Deuces Wild: Beginners' Luck
by L. S. King
appearing in Ray Gun Revival
"Reluctant Allies, part two"
Tristan banked the rover, and Slap could see the spaceport's lights glowing against the night sky. They neared the entrance to the private pads on the south side. Slap blinked and wiped his face on his sleeve again. "Are you really going to steal Lyssel's yacht?"
"Of course."
"I don't know how I feel about stealing..."
Tristan glanced back for a moment. "It's not stealing to steal from a thief—especially a dead one."
That seemed to make sense. Slap remained quiet, fingering the knife Tristan had returned to him. As the vehicle approached the pad, he asked, "What are you going to do?"
Tristan landed the rover without even a bump. "Just play along."
"How can I, if I don't know what you're doing?"
The dark man closed his eyes for a second then glared at Slap. "You're my bodyguard, all right? So just act the part and be a 'yes man.' You can do that, can't you?"
"Yes." Slap grinned and sheathed the knife.
Tristan jumped out of the rover, hailing the guards, who brought their weapons up. Slap clambered out and came up behind him, hoping he looked tough.
"Lyssel asked me to check on the ship." Tristan nodded toward the vessel.
"He didn't say anything to us," one guard said. "And we don't know you."
"Would I be using his rover if he didn't send me?" Tristan flashed a grin—a friendly, charismatic grin—and Slap found himself almost believing him. Brago's Bands, who was this guy, anyway?
"He's hired me to take care of some of his off-world business. He'll be along in a bit. He had a foul-up at the old Tellum factory, so told me to come ahead and check the ship."
The guard shook his head. "He can check all he wants, but nothing's changed. The parts haven't come in yet so the engineer hasn't been able to finish repairs. It'll be a week." The guard gave them a hard look. "Why would the boss send you when he already knows all this?"
Tristan scratched his head then smoothed down his hair, looking confused. "Why, I don't know. Does he have more than one ship?"
"Only the cargo ship."
Tristan snapped his fingers with a grin. "Ah, that's it. Makes more sense, too. Don't know why I—well, I guess it was because he said the rover had the coordinates, and I just..." He shrugged, his grin widening. "Guess I should have asked for clarification." With a wink he added in a stage whisper, "You won't tell on me, will you?"
The guards snickered. The one who had been talking lifted his rifle a bit with a nod. "The freighter is on the northeast end, at the cargo docks."
Tristan gave a jaunty salute and hopped back in the rover. Slap climbed in behind him, unable to believe his companion could so smoothly ease in and out of what should have been trouble.
A voice cracked over the guards' comm system and in the rover as well. "Rory, Gale—everyone! Lyssel is dead! We found him at the factory, and the rover is missing. Be on the lookout—"
The guards shouted, and Tristan muttered in a foreign language, jamming the throttle forward. Slap grabbed the seat as the rover rose, screaming. Pings hit the underside and rocked it as they flew off.
Slap whistled through his teeth. "That was close!"
"I can't believe they found Lyssel so quickly." He grumbled quietly—most likely cursing in his native language. "We need a place to hide and regroup."
Slap chewed his nail for a second. The Zendians wouldn't be happy at his bringing an outsider, but Tristan had saved his life and according to their ways, that made him a brother. "I know a place."
"Where?"
"The Zendi Mountains."
Tristan twisted to look full at him. "Aren't the Zendi one of the native races on this planet?"
"Yeah, they only live in that one mountain range."
"I've heard they can be unpleasant and don't like dealing with humans."
"Not usually. But they'll let us stay there." Slap met Tristan's gaze and saw the distrust, then added, "For a little while anyway."
"Which direction?"
"Only way is to walk. You can't bring any vehicles or equipment near the Zendians."
"Walk? How far is it? We don't have any supplies."
"Couple a days." Slap patted his pack. "Everything we need is in here or I can get as we go along."
"You're telling me anything we need to get safely to the aliens' mountains you have in that pack?"
"Yep."
"Forget it. It's crazy."
"Look, I know the land—"
"And I don't." Tristan veered the craft and flew it lower. "Hold on. We have to ditch the rover. I don't know if they can track it or override the controls."
Tristan set the vehicle down at the back of a warehouse in an industrial area at the edge of the city. Smart move. No one would be here this time of night—or rather early morning. Dawn couldn't be more than an hour or two off.
They hopped out, and Tristan whispered, "Follow me."
"Where're we going?"
"Away from this area. Just in case."
Slap followed him in the dark, almost bumping into him and once stepping on his heel as they wound around buildings and through alleys, sometimes backtracking. After Tristan hissed at him for stumbling into him for the umpteenth time, Slap grumbled back, "Maybe you got eyes that can see in the dark like a cat, but I don't!"
"Then put a hand on my back, and by Orion's belt, try to be more quiet!"
Slap sighed as they continued on, heading who knew where.
#
Tristan didn't want to worry his companion, but twice they had nearly fallen into confrontation. Lyssel's men seemed everywhere. Where could they hide? He couldn't see going into the mountains, especially on foot. Too easy to track and find while on the way. That—if he trusted his companion. He supposed he did, to the limited extent he ever trusted anyone, but walking across unknown terrain to find some strange aliens? With no supplies?
