Living in Freefall (Living on the Run Book 1) (2 page)

“Sure, Ericca, why not? You don’t like taking orders anyway,
do you? Having our own ship would mean you could be your own boss. I
will
miss Mrs. Kori’s cooking though.” Immediately a picture popped into his head of
Ericca’s last attempt to cook a meal. Whatever it had been, she had turned to charcoal.

“We could do that,” she said, smiling big. “Find a sizable
yacht, I mean. Something not so big as
Freefall
but, yes, I like your
thinking. And fast. It’s gotta be fast, right?”

“I’ll bet Tyson Blackhart has something in his inventory
that’ll suit.”

She shot Riley an evil look. Expecting it, he met her scowl
with a coy smirk.

“Archer, don’t start.”

“Cap isn’t going to like our cutting out on him,” he said to
change the subject from the pirate prince, her one time love interest.

“I said leave it alone.”

Riley hesitated. Somehow, without meaning to, he had dug
deeper into what was clearly her sore spot. That was not his intent. “No, wait.
Let me back up here. I wasn’t suggesting you had cut out on Blackhart.”

“No?” She had taken off her sister face, and donned the face
of Lieutenant Archer, captain-of-the-guard.

Riley knew he was in trouble when she crossed her arms, but he
felt committed to go all in. He sighed. In for a dime, in for a dollar. “No,
sis.”

“Sounds to me like that’s exactly where you were taking this
conversation. You need to back off.”

Riley straightened tall in his seat. “Well
that
isn’t
where I was going. That’s not it at all.” He threw up his hands as if to erase
his previous comment. “Forget Blackhart. Forget all that. Let’s start this
conversation over. I was just saying—”

“Man! You just won’t quit.”

“. . . as you will recall,
when
we signed
on to
Freefall
, sis, we agreed to commit ourselves to this ship. Captain
Kori said he wanted at least two years’ service and two weeks’ notice if we
decided to leave after that. Considering he’d saved our lives, I think we
should stick to our agreement.”

“Yes, that was before we found out this job was so . . .
What’s the phrase I’m looking for?”

“Boring as hell?”

“Mind-numbingly stupid,” she said.

“Stupid? Where did that come from?”

“At best, Kori is going to get us caught. At worst, killed.”

“I take it you don’t like his plan.”

“No, actually, I don’t. His plan is . . . it’s . . .”
She knit her brow. “You know what? There isn’t a word in the English language
that means ‘stupid’ to
that
degree.”

“Did you tell him?”

“You know the captain. Once he gets an idea in his head,
it’s nearly impossible for him to see things differently.” Seeing Riley was
actually on her side, her posture relaxed.

Riley sighed, and pushed to his feet, came around his chair,
and sat on its backrest. “Yeah. His eyes do tend to glaze over, don’t they?”

“The way he stands there clutching his beard . . .”
She mimicked the captain by stroking her chin.

Riley grinned at the picture in his head. “Don’t forget the
forefinger resting on his lips.”

She rolled her eyes. “Right. You’d think he was actually
considering your suggestion when in fact he’s dreaming of God only knows what—
Bahamas
or something
—but his mind certainly isn’t on your advice. I used to think
that chin thing made him look studious.
Now
, not so much.”

“Haven’t you notice, sis? He’s is a geek.”

Something in that made her perk up and think. He
was
a geek. She hadn’t considered that as relevant before, but it was more than
that, it was a game changer. Why did a geek want to captain a starship at all?
She’d have to give that some thought.

Ericca calmed her voice. “I think it’s funny how his hands
can’t seem to find a home.” She mocked him by putting her hands first in her
pockets then on her hips before finally folding them stiffly. To brush away the
notion she threw up her hands.

“That’s only around you, Ericca. When you’re near, he
doesn’t know what to do with himself, that’s for sure. It’s like, there’s a
casual pose out there somewhere just beyond his reach. When you’re not in the
room, he’s . . . well, he’s smooth.”

“Smooth?”

