Deuces Wild

Deuces Wild: Stacking the Deck

by L. S. King

"Fractured Facets, part three"

Slap chewed his nails as Carter drummed his fingers on the console. The engineer was as frustrated as he was. Did he see Addie as a little girl who needed big brothers as Slap did? Perhaps.

He studied the thin, lined face. Carter'd had some tough times, from the little he knew of him, and undoubtedly worried about the Confeds getting him back. Did he have family? Part of him wanted to ask, but Carter seemed about as willing to talk about his past as Tristan.

He stared at the comm panel, willing Tristan to call so they could leave—oh no! Slap sat bolt upright. "Brago's Bands! We're in trouble!"

"What?" Carter spun to stare at him. "How?"

"Tristan wants us ready to go, to meet with him."

Carter nodded. "Yes. So?"

"Customs. They make you go through the wait and search every time you leave the space port. Tristan forgot."

Carter frowned, running a hand through his silvering blond hair. "It's not like Tristan to forget things..." His eyes shone with fresh concern as he met Slap's. "He's doing this alone."

"We can't let him! We have to do something."

Carter shook his head. "I don't know what we can do. We don't know where he is, or what he's doing."

"Where's he likely to go? To where they have Addie, right? The Confeds are here to buy and transport arms and stuff for the war, so wouldn't they have a ship?"

Carter's crooked smile slid onto his face, and he regarded Slap with an amused expression, finally saying, "Yes. Yes, they would. And the location of their freighters is information I do have, among other interesting tidbits I want to pass on to Tristan."

"Freighters? How'd you find out about them?"

"I've been monitoring their communications and doing traces. And I...I really was worried that Addie might already be dead."

"What!"

"The Confeds don't play games, and they wouldn't let her live if they got us, so I wondered if they were keeping her alive until they do. But from what I've been hearing, I think she's all right."

Slap slumped in his chair in relief. "I hope you're right. So...what did you hear?"

"To summarize, they've got locals guarding a warehouse—locals meaning natives."

"The Medan natives? Those three-legged aliens?"

"I think we're the aliens on this planet," Carter said with a chuckle. "But yeah. And their men are already setting up something near the docks' west gate market."

"For an ambush, I take it? I ain't surprised."

"But there's been some chatter about cargo that needs watching on the freighter Yangtze."

"Why would cargo need to be watched?"

"Exactly—since they aren't exporting livestock."

Slap jumped to his feet. "I think Tristan needs to know this."

"But where do we find him?"

"I don't know, but we can't look from here. We need to be outside the space port."

Carter rose, a contemplative look on his face. "I...I think you might be right. Let me grab a few things, and I'll meet you at the hatch."

"So do you have a plan?" Slap asked as they headed toward the city after clearing customs.

"Not really." Carter sighed. "I've thought and thought, but I'm not Tristan. I can't think on my feet like he can. I really don't know where he might be."

"Scheme on his feet, you mean." Slap's attention riveted to the glow at the edge of the city to their left. His mind filled in what he couldn't see at this distance, the huge multi-colored dome, the holo-banner, the bright lights. "Tristan was looking for Polk, and he said Polk worked for the circus. Think we'd find him there?"

"I guess it can't hurt to look around."

Tristan took a slow deep breath, his eyes and Zvi's locked. He dared not show emotion, dared not show weakness.

Zvi put a hand out toward the two youths, palm down, gesturing to lower their weapons. "You may go. This is a personal matter."

As their guns dropped to their sides, Polk squealed, "Zvi, he's going to murder me!"

The penetrating gaze switched to Polk. "Jacek, shut up."

Before Zvi could say anything else, Tristan cut in, "He's involved in a young girl being kidnapped and is my only card to play in getting her back safely."

"Cards. Such talk from you." Zvi's chin lifted, and he sighed. "So go. Save this girl."

Tristan hesitated, surprised Zvi would just let him leave like this. The old man waved a hand in permission as he had a million times, making Tristan's heart ache for his past, for all that was lost. "Go." Zvi said. "Go!"

Keeping a death grip on Polk's arm, Tristan shoved him past Zvi. Polk's objections and wails brought him no sympathy or help.

He wanted desperately to look behind, to see Zvi's face just once again, but he dared not. As they crossed the backyard, Polk squirmed to get out of Tristan's grip, but a twist on the man's wrist stopped any struggling. "You forget who trained me to fight—and to kill."

"Y-you said you need me, you can't kill me."

"I can do anything I want," Tristan hissed, then whispered more softly in Polk's ear. "How I fell...this all brings it back—from the heights of the Big Top to being Dray's slave." He jerked Polk's arm, making him grunt. "And it puts me in a particularly sour mood. So you're going to help me get that girl out of the Confeds' hands before their planned ambush at midnight."

"They'll kill me if I help you!"

"I'll kill you if you don't."

Sweat seeped through Polk's shirt and ran down his face. "I don't see what I can do."

"Get me in where they're holding Addie. I'm going to take her from them." Tristan began moving again, pushing Polk into a high-stepping trot.

"That's suicide."

"You'd better hope it's not, because at one o'clock, an hour after their scheduled rendezvous with us, my message goes out to Dray about you. Do you get me back to the ship in time to stop that?"

