Deuces Wild

Deuces Wild: Stacking the Deck

by L. S. King

"Fractured Facets, part two"

The news that Addie had been kidnapped stopped Slap in his tracks halfway up the ramp to the ship, but Tristan kept moving, his mind kicking into hyper-drive. "Polk?"

"Well, I'm not sure. It's not his style, but who knows about his employer."

Tristan snorted. "Which one?"

Carter paused, frowning. "Oh?"

"Later." Tristan stood at the hatch and after all three men were inside, he hit the panel to close it. "What do you know about the kidnappers?"

"They sent a note with her jacket. They want her father to pay the ransom in diamonds and refined rare metals: gold and platinum."

Tristan stopped and stared, his mind braking and switching directions. Ransom—not a hostage? "Wait. What?"

Slap waved a hand. "But aren't there synthgems? Is there that much money to be made with jewels and metals when we can make what we want?"

"Oh yes," Tristan said.

"Well, synthgems, but we don’t have that many synthetic metals." Carter's eyes lit up. "But see, Slap, even with synth, there's a huge market out there. As a matter of fact, there are so many uses for synthgems, such as thermal conductivity, data storage—we rely on them for so much. Diamond is the most widely used, for it's crystal purity, inherent strength, and clarity. Synthetic sapphires, rubies and emeralds exist, mainly for use in tuning industrial cutting lasers and for medium-sized, megawatt-range laser weapons."

Tristan listened in awe as Carter rambled without taking a breath. How long could he go on?

The engineer continued, "For synthetic metals, we have SynTi, tri-titanium, synthetic aluminum, polysteel, and plasteel—which is doped with other metals, yttrium for example, to prevent crystallization and yield a glassy metal, and can be turned into a foam and used for lightweight and extremely durable, well, anything. A potential downside is they're still metal, and thus very conductive of electricity. Polysteel and plasteel are used for everything from starship hulls to structural building parts to public and private transportation to handheld tools and weapons to decorative pieces.

"And as for natural metals, platinum and gold are used to form circuitry, not to mention—"

Tristan waved a hand to stop Carter's babbling as he began walking to the bridge. He'd have to wait for another time to see how long the man could talk. "I need to do some research. Give me the details."

Carter and Slap both ran to keep up.

"She'd taken a cab to the city. He returned with her jacket and this note." Carter handed it to Tristan.

Simple e-paper. Tristan read it: a mere message for her father to bring an inordinate amount of E8 synthetic diamonds, gold, and platinum to the planet in one week. The minimum it would take for LeJeune to arrive.

He handed it absently to Slap and entered the bridge, dropping into the pilot's chair and rubbing his head. No instructions for him; no word from Polk, the Confeds...or Dray. Could this be unrelated to him or to Carter? An actual mere kidnapping by some cheap goons? He twisted to look up at the engineer. "You might have hit on what they want the ransom items for, which could give us a few clues as to who they are. These materials—with the war, they'd sell big on the black market right now..."

With a look of disbelief, Carter opened his mouth as if to contradict Tristan, then slowly shut it. "Yeah. They would. And the Confeds don't care who they buy from for their gadgets." He scratched his head. "You think it wasn't Polk?"

"I think it's possible it's unrelated. However, there are other possibilities..." Tristan leaned back. "LeJeune was somehow involved in the Mordas. It could be he also had off-world connections. This could be a way to get to him."

Carter sank into the other seat. "Yeah. Could be...but how do we find out who really is behind it?"

Tristan stared at the wall, going over possibilities. "I think...the best thing I can do is force their hand."

Slap, leaning against the door, crossed his arms. "Now, wait. I ain't sure what you're planning, but regardless of what you feel about Addie, I won't have you putting her in danger."

Tristan's mouth twitched in a smile, the ancient story "The Ransom of Red Chief" going through his mind. "Considering everything, I wonder who's in danger." He took a deep breath. "But no, I think this is the best way to get her back in one piece."

"What is the best way?" Carter asked.

