“Remember, 15 minutes max,” I hissed at Marty. “Then we’re out of here regardless. Anything goes wrong, we come out blasting.”
Marty gave me a gruff acknowledgment.
Five ore freighters sat to the side with double cargo doors open showing gleaming bins of treated beryl inside. Two stealth airguard V-Zon ships hung way back, parked at the opposite end of the landing dock. Their purpose, to protect the shipment when the convoy went out into deep space. I didn’t like the look of those menacing fuselages or the elongated forward cannon. Could make mincemeat of a few ambitious raiders. One of those ore-freighters was our target. I picked the closest one—for luck. I could read the nameplate on the grey side—‘Goliath’. Fitting. I wondered if she were a fast ship. I liked the look of her twin cannons. Some extra features were installed there too. Once out in space, Gras would act as rearguard to protect our flanks.
I was glad we weren’t using Algernon as a getaway vehicle. The maintenance ship was not equipped with much firepower. No fareons or modern blaster tech. If things went awry and we had to hotfoot it, in a shootout we’d be sitting ducks.
I motioned. “I bid for the nearest hauler of those raw supply ships over there. Goliath. Premium ore. En route to high end worlds like Mixr. When the pandemonium is in full swing, we strike.”
“What if some security jock decides to board Algernon and finds our two pigeons?”
“Gras can stall them. It’s a risk we’ll have to take. No more than 15 minutes. You chicken-shitting out?”
“Don’t insult me, Rusco. I’m always game.” Marty gave me a saccharine smile that turned to a feral look that could bring down a charging rhino. Good old Marty.
Uniformed, maintenance crew milled about in scrap-happy moods; hauler personnel too, fussing with odds and ends around the loading dock. Last minute protocol. All of these five monster vessels measured 200 feet in length. Impressive, despite their vintage.
“Why even have a refinery here on a station?” Marty asked. “Seems a hell of an inconvenient place.”
“I don’t know, something about raw beryl not electron charged enough for warp coil production. Needs a vacuum and a serious electromagnetic boost to qualify it for Varwol drive construction. Whatever the case, it’s working for them.” I motioned to the loaders full of polarized mineral backing up to the last ships.
Over the hum of voices and tumult of forklift engines, a bulky man with raven hair, dressed in a silver spacer’s suit barked out surly orders to a gang of dockhands. Likely our space rogue, Sharki. Never met the man, and never wanted to. Heard a lot about the fellow, but one never knows what to believe. A mean brute either way. Killed hundreds, maybe more. Fork-lifts and cranes loaded the last of the vessels with the remaining beryl from the loaders into their cargo holds.
I gripped the stock of my R4. The sleek metal felt warm in my palm. I gave a grunt of satisfaction. Keep them busy over there while we do our business at the control board over here. I snuck up to the control room that fed the station its juice, midway down the depot.
Trouble found us soon enough. Nosy parker security boy, bitchfaced sod waved his R3 at us. “Problem’s back there, boys. What’s with you running off in such a hurry? Going for a ham sandwich and a pint down in the mess hall?”
I nodded in easy jocularity. “Drayer told us to come down, fix a bad pipe at central control. We’ve got it writ here on this requisition form. Want to see it? Unless somebody countermanded the order.”
He shook his head, a tinge of frustration in the darting eyes. “Whatever. More help is needed on the solar grid at tower B3 than fixing any damn pipe. Four men nearly got bodies scorched the other day.”
“You don’t say. What gives?”
“Bad gyro.”
“Yeah, I heard something along those lines. Drayer shuttled us off to the pipes. Didn’t mention—”
“Fuck Drayer. Who’s in charge of priorities around here? Fat turd Drayer?”
“Seems so, and I hear you, man. Preaching to the choir. Tell you what—we’ll get this pipe fixed, then hustle over to B3 to help you guys out. Sound fair?”
He gave a curt nod. “Make it snappy.” He moved off before turning back to us. “Whole station’s going to shit. Whole place could catch on fire. Yesterday Bonli, working power gyros, near got his head fried.”
My lips parted in appreciation. “You know what they say about old stations.”
“Yeah, parabola’s super old. Solar gun has gigawatts of power, lethal as hell. Not enough maintenance crew here to keep this old rig running safely. Security’s a downright pig these days. Any two-bit meister can waltz in and start hacking away with clippers.”
I nodded in sympathy. That’s why we picked this joint, you dumb fuck. Now bug the hell off and let us work.
The security man stalked off, mouthing orders into his com.
Marty gave a grim chuckle. “Rusco, you’ve a knack for ladling out the BS.”
“Let’s just say I’ve had lots of practice at it. We may not be so lucky if someone else surprises us.”
We made it to the steel door of the control room, past some of the hubbub of dockhands and load-lifters but at enough of a distance to keep a sharp lookout on the cargo vessels. The control room, with its small six-inch square thick glass window placed beside the door, lay in plain view. Marty acted as lookout while I set to jimmying the knob with the wrench-like tool I dug out of my bag of tricks. Something like a small Alan key but fancier with
