Space Gypsy Chronicles

Chapter 5

From where he sat in the command center of his ship, Rafe's fingers flew across the console in front of him. Despite the fact that his onboard AI would have done automated checks, mistakes could happen. Programming could go corrupt. It was always wise to give things a second glance, even a rapid one.

So far things looked good. Lots of clear lights, indicating normal status. A pulsing blue one let him know the second engine core still powered up. It would take some time before it had charged his onboard engines enough to move his vessel from its grave under the surface. In the meantime, he double-checked that everything else was ready to go and strapped down. Especially his cargo, and that included the cargo just delivered that day.

Sure, some would call his decision to snare it insane. But he had to think only of his cousin's mockery if they found out he'd tucked tail and run without it to cement his determination to bring it with him.

He'd spent too much money - most of it won through gambling - and too much time - time that kept him away from drinking and gambling - to leave it behind. The effort he expended now would pay for itself a thousand times over.

I am going to make a fortune with this haul.

While Rafe didn't personally oversee the loading of the goods, he did, however, let his fingers tap the commands. He'd done it enough times by now that they knew the sequence. While he didn't believe in carrying a large crew, worker bots, such as his automated crane, were invaluable. They also didn't talk back, mutiny, or drink the last drop of booze.

While he took care of his captain duties, Annabelle, the AI he had installed before his sojourn to Earth, kept him updated with the status of the ship. "The engines are at seventy-five percent, the power core is down to forty-three. The air intakes have been retracted from the surface. The debris flaps are all secured. All outer doors are sealed in preparation for departure except for the upper cargo bay doors. The cargo is still being brought on board and - " With an unusual abruptness, Annabelle stopped talking.

"Annabelle?" he queried aloud. Given his AI system could usually multitask, he wondered at the silence.

Whoop. Whoop.

The strident siren, installed by the previous owner to warn of pirate embarkations - which, he might add from experience, didn't work too well given he now commanded said ship - went off.

Annabelle returned with a message. "An intruder has been detected within the cargo bay."

Was that where his delivery lady had gone? "If you're talking about the woman, she's with me."

"I am not referencing the female you acquired on the surface, but the entity that has breached the bay doors with a firearm."

Fuck me. Such an evocative Earth expression he'd adopted during his time here. He'd forgotten about the thugs on the ground. It seemed they'd not backed off, despite reducing his trailer to a pile of junk.

The bounty must be higher than usual. The hunters usually didn't like to risk life and limb.

What exactly had happened in his cargo bay? And did he need to worry about it?

A flick of a switch and the left hand of the big view screen switched to the camera in the cargo bay, a not completely full storage area, but enough to turn a very tidy profit.

When Rafe had initially settled on Earth to acquire some goods - and do a bit of rest and research - he'd hoped to have at least a few more months before being forced to move on. There were still a few stones I wished to turn over. A few more things on my list for the market.

However, as a born traveler, Rafe knew when it was time to move on. Circumstances often tended to dictate his actions. People shooting at him was a good indicator he'd overstayed his welcome.

At first, perusing the screen, he didn't spot the intruder. What he did see was a leg, finished in a familiar black boot, hanging off the edge of a pallet.

I thought I told that wench to get strapped in. Obviously, she'd not listened and now was in a spot of trouble, given he'd spotted his visitor. The hunter had hopped from the open bay door to the boom arm and currently shimmied down its length. A helmet with a dark visor hid the hunter's appearance, but Rafe could just imagine it given the squat and thick body. He'd wager under the form-fitting gloves and tactical suit was a warty green body with a penchant for eating its targets.

A crew of Krolz, a brilliant group to send to Earth, a protected planet, where the motto for all non-resident beings was Leave No Trace. The Krolz never left a thing behind. They always ate any clues of their presence or brought it with them, including their poop. Which was less gross than it sounded.

Everyone wanted Krolz poop. Their excrement was in high demand because, with a method scientists had yet to decipher, their digestive system caused them to eject a colorful paste that was considered invaluable in the construction of skins over the hulls of spacecraft.