“Wrong phrase; let’s just say he’s less klutzy
. . . less stiff.”

She snorted back a laugh, then went to Riley and leaned in
close to whisper. “When’s the last time you shot something, little brother?
Isn’t that why we were hired; to slap bad people around and break their things?”
Her breath always took him by surprise. Counter to her appearance, which was
city-street rumble ready leathers, her breath was faintly cinnamon spiced, and feminine.

As she straightened, Riley turned his mind back to answering
her question. But the fact was that—
if
he had to think about it—it
had
been way too long since his last firefight.

“For that matter, sis, I can’t remember the last time I hit
someone. For the last year we haven’t gone anywhere stimulating, or done
anything remotely fun.”

“Right! Cap never goes to any place interesting. Freight
crap here. Freight piddling stuff there. Dull, dull, dull. Agh! If he wants to
deliver goods willy-nilly, he should clear his cargo bay of all the machines
and gadgetry, and haul freighter.” She glanced back over her shoulder to make
sure they were alone, then lowered her voice again. “Finally . . .
finally
we get this job, something easily made fun and interesting, and what does
he
do? He twists it into all kinds of stupid.” She emphasized by screwing up her
face and twisting her hands together. “The man needs a hobby. No! He needs a
new occupation!”

Riley chuckled.

Ericca turned to pace, stopped at the door, which
auto-opened with a sucking sound, and craned her neck to look back at him.
Jerking her head, she invited him to follow. “I need to go to a bar, down at
least two drinks, then find the biggest, burliest man there, and punch him
square in the nose.”

Riley didn’t move. “Okay, so you want to blow off some
steam? I get that. You
have
been wound pretty tight these last couple
days.”

She spun around to face him. The door closed behind her. “I’m
sorry I snapped at you, but if I don’t scratch this itch . . .”

“Pirate bar then?”

“Pirate, Confederate; at this point, I really don’t care.”

“Yes. I see that. However . . .” Riley grimaced,
“. . . I have issues with Confederate taverns, sis. And I’d just
as soon not subject myself to any of them.”

“Issues? Such as?”

“If you punch someone in a Confederate tavern, they’ll lock
up our ship. Look at a Confederate cop sideways, they lock up our ship. Make an
off color remark about the Confederacy’s Prime Minister—
worse
—they lock
us
up. I swear those people have absolutely no sense of humor. They just don’t
understand a guy’s need for adventure, for danger, for roughhousing with the
big boys.”

“Or a girl’s.” She chuckled. “No, they don’t. But still,
there’s something to be said about slapping that smug look off a Confederate
cop’s face.”

“You
really
enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

She grinned mischievously and shrugged. “It was worth the jail
time. Two days in lockup was nothing.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Then after this job we’ll look at
getting you tossed into a slammer again, okay?”

When he didn’t move, she knew he was kidding. “Come on, Archer,
let’s do it. Let’s go to a Confed bar and raise a ruckus. I have got to vent
or . . .”

“Yes, there is that. But I say we stick to pirate
strongholds. Pirates understand a person’s need for a good brawl. And they
aren’t prone to cuffing good folks like us.”

“Not if they see we’re on a well-deserved vacay. Pirates and
rogues tend to be a little more relaxed and a lot more understanding about such
things.”

In his office on
Freefall
, Captain Jordon Kori studied
himself in a full length mirror, posing first this way, then that—first, hands
on hips, then in his pockets, then crossed—but couldn’t find any pose that made
him appear casual, and comfortable with himself. Ericca was on his mind, and even
that made him nervous.

“Be
Carry
,” he muttered. “Focus. Do the
Carry
.”

Jordon believed Carry Grant, an old-time actor, was the
coolest man who had ever lived, but no matter how hard Jordon tried, he just
couldn’t nail Grant’s mannerisms. He couldn’t get beyond looking stiff and
ill-at-ease. In costume, looking relaxed was hardly ever an issue for him, but
he seldom felt comfortable in his own skin as himself, plane ol’ Jordon Kori. What
maddened him most was finding a proper and casual place to put his hands. Grant
had a way of gesturing that seemed so real, so casual, and most importantly, so
manly.

