Freehold (13 page)

Drago shrugged. “Why not? They have no air cover and it will save us work later.”

“Exactly,” Almanda agreed smugly as she sat down and crossed her perfect legs.

Com Tech Chu looked, and then looked again. It couldn't be, but it was. Twelve more dots had suddenly appeared on her screen. And no warning from any of the brigade ships, either. So these ships must have had the planet's exact coordinates and come out of hyperspace right on top of it. Her heart sank as her fingers flew over the keys. This was it. With twelve more ships, they could take the planet. But wait—there was something different about the data flooding her screen. They weren't pirate ships; there was something alien about them. “Great Sol! Those are Il Ronnian ships!”

Though not normally a religious man, Colonel Krowsnowski had been praying. And when more ships appeared, he felt completely forsaken. It took him a moment to realize they were Il Ronnian ships. Little by little, he began to smile, and then laugh, and finally dance, grabbing a surprised Captain and whirling him about the room. “Goddamnit, there is a god!” he shouted. “And he's on our side!”

Drago frowned as he read the printout. Il Ronnian ships? Here? Now? How could anyone have luck that bad? But with the surviving tanks aboard, along with ninety percent of the extraction plant, he wasted no more time pondering his fate. Instead, he ordered his pilot to take off on full emergency power. Due to the ship's slight list, it took skill, but the pilot did it, and moments later they were racing skyward.

Feeg watched his monitors with anticipation as the ships of the Il Ronnian Star Sept swooped down on the pirate scum. Two were quickly vaporized. The others proved more difficult, however, fighting on even when outnumbered two or three to one. “The cruiser, my noble brethren,” Feeg whispered aloud. “You must take the cruiser.” And, sure enough, three Il Ronnian ships locked onto the cruiser and threw everything they had at her. But it wasn't enough. One by one, the larger ship's superior weaponry took its toll until all three Il Ronnian arrows had disappeared from Feeg's screens. His tail swished back and forth in frustration. Seconds later the cruiser, along with a single surviving escort, was gone, outside the atmosphere and then into hyperspace. In keeping with their orders, the Il Ronnian craft were soon gone as well. It wasn't ideal ... but still better than an all-out pirate victory. But next time he might not be so lucky.

It was time to put his own plan for Freehold into motion. Unlike the excessive and unnecessarily violent efforts of the human pirates, his plan was simple, conservative, and therefore elegant—an enactment of his race's virtues. Feeg allowed himself a grunt of satisfaction as he left the console and headed for his afternoon sand bath. He was not looking forward to dealing with the pathetic Roop creature ... but it must be done.

As the pirate ship made the shift into hyperspace, Malik felt the characteristic queasiness in his gut. As soon as it passed, he rolled over and took her, using his hardness like a spear, stabbing and thrusting his way toward the moment of release he'd waited for all day. Beneath him, Lady Kance-Jones smiled, taking him, channeling his violence, absorbing and, ultimately, controlling it. When the explosion was over, she ran a single cold finger down his spine, and as he shivered, Malik wondered why he hadn't enjoyed it more.

Flynn stood in the smoking ruins of Two Holes, looking up into the sky. “You're gonna pay for that, you bastards,” she said softly. Then, hearing a faint noise to her left, she called Sticks, and together they ripped and tore at the wreckage until the muffled cries became the full-fledged screaming of a three-year-old girl. Picking her up and shielding her from the sight of her dead mother, Flynn said, “There, there. Don't cry honey. Everything's gonna be all right. Come on ... let's go put everything back together. Next time we'll make the bastards pay.”

Samantha lowered the ship carefully through Endo's eternal downpour, the soft glow of the instrument panel gently lighting her face, her long, slender fingers playing over the controls. Its drives causing enormous clouds of steam, she put the ship down with a gentle bump. Moments later, Sam and the two men were huddled in the main lock, looking out across puddled duracrete toward the gleam of distant light that marked the spaceport dome. It was night, and for a moment the rain fell in sheets, driven by a sudden gust of wind that soon scuttled off toward the dome as though inviting them to follow. “What a slime ball,” Sam said disgustedly. “It's worse every time I come here.”

“It does leave something to be desired, weather-wise,” Stell agreed. “Where's the ground shuttle?”

