In the center of the bridge, Cap sat—a bloated spider jerking the strands of his web to keep his prey leery and scrambling for survival. The Lyran merchant fleet uniform he wore could’ve come out of the Second Succession War. The fabric was soiled, half-heartedly mended and coming apart at the seams. His numerous jowls filled with dirt, sweat and who knew what else, were in sharp contrast to his almost boyish curly brown hair and pudgy hands—the right grasping onto a hank of jerky like an oxygen mask during decompression. On top of it all, cunning eyes lurked, dark and beady, emotionless, dead.
Colt swallowed. Tried to imagine a cool breeze moving through the stale, regurgitated air of the star ship.
“You been lied to,” he said. Not a flicker on the Cap’s face. Colt stiffened his resolve. This had to be it. The opportunity he’d been looking for. The Cap had screwed up too bad this time. Time to walk (no, roll!) the bastard out an airlock.
Colt licked his lips. He’d won a poker hand to get on this ship and a silent tip to local authorities two years back had dumped the previous pilot into a rat’s hole and him into this seat. One more bid…he could do this, right?
“Captain, there’s no long lost ship here.”
• • •
“I tell ya, you had to see you face.” Jiptom busted up laughing for what seemed like the tenth time.
Colt tried to ignore the moron, glanced at the controls of the long-range shuttle craft that entombed them. He trimmed the thrust and began another long-range scan of near space. The usual, comforting sight of myriad stars in the void, distant scintillating pinpricks awash in the blackness, did nothing for him now. He tried not to think about the absence of a burning ball of gas taking up a good portion of near space.
“You thought you going to get hot n’ heavy with an airlock. Right? I tell ya, I did. So did the rest.” The guffaws filled the small cabin to bursting.
Glancing around at the cramped cockpit, feeling his flesh pushing against his bones, he couldn’t stand it any longer. Colt flexed his ass and tried to push feeling back into flesh smashed into the tight fitting shuttle cockpit for too many hours.
“I’ll tell you, Jiptom! You keep flapping and you’ll be the one shagging with the airlock…and you can bet I’ll like the peepshow!”
The small, wiry man turned off his laughs and smiles like a c-bill run out on a trideo game. The too big eyes in the sallow face looked like a kicked puppy.
Damn, was he going to cry?
“Look, Jiptom, sorry man. You know how I get around Cap.” He glanced down at the small device he clipped (hidden from Jiptom’s view) to the under-edge of his pilot’s seat. The warm green glow said no electronic listening devices were in play. Never could tell with Cap; he shivered at the idea he’d been sold a faulty device. Course, he’d have been cold and dead long before if that were true.
He glanced back to his left. Realized Pup-man would be under his command soon. Had to keep the masses contended, not just scared, Cap! Doesn’t take much to content us. Couldn’t even do that!
“Jiptom. Okay, yeah. Thought Cap might be taking me for the long walk. Just uptight. You know I hate gravity.”
The smile burst on his face like a zit; a relief but not pretty. “No problem. I tell ya. No problem.” He waved his hands almost frantically, and Colt could almost see his tongue wagging. Pup-man indeed.
“Hey, you stood up to him. Told him what we all thought. I tell ya, ballsy. You know it straight. Take us to danger, no sweat, but make it pay off. We treasure hunters, right.” The mad laughter again. “Always got to make a haul pay off. Or the cold-kiss for you. Yeah, ballssyy.”
Colt rubbed his ear, slapped Jiptom on the shoulder companionably. The return smile and bobbing head looked more puppy than ever. A sickly itch crawled through his head at such subservience; tried to ignore what had just occurred on the bridge of the Voidjumper with Cap.
But never forget men like him were useful.
He glanced back to the console and tried to ignore his current situation. Closed his eyes momentarily. Tried to imagine the bulk of the Voidjumper around him, not this twenty-meter long delta-shaped craft of death; tried to feel the luscious lack of gravity, the floating sensation he’d signed on quick as you like with a passing JumpShip to always enjoy; to feel the climax of sex in zero-g (when Santora would give it up, bitch!): couldn’t do it. Cap stuck him in this Long-Range Shuttlecraft hunting down his non-existent ship cause he’d spoken out. Never mind a half dozen other long range craft from the Voidjumper were swimming the darkness, hunting for a hint of metal in the great void. He was pilot, and Cap had to show him a lesson! Nothing he could do about it.
Yet.
The hours crawled by. Pup-man tried several times for conversation, but Colt didn’t want it. Not only did he hate gravity, he had a case of claustrophobia. He knew grounders might laugh at him, considering he’d lived most of his life on a JumpShip. He didn’t care. He knew the difference between a JumpShip and this pop-can, and right now he had one mother of a headache coming on like a Canopian whore looking to score.
“What’s that?” Pup-man said.
“Uh?” He’d almost dozed, trying to escape hell.
“Something on the radar. I tell ya. Saw something.” Dirty, almost scabrous fingers twitched above the radar screen. The slightest hitch showed for an instant,