“Ah come on, Jordon,” he grumbled to himself, “you can do
this.”

Deep in thought, he didn’t hear the outer hallway door open
until Josh and Nate brought their argument to his door. Focused on each other,
neither had yet looked in to see him acting like a fool. Jordon scrambled
around his desk, switched the holo from the projected Carry Grant movie to a
tactical display of this sector. His heart raced at the prospect of getting
caught practicing Carry Grant poses and mannerisms. He plopped into his chair,
which complained with a squeak. Desperate to make a certain impression, he casually
looked up from the computer-generated screen at the boys.

Joshua Chisholm and his brother Nate were so engrossed in
their argument neither had looked in on him . . .
yet
. Fifteen-year-old
Josh was saying something about open space and going like crazy. Nate, his ten-year-old
brother, disagreed, and when they were about to pass Jordon’s door, Nate peeked
in. “Sir, sorry to bother you, but if we had to run from a fight against Confed
forces wouldn’t it be wiser to duck into an asteroid belt?”

“Well, I—”

“The Confederation has Talon fighters, Nate,” Josh said. His
brows were pulled severely together and drawn low. “If we do something as
stupid as duck into an asteroid field, they’d catch us for sure. Duh. I say we
head for open space and run like crazy.”

“What? That’s all kinds of stupid. This old ship can’t
outrun their HvM180’s. And
you
know that.”

“What I know is—”

“Buddy, you get a missile like that locked on your tail, you
might as well hang it up. Inside an aster—”

“Have you ever heard of Chaff? Come on Nate. Get real.”

“Ever heard of a Zero-point energy?” Nate countered. “You
lure Talons into a predetermined area, and spring a ZPE web. Boom! Trapped.
Easy-peesy.”

“And if they rocket just one ZPE emitter, what happens?”

“Nearby emitters reattach to close the gap. You can’t escape
a box trap of ZPEs, Josh. Can’t be done.”

“And what happens if more than one emitter is knocked
offline? Too many, and the whole system implodes in on itself crushing the
Talons inside. Crushing the pilots too I might add. ZPE box traps are stupid.
And besides. If you’re running from Talons, Nate, where are you going to find
time to set your stupid trap?” Josh looked at Captain Kori. “Am I right? Tell
him I’m right.”

“Well, I—”

“Never mind.” Josh spun on his heels and headed away.

Nate followed. “Okay. Point taken.” The boys’ voices faded
down the hall. The hiss of the passage door opening and closing were the last
sounds Jordon heard them make.

He shook his head, and turned his attention back to the
computer screen to study
Freefall
’s course and heading, but the anger
welling up inside him was palpable. No one took him seriously. None of his crew
seemed to treat him like they’d treat any other ship’s captain. Was it his
age—he was twenty-two—his breath . . . what? He’d grown a beard to
make himself look older and hide what Ericca said was his baby face. She’d
never said that to him directly. He’d overheard her say it in passing, but it
stung all the same.

Zero-point energy web strung between asteroids indeed
.

“Huh!”
Hey wait! That doesn’t even exist!
A smile
spread across his face as he realized the boys were talking about some vid-game
they were playing.
But who says a ZPE couldn’t actually exist? I could
. . . no, wait.
He shook off the distraction.
Back to business,
Kori
.
Now where was I?

“Incoming,”
Freefall
announced over the ship-wide
loudspeakers. “Two Cougar-class Talon patrol ships.”

Ericca rolled her eyes. “Here comes all kinds of lunacy.”
She and Riley were first in the conference room.

“At least it’s something to do,” Riley said. “We’re finally
back in business. Here’s to hoping this thing goes south.”

“Seriously?”

“You want action, don’t you? Look, Ericca, the only way
that’ll happen is if this thing goes screwy. So let’s hope it does.”

