Farthest Reach Page 4

  Deke turned to me and held his hands palms up.

  “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’m just the junior partner. All invoices go through the owner.”

  ***

  “You know,” Deke said, “you remind me of someone.”

  Three dozen sets of eyes were watching us as we walked back out to the Dutchman, and any of them would have been more than happy to take a shot at us, if the Sungs hadn’t ordered them to let us leave unmolested. I made sure to meet every stare, because you didn’t ignore challenges like that, you faced them down.

  “Let me guess, your old girlfriend.”

  “I was going to say my unit commander during the war,” he corrected me. I must have looked surprised, because he went on. “You don’t get flustered and you don’t show fear.”

  “You show fear in the Lucky Bastard,” I told him, “and you’ll wind up with someone’s boot up your ass.”

  “Well, then, I should fit right in.” He eyed me sidelong as the ship swallowed us up. “You forgive me now for sticking my nose in?”

  I favored him with a smile, feeling the ramp beginning to close before we even stepped off it.

  “I think it was probably fate,” I told him. “Everyone winds up at the Lucky Bastard sooner or later.”

  About the Author

  Rick Partlow

  Rick Partlow is a native Floridian who graduated Florida Southern College with a degree in history and a commission in the US Army, where he served as an infantry platoon leader.

  He is the best-selling author of Glory Boy, the Recon series and the Wholesale Slaughter series.

  He has written 30 books in eight different series, all of them either space opera, military SF or a combination of the two. His latest is the Interstellar Bounty Hunter series, with the first book, Absolution, coming out in November of 2019 and the next slated for late January of 2020.

  Brace Cordova and the Winds of Sinjin-3

  C.Steven Manley

  Want to know something that I had to learn the hard way? Something they don’t tell you in the holoplays and adventure stories?

  Starships eat money. I mean, they consume credits like a starving craehound tears through a slab of meat or a drug addict goes through a case of inhalers. It’s crazy just how much money it takes to keep a starship flying. Fuel, docking fees, parts, and maintenance—it all takes a bite out of the cash reserves. Add to that keeping a crew fairly paid before breaking off a little profit for yourself and it’s a small wonder that an independent ship owner like myself could manage to make a living. Granted, my ship was one of a kind and the fastest thing flying, but, still, starships practically devour money.

  It was this fact that had motivated me to take the meeting that I found myself in that day. My crew and I had been berthed at Deadrock Station for going on three weeks and everyone was getting a little restless as well as light on credits. We needed a paying job in a bad way and I was hopeful that the woman sitting across the table from me was going to help with that.

  She was a standard human with long, wavy hair that framed a face that was serious right up to the edge of severe. Her blonde hair shimmered despite the dim lighting in Sparrow’s Tavern—some active nano-highlighting application, I suspected—and her unnaturally blue eyes seemed to take in every detail around us as we spoke. She’d said her name was Cassandra Var. I thought it suited her.

  “So, how did you find me, Ms. Var?” I asked.

  She smiled in a way that was more reflex than amusement. “You and your crew have a reputation, Captain Cordova. You aren’t that hard to find if one knows the right people to ask. I happen to know more than a few of them.”

  She wasn’t wrong. It hadn’t been that long ago when my picture had been all over the datastreams as the commonwealth’s most wanted man. I’d been accused of starting a war, and while the charges weren’t technically wrong, they in no way told the whole story. I’d eventually been exonerated, but not before a lot of trouble and more losses than I cared to remember.

  “Fair enough,” I said. “You’ve got my attention. What can my crew and I do for you?”

  “Have you ever heard of the Sinjin System?”

  I spent a moment considering it and then shook my head.

  “Not surprising. It lies just outside the borders of known space, just a day or so into The Black by standard ship time. There’s not much reason for taking a trip out that far, but it does show up on some of the more selective navigation charts here and there.”

  I chuckled. “You mean smugglers’ charts.”

  She smiled that smile again. “I think that sentients in that line of work are very selective about their navigation practices. Don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I’ve just never heard it phrased quite that way.”

  “Well, word choice aside, that is the place I’d like to hire you to go.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Trips into The Black cost a little extra, you know.”

  She shrugged. “As I said, it’s not that far outside the hypercomm networks and I have precise flight plans to get you there. I can’t believe the captain and crew that discovered the sleeper ship Cameron and were the first commonwealth citizens to set foot on a Seph-controlled planet are afraid of a little day trip into, shall we say, marginally charted space.”

  She had me there. My crew and I had probably seen more of The Black than just about anyone else. “For the record,” I said, “I wasn’t captain when we went after the Cameron.”

  She nodded her head in acknowledgment but said nothing.

  “Okay,” I said. “That’s the place, but what’s the job? Cargo? Passengers?”

  “Pick up there, deliver back here. The Mithril Phoenix has two interchangeable pod bays, yes?”

  I nodded. “She does.”

  “You’ll probably need them both.”

  “So, cargo?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind?”