His own ship was covered in s**t, and considered all the tougher for it.

But, while having Krolz excrement was good, having one on board was bad. He could not allow the hunter to stay on board, not unchained at any rate.

Unbuckling his harness, he rose from his seat. "Annabelle, you're in charge of the launch while I take care of the intruder. Get us out of here, but make sure you swing us out through Saturn. I want to collect some of that dust for testing. And then a straight shot out of here to the closest wormhole."

"As the captain commands." Did his AI's respectful tone hold a hint of sarcasm? Surely not. He'd had her persona designed to be strictly compatible with his. During their maiden voyage to Earth, he'd not noticed any issues.

Perhaps it's simply the stress of the situation getting to me.

"What are the captain's wishes in regards to the other vessel in the sky?"

"You mean they haven't vacated the airspace after their fireworks?" Surprising given their antics would have drawn attention from the human military. "Perform evasive maneuvers. If I can, I'd rather not piss off the Grykko" - who headed the bounty hunter guild - "any more than necessary." As it was, they would grumble at the loss they'd incurred when their thugs didn't catch him.

Meanwhile, his reputation would grow. Still, though, this level of attack was unheard of and less than subtle. Perhaps once he got this shipment sold, he could bribe his way out of any outstanding warrants and buy himself a spot of time before he pissed off a new set of folk. "And can you try to avoid taking any more fire? I'd like to avoid any more damage."

"The captain is wise."

Definite sarcasm there, but Rafe didn't have time to deal with it. The intruder on screen was shimmying to the bottom of the crane.

He didn't have much time. Before sprinting out of the command center, Rafe grabbed the holster he kept on a hook. He buckled it around his hips as he ran, not needing his hands to open a door to the hall. As a matter of fact, the archway into the bridge still sported the twisted hinges he'd blown to pieces when he stole the ship from its last owner.

Not stolen. Acquired. It wasn't Rafe's fault the fellow didn't know how to hold on to it and thought he could cheat Rafe at cards. The fact that Rafe cheated too didn't matter. He hated to lose.

The echo of his boots as he stomped along the grated hallway bounced and added weight to the sound. Some might look askance at the checkered flooring full of holes, but to them he said it was a cargo ship and, as such, required practical over pretty. Grate floors not only provided better access to ship components for repair, it also made clean up easy, as he could just get the grease monkeys - literal ones with magenta fur and prehensile tails - at the space stations to sluice it clean.

He just hoped he wouldn't have to get them to cleanse his cargo bay of blood. Blood might ruin some of his precious stash. A stash that now included a human.

I didn't have a choice. To leave her behind would have led to almost certain death. The hunters weren't usually gentle with their questioning methods.

Besides, a companion would be nice for the ride - and by ride, he did mean naked atop him. A man could be friendly with his hand only so many times before he craved something a little more.

He bolted down the stairs two at a time, not worried about the noise he was making, not with the building rumble of the engine hiding most of it. And he could almost guarantee the alien intruder expected company. I wouldn't want to disappoint.

At the bottom of the stairs, he made quick work of the wheel on the door, spinning it rapidly. There was only the slightest hiss as the seals unlocked and he pushed the door in. It no sooner swung wide when a bolt of searing heat sizzled past his head. The fucker must have spotted him and shot.

Shot me on my own ship. The nerve. He could have damaged something.

Rafe ducked and rolled into the room, hiding immediately behind some cargo. The words across the boxes in large marker stated Saffron.

Please don't shoot it. The stuff would fetch a killing on the open galactic market.

Back flat to the boxes, Rafe drew his weapon and tucked it against his chest. One breath. Two.

Fast as he could, he peered around the corner, extended his gun, and fired. The heavy-duty projectile dart loaded with a sleeping serum - because prisoners fetched more money than bodies - missed the alien and sank into the pallet behind.

He'd missed, but now his unwanted guest returned his greeting and fired, shooting wildly at Rafe. Luckily, the hunter's aim proved piss-poor, especially in this heavy gravity. The blast was completely off. It gave Rafe a chance to line up a better shot now that he knew exactly where the fellow was.

