Deuces Wild

Deuces Wild: Stacking the Deck

by L. S. King

"Fractured Facets, part four"

Slap lifted his hands, staring at the natives of Medan; the first ones he'd seen in the flesh—er, so to speak. With their three legs and three arms, they seemed the strangest aliens he'd laid eyes on. Well, at least they didn't have eyestalks and a fluted opening for a mouth like that one bartender he'd seen in the Rocket Wash Bar—that'd been weird. Not that their crinkled faces looked at all human, but at least they had apertures in more or less the same places as humans for eyes and a mouth. The ears, well...nothing that he could see, but they had to have something for hearing since they talked.

He wasn't sure if their shiny, black bodies were an exoskeleton or some sort of armor. Coarse, dark hair covered their limbs. The two upper arms of each held a particle beam rifle aimed at him and Carter.

One used his lower, center arm to reach into a pocket. He pulled out a comm device and muttered into it. His one buddy jerked the rifle slightly in a gesture that unmistakably meant move it!

Slap cut his eyes to Carter; the engineer appeared resigned. From what little Slap knew of the man's past, he'd been in lots of bad situations. Slap hoped they'd get through this one. But then, they had Tristan as their—what did Tristan call it?—their hole card.

The Medanis prodded them back toward the warehouse. Slap stopped—the blast-disks! A rough shove forced him to keep going. He looked at Carter again, but the engineer seemed relatively unconcerned—either that, or he could hide his emotions just as well as Tristan.

They approached the dark, hulking building, and Polk stood in front, smirking. "Thought you had me, didn't you?" His smile slipped, and he frowned. "Where is he?"

"Where's who?" Carter asked.

"Dmitri, Gaston—whatever name he's using now. Where is he?"

Slap grinned, not only at Polk's dismay, but at the fact that Tristan seemed to have as many identities as people he knew. Who was he truly anyway? "Who knows? He took off when you went inside the warehouse."

Polk cussed and said to the Medanis, "Take them inside." His smirk returned. "I don't think you really have explosives around the building, but in case you do, I'm sure you'll tell us before the timers go off, won't you?"

Tristan eyed the PBG in the Medani guard's hands. "Cautiously now," he said in the native's language, "your employers want me alive."

"Then you will not give me reason to give apology to my employer."

"That sounds reasonable." Tristan inclined his head and allowed himself to be led into the ship. As long as the Confeds wanted him alive, he had a chance of turning the tables. The Medanis liked money and had a wide variety of vices—just like humans, but with one difference; they could not be bribed once they'd taken a contract. They considered a contract a vow—to be honored to the death. Tristan wasn't sure if he felt that was a virtue or not.

He didn't need all these complications in his life. This is what comes of getting involved with other people. Too late now—at least, for now. The fleeting thought of dumping Slap, Carter, Addie, and Giselle when this was over seemed very appealing.

The Medani led him to a cabin, and once he was inside, said, "My employers will be here shortly." He backed out of the door. Tristan wasn't always certain of looks on these aliens' faces, but he swore the Medani was gloating.

After the door closed and locked, Tristan stared at it for a moment, considering possibilities and options. The most obvious was to merely leave the room and skulk around to find where Addie was—since the Medani hadn't taken his vest.

But he didn't get the chance. The door slid open again, and two Medani entered, PBRs in their upper hands, followed by two humans—sidearms holstered, and trailed by three more Medani bearing arms.

"So..." The older, heavy-set human wearing captain's tabs swaggered in a slow circle around Tristan, looking him up and down. "This is the one headquarters is so anxious to capture? Doesn't look like much to me."

"Swain said to not underestimate him, Sir," said the other human, a sandy-haired man with lieutenant's tabs.

"Since you have me," Tristan said, "where's the girl?"

"Since we have you," the captain sneered, "we have another bargaining chip to get Donegal back."

"Since you have me, you don't need the girl to get Donegal back. Why not let her go?"

The captain laughed. "Well, it's not my choice anyway. I'm just following orders." He pulled out a chair and sat, stretching out his legs, and crossing his arms over his stomach. "We just have to wait for word that we have your friend as well, then you'll both be on your way to Homeworld."

"And the girl?"

"You certainly have a one-track mind." The captain's eyes narrowed. "What's she to you?"

"My responsibility."

"Then perhaps we should keep her as insurance."

"You wouldn't like the premiums."

More laughter.

The lieutenant's gaze darted from his captain to Tristan. "Sir, wouldn't it be best to take him to the brig, where it's more secure?"

"What can he do with all our friends here," the captain waved his arm, "with their guns trained on him?"