  “Well,” she said, that plastic smile returning to her face, “that’s where things get a little unclear, so allow me a moment to explain. Roughly six months ago, my employers funded a modest expedition to Sinjin-3. It consisted mostly of a small exploration vessel, its crew, and half a dozen researchers and their aides. Just a small team whose mission was to evaluate whether there was anything on the planet worth exploring or digging up. The planet was unclaimed on any official records, so no one had ever really done any serious surveying for potential resources.”

  I snorted a short laugh and said, “I can tell you from hard experience that poking around unexplored planets can lead to more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I suppose you can. Nevertheless, they funded the expedition and the team’s efforts actually produced some viable results.”

  “Like what?”

  “Evidence of rare mineral deposits as well as the remains of an extinct civilization. As you well know, both of those things can be profitable for whoever can claim discovery. Between the pristine archaeological find and the mining potential, my employers believe they can turn Sinjin-3 into a reliable income stream for a decade or more.”

  “No indigenous sentients?”

  She shook her head. “As I said, the only evidence of intelligent life is the remarkably intact abandoned city. The survey team reports indicate that no one had set foot in it for many centuries before they arrived.”

  “Okay, sounds like it went well for your bosses. Why do you need the Phoenix?”

  “I’m getting to that. The team had collected multiple crates filled with mining samples and hundreds of artifacts from the ruins. Collectively, it was all enough to convince the appropriate parties to lease mining and research rights from my employers. As they were about to start loading them on the ship, though, there was a sudden and violent storm. From what I understand, it was like getting caught in a hurricane with next to no warning. The ship was damaged and the crew suffered multiple injuries, many of them serious. They weren’t really outfit
ted for that kind of thing, so the captain made the decision to abandon the cargo in favor of saving his ship and crew. As far as we know, the samples are all still sitting dirtside right where they left them. We’d like to hire you to retrieve them for us.”

  I considered her story as she watched me watching her. It didn’t sound too implausible. People were always coming at me with schemes and scams that they thought the Phoenix could make work. She seemed to be shooting straight, though, and I got the impression that she was cruising with deep pockets.

  “Clients only come to me because of the Phoenix,” I said, “and they only want my ship because she’s the fastest thing flying. This tells me you have a timetable in mind. Quick launches and turnarounds can cost extra.”

  “Of course,” she said. “And you are correct; we need this done as quickly as possible before our potential investors get too skittish. I can provide you with all the details and I’m sure we can settle on a fair price. Do you accept the job, Captain Cordova?”

  “One last thing before I answer that. You keep mentioning your ‘employers.’ Who are they?”

  “A group of anonymous investors who like their privacy. Does it really matter?”

  She kept her expression even as she answered, but I thought the words came a little too smoothly, as though she’d expected the question and had prepared for it.

  “It matters if I have to look over my shoulder the whole flight for commonwealth security cruisers,” I said. “That costs extra too.”

  The plastic smile returned. “I have no reason to think that will be an issue for you.”

  I nodded and said, “All right, then. You can tell your bosses congratulations because they just hired the Mithril Phoenix.”

  A new smile bloomed across her face, more genuine than the previous ones. “Excellent,” she said. “I’m sure this will be good partnership for us both. Shall we have a drink and discuss specifics?”

  I signaled one of the servers and ordered a round for us. We spent the next half hour or so sipping at our respective drinks and politely hammering out a deal that we both felt came closest to getting everything we wanted. When it was done, she left with a professional handshake and another of those artificial smiles. Even with a deal in place, I felt like I shouldn’t trust the woman, but the number of credits on the table had put me in a gambling mood, so I let my concerns drift. As soon as I saw Cassandra Var leave the tavern, I activated my datacuff and contacted Bliss Barlow.

  “We’ve got a job,” I said before she had a chance to say hello. “I need everyone back at the ship for prep and supply.”

  “A real job?” Bliss said. “One that pays actual, spendable credits?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m bartering our services for bottled rainbows and magic flower petals. Of course it’s real credits.”

  “Well, it’s just that it’s been a while,” she said, ignoring the well-worn sarcasm that we usually indulged in. I was talking to a small hologram that was hovering above the datacuff attached to the back of my left hand. Bliss’s face and torso looked back at me through the multiple station levels between us. “How much did you get?” she asked.

  I gave her the details. She was quiet for a few seconds and then said, “You know what, lover? You should really start letting me negotiate the contracts.”

  I felt my lips tighten into a frown. Bliss was my comms and sensors officer as well as my girlfriend. I often pondered how I could love someone so much and still find them so damned irritating. “Look, just get Spin and Vorz and meet us at the ship as quick as you can. We need to get moving on this.”

  “What about Cutter?”

  I looked toward the end of the bar where I’d last seen my ship’s doctor. He was still there, his dark-skinned face resting on the smooth counter. “He’s here with me,” I said. “I’ll get him to the ship and sober him up. Call the quartermaster’s office and see what kind of supply rate you can get us.”

  “Dorringer still owes me a favor for introducing him to Sel. He’ll give us a deal.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “See you back at the ship.”

  She signed off without a reply. I got up and crossed the tavern to where Cutter was slouched over the bar. It was a common enough thing that the bartender gave me a shrug and a small smile when he saw me. I returned it and signaled for him to close out our tab.