This time, Rafe poked his head over the top of the cargo. He aimed his gun carefully and fired a couple of quick shots. Pft. Pft. Pft.

The darts zinged off, following three trajectories meant to take in evasion by his target. He needed only one to hit and score. One pinged off the helmet of the hunter. Another whizzed past, but the third got the alien in the hand, the sharp tip penetrating the glove.

The sedative took hold, and the Krolz wavered on his feet, but that wasn't what killed it.

His buddy peeking through the hole above did with his wild shots. Most missed, but one hit the hunter in the back. The Krolz dropped to the ground, his gun clattering uselessly from his fingers as he leaked disgusting fluids all over Rafe's floor, enough that he'd have to get the hose out later.

As for the partner who shot him, before Rafe could fire at him, the ship rumbled and shook. A body came plummeting, head first, into the floor.

Crunch.

Great. More cleanup. Later though.

Right now, escape remained Rafe's first priority, and that began with closing the hatch. None too soon, too, because he could see via the opening the other ship hovering overhead. Given those surface transport cruisers could hold a dozen bodies, more for short distances, he could be looking at new troops wanting to cause havoc with his departure.

And all of this commotion is going to draw attention. He had to admit a touch of surprise at the vehemence of the attack. In the past, the bounty hunters usually waited for him to clear protected planets before making a move. They also usually give me a chance to bribe them.

"Annabelle. Close cargo bay doors and ensure they are sealed for departure while I secure the goods."

Annabelle didn't reply, but the mechanism controlling the two doors kicked in to play. The heavily plated metal doors slid into place with a clang. More clicks as the locks engaged and then a hiss as the room pressurized.

With all the exits sealed, his ship was ready for takeoff. His passenger, on the other hand, was anything but.

While a part of him realized he should go back to the command center and take control of the ship, Rafe couldn't exactly leave her lying on the crushed boxes. She'll ruin the cargo.

That was the excuse he used to placate his conscience.

Tucking his gun back into its holster, he stepped quickly. Before he'd approached more than a few paces, she stirred and groaned. With the sound of more crushing cardboard and crinkling plastic wrap, she rolled onto her hands and knees, pushing herself up into a position that would have proven a lot more interesting naked.

"Nice view," he commented as he came around the side of the pallet. "But would you mind not crushing the merchandise?"

"Grrrr." At least it sounded like a growl to him.

"Did you say something?"

She faced his direction, most of her face hidden by the hair hanging over it, so all he could see was the glare in her one visible eye. "I said, why did you close the doors? I wanted to get out."

"Whatever happened to thanking a guy for saving your life?" he retorted.

"My life would not be in danger if you weren't a wanted criminal."

"Criminal is a state of mind and also depends on which laws you're following. In my culture, what I do is considered honorable work."

"And what is your culture?" she asked. "Murderers? Thieves?"

"Why the violent suggestions? What makes you think I'm not wanted for more subtle acts like fraud or tax evasion."

"You have taxes in space?"

"More than you can imagine. Although my people are very good at discovering loopholes that minimize tax. It's considered a point of pride for some."

"You keep saying my people," she noted as she grasped the hand he offered.

"We are the Rhomanii."

"And what are the roman-eyes?" she asked, butchering the name.

"The closest Earth comparison would be Gypsies. Although we prefer the term travelers and tinkerers."

"You might travel, but you don't look like the type to tinker," she noted as she leaped off the pallet, still holding his hand.

"And what do I look like?" he asked.

"A drunken wastrel."

"Then my cover was a success." He'd not wanted the inhabitants of Earth to think he was anything more than just a guy who liked to play games of chance and drink.

"This is very confusing."

"Only if you're human, and while I am sure you have many questions, I really don't care right now. I need to go play pilot if you want us to get out of here alive."

"What if I'd rather stay here?" was her retort.

"Well, that might be what you want, but that's not going to happen," he tossed over his shoulder as he retraced his steps back to the door out of the cargo bay. "The hatches are now sealed, and we are preparing for takeoff. If I were you, I'd find a spot to park your ass and strap in for the ride. Or don't. It's your choice, but I warn you, things could get kind of bumpy."