However, Tristan was running out of options. They would be recognized by the Mordas anywhere they went. The answer struck him like a shock prod. He stopped short, and the cowboy knocked into him again, nearly sending him sprawling. He steadied himself with a hand against the side of a building, flaring his nostrils in irritation.
"What's the matter?" Slap asked.
"Quiet for a moment, while I think."
"Oh great," his tall burden muttered.
Tristan didn't deign to reply. He stared into the dark, trying to recall gossip and where he had heard it. What was the woman's name? Betts? Could she be trusted? Her story recalled another one, from long ago. That woman had been trustworthy. Tough call, but his choices were limited. He glanced over his shoulder. "Let's go. I think I know how to keep us safe and get us off planet."
"Good. Cuz I'm tired of wandering around and wondering if you've got us lost."
#
Slap grunted as consciousness seeped through his exhausted body and he fought to stay in the blissful, dreamy cloud. A sharp smack on his backside made him roll over. "Hey!" He sat up, blinking and scowling at Tristan.
The woman, Betts, stood by the door; he clutched the silk sheets up to his waist. "Don'tcha know how to knock?"
Tristan tossed garments on the bed. "Get up. Here's your clothes. We're going to slip out of here after dark, disguised as a young scion and his servant. We'll take a sedan to the port, and once inside, we can commandeer one of the idle rich's yachts."
"You gotta be kidding!" Slap looked at the gold embroidery on the deep blue vest, and the jabot that would ruffle down the front. But it was the tights that made him shudder. The handsome woman walked up to stand next to Tristan and grinned. This had to be a joke!
Betts, with too much make-up and not enough clothing by Slap's standards, had cautiously taken them in. By the time they had eaten, news hit the street that Lyssel was dead and she readily agreed to help them. The vicious gleam in her eyes at the mobster's name Slap could understand. He didn't know what had been done to her, but Lyssel had been greedy and heartless.
Slap scratched his curly hair with a scowl, one eye on those tights. The nap hadn't been enough, plus he was hungry again. Both tended to make him grumpy. "Can you do it, Betts?" Tristan asked.
She crossed her arms across her ample bust with a wry frown. "I'm no Henry Higgins."
"He isn't Eliza Doolittle, either."
The woman sniffed and brushed a wisp of blonde hair off her brow, then wrinkled her nose. "First step is a bath." She pointed to the tub in the corner of the bedroom.
Slap narrowed his eyes. "Now wait a minute—"
"If you can promise to wash thoroughly, I won't stay and scrub you. Although you might enjoy it."
Betts' voice was at the same time humorous and condescending. Slap couldn't decide if she was serious. But his face flushed hot. "I certainly ain't getting in a tub with you in the room, ma'am."
The corner of her mouth twitched, and she turned to Tristan. "I'll be back in awhile. Have fun."
When the door shut, Slap crossed his arms. "You ain't serious about this plan, are you? And how do you know we can trust her? I mean, I know she hated Lyssel but that don't mean she's not going to turn us over to the Mordas."
"'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.' I think I can trust her—just as I think I can trust you."
"Think you can trust me? Thanks a lot, pal."
"How much trust should I give to a person I've known for one day? We have a common goal, but what, when that's over?"
Slap shrugged, conceding the point.
Tristan nodded at the tub. "Get in."
"Now, wait. I ain't said I'd go along with this crazy scheme."
"Do you have a better idea?"
"Well no, but I won't be party to stealing a ship. I don't care if it is some rich dandy who can afford the loss."
Tristan muttered in that foreign language again. "Then we won't steal a ship." He paused and shrugged. "Not exactly anyway. Now wash. And use the scented soap."
#
Slap stood, glowering, curly hair slicked down, as Betts adjusted the jabot.
Tristan straightened his own new clothes. Or lack thereof. Slaves of the high class wore only a loinwrap, sandals, and armbands, plus their House tattoo. Betts had stained his skin dark to pass as sun-bronzed and provided an ink that would last through water and sweat for the tattoo.
"Now," Betts said, brushing lint from the tall cowboy's embroidered vest. "Who are you?"
They had been reviewing this all afternoon. Slap sighed loudly and intoned, "I'm a visiting nephew of Amilie, late wife of old Lord Barthew's second son, Philip."
"You must remember to use a clear, strong voice when you speak."
Slap scowled, pulling at his neckline. "Yeah, yeah."
Betts snatched at the jabot. "Stop it—I had it straight. And don't say 'yeah.' You say, 'yes.' And if you can sneer as you talk, that's even better."
Betts stepped back, finger to her chin as she looked him over. "Tip your head up and look down your nose. Be condescending."
Slap did as ordered, his frown turning supercilious. Betts grinned. "Perfect! And you do look cute in tights."
Slap's face turned bright red.
Betts chortled. "Now, if you can remember to enunciate and use proper language instead of slang, you'll be fine. And if you do run into anyone unexpected, you have never visited Zenos before so you don't know all the customs here. That will buy you leeway. Cash should take care of the rest."
