Ruthless (15 page)

The airport tannoy screeched announcements in Tammerfortian, warning ground crews into bunkers, and security staff to check the outer locks. When the
China
and the
Sherman
took off, it was unwise to be anywhere underneath. Tammerfortian mothers clucked over broods of smaller bird-people, each straining to get a better vantage point from a window. Without the military need for stealth, the civilian ships would present an even more impressive sight at lift-off, particularly to children who got far more out of flashes and bangs than quiet demonstrations of pure power.

There was much scurrying at the observation windows, as even the youngest chicks were able to appreciate Tammerfortian numbers running in reverse. The hours had become minutes, and the minutes now could be counted on a single Tammerfortian hand.

There was a different kind of movement in the parking zone outside as Johnny Alpha's rental car bulleted along the upper lane. He wrenched the brake so far back that it cut out the repulsors altogether, dropping the car to ground level for a hard landing on its vestigial wheels. Screeching the last of its energy out on its tyres, the car fish-tailed to a stop in the White Zone, immediately setting off a series of pre-recorded hooting announcements in Tammerfortian.

Johnny and Wulf leapt out before the car had stopped rocking, sprinting through the doors. The spaceport staff watched in amusement at the most odd-looking pair. This was not your typical family of five, complete with inflatable swimming rings and squalling infants. Neither were they self-important tardy businessman, or giggling students who didn't give a sneck if Daddy had to buy them a replacement ticket. These were two men trained for combat, with muscles honed in fights on many worlds, no strangers to running for their lives or chasing after their livelihoods. Running was not a periodic unpleasantness or a sporting pursuit, it was one of the most important elements of their daily lives. They were good at it.

Johnny was the nimbler, vaulting row upon row of baggage trolleys, darting between surprised clusters of tourists and workmen. Wulf's approach was more straightforward. He simply ran straight and forward. The baggage train exploded in a clatter of bags and trolleys, as did a suprised looking group of human stewardesses.

"Sorry, cucumbers!" Wulf called behind him at the chorus of irritated yells. His long legs continued to close the gap between him and Johnny.

But Johnny was already skidding to a halt. Somehow he had taken a wrong turn and was a level below where he needed to be. He looked up at the balcony of the departure lounge, a full floor above him.

Wulf laced his fingers together to form an impromptu step. He half crouched at the base of the wall as Johnny vaulted up onto his hand. The Viking sprang up to his full height, flinging his partner upwards just high enough to grab at the bottom of the railings.

"Quickly, Johnny," shouted Wulf.

Johnny pulled himself up one-handed, his muscles straining, a ball of pain concentrating somewhere in his bicep. But he was up, bracing himself against the railing and extended his hand down to Wulf. Wulf sprang up to grab at Johnny's hands, letting Johnny pull him up a few feet until he could grab the railing himself.

"Hey," called a voice to little effect. "You can't do that."

Wulf's giant hand slapped onto the top of the balcony with exaggerated relief and the Viking was able to vault onto the departures floor.

"There are stairs, you know," an angry security guard shouted up at them from the floor below.

"Sneck off!" shouted Johnny, really not in the mood.

Wulf pelted across the departures floor, drifting slightly to the left as he looked down to check the numbers on his ticket.

"This way!" he yelled, pointing at one of the docking connectors. Outside, through the large observation windows, he could see the steam rising from a space ship ready for launch.

A sign above the docking tube was flashing ominous red letters, ending with a universal icon - a red disc around a white bar signifying No Entry. Below the sign, the heavy steel gate was sliding down.

"Come on!" shouted Wulf, grabbing the gate. It was heavier than he had expected. He staggered beneath its mass, hefting it back with all his might. It pressed down on him with inexorable force, but from somewhere in the walls there came the whine of tortured hydraulics. Somewhere above Wulf's head, a proximity alarm began beeping.

Johnny sprinted across the hall and under the gate, sliding down the docking tube like a baseball player skidding for home. His companion safely through, Wulf let go of the gate, which crashed down towards the floor with pent-up force.

