Deuces Wild: Stacking the Deck
by L. S. King
appearing in Ray Gun Revival
"Final Flight"
"Captain?" Carter's voice over the comm quavered slightly creating an ominous surge in Tristan's stomach.
He hit the switch. "Be right there." He closed the holo-map he'd been studying and stood, staring around the bridge. No answers here; no amount of piloting skill could get them past that fleet waiting above them, not to mention the ships and probes searching for them. And they couldn't hide forever.
Blast Slap's altruism!
As he strode toward the ladder to take him below, Addie came out of her cabin. Her defiant eyes and lifted chin made him want to strangle her, but he contained himself and merely pushed past and down the corridor. He'd discovered she'd stowed away after their last stop—too late to dump her anywhere, safe or not, so he pretended ignorance to avoid distractions to their plan. Besides, he wouldn't want to deal with Slap if he murdered her. But was she really that naïve or stupid to not realize the danger of this mission? What reason would make her be so determined to stay with them?
He stopped mid-climb, hanging on a rung, staring into space in self-loathing astonishment—he'd committed an unpardonable sin: he had dismissed her, underestimated her. Was she really Addle-brained Addie, or was there more to her? Her father had Mordas connections; was she to be trusted?
Teeth grinding, Tristan continued his descent. How soft he had gotten! Keeping Slap around, letting Carter stay on, and then—allowing Addie on the ship without even doing a thorough check on her. Idiot! No more! If he lived through this, he'd ditch—he stopped his mental promise before finishing it; at this moment, surviving didn't seem likely.
One problem at a time. Escape this planet first, then escape his companions.
Carter sat by the Reactor core, his face lined with worry. The soft blue glow of Cherenkov radiation shone from an open maintenance access port. Tristan hitched his trousers and squatted next to the engineer, ignoring the resultant twang of pain in his right calf. "What is it?"
"We have a major problem. We have ten, twelve hours tops until the reactor goes critical—and that's assuming normal operations, not combat."
Keeping his voice quiet in an effort to control his ire, Tristan asked, "You didn't see this before?"
"This is new. In our dogfights, we took damage to the cooling system. I think we either took a hit directly to a heat sink radiator, or got structural damage that caused a pipe to crack. Either way, we've lost coolant. And that's not replaceable here."
Tristan puffed out a breath, running a hand through his hair. "No. They might have it at that Confederation base, though."
Carter shook his head. "Even if we could just walk in and ask for some, it wouldn't do us much good. The main reactor's dying. It won't hold together long. I've been babying it—manually regulating the reactor's power output and compensating for fluctuations upon output ramp-up or ramp-down. But I wasn't here to do that when Addie fired up the engines."
Tristan's back arched, and his lips pressed together. Carter held up a hand. "It's not her fault! She didn't know, and it wasn't the only contributing factor. The hits we took in the fight did more than damage inertial dampers and grav."
Tristan stared at the floor, awash in blue glow. "So...we can't even gamble on flying out of here past that fleet and jumping once to get away from this planet?"
Carter grimaced, increasing the lines in his face. "No, Sir. I'd not chance very much time in the air with her, and definitely not in combat conditions. Never a jump. The field coils are shot, and the exotic matter toroid would heat up too fast. The flow containment system would never—"
Tristan raised both hands to stave off the engineer's chatter. "All right. Let me think about alternatives."
"We have to get away from Giselle before she goes critical, Sir. And that's ten, twelve hours tops."
"How far away?"
"With the amount of antimatter we have aboard, we can't get far enough away. However..." Carter's eyes glazed over, and Tristan rocked back on his heels in anticipation. "We could control the blast... with only one antimatter canister aboard, we'd reduce the explosion to about 110 megatons, give or take. We could..." His lopsided grin spread and he met Tristan's eyes. "Sir, what about this. We need to get much further south in order to survive. We're still within the arctic region without proper clothes, supplies, and survival gear. We could fly her south, say, oh, 1600 to 2000 kilometers, eject all but one of the canisters as we land, then have her take off set on autopilot, with a wormhole jump programmed to take her to the center of the Confed base. Controlled explosion, base gone."
"I don't call any antimatter explosion controlled."
Carter shrugged. "You know what I mean."
"Those canisters are the sticky point," Tristan murmured. "We can't eject them here, and in atmo is dicey—they could be damaged as they fall. They must be ejected while on the ground, since space isn't an alternative."
