Fool's Gold: Carson Lyle's War - Part One (4 page)

Then the first lackey charged, drawing back his off-hand. He swung a clumsy haymaker that Lyle side-stepped easily and answered with a crack of the rod on his hurt hand. He dropped down straight to his knees.

Three on one. Twenty seconds. One out cold, one with a fractured eye socket and one that will have to learn to do calligraphy with his off hand.

Lyle's movements were second nature, almost instinctive and just about the only thing he thanked the Authority for.

He looked at the heap of bodies at his feet. The one conscious lackey was yelling something at the top of his lungs. The words didn't even register. They came across as a muffled echo. Lyle didn't care what he was saying. Maybe he deserved a broken hand? Maybe he didn't? The other guy too. Maybe they were just paid to be the muscle in a shakedown that they were told wouldn't go down the way it did? Lyle didn't know, but it didn't matter. He didn't fault anyone for trying to make a little extra to get by with in this crazy world. But you had to be ready to accept the consequences of your actions and these two just got a double helping.

Shorty, however, was a different story. It wasn't like him to be this desperate about…anything. Why was this job so damn important? When word of this little 'chat' gets out, none of the other haulers, that were worth a damn, would ever help him out again aside from being stranded in space. Even then, it wasn't unlikely whoever was towing him back would cut the tow lines loose a bit too close to the upper atmosphere. Like him or not, he'd been part of a brotherhood that looked out for its own.

You just threw everything away. Why?

If they were in a smaller town, Lyle might have even finished the job to preclude the possibility of Shorty trying to exact some kind of revenge. But that wouldn't help. Things being as they were, the trio might not even report getting their asses kicked. Surveillance camera data would clearly show these three guys surrounding one and taking him into the alley. It wouldn't take much more than that to figure what really happened, even for the local flatfoots.

No, Lyle felt pretty good about how it went. He checked the time again. He'd be late for the shuttle and late boosting from the freight port, but he'd still make the bonus.

He walked over, picked up Betty's bag and looked inside. The containers were still closed and everything looked to be intact. Then he looked around for his sidearm on the ground. Where was it?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some movement near the pile of bodies. He whirled around with his club, at the ready, to find the barrel of his own gun staring him in the face.

"Looking for this?"

"Yeah, kinda."

The man was still wincing in pain but managed a smile.

"Now whatcha gonna do?" he said, stepping closer.

Lyle noticed the gun was unsteady in the man's hand. He looked again, more closely, and a smile crept onto one side of his mouth. It was either not his normal gun hand or he'd never fired one before.

"D-Drop the stick...drop it now."

"Why don't you give me the gun instead?" Lyle took a step closer.

"Stop right there!"

"You know you can't get away with firing a gun in this part of town."

"You broke my hand! You knocked Billy out cold! And him," he said, waving his broken hand in Shorty's direction. "...he's probably dead!"

"Then shoot me, if you think it'll make things right. Let me help." He took another step forward and pressed his forehead onto the barrel of the gun. "There, you can't miss...if you think you can get away with it."

The man's eyes went wide. It could have been shock setting in from the injury to his hand or it could have been fear. Lyle couldn't tell for sure.

"I-I'll do it!"

"Do it. Right here. Right between the eyes!"

"Back up!"

Lyle held his arms out wide, the club still in his right hand.

"What are you waiting for? Someone to pay you to do it? If you want in the game, you better be ready to make a play."

The man's knuckles went white as he clenched the gun tighter.

"I'll even pay you to do it." Lyle slowly reached into his left pants pocket and pulled out a wad of credits, then held it out to him. "Is this enough? Please put me out of my misery. My low opinion of the species makes it painful for me to wake up in the morning. Take the money and BLAM!"

The man looked at Lyle's outstretched hand. He'd have to grab it with his hurt hand, which is what Lyle was counting on.

"Go on. Take it."