"That's a very good question." Tristan looked at the Medanis, one by one, hoping he was reading their expressions correctly. "What can I do?" He glanced at the floor, then over at the Medani standing directly between him and the door, one eyebrow quirked. "I couldn't, for example, just..." He paused, lifting his shoulders in a slight shrug. "...walk out."

Tristan took an experimental step. One of the natives on his left raised his weapon. His companions made a wave motion with their third hands as one hissed, "Mimendi," and he subsided with a gurgling sound indicating surprise.

The lieutenant's mouth dropped open, and the captain's feet scuffed under him as he sat up straight. Both men froze as the Medanis swung their rifles to train on them instead of Tristan.

As Tristan took another step, the Medani at the door stepped aside.

"Now, what's going on here?" The captain stood. "We have a contract!"

"Previous contract supersedes this one. I am full of regret, but we must honor our oaths," the Medani said, unlocking the door. He stepped aside, his rifle hanging off his shoulder.

Tristan stepped through and turned to face the native. "Thank you. Where is the girl?"

"She is not here, Mimendi. Not on the ships."

"Now wait a minute!" The captain lunged forward, but stopped as the Medanis stepped between them, weapons trained on him.

"Is she at the warehouse?"

"No. I regret we do not know where she is."

"Is she alive?"

The Medani turned to the Confeds. "They say so. But they do not honor oaths. She is...your woman?"

Ugh—never! "She is my...guest. I owe her to see to her safety."

"You are under an oath to protect her, yes?"

"You could say that."

"Then we will try to help, Mimendi. We will send to ask among our people, if any know of her."

"I thank you. Give my respect and honor to your queen."

"Queen?" the captain sputtered as the Medani drew his hands inward to his chest—their gesture of respect. "What in the hell is going on?"

Tristan strode down the hallway, the questions and cursing of the disgruntled captain fading. He left the ship to find it had started raining. He stared upward in resignation at the storm clouds, rosy hued in the night from the lights of the port and the city. Where was Addie? He had a feeling time was running out for her, and he had run out of places to look.

Before he was even out of the shadow of the ship, shapes coalesced out of the darkness to block his path, weapons raised.

Tristan sighed.

The sound of rain on the metal roof of the warehouse echoed throughout the building as Slap strained against the ropes around his wrists. The i-beam dug into his back, reminding him of the empty sheath—if he lost yet another knife...

Polk noticed his attempts and sauntered over, chuckling. "Try all you want, cowboy. Even if you got loose, these aliens would shoot you down without any question."

The gambler mopped his face with a handkerchief, frowning. "I don't get why you'd want to hang around with that grifter." He sidled closer, rose on tiptoe, and hissed, "He's an assassin too, but a fumbling one. Can't get a job done right." He stepped back with a smirk. "I could tell you stories about him."

"Like a lizard like you could talk straight for two sentences?" Slap shot back.

"Don't bother," Carter said, from where he was tied to another i-beam. "He's just trying to goad you, and get you to doubt your loyalties."

"Like I'd care what he'd say. Scum-crawling lizard."

Polk's face screwed into a wry, amused grimace. "You can't come up with a worse epithet than lizard, cowboy?"

"Ever see the lizards from Zenos, ya honyock?"

"Er..." Polk blinked. "No."

Slap sniffed, dismissing the ignorant gambler. Then he wondered how easily he could goad Polk. "Think Tristan will be here soon to get us, Carter?"

"Likely." Carter's eyes twinkled. "With Addie in tow, too."

His cheeks ballooning out as he huffed, Polk looked from one to the other. "You think you're so smart? He won't find her. And if he thinks she's on one of the ships—he's walking into a trap."

Slap's stomach sank, but he forced a smile. "Naw, not likely to work on him. He can outsmart the Confeds every time." And it's true. He does. He would believe in Tristan this time—no more doubts about his friend.

A crash made him start, but it was just thunder. The rain was falling harder now, battering the roof so hard it sounded like hail.

Polk shook his head, chuckling. "Not this time, cowboy."

Another crash came—and Slap jumped again. Not thunder this time—he twisted to see the double door obliterated into a flaming, gaping hole. Polk shrieked and backed up, face white. The aliens trained their weapons on the door.

Was that one of their explosives? Slap frowned at Carter. The engineer's expression was a mixture of confusion and concern as he shook his head. Great. What was going on now?

Medanis swarmed through the entrance like strange, three-legged bugs, shouting in their low-throated, guttural language to their companions inside.