"I'm going to turn over some rocks, and see what crawls out." Tristan accessed the comm network and the code for a local fence who knew him. When the man's slender, lined face appeared in front of him, Tristan lifted his chin slightly.

The fence's brow ridged, then he smiled. "Mr. DeVry."

"Glad to know you remember me, Antreas."

"Always good to see you. I take it you just arrived with some merchandise?"

"Arrived, yes, but it's not merchandise I'm interested in. It's information. Is your network as extensive as your entrepreneurial expertise?"

Antreas grinned. "I pride myself in my abilities to pass on news or find out what my clients might want to know, yes."

"Good. It's come to my attention that a young lady named LeJeune has been detained by some very boorish types hoping to benefit by extorting her father. Now," Tristan paused for effect, "I would appreciate it if you could put feelers out and find out who these unenlightened individuals are."

"I take it you have a personal interest in this situation?"

"Perceptive, as usual."

"I'll see what I can do."

Tristan broke the connection and turned to face the two worried men—Carter most likely because of the chance of Polk's involvement, and Slap, undoubtedly, for that girl. "Now, we wait."

Slap stared at Tristan with his mouth open in astonishment as the wiry man whipped around the bar. "How can you do that with Addie in danger?" He turned to Carter, who was fiddling with something inside a panel on the wall. "Can you believe him?"

Tristan stopped in a handstand on top of the bar, whipped around it again, let go of the bar, spun through the air, then landed feet-first on the mat. He straightened and grabbed a towel off the nearby rack. "Would it do her any good for me to pace and worry and wring my hands?"

"You don’t care if she's hurt or killed, do you?"

Tristan finished wiping the sweat off his face. "You're wrong. I do care. It's bad for business to allow a client's daughter to get killed." He tossed the towel at Slap. "You either trust me, or you don't."

As Tristan crossed to a long, rolled-out mat, Slap threw the towel down. "He makes me so mad!"

"But he's right. There's nothing we can do until we hear something."

Slap started to retort, then stopped and sighed. "I feel so helpless."

"We all do. But trusting him is our best bet. Her best bet."

"Yeah." Slap scratched his head, scowling. "Yeah..." He watched his friend flip end-over-end down the length of the mat. Waiting sucked like a black hole.

Carter stuck his head around the doorway. "Got something coming in for you, Captain."

Tristan rose from the table, Slap following on his heels.

The two men stood out of line of sight as Tristan sat in the pilot's chair and hit the comm panel. When Antreas' image appeared in front of Tristan, the man's grave, lined face gave away something was very wrong. "Give me good news, Antreas."

"As far as anyone knows, she's still alive. The people who took her...um, well, word has gotten around that you're the one who single-handedly thwarted the Confederation invasion of Eridani Prime."

Tristan leaned back, keeping a straight face. "No, that was my partner."

Antreas blinked. "Partner? Ahh."

A grunt, snort, and several soft shushes were all Tristan heard as Carter attempted to keep Slap quiet.

"And he's more upset than I am over the missing young lady."

"Uh, well, the people responsible got cold feet and were preparing to return her, but..." The fence squirmed and swallowed. "The Confeds kidnapped her from them. Since I'm already go-between, I was dragged in. They want me to tell you they want to meet with you."

Tristan felt a throbbing begin behind his eyes. Not the Confeds...not again. "Where and when?"

"They said to come to the spaceport's west gate market at midnight and bring your friend."

"Friend? Is that all they said?"

"Yeah. Sorry." Antreas licked his lips and shook his head. "Good luck."

The image faded.

Tristan sat back, staring into space. Friend? Which one? Slap—or Carter?

Slap and Carter sat across from Tristan at a table in the lounge watching him silently. He twirled his cup slowly, thinking. "This is a dilemma. I don't know which one of you they want." He took a sip and frowned; the tisane was cold now. He set the cup down with a sigh. "And, in either event, having you come with me is risking your lives."

"We can't do nothing," Slap said.

Tristan shook his head with a slight chuckle. "Yes we can. But the thought of that pleases me about as little as it probably pleases either of you." He paused. "However, I have an idea."

Carter eyed him warily. "What do you have in mind, Captain?"