He hesitated, then reached out with his hurt hand. The pain of trying to open his hand was deep and hard. He grunted with effort.

Lyle let go of the bills. Half of the wad missed his hand and dropped to the ground.

The man looked up, angry. "You asshole!"

Lyle leaned into the barrel again, closed his eyes and smiled.

The man squeezed the trigger and winced expected the loud discharge and mess of a bolt through a skull.

But nothing happened.

What the man saw next equated to a single frame of video of Lyle's club crashing down on the top of his skull...then the video went black.

The man dropped immediately. His limp body landing front first and his head bouncing off the pavement.

Lyle snatched is gun up from the ground and looked it over. "You forgot the safety."

He holstered the gun and slung his bag back over his shoulder. He gave the men one last look to make sure they were all still breathing. The tattooed side of Shorty's face was lying in a pool of his own blood. That skull crack was going to be nasty to fix.

He turned to head back to the street, but pulled out his data pad and sent an anonymous message to the medical center emergency line to send someone out. He'd be long gone by the time they got there.

Lyle checked the time again and double-timed it back to the Shuttle dock.

Chapter 6

Orbiting Space Port

Planet Atlantia

After arriving back at the Freight Port, and slogging his way through the Departure Security checkpoint, Carson Lyle ran the full length of the dock concourse to his berth at the far end. He cursed the whole way after realizing he was twenty minutes late. That lapse in punctuality was going to cost him a couple grand in penalties on top of his docking fees.

He saw the Load Master standing in front of the boarding tube to his ship, looking less than pleased and talking to another hauler that looked familiar. Tall and slender, with darker skin, black hair, and a neatly trimmed goatee. Where had he seen him before?

The Load Master noticed Lyle approaching and started pointed at his left wrist repeatedly.

"Where the hell have you been? I've got other ships to get loaded!"

"I know. I know. I had some people that wanted to say goodbye before I left and they wouldn't take no for an answer," he said while looking the hauler over.

The foreman held out his data pad and pointed. "Chop there."

Lyle did so. The system had barely acknowledged Lyle's chop, when the Load Master turned, hopped on to his electric cart and went on to the next job without any kind of farewell.

He turned to the hauler that was still standing there. It took a moment, but he finally remembered where he'd seen him before. It was the guy that was trying hardest to get Shorty to keep bidding.

"Do you need something?"

The man shook his head and held out his hand. "Nope, I just wanted to shake your hand. You played Shorty like a cheap bet at the Botchi table."

Lyle paused with a brief moment of apprehension, then shook the man's hand. "Yeah, thanks. So you know Shorty?"

"Not really. Helped him with a job once or twice."

"Did he pay you?"

The man shrugged. "Took two weeks, after the fact."

"Then you do know Shorty."

The question had less to do with making conversation than it did helping Lyle get a feel for what this guy was up to. He judged the guy was probably just looking to get in good with someone more successful than he was. Lyle decided the man might be useful in his personal network. He'd ask around about him when he got back.

"What's your name and what do you rate?"

"Sweeney. Class 2."

"Are you reliable?"

"Absolutely!" Sweeney said, with maybe a little more enthusiasm than Lyle was comfortable with.

He nodded approval. "Okay…
Sweeney
…I might have something for you when I get back. But I need to get going."

Sweeney shook Lyle's hand again, more enthusiastically, this time. "Thank
you,
Sir! I share berth seventeen with two other ships. When
The Eagle
is docked here, I'm here," he said as Lyle turned away.

Lyle waved as he walked toward the boarding tube.
The Eagle? Gimme a break.

Ordinarily, he'd have walked the Load Master through a visual inspection of the load, but being so late for departure negated that part of docking agreement so he did a quick, visual once over with binocs, from the inspection gantry that extended out from the station, along the long access of his docking berth.

Even though it was just a quick inspection, the sight of the ship - in full view - always brought a smile to his face.

