loose, hair hanging free with that telltale waviness from their recent contortions.

  “There’s no rush. No rush at all. The stuunji people aren’t going anywhere, and your companions will be well looked after. And you’re as much a delegate as the big fellow. The stuunji council wanted that slick-talking used starship salesman negotiating for them. The heavy one is just the muscle to keep him from getting ideas of weaseling out on the deal. You are the bone Ramsey is throwing me.”

  Esper opened her mouth to
object, but Emily was there, placing a finger over her lips. The admiral’s skin was warm to the touch. Esper could smell a whiff of the hair cleanser that finger had picked up while unraveling braids.

  “Hush dear. Think on it a moment. You’re an open book. Ramsey is a con man. Anyone so brazen as that would have more holes in him than a colander if he weren’t an expert on maneuvering people. You’ve been maneuvered into place. Lucky me.”

  Esper took a step back. “Carl really was looking to get these negotiations going,” she said lamely.

  Emily smiled. That red lip shader tone… Esper recognized it as Harlot Crimson. Not that she’d kept up on fashion since her teenage years. Some memories just clung tenaciously.

  Like Esper’s last visit to the Look Upon My Works Ye Mighty and Despair.

  Emily’s hands slid around Esper’s waist and under her sweatshirt. The undershirt beneath was damp. “But you’ve already begun negotiations. Half the art of bargaining is putting your adversary in the appropriate mood to compromise. And I’m certainly willing to play along. I’m feeling a little… compromised already. Aren’t you?”

  Esper swallowed.

  Admiral Emily Chisholm was a slip of a woman a centimeter or two shy of Esper’s height and without a sniff of magic or any sort of cybernetics. Esper could snap her like a twig or turn her to cinders with nary an effort. Instead, she stood transfixed, glancing away from those piercing eyes and soft lips for fear of giving in. This was how a woman kept an entire pirate fleet in her thrall—charisma.

  Mort appeared from the depths of Esper’s psyche. “I’ve had about enough of this. I admit I was curious what you’d gotten up to last time these pirates had a hold of you. But now… well, I know things have been rough between you and Ceddie of late, but this is no way to deal with that.”

  Esper tried her best to ignore him. She was getting better at it. “It’s. Um. A little warm in here.”