Then a dark figure stepped through, and Slap laughed aloud. Tristan was soaked, dripping water like a half-drowned cat—and, like a wet cat, didn't look happy.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" Polk asked.

Tristan marched to the gambler and grabbed him by the throat. "Where is she?"

"I don't—" the rest of his sentence was choked into silence. Tristan hauled him nose to nose and snarled, "One more chance. Where is she?"

"On the ship," Polk coughed out.

"Liar. The Medanis have said she's not on any of the—"

"The midway ship. Tied up in my cabin."

"I don't believe you. She would have heard me when I came to get you."

"She's drugged. She caused too much trouble a-and made too much noise."

Tristan's face contorted into something so malevolent, it sent shivers down Slap's spine. What was it the Zendians had said about him? He has much pain, and has nurtured it into black hate for many.

"Then let's go get her, shall we?" Tristan hissed, then turned to the Medanis. "Loose my friends, and make sure the building is clear."

"Going to blow it up anyway?" Slap asked.

"I'm not going to let the Confeds take another shipment off this planet." Tristan glared at Polk. "They have me irritated now."

As they approached the gate of the backyard, Tristan could see people milling around in the rain. Two young men guarded the entrance. They straightened as they recognized Polk—being held securely in Slap's grip, and stared openly at Tristan.

"Are you here to keep someone in—or out?" Tristan asked in Russian.

The one on the left blinked stupidly. His buddy said, "Uh, Zvi said to let you through."

"And what is the source of all the commotion I see in the backyard?"

"Some men broke in, and a girl is running from them. I'm not sure exactly..."

Tristan wasn't going to make sense of this at the gate. He pushed through, Carter and Slap—still manhandling Polk, and his Medani guards trailing. He looked around for someone, or something, to offer him a clue as to the situation.

The answer appeared to be at the dome.

At the back door of the dome, two roustabouts stood cross-armed. Questions were shouted in several languages, and the men responded repeatedly that no one was to be let in, and that Zvi wanted everyone to return to the ships.

In Russian, Tristan asked, "Where's Zvi?"

"Making calls, trying to find someone," the one roustabout said.

"Most likely me. Let me inside."

The muscular men didn't move. Tristan could have downed them in seconds, but in deference to Zvi, settled for giving them warning. He switched to Polish. "You let me inside now, or you'll not wake up until noon—next week."

The two burly men exchanged glances. This is ridiculous. Tristan tensed to put them out of his misery, but they stepped aside. He barreled through with his entourage.

The slight change in gravity and the cool, filtered air mixed with the smells of sweat and of popcorn and greasy food sold by the butchers caused memories to flood over him even as he took in the scene: Addie had somehow climbed into the rigging; two of the Confeds were climbing after her, while the one on the ground waved his PBG and yelled, "Get her! Get her! She's climbing to the other side, you moron!"

Indeed she was—clambering through the rigging like a spider in its web. Despite himself, Tristan was impressed. The Confed agents weren't doing as well, one still on a cable ladder, and the other on a pedestal board. But with one on each side, they were slowly closing the gap. She only had one way to continue: up.

The agent on the ground spun as the Medanis rushed him. He brought his PBG up too late—and fell, lifeless.

The two up above, naturally, had their weapons holstered so they could pursue their victim. But they could draw the guns at any time. Tristan stared at Addie—even in a stupor from drugs and being chased by murderers, she was defiant, calling out derogatory names, clinging to a truss.

"Brago's Bands, she's gonna fall!"

"Someone has to go up after her." Tristan kicked off his shoes and yanked off his socks. He ran out to the ring more or less where Addie was, still on the truss. He gazed for the quickest way up, and saw the Web. With a bound, he grabbed the rope and pulled himself upward, hand over hand.

Slap's mouth dropped open watching his friend haul himself up.

Polk tried—again—to twist out of his grip. He squeezed the sweaty man's neck tighter. "I'm gettin' tired of that, y'know. You're stayin' with me till Tristan tells me what to do with you." He paused then added, "You oughta be glad of that, too, cuz right now, I've a mind to pull you into pieces."

One of the Confeds took a shot at Tristan, but missed—the particle beam hit the dome, and it shimmered brightly. Tristan spared a glance at his attackers and yelled down, "Stop them! They'll destabilize the field!"

Carter swung around, looking left and right at the Medanis. "Stunners! Don't use PBRs in here! Take them out with stunners!"

"We do not have stunners," said the one who seemed to be in charge. "Many regrets."

