Galactic Outlaws (Galaxy's Edge Book 2) Page 3

  Ravi finally answered from behind a grin. “You are thinking the princess will help you due to her social power and connections.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Hoo, hoo, hee.”

  Keel could not abide not being privy to a joke, especially when it was obvious he was the punch line. Staring daggers at Ravi, he waited for the navigator to tell him what was so funny. He’d shoot him right now if it was worth the charge depletion. And if he had his blaster.

  A muffled noise from the ship’s common area put a stop to Ravi’s laughing and Keel’s gnawing frustration. It sounded like a scream—distant, but distinct.

  Keel spun around. “What was that?” Without waiting for Ravi to answer, he strode fearlessly into the hallway.

  “It’s our hidden cargo,” the navigator called from the cockpit. “The princess and her general. They are yelling quite loudly, and their voices are penetrating through the seams in the smuggling hold.”

  “That’s it!” Keel strode down the corridor leading to the common room. He went straight to his workbench to retrieve his blaster; he was determined to put an end to this trouble.

  From here, he could clearly make out the shouts coming from below. “Captain! Captain Keel! Our comms have gone red! We can’t reach you! Captain!”

  Keel pushed aside an oiled rag and his blaster’s bristled cleaning rod. He grabbed his gun belt from its spot hanging on a workbench clamp, strapped it on his hips—askew for an easier quick draw, like the gunslingers of the old public domain western holos—and picked up his x6 heavy shot Intec blaster. He stormed toward the cargo hold, only to swing back to the bench a moment later to polish one last spot of carbon scoring on the blaster’s barrel.

  Ravi emerged from the cockpit’s long corridor.

  “Ravi, what’re the odds someone hears these two?”

  “Assuming their vocal cords don’t give out?” Ravi held his arms out helplessly. “I’m not sure what I am to say, Captain. As long as the scanning crew is not deaf, of course they will hear them, yes.”

  Keel aimed the blaster at the deck plate hiding the smuggler’s hold, putting the toe of his boot to the pop-up mechanism beneath the deck’s hidden seam. He paused, shook the barrel of the weapon twice as though it were an extension of his finger, and turned toward his sleeping quarters. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Holstering his blaster, Keel moved to the dormitories. An automated door leading to his chambers whooshed open upon recognition of his bio signature. An ancient trunk sat at the foot of his bed, its wood nearly petrified, a relic from when ships sailed on water. He popped open the lid and removed an Armonian fleece he kept around for those long hauls from core to outer rim, where the Six’s comfort controls couldn’t keep up with the numbing cold of deep space.

  The blanket was easily sixty pounds balled up, and Keel had to hoist it out of the trunk with both arms, holding it like a soft and cushy bag of duracrete. The fleece’s natural fibers were shorn from shepps that had survived on a frozen wasteland for millennia. Climbers of the galaxy’s tallest peaks insulated their gear with Armonian wool.

  Returning to the smuggler’s hold, Keel dropped the blanket over the plate and spread it out like a throw rug. The sound of hoarse shouting from below was instantly silenced. Only the hum of the ship’s auxiliary systems could be heard.

  Tilting his head as if to say, “Not bad,” Keel folded his hands beneath his arms and leaned against a bulkhead, legs crossed at his ankles.

  Ravi looked at the fleece. “That will certainly raise the hold’s temperature a very substantial amount, Captain. You yourself can only stand to be under that blanket for a quarter hour.”

  “Stop watching me sleep, Ravi.”

  “Yes, I know you have said this, but it is frequently very boring on the ship.” Ravi pursed his lips and looked at the covered smuggler’s hold. “I am wanting to know how long they are to be in this… sweatbox, to use an old prison phrase.”

  Keel shrugged. It wasn’t as if the princess had left him any choice.

  “I confess,” Ravi continued, “I was thinking you would kill them.”

  “That was Plan B.”

  Ravi touched his fingertips together disapprovingly. “There remains a possibility they will suffer from heat stroke if they are left inside for too long.”

  “Well, let’s hope the transfer gets over quick, then. Nobody has to die as long as there aren’t any Republican complications.”