"You think you have all the cards, don't you?"

"Unlike you, I'm not a gambler, I'm a card sharp. I use false shuffles, false cuts, I deal from the bottom and the middle, I cull, I stack the deck—whatever it takes to make sure I'm in control. So..." Tristan loosened Polk's arm enough to turn him around. "Are you going to bet on me, or against me?"

Polk snatched free and rubbed his shoulder. "You've...won against the Confeds before, that's why they want you and your friend both."

Ah. "Who? Who do they want?"

The gambler frowned. "Donegal, the demented genius. I don't know the name he's using now."

Carter. So they didn't know Slap was along? Should he assume Polk was telling the truth—or knew everything the Confeds were up to? "And you said there's three Confed agents here? That's all?"

"Yes, see, they're only here to move merchandise along—Xanthus doesn't like them much, and they have to be on the q.t."

"So I imagine."

"But they hired some local thugs, so I'm not sure how many will be at the warehouse."

"And you know for certain this warehouse is where they're holding her?"

"Yes. It's where they're storing the goods while waiting for their ship."

Tristan blew his breath out slowly. "Give me the layout, and it had better be accurate because you're going in the door with me."

After Polk gave Tristan details and answered questions, they exited the backyard and skirted the edge of the almost-deserted midway, Polk's arm in Tristan's firm grasp. An older man with greying hair and a slight stoop strode across grounds, and with a desperate cry, Polk yelled in Polish, "Evžen! Help! He'll kill me!"

Tristan peered hard at the figure before recognizing the aged man. This was Walczyk? Yes, of course. Time was no man's friend. But still, he remembered the man as tall, forbidding, frightening—in truth, Walczyk wasn't much taller than Tristan.

His one-time tormentor straightened a bit with a frown. "What trouble have you gotten yourself into now, Jacek?"

"Bigger trouble than you know, Walczyk," Tristan replied in their language. "Stay out of the way."

Walczyk's frown deepened; echoes of old memories, old fears from childhood nightmares returned to Tristan. But now...he saw the reality—this man was nothing.

"Who are you to know me?" Walczyk asked.

Hatred welled up in Tristan, boiled out before he could stop it. "Do you wish to abandon me on a planet now, hein? Or shove me out an airlock? Zvi is not here. It is you and me. Can you bully a man as you did a baby boy?"

The blood drained from Walczyk's face. "You!"

Polk twisted his arm and bolted away. Tristan broke into a run, and in seconds closed the distance. He dove through the air, hands around Polk's waist, and the two smashed into the sawdust.

As Tristan wrestled Polk into a hold, the gambler began blubbering. He dragged Polk to his feet, then sharp pain crashed into the back of his head. Tristan fell to his knees, stars dancing before his eyes.

He didn't need to see that Polk was getting away, he could hear the pounding footsteps as the man ran off. Rising and spinning, Tristan made out Walczyk's face and aimed his fist at it with all his might.

Glass jaw, old age, lucky hit—or all three, but Walczyk fell, crumpled unconscious to the ground. The moment of satisfaction faded, and Tristan turned to the direction Polk had run, but the gambler was out of sight already.

Tristan sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He had the urge to kick Walczyk, but that would solve nothing. He took a deep breath, trying to decide what to do next, and saw Zvi walking slowly toward him across the midway.

"He's not dead," he said in Russian before Zvi could say anything.

"I know. I saw." His mentor nodded in the direction Polk had gone. "So now, what about this girl? What are you going to do?"

Tristan exhaled slowly. "Whatever I can."

Zvi's eyes held his for a long moment. Did he see a longing there? No, he was most certainly projecting his own.

"Is there any way we can help?"

We? "The Cirque? Mon Dieu, I am a murderer, remember? And worse, a groundie. What would the Cirque do for me?"

"Ah, boy..." Zvi shook his head slowly. "You don't—"

A shriek cut off what Zvi started to say. Tristan spun to see Slap and Carter walking toward him, Polk ensnared in the cowboy's arms, one around his neck, the other around his waist. The engineer looked a bit smug, hands shoved into the pockets of his old, worn jacket.

"Lose something, Tristan?" Slap called, grinning.

Tristan glared in lieu of letting his mouth drop open and switched languages. "I said for you to wait until I contacted you."

"Yeah, but we wouldn't have gotten through customs in time." Slap's innocent face didn't fool Tristan. And Carter's told the story anyway; they'd figured it out.

So much for his original plan—he furiously began revising his strategy as his gaze bored into Polk, another variable changed in his calculations. "We're running out of time. Let's go."

He strode forward, but Zvi's voice arrested him. "Boy?"

He stopped and half-turned, his gaze on the ground for a moment, but Zvi taught him better than that. Lifting his chin, he met those dark eyes. Pain shone there, and it nearly broke Tristan's reserve. He'd never seen such open emotion from the man.

"Be careful," Zvi murmured, his voice breaking.

Tristan swallowed twice and, finally, trusted his voice would remain steady. "Always." With a nod to his companions, he said again, "Let's go."

Slap looked back over his shoulder at the silver-haired man with the cane as they hurried away, a million questions running through his mind.