Well, Slap had a weapon that wouldn't damage the force-shield dome. He shoved Polk at the Medanis. "Hold him for me." He drew his knife, and ran forward, eyeing the two Confeds. One was standing on a small platform, aiming at Tristan. It was more distance than he was used to, and upward. He squinted, bit his lip, and threw. The Confed screamed—and fell.

Slap didn't stop to see where his knife struck or if the Confed survived the fall, but ran toward the one on the ladder. It was sort of like a rope ladder, and the Confed was having trouble steadying himself and climbing, much less aiming and shooting. Slap grabbed the bottom of it and began to yank it back and forth. The Confed yelled in surprise and began cursing him. Encouraged by the response, Slap chuckled and heaved on the ladder as hard as he could. Even if the agent didn't drop, he was too busy hanging on to fire his weapon.

But drop he did, with a yowling shriek—cut off abruptly as he hit the ground. By the angle of neck, he was probably dead. His gun had slipped from his hand at some point. Slap retrieved it, checked its safety, and stuck it in his belt.

He took time now to look over at the other agent. He'd dropped from much higher up, and by the look of his skull and the bloody mess around him, he wasn't alive either. That seemed to happen quite a bit to Confeds who messed with Tristan; Slap wondered if they'd ever take the hint.

His gaze was drawn upward again. Tristan was almost to Addie, way up high on a fantastically complex framework of metal beams that looked like it held up all the equipment below it with a spider's web of wires.

Slap glanced around. Well, at least now he knew where Tristan had learned all his fancy moves.

Tristan slid along the metalwork, closing the gap to where Addie clung to the plasteel. "Addie? Addie, just let go and grab onto me."

Drugs glazed the girl's eyes, but she was aware enough of her surroundings to cause trouble. "Took your time finding me, you know." Her face was wet, but Tristan wouldn't bet whether the tears were from fear or frustration. Either way, they didn't move him—he'd seen her cry too many times, trying to get her own way.

Tristan hissed through his teeth, "Do you want me to help you down or not?"

"I can do it myself."

This girl was either going to cause his hair to turn grey or else he'd end up pulling it all out. He sighed and started to back away from her.

"No!" Addie called. "Help me."

He looked around to see how best to get her down. She didn't have training—he'd likely have to carry her on his back across the rigging and to—what? One of the pedestal boards was his best bet. Then she could climb down a cable ladder. His attempts to stay fit and keep at least some of his skills honed should serve him now, but had he done enough to be able to bear her weight as well as his own?

He climbed closer and held out a hand. "Take my hand. I will not let you fall."

"Yes, you will. You hate me."

"With reason. But my pride would be more affected by your death. I might be tempted to strangle you once we get to the ground, but to drop you—that would bespeak failure in an area where I once could claim mastery."

"What?"

He exhaled slowly. "Either trust me, or get down yourself."

She hesitated, her breath coming in little sobs, and wiped her face on the back of her sleeve. Finally, she extended a shaky hand. That was probably the closest to any truth he'd ever seen from her, a true indication of her emotional status.

He grasped her firmly around the wrist and pulled her to him, her body sliding toward him on the metal bars of the truss, her other hand grabbing at his arm as she squeaked with fear.

He twisted to face away from her, pulling her one arm over his shoulder. "Grab me around the neck, and wrap your legs around my body. Don't—choke me," he gasped as her arms circled his neck. "Not that tight."

"It's high. I'm afraid."

He leaned forward in a crawling position, hauling her completely onto his back. "Wrap your legs around me. Hold onto me as tightly as you did the truss." As the warmth and weight of her body settled on him, the memory of a similar situation from years ago flashed in his mind. A child had climbed into the rigging as a dare, and Tristan had gone up to get him down. He had forgotten that—until now.

"I'm...trying," she whimpered, her whole body shaking.

"Just hang on no matter what. Do you understand? Lean into me, rest on me. Don't pull away or let go."

Tristan slowly inched his way along the framework, having to stop when her weight shifted a bit every so often. "Try to hold still."

"I'm trying." Her hands clutched his shirtsleeves in a death grip, and her breathing against his neck came in ragged gasps.

He finally reached a position over the pedestal board. "Addie, listen to me. I'm going to swing around and climb that guy wire a short ways to the crane bar. Then I'll grab that pole and shimmy us down to the pedestal board below us. Just continue to hold me tightly, all right?"

She squeaked again, and asked, "Are you sure you can do that?"

"I'm sure. If you just hold on and don't move. It's going to feel frightening, because I'm going to have to climb that wire with my back down, but I'll have a firm grip at all times. You must trust me and not move."

"I–I'll trust you."