The two men sprinted for the finish line, the iris of the vessel's outer lock slowly closing in front of them. Johnny dove through with the grace of a diver and landed with the poise of a sack of potatoes. Wulf was only a second behind him; he hit the ground rolling and came to a halt by slamming against a bulkhead.

The giant door slammed shut with a clunk of finality. Behind them, greatly muffled by the hull walls, the docking connectors declamped and the tube slowly withdrew. They were safely onboard, gulping for breath like lungfish on a primeval shore.

"Phew," laughed Wulf eventually, his chuckles spaced sporadically around panting gasps for air. "We made it!"

For the first time in days, Johnny really smiled. "Yeah," he gasped. "We did!" He slapped Wulf on the back in appreciation and drew himself to his feet.

"What is der of-der-clock?" asked Wulf.

Johnny looked at his watch. "Brace yourself," he grinned. "Lift-off in five, four, three..."

From outside came the distant sound of massive engines flaming into life. The low rumble was far less powerful than that off the
Mannerheim
, but perilously close to them as massive energies were tearing atoms apart and reducing them to pure force. Bright white flames gushed from launch nozzles like wounded suns. Heat strong enough to turn sand into glass pushed with unstoppable force against the immovable solidity of the launch pad. Something had to give way, and it was the mass of the ship itself, rising inch by inch on a column of light. Somewhere, an ensign was reporting to a captain that the first part of the sequence was over, and it was safe to turn on the antigravity. A switch was thrown, and suddenly the ship's speed increased exponentially. It jetted into the sky, riding a hot trail of flames, arcing beautifully into the Tammerfortian sunset.

"Why aren't we moving?" asked Wulf, eventually.

Johnny bit his lip in confusion, watching through the porthole as the ship in the neighbouring docking bay climbed ever higher into the darkening sky.

A
bing-bong
signified an announcement over the tannoy. A series of squawks and screeches began in Tammerfortian. Nestled among them, quite plainly, was the human word
China
.

"Wulf," he said with pathological calm. "What docking bay are we in?"

"Ten," protested Wulf. "It said so on der door."

"This is docking bay
six
," said Johnny. "We're back on the
China
."

Wulf looked from Johnny to the porthole and back again. He pointed gingerly at the fading spark of the other ship.

"Then..." he began.

"Yes, Wulf," said Johnny. "That is the
Sherman
."

The tannoy screeched three times, then twice, then once. For a moment the ship was silent, and then the engines screamed into life. Wulf and Johnny looked at each other as the deck beneath their feet began to shake.

SEATLESS

The cabin was cramped and too low to stand in, equipped only with a sink that doubled as a toilet, and a table that folded down from the wall. The only place to sit was on the bed. Nigel hunched against the pillow, leaving just enough room at his feet for the Gronk.

"Normally," said the Gronk, "on a trip, we plays a game."

"I know a game," said Nigel, wearily.

The Gronk blinked eagerly and waited to hear about it.

"It's called 'See Who Can Be Quiet the Longest'. Let's play that," said Nigel.

"Yes," said the Gronk. "That's the game we plays with Mister Johnny. It's great!"

"Okay," said Nigel, closing his eyes.

"Shall we start?"

"Yes," Nigel rolled onto his side. He folded the thin and ineffectual pillow in half then rested his head on it again.

"Now?" asked the Gronk.

"Yes."

There was a knock on the cabin door. The Gronk looked at Nigel in abject fear. Nigel frowned.

"Who is it?" he called. The Gronk punched the air and danced in a small circle, having never won a game of "See Who Can Be Quiet the Longest" before.

"It's me," said Johnny. "Open up."

Nigel was off the bed immediately, fumbling for the lock, and tugging the door open.

"What the sneck-?" he began.

"Minor mix-up," said Johnny, marching into the cabin. His silhouette looked different, the usual bulk of the Westinghouse at his side now gone. He was immediately forced to come to a halt. Wulf marched in behind him and was similarly stumped by the room's small size.

"Close the door," ordered Johnny. By sidling carefully around the Viking, Nigel was able to flick his hand towards the door and ease it shut.

"Where's your gun?" asked Nigel.