"Exactly, Sir. And each one has a microfusion battery and is self-sufficient for a couple of years outside of a ship power grid. We could retrieve them later."
How, with Giselle gone? "Don't they transmit an emergency signal once ejected?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And would you have time to disable those signals?"
"But why—oh." Carter's face fell. "That could be a problem if anyone is trying to find us, couldn't it? I...I don't know that we have the time for me to disable those signals. They're hardwired—"
"Minor point. We'll worry about it later, if we have time. With one canister, will your estimate of 2000 kilometers be a safe enough distance south?"
"There are factors involved, such as prevailing winds, but generally, yes, I'd say we should be safe. The explosion radius will be at least six kilometers with total destruction from the blast center, seventy. Fallout area, oh, I'd say 350,000 square kilometers, and an earthquake at least 6.5 on the Richter scale. The concussive shockwave—"
Tristan held up a hand. "How long do you give us to safely fly in her?"
"I really don't, Captain. The sooner we take off the better. She's a ticking time bomb, to use a very old idiom."
Tristan snorted, leaned forward, and pushed off the balls of his feet to stand, ignoring the creak in his knees and the twang in his calf. "Did you ever have survival training?"
Carter shot him an ironic look. "Only the basics and that was ages ago. I was a scientist, not a field grunt. And I don't think Slap has much experience in dealing with snow, considering the hot climate he was raised in."
"We'll have to make do. It's not like we have a choice. Pack only what you need. I'll tell Slap."
#
Slap's jaw dropped. "You gotta be kidding!"
"I'm not. If we stay, we're dead."
Slap scratched his head, looking lost. "I got a coat I wear for cold planets, but it ain't good enough for this! Can't you fly us to someplace warm?"
Slap's almost-whine grated on Tristan. "Flying at all is a big risk. We're not going farther than we need to in order to be safe from the blast."
"We're really going to blow up ol' Bertha?"
"She's going to blow up in any event. We're merely using her to our advantage when she does."
Slap sighed. "Poor ol' Bertha."
Didn't the galoot get it? "Worry about yourself, not some hunk of metal. Get packed."
"We all need warmer clothes, and—I ain't even got a compass anymore. I don't know what plants we can eat on this rock, or animals. This ain't going to be easy."
"Just get as ready as you can. And get her ready too."
"But—"
"No buts. There's no time. This ship is going critical, and we have to get away fast."
Slap opened his mouth as if to argue more, and Tristan jammed a finger into his chest. "You got us into this with your altruistic save-the-galaxy nonsense. We're taking off as soon as possible, so get ready or I'll leave you behind."
As Tristan stormed off he heard Slap whistle long and low. He didn't care. Slap didn't need to tell him the odds were against them. He had no way to stack the deck, cull, false shuffle—they had to play the hand they were dealt; the hand Slap dealt them.
He entered his cabin and thought about what he should wear. He had one small satchel, but it would be wiser to layer his apparel, wear what he could.
He stared at his books with a melancholy sigh; no way to take them. He could, however, bring his music; he tucked the crystals into one of his vest pockets and continued to pull out clothes.
#
Slap hitched his pack on his back and eyed Addie, who stood by the hatch near him. He hoped she would just shut up and obey for now. Tristan was sure in a foul mood. Some of it was likely from meeting up with his past, and worry over this Granger fellow and the man he worked for: Dray. Some had to be from feeling cornered into taking this run.
The guilt over their situation weighed on Slap, but it only made him more determined to do as much as he could to help. He'd packed a sack with potatoes, carrots, and a few other raw vegetables that could be eaten raw or cooked in a campfire. He rolled up four thermal blankets, tied them together, and hung them around neck like saddlebags. He was sure there was more he could bring, but in this rush he couldn't think, and time was gone anyway. He had a PBG holstered at his hip, as did Carter, and both men had packed a med kit.
As Tristan lifted Bertha off, a thought came to Slap, and he pointed at Addie. "Stay put. I'll be back in just one second." She nodded, wide-eyed. Was she really scared enough to listen? He'd have no time to look for her if she wasn't by the hatch when they landed. He met her eyes, hoping he looked and sounded fierce. "I mean it!"
"I won't move!"
"You'd better not!" He ran around the corner and into Tristan's cabin. His eyes darted about the cabin, and luckily, he saw the two books which comprised Tristan's library on a small shelf. He snatched them and stuffed them into his backpack. Maybe his friend would feel better later to find out his books hadn't been destroyed. He ran back to the hatch, slinging his pack on, and breathed a sigh of relief: the wildcat was still there.
