He was down to one blaster and three knives. One of which was really just a corkscrew.
Ground personnel hustled out from beneath the freighter’s bulk, waving landing lights and indicating where he was supposed to set down. He got the dropship down, compensating for the innate crabbing effect that was now causing one engine to overproduce and make the ship want to fly sideways. Wafts of black smoke drifted out from under the ship’s belly once the gears were down and locked.
Bowie exited to meet the ground crew.
“Your ship’s smoking!” said one of the techs. Underneath the distant freighter, the girls were coming down the ramp to board the dropship. A stunning collection of alien and human beauties, each wearing haute couture and carrying overnight bags, made their way daintily down the freighter’s belly ramp.
“Oh,” said Bowie to the concerned tech. “She always does that. Mag converter drips oil and it burns off. Nothing to worry about.”
The man scratched his head.
“Never heard of no mag converter doin’ that.”
Bowie shrugged as if to say, Well, it does.
The briefcase was still securely stowed on the flight deck of the dropship.
“Well, let’s get ’em aboard,” prompted Bowie to move things along before someone stalled the whole show over a maintenance issue. “Hammerhand says they’re already late and he won’t pay the tip if it goes beyond an hour.”
Bowie had no idea if there was anyone named Hammerhand involved. But most likely the wrench monkey he was talking to probably never left the engineering deck on the freighter, and he wouldn’t know either.
The man turned and waved gustily at the beauties.
The engine wash blew the thin silk coverings they all wore tight across their bodies, leaving little to the imagination. Bowie held out his hand and helped them aboard one by one, exchanging flirtatious pleasantries and innuendos as he showed them how to strap in.
“You’re a big one!” gushed a doe-eyed, orange-skinned Tennarian. “Will you be at the party?”
“He’s help, Honey!” stated a statuesque brunette who made the word voluptuous seem like an understatement. She had mean eyes.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” said Honey. “You seem nice.”
Bowie gave her a wink and climbed aboard.
“Be a good girl and you might just see me around later for a drink!”
She smiled back at him. Genuinely. Nice. Like she wasn’t a high-class hooker headed toward a bacchanal for the uber rich.
They lifted off, trailing black smoke, and made for Cliffside. It was a ten-minute flight and they passed over large sections of the city and picked up a heading along the coast. Urban sprawl gave way to parklands and a forest of the scrubby little feather trees that were native to this part of Kublar. An air traffic control bot came over the comm and asked for clearance for the dropship to breach Cliffside airspace.
Without knowing it would work, Bowie flashed the ident preloaded into the transponder, hoping the pilot, who was now also lying in the streets of Soob City, probably not too far from his Python, had the forethought to enter it before taking off.
“Confirmed,” said the business-like bot on the other side of the comm. “Clearance to Fairweather Estate authorized. Do not deviate or you will be shot down.”
In the back, the girls erupted into bawdy laughter at something.
“Roger that,” said Bowie and flew the heading into the belly of the beast. Fairweather Estate was the sanctum sanctorum of Sustus Caul. Former member of the House of Reason and prime facilitator of the Republic expats who’d made Kublar their new home after recent events.
Since it worked so well on Utopion.
10
The dropship’s stick had been shaking by the time Bowie finally got the bird down on the estate landing pad. It had started vibrating badly and then in the end, working the rudders and repulsor stabilizers and practically flying sideways like he was coming in under some hurricane force headwind instead of the mildly pleasant coastal Kublaren day that it was, he landed the ship on the estate’s landing pad.
Jack Bowie grabbed the briefcase full of illegal drugs, ditched the ball cap and escorted the girls, helping them down from the dropship’s cargo door. They scattered like a flock of geese seeking breadcrumbs.
Again, another ground tech seemed concerned about the smoke which was now bellowing out of the bottom of the ship. The beauties coughed delicately and made their way onto the grounds of the estate.
“You know your ship is…?”
“Not my ship,” said Bowie. “Bot pilot. Think it’s malfunctioning. I’m with the ladies.”
And with that Bowie straightened his jacket and stepped off the pad to meet the protocol bot.
“Allow me to introduce myself… I’m,” announced the mincing automaton, “G464. Party activities facilitator… um… though I was initially programmed as a diplomatic attaché to the crown prince of the Jongolese Worlds. But that is a long and rather boring story that ends tragically… perhaps…”
“We have to get these girls into the party,” interrupted Bowie, noting the heavy security between the landing pad and the rest of the estate which seemed to be comprised of elaborate gardens, and then a small red brick fortress of ornate design. Tyrolean columns and wide porticos.
“Oh yes. Indeed we do… uh… who are you? My master had ordered only pleasure girls. We were not expecting anything… uh… male.”
“I came along with them. I was informed that some… party supplies would be acquired on-site, and it so happens I have some for purchase. If you’ll direct me to the right procurement specialist.”
“Party supplies?” erupted the bot. “My… we are fully stocked as of the last review completed at zero four this morning local. I reviewed the data myself personally. Especially our most critical items. Sixteen cases of Fraught Crystal Gin for this afternoon’s mud wrestling match between the girls. Master Caul insists his guests have the finest so that we may conduct ourselves with class and dignity during the… ahem… festivities.”
“These supplies are a little more difficult to acquire,” said Bowie leaning in.
The ladies were already winding