“You're standing on ’em,” Samantha grinned.

“Well, there's no point in hanging around here,” Stell said. “Last one to the dome, buys!” With that he was gone, sprinting across the duracrete at full speed. Como was right behind him with Sam bringing up the rear.

“You cheated!” Sam said, panting heavily as they entered the run-down dome.

“Of course,” Stell answered cheerfully. “Otherwise you might have won. Besides, you'd be able to run faster if you gave up those dopesticks.”

“I think I'll just give up racing with cheats, instead,” she said loftily, lighting a dopestick as she headed for the counter. A tired-looking Zord lounged behind it, his brown, leathery skin hanging in folds, his single eye regarding them with the cynicism of someone who's seen it all. One of the tentacles surrounding his oral cavity took a toothpick and shifted it to the other side of his mouth. There was an elderly Zord despondently pushing a broom on the other side of the room, but apart from him, the clerk was the only one there. Stell could see why—there certainly wasn't any reason to linger in the shabby lobby.

Since Zords have no vocal apparatus, Sam used universal sign language rather than speech. Fingers and hands moved in jerky patterns, to which tentacles responded with a writhing flow of motion. It was so fast that Sam could barely read it. She signed her thanks and placed something on the counter, which was quickly whisked out of sight by a brown tentacle. Samantha led them outside and into a large, six-wheeled, all-terrain vehicle. It, too, had seen better days. She signed their destination to the driver, whose single eye blinked once in reply as all four tentacles flicked out to take the vehicle's controls. Moments later they were lurching down a deeply rutted, muddy road.

“It's just like I figured,” Sam said. “The spaceport clerk didn't know where Falco's people are, but suggested we look in Human Town. It's the obvious place.”

As the name suggested, Human Town was mostly occupied by humans, though not exclusively so. While not out-and-out discriminatory, the Zords didn't welcome humans into their society, though they favored them as slaves. So those humans unfortunate enough to find themselves on Endo naturally gravitated to Human Town, where they could find others of their race. Since humans were one of the smallest minorities on Endo, their area was in the most undesirable and run-down corner of the small Zordian city. To Stell's eye, the city appeared to be nothing more than a random series of earthen mounds sticking out of a sea of mud. A few mounds sported dimly lit signs, announcing their purpose to those familiar with Zordian script, but most were dark and anonymous. As the driver wound between lumpy structures, only dimly seen in the eerie glow of intermittent street lights, Stell was quickly lost—until they arrived in front of a dingy little place made of mud bricks, which cheerfully proclaimed itself to be Joe's Bar and Grill in nice, clear, standard script. They had arrived in Human Town.

Joe's didn't pan out, and they tried two more dives before arriving in front of The Starman's Rest. It was an ugly little place, carved from a soggy hillside, and then covered with a sod roof. They had to wade through a large area of churned-up mud and animal droppings to reach the front door. Stell noticed that animals and vehicles seemed to play about equal parts in Endo's transportation system. As they entered, the low murmur of conversation stopped as all heads swiveled their way. More than a hundred tired, bored, hungry eyes inventoried, calculated and judged before returning to their own affairs. Stell wasn't impressed. The clientele were as run-down as the place itself. The wooden floors hadn't been swept in years, the tables were littered with empty tankards, half-eaten meals, and full ashtrays. The air stank of smoke, unwashed bodies, and urine. The latrine was a shallow ditch running the length of the establishment's rear wall.

They picked a table that allowed them to sit with their backs to a damp dirt wall, and looked around. “I'm not sure I'd want to hire anyone who'd come here for lunch,” Stell said to no one in particular.

Samantha was about to reply when she was distracted by a loud, screeching noise. The noise was coming from the other side of the room and seemed to be headed their way. Its source turned out to be a large Finthian male. He wore a stained apron over his multicolored plumage, and was plowing through the crowd as if it wasn't even there. Como's right hand strayed to the grip of a slug gun when the noisy alien reached their table. His screeching turned to a series of squawks, and his saucer-like eyes bulged with emotion as he grabbed Sam, lifting and swinging her around his head. Como started to rise, a growl deep in his throat, but Stell grabbed his arm. “Hold it, Zack—I think they're acquainted.”