  A pounding reverberated through the Indelible’s impervisteel gangplank. Straightening up, Keel looked incredulously in the ramp’s direction. “Who’s knocking on my ship?” He moved toward the observation screens built into the wall above his workbench.

  Ravi followed, his azure chola flowing behind him. “There is an eighty-eight percent chance these are legionnaires in advance of the Republican transfer team.”

  “Of course it’s the Republic.”

  One of the monitors showed a gray-green thermal view of two Republic legionnaires waiting beneath the ship. One raised the butt of his blaster rifle and slammed it into the outer door. These types never waited patiently.

  Keel knew he needed to lower the ramp before they got it in their minds to break out the cutting torches. “C’mon, Ravi. We’re going outside.”

  Standing between Keel and the door, Ravi did not move. “I cannot leave the ship, Captain.”

  Keel walked through Ravi like the living through a ghost. He stopped at the black-and-yellow button for lowering the gangplank. “What? Why?”

  The hologram flickered, and Ravi looked down at his shimmering self until he optically solidified. “Because our TT-3 hoverbot was broken two stops ago at Los Larynth, when you mistook it for a fly. You have yet to replace or repair it, in spite of several promises, though you have found time to obsessively polish your blaster.”

  “Okay, take it easy.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Keel let out a sigh. “I need you out there. How far off the ship can you go?”

  “I am thinking only to the top of the ramp before the internal holoprojectors can no longer render me.”

  Another thud came through the door.

  Placing his palm over the ramp controls, Keel said, “Okay. Let’s go.”

  He gave the door a solid kick, hoping the legionnaires on the other side would have the sense to move out of the way, then pressed the button. A yellow light flashed above the exit while a white mist of vented gases issued from the ramp’s struts, making Keel feel as though he stood inside a cloud.

  The ramp lowered quickly, which was critical for the times when Keel needed to make a blitzing assault, and even more critical when circumstances called for a hasty retreat.

  The mist cleared.

  The legionnaires were nowhere to be seen.

  03

  LS-19 pushed himself up on hands and knees. His legionnaire armor scraped against the rocky surface of the LZ. Heavy breathing nearly drowned out his helmet’s bone conduction audio relays. Moments earlier he’d been banging on the hull of a late-model Naseen light freighter.

  And then the ramp dropped.

  Dropped without the all-comm warning message mandated by the Republic’s Work & Labor Bureau. That alone was enough for LS-19 to put a lien on the ship on behalf of the Republic.

  But he wasn’t thinking about liens or broken penal codes. He was sipping in shallow breaths, trying to reorient himself. He’d barely had enough time for his neuro-mapped self-preservation training to kick in, a drilled instinct that had compelled him to leap out of the ramp’s path.

  Control Breathing.

  Control Breathing.

  Control Breathing.

  The message blinked in the upper left corner of LS-19’s visor, superimposed over the optical scans of the rocky landing zone. He squinted his eyes at the message, cursing it for taking his attention away from his surroundings. Hot breath fogged over his screen with every exhalation, blurring his vision, but it was a losing battle for the vapor—the moment it condensed on his visor, th
e LegionWorks Type-N Combat Envirocontrols whirred, dehumidifying the helmet, ferreting off the moisture to store for later rehydration, and maintaining an optimal battleset temperature of 71.3 degrees.

  Inhale through nostrils.

  Use full lung capacity. Employ diaphragm and abdominal muscles.

  Exhale through mouth.

  LS-19 obeyed his prompter’s commands. They had been programmed by Republic scientists dedicated to making sure that the legionnaires remained the premier soldiers of the galaxy. The instructions repeated until his breathing normalized, then the prompt faded away, leaving only the familiar OpNet HUD on his visor screen.

  LS-19 examined the belly of the freighter, some three meters from the ramp. Seams were visible in what should have been a solid plate of impervisteel. It was probably a bad torch-weld from a breach, given the ship’s age, but it also wasn’t unheard of for the Naseen light freighters to be fitted with illegally concealed weapon systems. He gripped his rifle tightly and rocked to his feet, careful to stoop so as not to bump his helmet against the ship’s underside.

  The L-comm burst to life with the voice of his team leader, LS-87. “Nineteen. Status?”

  “Adequate for duty. What’s your status, Lieutenant?”