The next moment, Jordon Kori; his mother, Mara; and the
other three crewmembers—
Joshua, Nate, and Rachel
—stepped into the conference
room. Mara, a lady in her mid-forties, carried in a box filled with a few
theatrical props and set them on the center table. She was unassuming and down
to earth, but she knew her own mind, and wouldn’t take any backtalk once a plan
was in place. This was the thing agreed to; this was what they’d do, period. She
and Jordon quickly went over the plan with the crew one more time. Then she
inspected each person in turn. “Okay. Simple plan, people. We all know our
places. Let’s make it work.”

Ericca rolled her eyes.
Simple plan? Pointless plan.

“Let’s hop to, people! Scoot!” Mara said, clapping twice to
punctuate the need for haste. Mara had two kids of her own—Jordon and
seventeen-year-old Rachel—but she acted as though everyone aboard were
hers
to scold,
hers
to praise. And said insisted everyone call her ‘mom.’

The others nodded and hurried out of the room to leave Mara
and Jordon alone with Riley and Ericca.

Jordon fumbled around as if trying to figure out where to
put his hands—first on his hips, then crossed –
almost
– then he made an
attempt to put them in his pockets before finally giving up to let them dangle
awkwardly at his side. He studied his mom’s troubled face for a long moment. Mara
wrote this play. She had cast herself and Jordon in its lead roles. Come hell
or high water, she’d make it happen.

To Ericca, Jordon Kori looked like a puppy lost in a lion’s
den. He always looked jittery to her. He was the ship’s captain, sure, but
leading others was
not
his forte. Ericca released an impatient sigh.

Captain Kori shot an annoyed scowl at her before turning
back to his mother. “Mom, that leaves you to do all the talking for us. Are you
sure this’ll work?”

Mara smiled confidently and hugged him.

Embarrassed, Jordon pushed back to look at her questioningly.
“You nervous?”

“Now what do you see written in my face, Jordy?”

“You look eager.”

“I just thought you might be nervous yourself. You looked
like you needed a hug, so . . .”

“Come on,” Ericca muttered under her breath, hoping they
didn’t hear, and at the same time hoping they did.

Jordon glanced at Ericca who was just two years his junior,
but was nowise a kid. For that matter, neither was Riley. At least Riley tried
to act as if Jordon’s captaining this ship was for real. Jordon turned to his
mother. “You have every right to feel nervous, Mom. Those inspectors play for
keeps.”

“I know they do, honey,” Mara said raising an amused smile.
“Don’t you fret. I’ll do just fine. So will you.”

Ericca turned to Riley, and patted her own cheek. “O M G, my
face is going numb. I think I might be allergic to all this high-sugar syrup.”

Riley snickered, but tried to keep it low and off the Koris’
radar.

“You’re a funny girl, Ericca,” Mara said without taking his
eyes off her son.

Ericca sighed. “Yes, well, any more of this and my head will
explode.”

Mara looked squarely at her. “The secret to a long life is
to love on your family openly. You ever get young’uns of your own, you just
might want to remember that.”

“I see. So the secret to a long life is to make everyone in
the room around you uncomfortable. Now there’s a goal we can all aspire too.”
Maybe, with any luck, she’d get herself fired. There was always hope.

Hiding his grin with his hand Riley stifled a laugh.

Jordon dropped his gaze.

Mara
hmph
ed. “You are one hard woman, Ericca.”

Ericca offered a hint of a smile. “Wow. Thank you, ma’am.”
She shot a thumbs-up at Riley. “Finally some recognition.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Really?” She cocked her head quizzically. “How could that
have been anything but?”

“Ericca, I swear—”

“Ladies!” Jordon snapped. “Three hells, will you quit?”

Ericca spun toward a window. “Oh look. Two Talons are pulling
up beside the ship. Riley, we better get going. So should you two
. . .
lovebirds
.” She and Riley headed out of the room.

As if to find solace in a higher power Jordon raised his eyes
to the ceiling.

“You’ll be okay, son. Don’t let Ericca get to you.”