"So what are your plans?" Carter asked.

"Polk, here, claims they're holding Addie at a warehouse."

Slap glanced down at the pale, sweaty man still trapped in his arms, feet dangling off the ground. How could he tell his buddy the man was lying without letting on what Carter had found out? "Aw, Tristan, you gonna believe anything this slimy lizard says?"

His friend snorted. "The question is, will the Confeds think we believe him?" Tristan turned to Carter. "You know these people better than I do."

The engineer pursed his lips. "The men here are mere smugglers, not their top agents, so I wouldn't credit them with too much in the way of brains." Carter hesitated before continuing. "I'd bet they received orders about you and me from high up. I'm certain they don't realize how much they're underestimating you."

Tristan, as usual, seemed to know what was really going on, and from his knowing nod, had picked up that Carter wasn't betting, but had facts.

They proceeded across the midway in silence, unless you included Polk's occasional grunts as Slap hefted him to shift position. A sack of grain was much less trouble; it didn't have legs to kick out at people.

A few people stared at them, and Tristan said, "Set him down before anyone asks questions."

Slap obeyed, but still kept a grip on Polk's neck—not an easy task; did the man sweat due to some medical condition or because of nerves? As they left the midway and entered the city proper, Polk tried to twist out of Slap's hold, but squeaked and went still when he found himself lifted from the ground by his collar.

"You're getting very annoying, you know that?" Slap muttered. "If Tristan doesn't think we need you anymore, I might use you for wit toss practice."

"What's wit toss?" Polk asked, trying to twist to face Slap.

"A game on my planet. You pick up a sack with a large rock in it and whirl around a few times to pick up speed then let go and see how far away the rock lands." Slap smiled broadly. "I usually win."

Polk's eyes grew large, and he wilted. "Wh-where are we going?"

"To the warehouse—where else?" In the dim lighting along the street, Slap couldn't really see Tristan's face, but his teeth gleamed. "You are going to lead the way in the rescue."

"Lead the way? I don't know how—I can't..."

Tristan pulled Polk away from Slap and companionably dropped an arm around his shoulders. "Certainly you can. You're going to walk in the door—a task none of us could safely do—and announce they are to give up the girl, or the whole building will be blown sky-high within five minutes."

"Blown up!" Rivulets poured down Polk's face now, glistening in the street lights. He tried to stop walking, but Tristan kept his momentum moving forcibly forward.

Slap bit his lips together and swallowed hard to keep from laughing. From Carter's pursed lips, he was fighting to keep a straight face too. The two men exchanged glances as their little procession continued on.

Slap squinted into the dark as he placed the blast-disk Carter had given him on the wall of the warehouse. He slunk along the edge and set another at the other corner, then ran in the shadows to where Tristan waited. His two buddies assured him they were reasonably certain Addie was on the one freighter, the Yangtze, not here. He hoped they were right, although Polk would certainly let everyone inside know the place was going to blow up.

He joined Carter when his side of the building was done, and the two squatted behind a large dumpster. Tristan had gone ahead.

"What if they kill Addie when they hear we've blown up their warehouse?"

"Tristan feels—and I agree with him—that if she's not already dead, they want her alive as a bargaining token until they have us."

"But what if you're wrong?"

"Slap, look, this whole thing is full of ifs and maybes. We're playing it this way, believing it's the best way to get Addie back alive. But there are no guarantees. The girl drives me crazy, but I don't want her dead any more than you do. And Tristan does want her back alive."

"I really wonder about that."

"He may not care for her, but he does have his reputation, and what would his failure here do to that?"

Slap nodded. That he could hold onto. "Well, now we have to brave customs again."

"There are usually longer lines for entry, and at this time of night, probably no lines at all going either way." Carter rose and began walking, and Slap fell into step with him.

"We hope. Folks will be leaving the circus soon."

"Those are mostly locals from the city. But we'd better hurry—I don't want to take any chances. We have to be in place when Tristan needs us."

"What does he have planned?"

"Who knows? He didn't say, just to head for the Yangtze."

"He's not going to try to leave us out again, is he?"

Carter shrugged. "Let's not let him."

Three Medan natives with PB rifles stepped into their path, making the two men halt.

"Hold it right there," ordered one, his voice understandable despite a strange alien-guttural quality.

Tristan scrutinized the Yangtze, visible in the hardstand lights shining up on the hull. She was a true, full-sized freighter, not the personal cargo ship Giselle was. Many places to store living—or dead—merchandise. But now she was quiet, slumbering in the night, no workmen loading or unloading, no hatches open for easy access.

He glanced at his chrono. It would soon be time for Carter to send the signal to detonate the blast-disks at the warehouse. He had to get inside the ship quickly. Luckily, getting inside places was one of his specialties.

He adjusted the collar of the dock worker's coverall he'd appropriated and donned, and approached the rear hatch. Overriding the lock was easy. He jumped onto the ramp before it had completely lowered to find a Medani guard waiting for him, PBG in hand.

back to "Fractured Facets, part one"

back to "Fractured Facets, part two"

continue to "Fractured Facets, part four"

Top of Page

Deuces Wild main page