  “Uh, I’m fine.” There was a pause. “Oh! Adequate for duty. Maintaining scan overwatch at recon sled, uh… three.”

  Idiot, thought LS-19. Like most legionnaire officers, LS-87 had been appointed by some planetary governor. He wasn’t a soldier, just a politician playing war until his handlers felt the time was right to bring him back homeworld to stand for election.

  It didn’t used to be like that.

  “Eighty-nine, status?” LS-19 asked. LS-89 had been with him when the ramp came down. He may not have gotten clear.

  The team commander echoed the call into the L-comm. “Eighty-nine, status?”

  Two clicks of static came back in reply, marking an affirmative. LS-89 was alive, but his comms must’ve been damaged. His face had to be a bloody mess if he hit his bucket hard enough to knock out his mic relay. Still, the trooper lived up to his nickname. He was lucky.

  “Is anyone else picking up those static clicks?” the team commander called.

  LS-19 stifled a groan. “Acknowledged, eighty-nine,” he said with veteran calmness. “Confirm loss of audio output.”

  Click-click.

  “Confirmed audio output loss. Confirm status as adequate for duty.”

  Click-click.

  “Confirmed. Advise: are you under duress?”

  LS-19 strained his ears in anticipation, scanning the perimeter with his blaster rifle. He loosened the clasp around a stun-clap grenade should a two-click affirmation sound.

  Click.

  “Confirmed negative duress,” the team commander said, apparently remembering audio-loss procedures at last. “Be advised, the uh, ramp is deployed. I do not have visuals on crew from this vantage point.”

  LS-19 cursed. “That fool loadmaster could’ve flattened Lucky and I both. No comm warning received.”

  “Copy,” the team commander said. “The, uh, ship-top comm tower is steady red.”

  Pressing a button at the base of his helmet, LS-19 muted his comm. “Might’ve been good to know that before we went knocking, you useless kelhorned space rat! I swear to Oba, Republican appointees should apologize to trees for having to reoxygenate the air they deplete!”

  He imagined that Lucky was uttering similar curses. Neither legionnaire appreciated being under the command of a point—a politically appointed team leader. That even the vaunted legionnaires were unable to keep out the ambitious and woefully unqualified from grabbing commissions spoke volumes about the Republic’s decay. The legionnaires’ officer corps jeopardized every soldier under their command. Lieutenant Clueless in the command sled was, sadly, typical. The worst of the bunch always paid extra to get appointed to the legionnaires. It was a surefire way to get elected.

  LS-19 found Lucky. His armor was covered in red dust and there was a five-centimeter dent in his helmet. The legionnaires nodded to one another and moved swiftly to the base of the ramp, ready to take on a hostile target with overwhelming firepower.

  Trusting Lucky to draw a bead on the turbaned human farther up the ramp, LS-19 aimed his weapon at a human wearing typical smuggler’s gear.

  Scum.

  LS-19 flicked his helmet’s external comm speaker to live with his tongue. “Hands! Hands!”

  The human tilted his head to the side and raised his hands slowly, as if the command was an inconvenience. Clearly this was the ship’s captain.

  “Good. Neither one of you moves!”

  “Take it easy, huh?” The captain’s tone was wounded, yet somehow patronizing. “I didn’t bring you armed rebels.”

  The legionnaires’ weapons remained steady. “Identify yourself and your starship. Transponder and voice.”

  “Aeson Keel, captain of the Indelible VI. And I can’t send ship ID by transponder. Our comms are red.” He pointed at the steady red comm attached beneath the collar of his slate gray shirt. “See?”

  The troopers lowered their rifles. “All right,” LS-19 said. He pointed at the turbaned man. “Who’s he?”

  Keel looked over his shoulder as though he wasn’t sure who stood behind him. He looked calmly at the legionnaires’ expressionless helmets. “That’s Ravi.”

  “I don’t care what his name is. What’s his function on the ship?”

  “I am the Six’s navigator.”

  “Fine.” LS-19 relaxed his guard slightly. The steady red was a good enough reason for the ramp nearly crushing him. The captain would have assumed that the big red comm light would have been noticed by legionnaire overwatch.

  It should have been.