Just before he reached the door, he staggered as she slammed into him from behind. More than slammed, she pounced him, wrapping her arms and legs around his body.

"You let me off this instant!" she yelled in his ear, punctuating her demand with a thump of her fist. "I didn't ask to be kidnapped."

"No one kidnapped you. You chose to board my ship willingly."

"Willingly?" The word reached a painful pitch. "What choice did I have? People were shooting at me because you" - she stabbed him with her finger - "dragged me into your drama."

"Excuse me for saving your life," he retorted.

"I am only excusing you if you let me off this ship."

"Not happening. We've wasted enough time already."

"You can't do this." And then she tried to choke him - or did she only hug his neck very tightly because she liked him?

Whatever her reason, he ignored her antics and kept walking. She could cling to him all she wanted. He could handle her weight, and besides, she kept his bare back warm.

He took the stairs two at a time, still with her clinging to his back. As they jostled up the steps, she stopped hitting him, most likely because she had a fear of falling off.

At the top of the stairs, he had only a few steps to take to reach his command center. Once they entered through the jagged door, she finally let go, and he was able to make his way to his seat - oddly missing her warm weight - and dropped into it.

Given the launch was imminent, he couldn't spare a moment to see what she did behind him, but he did hear the wonder in her tone when she said, "Oh my f*****g God. It's a real f*****g spaceship."

At that, he couldn't help but laugh. "Of course it's real. I told you we were blowing this planet. I can't exactly do that on a bicycle."

"Don't be a sarcastic prick," she replied. "It's not attractive."

"That's not what the ladies think."

She cuffed him in the back of the head.

"Hey. What was that for?"

"Because you're an ass."

"An ass who needs to pilot this ship, so behave or I might just let you leaveÉthrough an airlock in space."

"You wouldn't dare," she huffed.

"Try me." At his passenger's silence, he inwardly smiled. Point for me. He'd get another point once they cleared this planet - alive. He couldn't wait for her thanks. Oral gratitude was the best.

"Annabelle, what is the status on our power? Are we ready yet?"

"The engines are at eighty-nine percent," his computer replied. "We can commence the launch sequence. All exits have been sealed. The vessel is pressurized. A course has been plotted to the outer planets."

"What about that ship waiting for us above ground?" Rafe asked. He doubted it had left yet. It probably waited for him to pop out of the ground.

"The enemy vessel is still present. Orders?"

"Ensure the laser cannon is ready." Screw the Grykko and their guild. If they weren't going to play by the regular rules of the game and allow him to bribe them before shooting, then they deserved whatever he did next.

"The rapid-fire weapons are fully functional. However, the canon is out of commission. It still requires reparation from the meteorite damage we took on our journey here."

He frowned. Was that recrimination he heard in Annabelle's tone? There shouldn't be. AIs weren't programmed to have attitude, but someone apparently had forgotten to tell his onboard computer. Of late, she copped him attitude every chance she got.

Time to take her in for a maintenance check, especially since his last four diagnostics had not found anything wrong with her. When he'd sent a service call in to the programming engineers, they dared to say he imagined the smirk in her tone. Let's see if they re-evaluate that opinion when my fist meets their faces.

As Rafe flicked switches and the rumble in his vessel increased, he was very aware of the woman at his back. "You might want to strap in," he advised his passenger again. "This ride might get a little bumpy." When he'd buried his ship months ago during a vicious storm, he'd made sure to cover it with firmly packed dirt. Now he needed his vessel to rise from that grave.

"Where the hell am I supposed to sit?" she asked.

"If it looks like a chair, then plop your ass into it. The straps are on the top part of the backrest. Bring them over your torso and buckle them between your legs."

He heard a creak as she found a spot and a grumble as she clicked the buckle into place. "I feel like a little kid in a car seat."

"The five-point harness system is a proven safety measure. Why do you think the patent was introduced to your Earth?" The appalling lack of regard the humans had for protecting their youth had forced the more softhearted members of the galactic council to interfere in their societal development.