He felt Bertha land and heard the thunks as the canisters ejected.
Tristan's voice rang over the comm. "Move! Now!"
Slap grabbed the sack of food, hit the switch, and shoved Addie ahead of him. She clambered down the ramp and since there were no docking stairs, jumped the last few feet into the snow, then squealed how cold it was. She only sank a few inches—good! He was worried the snow would still be hip deep or worse, although it was snowing at the moment, big, fat flakes. Slap followed her, landing with a grunt. He looked up in time to see Tristan bailing right behind him. The man hit the ground and rolled, then struggled to his feet.
Carter ran out from the lower hatch, which began closing. "She's set. Five seconds."
Tristan nodded. Bertha whined, lifting off by herself. Slap found his eyes stinging as he watched her rise into the air.
"Godspeed, old girl," Tristan muttered.
Slap didn't say anything; he was too afraid his own voice would give away his emotions. But did Tristan really feel anything that the ship was flying to her death?
Bertha ascended swiftly, almost instantly disappearing from sight.
"How much distance did you give us?" Carter asked.
"From where we were, about 1000 miles, 1300 from the base."
Carter smiled. "Still using those old measurements?"
Tristan didn't answer. No surprise there.
Peering northward, Carter said, "We'll still see and feel it. And hear it in just over an hour and a half."
A flash lit the sky, making Slap squeeze his eyes shut. He sniffled—not for some ol' ship; the air was just that cold. But—g'bye, Bertha.
"We'd better get moving," Carter murmured, checking his chrono.
Slap gazed about at the endless white and flung the sack over his shoulder, staring at a dark line in the distance; was it trees or mountains? Only time would tell.
Tristan had a strap attached to his satchel allowing it to hang over his shoulder and across his chest. He adjusted it and nodded southward. "Let's go."
"Wait. I need to help Addie."
Tristan glared as Slap unrolled one of the thermal blankets. He wrapped it around her, then took one of his spare shirts and made a makeshift hood for her, tying the arms like a scarf around her neck and face.
"Keep your hands in your pockets." Slap patted her shoulder. "You'll be fine."
"My feet are cold."
She only had shoes, but before they left the ship, Carter suggested layering her clothing and putting a second pair of socks on with her pants tucked in them. It wasn't as good as boots, but it would help a little.
"I know. I'm sorry," Slap said. "But—"
Carter, who kept glancing habitually at his chrono, interrupted. "Better get on the ground." He fell into the snow, and Tristan followed suit.
"Huh? Why?" Slap asked, but he knelt, confused, not really wanting to lie down in that cold stuff.
Addie stared at them, nose wrinkled. "Are you crazy?"
Something blasted into Slap, knocking him face first into the snow. Addie had been thrown down too, and cried, snow muffling the sound. Slap rose and helped her to her feet. She ran a sleeve across her face and yelled, "Ew! It's ice!"
Tristan shook his head, looking disgusted, and began walking. Carter followed.
"C'mon, girl. We gotta keep up. Walk in their footsteps so the snow won't be so deep for you."
Venting a loud sigh, Addie obeyed.
Before long, the ground started rumbling, and Addie grabbed Slap's arm with a yelp.
"It's from the explosion," Carter said.
No one responded, and they all just continued walking.
They trudged on for who knows how long when Addie collapsed. "I can't do it. I can't feel my feet."
Carter stopped. Tristan kept moving, but the engineer said, "You go alone or with all of us, Captain. I won't leave her."
Tristan turned, his eyes like black coals. "What do you suggest?"
Slap shrugged off his pack and held it out. "One of you take this, the other, the sack. I'll carry her a ways. She's a tiny mite. Won't be much."
The two men took his burdens, and he knelt in the snow so the new one could climb on. "All you have to do is keep hold'a me. All right?"
"Hm mm," she murmured into his shoulder, then sniffled in his ear.
The dark line had been trees. A beautiful wood just beginning to bud. And just as they arrived at them, the sun peeked out from behind clouds and hit Slap in the face. He blinked and grinned, then noticed the snow had stopped. Perhaps it would warm up a bit. Just as he was going to voice his optimism to cheer Addie, a huge boom echoed, making him jump and Addie clutch at him with a gasp.