  Lucky shifted from one foot to the other, scanning the horizon.

  “Comms are down, so you can’t transmit the cargo manifest,” LS-19 said. “Convenient.”

  Keel shrugged. “You gonna inspect ’em for concealed damage?”

  “Stow it and bring down a datapad, then.”

  As Keel went up the ramp to comply, LS-19 darted out his tongue, silencing his helmet’s external speakers. The helmets were soundproof, allowing legionnaires to speak secretly over L-comms inaccessible even to friendly Republican officers and soldiers. The legionnaires answered only to a chain of command that led to the top of the Republic’s Prosperity & Safety Council. “LS-19 to Command Sled. Lieutenant, what’s Command AI reporting back about ship ID and captain?”

  “I, uh, missed the name. Please repeat.”

  LS-19 allowed a sigh to escape over the comm. “Ship name: Indelible VI. Captain: Aeson Keel.”

  “Roger,” the team commander replied from the recon sled. “Indelible VI. Captain Aeson Keel. Will upload to commsat and maintain overwatch.”

  “Negative on overwatch, sir,” LS-19 said. “Site is secured and LS-89 is no-go on his L-comm. Protocol requires an exchange of post.”

  “Right. Yeah. Okay, I’m proceeding to relieve LS-89 on foot. Eighty-nine to relay data to commsat on assumption of post.”

  There was a hint of annoyance in the lieutenant’s voice. He was the team commander and should have made the call. But he didn’t. Probably didn’t know to. So LS-19 had been forced to take charge. He didn’t like having a leej who could only answer in clicks serving as his backup.

  Four men and two humanoids shambled down the ramp. All were dressed in tattered olive-green uniforms popular with rebels in this sector of space. Their arms were tied together at the wrist with synth-wire, and strapped around each prisoner’s leg was an ener-chain receiver, designed to send a paralyzing jolt of electricity through all of them should one choose to break formation.

  Keel came last, a heavy blaster pointed at the back of the final prisoner. He tossed the datapad to LS-89, who fumbled and barely caught it while Keel halted the prisoners at parade rest outside the ramp.

  Dropping his pistol to his side, Keel said, “Terms were payment on d
elivery. So pay up.”

  “You’ll have to wait for the main elements to arrive,” LS-19 said through his bucket’s speakers. He looked over the horizon for the lieutenant’s approach. No sign yet.

  “Fine,” Keel answered. “But you’ve only got fifteen standard minutes before you start owing for detention.”

  Lucky joined LS-19 to review the manifest. The silent trooper pointed a finger repeatedly at the datapad. LS-19 leaned in to look.

  “Captain Keel!” LS-19 shouted, holding his rifle with heightened alertness. His HUD instructed him to raise his weapon another degree to optimize his ability to aim and fire. “The shipping docs say you were tendered eight prisoners by the bounty hunter Wraith. Where are the other two?”

  “Oh, no. You’re not gonna pin that on me.” Keel marched over to the legionnaires with a furrowed brow. “Here.” He pointed at an R-verified notation on the datapad. “See that? ‘SLC.’ Means shipper load and count. I delivered what was put in my hold, and I’m not liable for any overage, shortage, or damage. Go back to whoever captured these rebels to ask for the rest.”

  The legionnaires motioned their rifles menacingly at Keel, careful not to point them directly at him, but letting him know that things might easily change. Very easily.

  LS-19 amplified his speaker output. The increased volume made compliance 1.4 times more probable. “Captain, surrender your ship for immediate search and seizure.”

  “Oh, give me a break.” Keel glanced up at the navigator, who remained on the ship’s ramp. “Search it all you want, but seizure? Not happening. I’ve been around the block a few times, Leej. The impound fees are more than I’m getting paid for this job.”

  LS-19 repeated his order, enunciating each word perfectly and leaving no doubt that he meant what he said: “Surrender your ship for immediate search and seizure.”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  The captain was clearly stalling, but the legionnaire had his answer ready. “Should you refuse, you will immediately become guilty of Republic Ordinance N.779.631-2: resisting a lawful representative of government. If in the view of said representative the aforementioned resistance requires the use of lethal force, such force will be rendered and deemed justified by its deployment. I won’t ask you again.”