He continued slowly. "Things have gone from facile to probably fatal as far as Addie goes. If the Confeds want us, they won't release her in any event. So we have to strike boldly. We will all be in danger either way." He bored into Carter's eyes. "Unless we just cut our losses and leave."

Slap's mouth dropped open. "Cut losses? Cut losses? How can you mean that? You're talking about just leaving her here to be murdered?"

"It is an option. I won't proceed without knowing it's what you both want to do."

"You don't have to ask, Captain," Carter murmured.

"Even though you know the outcome if they get you back in their custody?" Tristan asked.

Carter hesitated, his eyes on the table. After two false starts, he finally said, "I can't let someone else suffer and perhaps die because of me." He looked up, his expression fearful but committed. "What is your plan?"

"I think a preemptive strike is our best bet—for us and her. Polk is our card in the hole. He just doesn't know it yet."

"Who's Polk?" Slap asked.

"A man with many secrets," Tristan replied. "And a person with secrets is a person manipulated."

"Before we go any further," Carter said, "I want some answers about Polk. You said he has more than one employer?"

Tristan nodded. "His 'legitimate' job is with the Cirque. But as a young man he became a gambler, which inevitably led to debt and put him at the mercy of a...very unscrupulous and dangerous man. Polk had little choice but to begin to do dirty little assignments for this man." Tristan rubbed his neck. "How and when he also began working for the Confeds I don't know."

"That's very interesting..." Carter murmured. "I don't know much about him, but always got the idea the Confeds had some dirt on him."

"Dirt sticks to him like iron filings to a magnet, so it wouldn't surprise me." Tristan rose. "Let me see what I can do about getting this card to play in our hand."

Antreas shook his head. "I've put out word about this Polk twice and gotten no answer. He must be deep in hiding." He pursed his lips, a smile in his eyes. "Perhaps he knows you are looking for him."

"A possibility. Let me know if you hear anything."

"I will."

Tristan cut the communication and sat back. He had to get to Polk, and he had to do it now. And he knew where the weasel was. A desperate situation was sinking him into a desperate past—not that he was concerned with the local authorities, even though murder had no statute of limitations. He sighed deeply, calculating the odds of getting out of this without confrontations. It didn't look good.

He looked up at Carter and Slap. "I have to go out. Keep the comm manned, and be ready to leave if I give the word."

The crowds roiled and shoved, kids shouted, barkers called, music blared, and again, the smells above all—damp sawdust, fried foods—combined to bring back memories. Tristan pushed through the mob of people and chose a young, blonde, game jointee whom he did not recognize. "I'm looking for Jacek Polk," he called to her over the clamor.

"He's not here."

"Where can I find him?"

Her eyes flicked quickly over him. "Poker? No, a debt."

Ha, things indeed hadn't changed. He didn't reply, which she perceived as an answer and smiled wryly. "No wonder he's 'sick' tonight." She sighed. "You can try talking to the midway boss, Evžen Walczyk."

Tristan's spine stiffened, and through clenched teeth, he growled, "No."

She stared at him after the outburst of that one word. Swallowing bile, he started to leave, but did a double-take of her wheel. He couldn't resist. He leaned close, and she did the same. "Does Rabinovich know Walczyk has gaffed games?"

The woman blinked, going pale.

Knowing she'd pass on that tidbit to Evžen, which would make him squirm, Tristan smugly left her and wandered the midway. As he noticed the come-in start, he headed for the "backyard," where no outsiders were allowed.

He stared up at the ships beyond the dome; one carried the main troupe, and the other, the midway ship, where his prey was most likely skulking. The fence-field now barred him from getting closer to the backyard. He had always been called groundie behind his back, and sometimes to his face. He had worked his first seventeen years to prove he wasn't. All in vain, for now, he was; he could go no further.

At least, not officially.

But he would wager he could still get in. He stared at the gate, the idea of this challenge making his heart race with anticipation. Surely that was the reason, not the fact he'd be on the other side of this fence for the first time since he'd...been forced to leave.