“Stop it, Momma. Just stop it.” Fact was Ericca
had
gotten to him. She had gotten to him back when he was a gangly, gawky, awkward
thirteen-year-old geeky glasses-wearing kid. Ericca was the one person he just
couldn’t get out of his mind from the first day they met. Even at eleven she
proved to be the most fascinating creature he’d ever encountered. But he wasn’t
remarkable enough to make any kind of impression on her—not then, not now. He
was grown now. Had a beard, full
and
groomed smartly. Had his own
spaceship even. And despite the vastness of the universe, he had managed
somehow to find her and, just to be close to her, give her a job. But she
didn’t even remember him. Now she was just his crewman, and he her captain, and
barely that. He shook off the memory and turned back to his assigned task.
Pawing through the props, Jordon found a pair of reading glasses and a cane,
and turned on the holo-emitter strapped to his belt. Holographically his skin rapidly
aged to that of an eighty-year-old. To complete his disguise he hunched over
and braced himself wobbly on the cane. He was a thin man as it was, but still,
he had the ship adjust his virtual weight to reflect that of an old frail, umm,
frailer
man.

Mara put on an apron covered with flour and grease stains,
threw a macramé shawl over her shoulders, then flipped her holo-emitter on to
complete her disguise as a sixty-year-old spinster. And with that, she went
down to the cargo bay alone.

They disguised the science lab holographically as a
freighter. The small cargo bay was enlarged by visual trickery. Walls appeared
as crates lining narrow paths.

With the stage set, Mara raised the curtain—the huge cargo
bay doors. As it rose to allow in the inspectors it unveiled Grenadier. The
nebula hung in the heavens like a bright, multi-colored shroud. She gasped in
awe, and her thoughts immediately went to Atheron, her home-world—and to her
friends and family there. It was too bad their space lab,
Freefall
, was
on this side of the nebula. But on the far side, near Atheron, sat the
Confederate capital, Parandi—and a whole plethora of patrols guarding the center
planet. These days, travel there was becoming way too dangerous.

Then suddenly the beauty of Grenadier was spoiled by the
arrival of her audience, two Talon long-range fighters. “Oh, well,” she sighed.
“
Freefall
, all stop.”

Mara watched the little fighters, silhouetted against the
nebula, move up beside
Freefall
, then gingerly swing in close to make
boarding her easy. At the open bay door, she, as the old woman, gazed out. The
cargo bay lights illuminated the Talons only faintly. Even so, she could see
their canopies rise.

The pilots—
here to inspect ‘freighter’ and freight
—climbed
from their ships and jetted over to
Freefall
. Their nearly formfitting
black space suits made them look more menacing than the old bulky suits of
yesterday. The cargo-bay door’s air-containment-field shimmered around them as
they passed through it. Once inside
Freefall
, they removed their
helmets, and dropped their jetpacks. Completely ignoring the old woman, they
looked around. If this decrepit freighter ever had glory-days, dirt, grime, and
years of neglect hid them well. Not in either man’s imagination could they
picture this ship as it was when it was new.

Mara, taking seriously her role as an old spinster,
approached the men and held out her aged, trembling hand. Her voice shook. “I
do hope you gentlemen can stay for dinner. We seldom get visitors way out
here.”

The enforcers looked at the canisters and crates but gave
the old woman, who was as dingy as her old ship, little notice.

She took hold of one man’s hand, but he seemed unaware of
her grasp. She was nothing to him, and he treated her as such.

Stooped severely, an elderly man hobbled into the cargo bay,
tapping a cane to find his way.

“Look, Daddy,” the old woman said cheerily, her voice all
the while hoary and unsteady. “We have gentlemen callers, and I’ve invited them
to dinner.”

The crotchety old curmudgeon scowled and spoke irritably.
“Well, daughter, they better be gentlemen. I don’t cotton to no pirates. You
remember the last time.” Jordon had taken to his part perfectly: his voice, his
stoop, his use of the cane; all marvelously played. The man had a real knack
for roleplaying just about any part.