"Locked in the purser's safe," scowled Johnny. "All of them!" he added, his fingers gesturing at several points on his body where he stowed his surprises. Johnny wouldn't see his guns again until they reached Mars.

"Mine, too!" said Wulf. "We are lucky they are remembering us from der Vaara trip, otherwise we would be locked up. We are practically stowaways."

"Shouldn't you be on a completely different ship?" asked Nigel.

"Yes, Nige," said Johnny. "Top of the class, thank you."

Three men and a Gronk eyed each other in the extremely cramped space.

"We can't spend the whole voyage like this," said Johnny after a moment.

Wulf fished in his pocket for the very last of his cash; two humble credits.

"Then we must drink," said Wulf.

For the duration of the ride out from Tammerfors, the
China'
s cameras worked in real-time because there was so much to see. There was no prerecorded nonsense like on the trip from Vaara. At least, not until the
China
reached a warp portal.

The black saucer of the
Mannerheim
had no difficulty keeping up with the
Sherman
and the
China
. Once the ships were clear of the atmosphere and cruising a mere mile or so apart, the
Mannerheim
put on a show. It darted to within a few hundred metres of the
Sherman
, as if checking the irregular-shaped freighter for fleas before speeding back over to the
China
to do likewise. There were excited
oohs
and
ahs
in the bar area at the sight of such a huge vessel leaping around in space.

Even Wulf was unable to resist the occasional glance up at the screens. Johnny ignored them completely. It wasn't worth the headache. He noticed instead the sound of a chair leg scraping on the floor. It went on for slightly longer than expected, enough to attract the attention of men used to getting into fights. But it turned out to be nothing, just someone moving a chair to make space for a wheelchair. Johnny turned back to the table without a second thought.

Wulf paused, his tilted beer blocking half his vision with foam and fizz. Directly in front of him, barely two tables away, a large, lumbering youth was sulkily pushing a wheelchair into a newly made space. Sitting in the chair with a contented smile on his face was a wizened man with one eye significantly larger than the other. It was Isaiah from the pawnshop. As Isaiah's legs slid under the table, Wulf caught a glance at what was on his lap.

"Johnny," he hissed.

Johnny looked over at him.

"That man over there, in der chair with the wheels. He is the one from der store where I sold-but-did-not-sell der Happy Stick."

Johnny glanced over.

"He has something on his lap shaped very much like a Happy Stick wrapped in a towel."

Johnny looked through the table, staring hard until the towelling cloth around the package disappeared. Wulf watched his friend hopefully.

"Yes," said Johnny. "He's got it."

Wulf was on his feet before Johnny finished talking, making a beeline straight for the other table. Isaiah suddenly looked around him, his hands clutching at the rims of his wheels, but he knew there was nowhere to run.

"What are you doing here?" said Wulf. The force in his voice trailed away as he neared - he couldn't bring himself to get angry with a man in a wheelchair.

"Well," Isaiah looked sheepish. "In my line of work, you develop a sixth sense about these things."

"About what things?"

"About whether or not someone is coming back."

"What are you meaning?"

"I am meaning," said Isaiah with an indulgent smile, "that you looked like the kind of customer out to sell anything he could, take the money and run."

Wulf bristled in annoyance.

"I would not desert my Happy Stick," he said, frowning.

"Then why are you on this ship?"

Wulf spluttered. "Because," he said, flailing for an appropriate explanation.

"Because something came up." Johnny came to stand at Wulf's shoulder, the two bulky bounty hunters glowering down at the man in the chair.

"Sure," said Isaiah. "But how would you get back to Tammerfors in time to buy this back off me? Even if you had the money."

"Hey," said Wulf. "What are you doing on this ship? What if I went back to your shop right now? You wouldn't be there to sell it back to me."

"This artefact," said Isaiah, "is a good enough reason to head back to the Sol System."

"That is not der satisfactory answer," said Wulf. "And der Happy Stick is only of sentimental value."

"This?" said Isaiah, patting the package. "This is worth a lot of money. You think I give several thousand creds to everyone who walks off the street?"

"All the same," said Johnny. "We'd like to buy it back."