As his legs wrapped around the wire, Tristan was glad his trousers were of a durable material; they were going to have to bear the brunt of sliding down the wire. He grabbed the wire and left the security of the truss. Addie screamed—right in his ear—and clutched him so spasmodically he thought for a moment she'd had a convulsion.

"Be still and be quiet!" he snapped.

"We're going to fall!"

"Only if you behave like an idiot. I told you we had to do this. Just hang onto me—it's not far to the pole."

He slid down the wire, hand over hand, her tears soaking into his shoulder as she cried. He just might strangle her once they got down. The wire dug deep into his unprotected hands, leaving marks that burned. Rewrapping his legs from the guy wire to the pole wasn't difficult, and then it was a short slide to the pedestal board. As his feet touched the solid surface, he said, "Let go. It's safe to let go now."

She didn't move, and he pulled on her arms. Slowly, she released her legs from his waist and stood, but grabbed him as she looked around. "We're still in the air!"

"You can climb down that ladder."

She peeked over the edge. "I can't."

"Why not? You climbed up."

"Climbing up is easy. Down's not."

He was not carrying her down that ladder. "If you're afraid, I'll go first." He emphasized afraid with a slight sneer, and got the expected reaction.

"I'm not afraid!" She hesitated only fractionally before swinging around the cable ladder and beginning her downward descent. Slap stood below, steadying the ladder.

Tristan gazed across the dome, taking in all the achingly familiar sights. He never thought he'd actually be in a ring again, much less on a pedestal board. He looked at the trapeze itself, longing rising in him, but...that was past. A lifetime ago. He had no right, nor the time, for even a warm-up swing.

With a sharp exhale, he grabbed the ladder and started down.

Once at the bottom, he quickly took stock of the scene. Three bodies littered the ring. Slap and Carter were solicitously hovering over Addie, who was weeping openly—probably to increase sympathy. Despite the Medanis guarding the door, one person—no surprise—had managed to talk his way inside: Zvi.

This was worse than his last flight from this place. He had to get out of here, before anything—or anyone—could interfere. "Get back to the ship," he ordered his companions. To the Medanis, he said, "Accompany them. Make certain they arrive safely."

"What about you?" Slap asked.

"Get Addie to the ship," he repeated. "Go!"

Tristan gazed beyond his friend to Zvi. Avoidance was impossible now. He met Zvi's eyes as he purposefully walked toward him.

"Tristan?" Slap called. "What about Polk?"

"Cirque justice," Tristan asked Zvi, "or local authorities?"

The old man shook his head. "This time, let them judge him."

Tristan nodded and said to Slap, "Have the Medanis take care of him."

The cowboy tipped an imaginary hat with a grin.

"So..." Zvi leaned on his cane with both hands. "The girl is safe."

Tristan inclined his head at Addie as Slap and Carter escorted her out. "Yes." He raised his chin. "What now?"

Zvi peered at him critically. "What...what? You will just leave now, yes?"

"You can't stop me." Although...could Tristan bring himself to do anything to Zvi if the man tried? Truth was, Zvi could stop him with a word. From the knowing look on his mentor's face, he knew it too.

"Is that all you can say...after all these years?"

"What else is there?"

"Indeed." Zvi bored holes into him with those damnable eyes. "Will you say good-bye this time?"

"I leave this time just as I did the last. With a dead body in the ring—worse, three dead bodies."

"You didn't murder Anton."

Tristan barked a laugh. "I know that. But I'm surprised you do."

"I never thought you did. Accusations flew, and you left too fast." The eyes drilled him again. "Did you think I would not delve for the truth for your sake, boy?"

Tristan's throat threatened to close on him, and he had to swallow to make sure his voice was steady. "Who was it? David?"

Zvi nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "Always were a smart one, weren't you?"

"I've had years to play out theories."

Silence hung between them. Finally, Zvi broke it. "So you will say good-bye this time? Perhaps...write? Visit?"

A laugh puffed from Tristan, almost a sob. He swallowed again. "I, uh...I don't know."

"You...are missed. Still." Zvi's knuckles were white as he gripped the cane, but he said no more.

Tristan was at a loss too. "I..." He cleared his throat. "I have to go."

Zvi's head bowed. When he finally spoke, his voice was a whisper. "Go."

Tristan started for the entrance, but Zvi's call stopped him. He half turned.

"You are always welcome, boy. You are still Cirque."

Tristan tore out the door before emotions could shame him, grateful for the torrential rain as he raced across the backyard and away from his past.

back to "Fractured Facets, part one"

back to "Fractured Facets, part two"

back to "Fractured Facets, part three"

Top of Page

Deuces Wild main page