The Majestic
wasn't a beautiful ship, aesthetically speaking. To say it was aged didn't do it justice. The CF17-type freighter was downright old. Ancient, in fact, compared to the heavy lift transports used by the corporate freight lines. It had custom external cargo mounts, for nearly every container configuration and a smaller internal cargo bay. It was designed for a max crew of three but had been customized, over the years, to run just fine with one. It was cranky and temperamental, at times, and Betty had to compete with it for Mad Jack's affections before he died. But next to Mad Jack and Betty, it was about the only thing that hadn't let him down. When Jack had willed it to him, it changed his life.

He boarded. The preflight checks, in the cockpit, were completed quickly. After a quick consult with the A.I. running Dock Control, by radio, he was flipping banks of switches on in a sequence he knew all too well. The vibration in his seat signaled the engines were firing up. Audible
CLANG
noises indicated the A.I. released the docking clamps. In another two minutes, the ship was pointed toward open space and the first jumpgate.

Lyle checked the time again. He'd be cutting it close, but the big, fat bonus was still very much in play.

***

Sweeney stood at the view port, watching
The Majestic
complete its turn away from the port toward open space. It grew smaller, as it moved away, and it wasn’t long before the ship was obscured by the brightness of the engine exhaust ports. Then that brightness increased, exponentially. In a few seconds, it was gone from sight.

He rubbed his chin, thinking for a moment, then pulled a personal comm out of his pocket, thumbed a call preset and held it to his ear. Someone picked up in a moment.

“Shorty didn’t get the job back…No, I don’t know where he is. Might wanna check the ERs in Atlantia proper….No…But this might work out better. Shorty was never right for this.”

The voice, on the other end of the call, spoke for a few seconds.

“They’ll have to convince him…He just boosted…Maybe twenty-five hours…Not my problem…Alright…Out.”

He switched off the comm and started to walk away, but stopped. He looked back in the direction
The Majestic
boosted for a long moment.

Too bad. I’d have liked to work him.

Chapter 7

Outer Rim Border

Planet Webb-152e: "El Dorato"

WHAM!

The jolt would have thrown Carson Lyle out of his seat had he not been strapped in.
The Majestic
emerged from the El Dorado gate wth alarm klaxons sounding throughout the ship and a half dozen new red lights light on the panel.

The auto-pilot began bringing the ship to a stop, as programmed. Lyle was woozy from four jump hops just under twenty-four hours. The relativistic effects of the transition in and out of jump space abused the human body, especially the temporal lobe of the brain and the inner-ear. Four hops in the same standard day was especially brutal, which was why haulers didn't exactly line up for speed runs to El Dorado.

Carson Lyle cursed continuously as he swallowed a caffeine capsule to help get him straight more quickly. He struggled to focus on the readouts on the control panel. There were structural alarms on the rear quarter of the ship and one booster engine was critical.

He didn't need the computer analysis to know what happened. Apparently, the report that said the El Dorado gate was fixed needed to be fixed, itself. There was only a finite hole in the wall of space-time for ships to pass in and out of the jump space tramline and the gate had shifted slightly out of line with that hole. The misalignment caused part of his ship to collide with the boundary between jump space and normal space. That barrier, of two different phases of space-time, was an unforgiving to matter trying to pass through it.
The Majestic
might as well have clipped a large asteroid. It was just as solid.

Shit! Should've listened to Betty.

Lyle ran, at full sprint, back to the engine compartment where he was greeted by more alarms. He first ran to a line of six levers on the left side of the room and lifted the number five lever to the 'off' position. Then he went to the main engine systems panel behind him. He looked at the diagnostic readouts and cursed again. The engine was useless and its mount to the hull was compromised. It wouldn't be much of an issue if he were at Atlantia. But at El Dorado, he had to land planetside. He'd have to bring the ship in easy if he didn't want to lose that engine during entry into El Dorado's atmosphere and this is something that would have to be fixed before left.