  “Come on, you old lush,” I said, pulling Cutter to an upright position. “Nap time’s over. We’ve got a job and you’re officially on the clock. Time to sober up.”

  Cutter’s eyes opened like his eyelids weighed far too much; first the left and then the right. He ran one hand over his short, graying hair and looked around like he was trying to figure out where he was. “Whaddjusay?” he slurred, scratching at his full but neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard.

  “We have a job. Time to be a doctor again.”

  “D’ju say ‘a job’? ’Bout damn time.”

  “Oh, like you’ve been sober long enough to notice. Come on, let’s get you back to the Phoenix and a great big hydration injection.”

  Cutter was an excellent doctor when he wasn’t drunk, but that was a state that was pretty much confined to when he was on the job. Over the years of traveling together, I’d gotten really good at sobering him up.

  “Whossa client?” he said as he slid off the barstool and spent a couple of seconds finding his balance.

  “It’s a retrieval gig to a fringe system,” I said. “The clients are a bunch of anonymous investors who misplaced some cargo. We’re going to go get it for them.”

  Cutter stopped in his tracks and turned his bleary, bloodshot gaze my way. When he was as drunk as he was then, it always seemed to highlight the lines in his dark face and remind me how much older he was than me.

  “Anomunus investors?” he said. He raised an unsteady finger and pointed it roughly in the direction of my nose. “Yura not tha’ stupid, Brace. They’re gangsters.”

  I pushed his hand down. “That’s possible, yeah, but it’s a simple job. Coast in, load up, coast out, get paid. Easy.”

  “You said no more gangsters,” he said, leaning on me as we headed for the exit.

  “Need the credits, doc. We do what we gotta do.”

  I felt him shaking his head as we walked. “Gotta bad feelin’, Brace. Shouldn’ta dealed with gangsters.”

  I rolled my eyes and kept walking. It’s too bad I’ve never been good at heeding the advice of my elders.

  ***

  The trip to the Sinjin system took us just under a week, about half the time it would have taken any other ship in the Phoenix’s class. It was the morning of the second day when I left Bliss sleeping in our cabin and found my copilot, Vorz, staring at a navigation display with an irritated expression on his large feline face.

  Vorz was a member of the Leonine race. He stood more than a head taller than me, and I’m considered tall for a standard human. His body was lean with thick muscle covered in short fur the color of dirty gold. A heavy mane of a slightly darker color covered his head and large braids dangled down either side of his broad-nosed face. I greeted him and he returned it with a rumbling mumble that sounded like it bounced around in his massive chest a few times before making it past his vocal cords.

  “What are you looking at, big guy?” I asked.

  “Our flight plan,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “It vexes me.”

  Vorz and I had been through hell together more than once or twice. He was one of, if not the, most energetic, life loving, positive sentients I’d ever known. He had a laugh that could make a death row inmate smile and a never-say-die attitude that was so infectious, it should have been classified as a virus. I had rarely seen him “vexed,” so I immediately paid attention.

  “What is it?” I said, checking the readouts. “Did they give us bogus vectors? Should we drop out of hyperspace?”

  “No, no, my friend. Nothing like that. It’s just this flight plan seems familiar somehow. I feel as though I should recognize it, b
ut I do not and can’t explain why that is. As I said, vexing.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, did you guys ever come out this way when Jeremiah owned the ship?”

  “No,” he said. “We did not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He spared me a stern look. “I am the ship’s navigator, Brace. Of course I am sure.”

  “All right,” I said, holding my hands up defensively. “Just trying to help.”

  A low growl rumbled up from his throat and he said, “I am sorry, my friend. I have been staring at these flight patterns for hours and I’m certain I know them. It’s…” He trailed off as though suddenly lost in thought.

  “Vexing,” I finished for him. “You’re vexed. I get it. I think a cup of whatever and a couple of hours of rack time is the cure for that. Go on, get some rest. I’ll take over.”

  He seemed to consider it then nodded. “Yes, you are probably right. Perhaps the answer will come to me in my dreaming. We are on course and schedule, my friend. Our next hyperspace dropout is in just under three hours. The board is green.”

  “Aye, that,” I said. “Now go. Get rested up. The stars only know what kind of mess we’ll find our cargo in. I think we’ll all need to be at our best once we’re dirtside.”

  He gave me a nod and a smile as he left the flight deck and headed aft.

  I turned my attention to the cobalt-streaked sea of white hyperspace that streamed by beyond the Transtel viewscreen that lined the flight deck. Coasting through hyperspace was one of my favorite things in life. With the engines in standby, the ship was as quiet and calm as it could be without a complete power down. So long as the nav charts were updated and reliable, a hyperspace coast made the ship feel as though we were sitting still despite the fact that we were moving at just over ninety percent the speed of light.

  My eyes swept across the holographic control panels with practiced ease, taking in all the readouts and displays almost instinctively. They came to rest on the nav charts that were still hovering above the copilot’s station. I swiped at a couple of controls on my panel and the charts suddenly vanished from Vorz’s display and reappeared on mine, the other three-dimensional control modules rearranging to make room for them.