He looked behind but saw nothing. Tristan said they were 1300 miles away; too far away to see anything, Slap supposed. He patted Addie's hand on his chest and kept walking.
The snow seemed less as they traveled through the woods, although more frozen than in the open meadows they crossed. Birds sang, and little animals skittered. Carter kept his hand on his PBG most of the time. Slap didn't need to ask why; they didn't know what big animals they might come across, or little ones with an attitude, for that matter.
"I gotta put you down for a bit." Slap bent his knees and, when Addie wouldn't let go, pulled her hands from around his neck. "Just for a while."
"But I'm cold."
"Think we're not? Wake up, girl. You ain't going through anything we're not."
Addie wrinkled her nose, about to retort, but Tristan's voice cut through: "Keep moving. I'm not waiting for anyone."
Addie made a face at Tristan's back and, with a scowl, followed in his footsteps.
As the sunset approached, Slap began to look for a likely spot to stop for the night. He found a nice spot beside a copse with a windbreak of trees nearby. As his companions dropped their bundles, he checked the sun and drew his knife. He went to the nearest tree, adjusted his position, and carved an X into it.
"What's that for?" Addie asked.
"Got no compass. Gotta know which direction is south come morning."
"We just keep going the way we were, right?"
"Sun might be behind clouds come morning. Might be snowing. We might get turned around and not know which way we'd been headed. Start collecting wood, Little Girl. We need a fire. There's lots on the ground, you can see some of it sticking up through the snow."
The four of them gathered a huge pile of wood. A few dead trees nearby provided more; limbs snapped off easily, for Slap anyway. He had no proper equipment, but this wasn't his first time out with hardly anything but his hands. He'd just never had to deal with snow before. How easily could he start a fire with all this wet wood?
Slap used one of the limbs to swipe away snow from the ground, then knelt to begin, but how? He had no stones to ring a campfire, nothing to use as tinder. The leaves under the snow were soaked.
He'd brought along some old-fashioned matches from the galley; Tristan had fancy little warmers for his tisane that had a candle in the bottom. But matches would be no good with this sopping mess.
He sat back on his heels. "Got no dry kindling or wood, no tinder, I don't see how I can start a fire."
"Just pile up some of the wood."
Slap looked up at Carter, who was smiling. What was he up to? Well, when the engineer smiled like that, he usually had an idea. Slap hoped it was a good one, or they'd be frozen come morning. He took some of the kindling and set it in the center of the cleared area, in a proper crisscross fashion. "What are you going to do?"
Carter hunkered next to him and pulled out his PBG. He fiddled with the setting, then aimed at the kindling.
Slap grabbed his wrist. "Is this a good idea?"
"Not the best, but it's in the Confederation survival manual. On this setting, it'll do the job."
Slap stood and stepped back. He'd seen what PBGs could do. But Carter did know what he was doing—a tiny zap and the kindling was ablaze! Slap settled down next to the fire to add more kindling to it. Soon it was an official campfire. It crackled, hissed, snapped, and smoked from all the wet wood, but it kept them warm.
Carter had thought to bring a small tarp from the cargo bay, which he spread for them to sit on. They huddled under the thermal blankets, close to the fire.
"I'm hungry," Addie said.
"I have some raw vegetables with me. You can eat something now, a carrot perhaps, or wait till we have coals, then I can set some of them to cook."
They all accepted a carrot. Later, Slap rolled potatoes and some alien tubers that had a turnip-y taste in the ashes and set them in the coals.
"How far are we from the Medani colonies?" Slap asked, poking the fire with a thick twig.
"Hundreds of miles," Tristan murmured. "But without the ship, there's no way to locate them. They're somewhat to the east, and south. Finding them is, as you would say, like finding a needle in a haystack."
Slap looked up, but could see little, he was "fire blind" from staring at the fire too long. "And the fleet is still up there, isn't it?"
"Yes, and finding us is there first priority, considering we just destroyed their base." Carter smiled grimly.
"Plus Tristan's pal. Any other folks on this planet?"
Tristan shook his head.
"So...we're stranded here in the freezing cold, hundreds of miles from the only possible people who might help us, no shelter, this Granger guy and the Confeds looking for us, and no way off the planet."
"Aptly put," Tristan said.
Slap snorted. Could things get worse?
"Very aptly put," a cultured voice sneered from behind. Slap twisted to see Tristan's friend, wearing a smug smile, and flanked by several men carrying PBRs.
Things were worse.
© 2006 - 2010 L. S. King