Sure enough, when the bird-like alien had finished swinging Samantha about, he put her down unharmed. She reached up, and did something to the box he wore around his neck, and his squawks turned into standard. “Molly! It's good to see you! She was the best bar maid I ever had, back on Weller's World,” he said in an aside to Stell and Como, one claw-like digit touching his beak. “Always spent too much time talking to customers ... but you can't have everything. So how ‘bout it Molly, you lookin’ for a job?”

Sam laughed. “Work for you again? The meanest, ugliest, most credit-pinching old bird in six systems? You gotta be kidding.” Her laughter merged with the alien's squawks of merriment, as Stell looked at Como and shook his head in amazement. Maybe someday he'd get used to Sam's multitudinous personalities and bizarre friends, but he doubted it.

At Sam's urging, the Finthian pulled up a chair and joined them. He was, it turned out, the proud proprietor of The Starman's Rest. His true name was “The one who flies like an arrow,” but finding this somewhat unwieldy for business use, he went by the unlikely nickname of “Pops.”

“Pops, my friends and I are looking for a guy named Jack Falco,” Sam said. “I thought he might be hanging out here. We'd like to do a little business with him. Any idea where he might be?”

Pops looked around secretively and turned back, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “It's not that I don't trust you, Molly my friend, but many seek the Commander, and not all wish him well. Perhaps if I knew more...”

“Of course, Pops,” Samantha replied understandingly. “Maybe this would help.” She slipped something into the Finthian's claw-like hand. Whatever it was quickly disappeared into the inner recesses of his filthy apron. “I promise you that we mean Commander Falco no harm,” Sam added reassuringly. One large saucer-like eye winked knowingly as the alien stood, switched off his translator, and plowed back toward the bar, squawking greetings to his regular customers and orders to his largely Finthian staff.

“Somebody will take us to Falco in a few minutes,” Sam predicted. “Pops is quite a character, isn't he?”

“He's nothing compared to some of my officers,” Stell replied with a raised eyebrow. “I have a feeling you've been keeping bad company again.” She made a rude noise in reply. Just then, a grubby little street urchin of indeterminable sex emerged from under a-nearby table and tugged at Stell's A-suit.

“You come me,” it squeaked, and promptly dived under another table, scurrying away through an obstacle course of chairs, legs, tails, and an occasional unconscious customer. Stell stood, the others doing likewise, and followed the child's progress by the grunts, squawks and squeals of annoyed customers. As far as Stell could tell, none of their kicks actually connected with the source of their discomfort. Emerging on the far side of the room, the little bundle of rags disappeared through an open door to the right of the bar. As they approached it, Como gave Stell a questioning look, which was answered with a nod.

Samantha went through the door first, with Stell right behind. They found themselves in a long corridor. Its walls were made of raw earth and everywhere water trickled down to run into the ditch dug in the floor for that purpose. The child reached the end of the hall and waved a grubby hand in their direction before disappearing down a side tunnel. For the next five minutes, they followed the grubby little urchin—who always seemed to dodge around another corner just before they could catch up. Stell was soon lost, which was, no doubt, the whole idea. He had an unsettling feeling that they were going in circles. Finally, their little guide scuttled through an open door and they followed right behind. It was pitch black inside and Stell couldn't see a thing. Then, strong hands grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides as a terse voice said, “Don't move.”

“Good advice, friend,” Como said softly. “I suggest you follow it—unless you'd like me to decorate the far wall with your brains.” Stell's arms were released, and he heard a squishing noise as someone took a step back. Then the lights came on, accompanied by the hiss of pneumatics as a metal door slid closed. Not everything was as primitive as it looked, Stell noted, and so much for their way out. Now he found himself part of a frozen tableau. In front of him, Samantha was motionless in the grip of a burly man who was surprised to find himself looking down the barrel of her sleeve gun. Behind him, Como stood with one of his handguns pressed to a man's head, the other covering the room. Unlike the tavern proper, this room was clean and reasonably neat. It was evidently part of Pop's private quarters. Facing Stell were four men and a woman, all sitting in a variety of mismatched chairs and holding efficient-looking blasters, all of which were aimed at him. He noticed that they wore shoulder patches depicting a falcon's head on their silver flight suits. And they didn't look the least bit scared.