But now wasn't the time to delve into the meddling of the Department for the Protection of Indigene Slow Societies - also known as PISS. Not to be mistaken for PISS OPH, the Pretentious Ideologist Secretive Society of Pompous Heirs.

The entire ship shuddered and shook as it prepared to leave its hidden underground lair. With the press of a button, part of his armrest opened, a small panel sliding back so that a control lever could rise on each side. His hands clamped around them.

"Are those joysticks? Are you seriously going to fly this thing yourself?"

He didn't take offense at her query. He'd spent enough time on Earth to have seen the movies, seen the human technology, and seen also their reliance on technology. They'd learn.

Technology always failed at some point.

In some things, it was best to remain hands-on. Computers, even very smart ones like Annabelle, were limited. Their free thinking, for all that it seemed innovative, was still programmed. A piece of software could not replicate instinct. A computer couldn't feel that clench in the gut that Rafe used to guide him when he flew during especially intense situations.

In order to obey his gut, Rafe had to be hands-on, and no matter the technology, the best method to drive a spaceship was still, for those with hand-like appendages, the classic control lever. Or, as the human girl called it, a joystick.

Not a bad name. I certainly get a thrill out of outmaneuvering the enemy. His fingers curled around the familiar handles, and his thumbs lay lightly against the top. The slightest press would activate the guns located at various points outside his hull. His control levers could do a myriad of tasks, except order a pizza. Actually, there was nowhere in the galaxy he could order a take-out pizza, the one thing he would dearly miss about this planet.

The whine of metal stressing grew louder and took the shuddering of his vessel to a whole new level. At times he wondered if the stress would prove too much for his ship. After all, it was getting on in years, but his Annabelle was solid.

He hoped.

"Here we go," he muttered as he tugged on the joysticks. At first nothing happened as his ship pushed against the tons of dirt on top of it. But the engine was at - he glanced over at the dial to his left - ninety-three percent, enough juice to give him the push he needed.

Grrrr. Whrrrr. Shake. Rattle. When the ship finally managed to rise from its shallow grave, it did so with an almost gleeful scream, and when it popped free of the weight, the engines took on a purr, as they no longer had to work as hard. The intense vibration subsided, but only for a moment.

Whoop. Whoop. Once again, a siren went off as something impacted his vessel on the right-hand side. And, no, it wasn't starboard. He'd like to meet the human who coined that word. In space, there were stars all around, so they stuck to universal directions. Left, right. Up, down. Fifth dimension. But that required a wormhole.

The blow to his ship rattled it, and his outer hull of poop held, but that didn't mean he wanted to sit around and let the other vessel use him as target practice.

"Annabelle, switch the view to full surround. Let me see what we're up against."

"As the captain orders."

The entire bridge turned into a virtual theatre. The walls, with their knobs and screens and flashing lights, disappeared, as did the floor and ceiling. A hefty upgrade, but one worth it as Annabelle projected a holographic image of the space around his ship. For all intents and purposes now, it was him against the universe - a universe with a ship determined to destroy his.

He immediately spotted the Krolz vessel, almost directly in front of him and readying to fire again. It seemed they'd fixed their earlier cannon problem. A shame. He'd hoped to avoid a messy confrontation.

A tilt of his joystick saw them banking away from the next missile, and his passenger screamed as the ship rolled. Something thumped, probably a loose part he'd forgotten to stow before takeoff. He could hope only it wouldn't cause any damage as it went pinballing about.

Ignoring the sound of the wench's shrieks, he bent his primary focus on making sure they got off the planet alive. The extra loops and dips, though? They were purely to f**k with the girl and for fun.

Whee. Yes, soaring through the sky in a mad weave proved exhilarating, but he couldn't just play. The situation was serious, the stakes very real and high.

With his foot, he kicked at a lever lock, releasing his seat from its forward upright position. It initially wobbled then stabilized. Now the seat would roll with his motions so that he could pivot and turn. His viewpoint would not be restricted, as he could visually access all the space around his ship.