He started to reach into his vest, but stopped and slowly withdrew his hand. No, not yet. He stared at the palm plate, his pulse pounding. Knowing it was foolish, he pressed his hand against it. No surprise when nothing happened.

With a sharp inhale, he shook his head. Foolishness. He had no time for the past; he had to save Addie's neck, all their necks. He pulled out one of his tools, and in seconds, he was inside the back yard. He strode quickly to the midway ship.

The smells as he entered brought another cascade of memories. He accessed the directory and found Polk's room. As he wound through the ship, a small, fair-haired boy came around the curve of a corridor and started. "What are you doing on my ship, groundie?" the child exclaimed in Polish.

"Go back to your mama, boy," Tristan replied in the same language.

The child's eyes widened, whether at Tristan's ability to speak what was considered a Cirque language, the authority in his voice, or something else, Tristan didn't know. But the boy did turn and run back the way he came.

The ship would soon be alerted to an intruder. With almost everyone involved with the show or midway, few were here, but still, his time was limited. He sprinted toward his destination, one floor up. He overrode the door code and slipped into Polk's room. One person occupied the cabin. The sandy-haired, heavyset man jumped to his feet as the door slid shut, his pudgy face turning white. He wore his suit pants, but his shirt was askew and sweat-stained.

"Wh-what are you doing here?"

"You're going to help us get that girl back."

"You're crazy!"

"Does Dray know you work for the Confeds?"

Polk's mouth opened and closed without a sound, his hands shaking.

"And does Zvi? Interesting what might happen if all your employers found out about each other."

"You wouldn't!"

"Have you ever known me to bluff?"

"But I don't know how to get her away from the Confeds."

"You can tell me what you know. Where are they holding her, what do they—no, who do they want, and what do they have planned for their midnight tryst with me?"

Polk licked his lips and began to talk. When he finished, Tristan grabbed him by the neck. "Now, let's go."

"What? Where? No! Let go of me."

Tristan tightened his grip. "We're in this together now. Do you understand?" he hissed.

Polk gibbered for a moment but had no choice as Tristan escorted him out. They had almost gotten to the door of the ship when two blond young men, boys really, stepped out to block his path, holding PBGs. Tristan quickly locked Polk's arm up behind his back and set him in front as a shield.

"He's kidnapping me," Polk shrieked in Polish.

"More debts, Polk?" asked the gangly one on the left.

The one on the right lowered his pistol slightly, his blue eyes showing hesitation. "Should we stop him, Andrzej?"

"Polk is Cirque. We can't let a groundie take him."

They talked as if Tristan couldn't understand their language—the first one he had ever learned. "I'm no groundie," Tristan replied. "And this debt goes back to before either of you were born."

They exchanged glances, and the one on the right asked, "Who are you? How do you know Cirque?"

Polk twisted in Tristan's grip. "He's a murderer. He was banned from the Cirque. You have to help me!"

Tristan shoved Polk's arm up high, making the gambler grunt. "You can kill him to get me, or let us go."

"No!" Polk yelled.

Both boys hesitated. Good. Tristan pressed his advantage. "Is he worth it? The headaches he's caused everyone all these years? And if things go well, he'll be released in any event."

Andrzej smiled. "Mister, we might be more likely to let you go if you keep him."

"But what will Zvi say? To let a groundie take one of us?"

"Zvi will likely say 'good riddance' if he doesn't come back," Tristan said. "Zvi would also say you should not listen to what Polk declares, about me or anyone. As a gambler, he is invalidated as a witness by the Talmud."

Two mouths dropped open simultaneously. "That is what Zvi would say."

A new voice came from the open hatch, a deep voice that had haunted his dreams and sounded like home. "Yes, that is what Zvi would say." An old man, leaning on a cane, came through the door. His black hair was now almost all white, and his solid frame seemed much smaller than Tristan remembered. But his dark eyes were as vital as ever. In Russian he said, "Hello, boy."

Tristan's throat closed, and his chest felt squeezed. He couldn't breathe, and never, never had he felt so close to tears.

back to "Fractured Facets, part one"

continue to "Fractured Facets, part three"

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