It took only a nudge of his body to send himself spinning, giving him an around-the-clock view so he could spot the enemy. He located the other ship weaving behind him, a laughable attempt on their part to foil any guided missiles.

That won't work with me. When Rafe aimed, he aimed so that he wouldn't miss because power, even missile power, came at a cost. Use too much and a ship could be left a sitting zuruu bird, fit only for plucking.

In space, power was life. Given he still remembered the power shortages of his youth, where the choice sometimes came down to breathing or heat, he tended to be a frugal captain.

Hands gripping the joystick, he flipped his vessel, and his gaze narrowed as he calculated where to fire. His thumb tapped the tops of the levers.

Pow. Pow. He couldn't hear his weapons firing, but he could imagine it and see it. Bright streaks of light shot from the underbelly of his craft. The first one flew too low and passed right under the enemy ship. The second shot, however, managed to score a hit, not quite a deadly one, but enough to take out the enemy's biggest gun.

"Score!" he yelled.

"This isn't a sport with points," she hollered back.

In that, she was wrong. All battles were a sport with a winner and a loser. He liked to win.

Despite the grievous blow to its attack system, the other ship wasn't done. It still had smaller guns, and probably a prideful need to bring Rafe down. When it came to prideful decisions, humans and the rest of the beings in the universe had much in common.

I also have my pride, and I won't have it handed to me by a lesser race - and in front of the wench. Men should never fail while someone of the feminine persuasion watched. It just wasn't right.

The other ship dove, straight down, its smaller size allowing a greater maneuverability as it moved, trying to get behind the Annabelle again.

Oh no you don't. No backdoor humping while he captained this ship. Rafe didn't have to think. His body just pivoted with the seat, keeping his target within sight so that he could fire again.

Bang. Bang. The other ship waffled in the air as both missiles impacted the same zone. It was enough to create a crack in the protective barrier so that the next two shots penetrated.

Smoke leaked from the crack in the bounty hunter's vessel. It wobbled drunkenly, trying to keep altitude, but it couldn't maintain it. It sank to the ground, hitting the surface and driving up a pile of dust as it dug a furrow in the earth. He followed the ball of swirling dirt.

"Shouldn't you be escaping? I don't think they can follow," the wench stated, a tremble in her voice.

"I can't leave yet." Even if the hunters were grounded and incapable of chase, the other ship knew things, like the fact that Rafe was on Earth, illegally. PISS would want him dead as an example, but that wasn't the main reason he couldn't leave without eliminating them.

In the universe, there were a few rules they all abided by. Don't destroy entire planets. Don't make suns explode. Don't create black holes. And don't leave evidence of advanced technology behind on indigene planets. Because his kind remembered what happened when advanced technology ended up in the wrong hands. The Rhomanii were still looking for a new home world, one not yet infested by their ignorance or anyone else's.

So what did all that mean? Leave no evidence behind, even if it belonged to hunters just doing a job for their guild.

As the cloud of dust settled, revealing the other ship, he lined up his shot and fired.

Pow. Pow. Pow. He pulverized the other ship.

"What are you doing?" she yelled. "You'll kill them all."

"Exactly. We don't want another Area 51 incident." The Martians had to halt their probing and experiments after that epic failure.

Smoke billowed. The other vessel burned, and burned hot enough to destroy most of it. Rafe could technically leave at this point. It was doubtful the humans would find anything useful in the remains. Still, who knew what information or tools the Krolz had stashed on their ship? He kept firing. Best to not take any chances.

When he felt confident that the other craft was nothing but smoldering scrap, he veered his ship away and took a moment to return to the site of his temporary home. There wasn't much he could do about the gaping crater he'd left behind. Just like he couldn't completely erase all the scattered remnants of his trailer and his delivery lady's truck.

The smoking ruin of his home made him briefly wonder what the authorities would think when they did finally come out and take a peek. More than likely they would blame it on a gang war with him as the kingpin and her, the delivery girl, caught in the crossfire.

He didn't really care how they spun it, as it wasn't his problem anymore. Bye-bye, Earth. Time to blow this joint with his bay full of cargo.

And a wench to keep me company.