"That's no problem," Tristan said. "Speaking of which, are you certain I can't pay you?"
Betts' face hardened. "We discussed this already. You took out Lyssel. I know someone else will take his place, that's the way of things. But my way is clear now." She stuck out her hand. "I'm glad to have done business with someone after my own heart."
"I have no heart."
"Precisely."
Tristan had no doubt she spoke the truth. He shook her hand, his eyes meeting hers.
She smiled. "I hope we meet again someday."
Tristan didn't. For now they were allies, but he wouldn't bet which side of the sheet this woman's loyalties lay from day to day.
#
One did not expect to see the high classes on this side of the city, but Betts' establishment was one of the few exceptions. Tristan wondered at the delicate balance between the rich and the Mordas that held Betts captive by Lyssel on one hand, yet relatively safe from his reprisals on the other.
In any event, the sedan driver saw nothing amiss that a young, rich scion would exit such a place late in the evening. Betts stepped up to the driver and pressed a gold piece into his hand. "Milord wishes to be driven to the private yacht gate."
Not the best solution, but it got Tristan and Slap to the space port itself, if not inside or near the shipyard. Betts leaned into the back, her endowments at full advantage. In a stage whisper sure to be overheard by the driver, she said, "Come back next time you're on-planet, milord, and I'll show you some exotic ways used by the Saurans."
The young man slouched, blushing, and Tristan, kneeling on the floor by his feet, clouted his ankle. Slap straightened, and cleared his throat. "I'll...I'll do that."
Betts grinned and winked, then nodded to the driver. She backed away, and the sedan rose slowly. The city fled under them and the spaceport lights glowed ahead, illuminating the sky. They neared the private gate, and Slap leaned back with an audible exhale. Tristan looked up, frowning, and gave a slight shake of his head. He never relaxed until he knew it was safe.
"Which yacht, milord?" the driver asked as they approached the gate. "I need clearance to fly to it, or else I'll have to land you at the gate."
"Land at the gate. My uncle expects me to be waiting for him."
Tristan winced. Arrogant, rich, young men did not offer explanations. But the driver merely nodded an affirmative.
The sedan landed within the lights flooding the entrance to the private pads.
Tristan jumped out, unfolding the step and bowing, eyes darting about, keeping alert. But the driver didn't move, and the guards at the gate stayed at their posts. All seemed normal.
Slap descended with a mincing step, head high, looking around as if the place reeked. Good. Tristan grabbed the bags and followed his 'master.' The sedan flew off.
Slap approached the gate with a prim strut, stopped, and put his hands on his hips. "Open up."
The guards exchanged glances.
"We haven't authorization, young sir," said one.
"Insolent lizard! If you don't know who I am, you should at least know to use 'milord.' I demand to know your names! I will see that Lord Barthew knows of your disrespect!"
Tristan kept his face impassive but could not believe this ignorant cowboy was pulling it off! The guards stammered as Slap railed, shifting weight hip to hip as the fops often did. Finally he slowed his barrage and took out a handkerchief. He patted his face then fanned himself, huffing all the while. Tristan rarely had the urge to laugh out loud, but in this case, he had to restrain himself.
"We meant no offense, milord. Please! Enter!" The one guard keyed the switch and the gate swung open. "Lord Barthew's yacht is on the northeast side—"
"Now, wait, Joe!" The second guard threw out his arm. "We can't just let him go in without authorization. I don't care who he is."
"But Lord Barthew—"
"Call him. The union will back us up even against someone with his influence."
"I have authorization." Slap reached into the fancy vest and pulled out a pouch. He tossed it to the second guard.
The man stared at it for a moment then tossed it down. "A bribe!" He brought up his gun, but the tall local lived up to his name: he slapped the weapon out of the guard's hands with a growl. He then picked him up by throat and crotch and tossed him across the yard. The man hit hard and rolled, then lay still.
The first guard, Joe, stared with round eyes. With a blink, he lifted his sidearm, but Slap wrenched it out of his hands and threw it away.
Tristan didn't wait to see Joe's fate. He grabbed both weapons. A pitiful cry made him look up. Joe lay against the guardhouse, whimpering. From the angle, his leg looked broken.
That galoot was a one-man army!
Slap snatched up the pouch and tossed it at Joe. "For your trouble."
Tristan lobbed one of the guns at Slap then led the way as they ran into the dark. They had to avoid illuminated areas while they headed toward their destination. Sirens soon blared, and lights flooded the port, leaving few shadows to hide in.
"Now what?" Slap asked, ripping off the jabot as they hid on the dark side of a building. He wiped his face with the ruffled material then dropped it.
Tristan eyed it for a moment. "We have to get rid of these clothes." He peered in a window and saw lockers. Was his luck actually changing? About time. He couldn't wait to be quit of this planet!
"Glad to do it. But if we put on our regular clothes are we safe?"
"I wouldn't count on it. Wait one minute."
#
As Tristan melted into the dark, Slap stripped off the dandy clothes—those tights had to go! He scratched his legs and tender areas, wondering how the rich wore that stuff. His buddy returned a minute later and shoved clothes into his hands.
"What's this?"
"We're maintenance workers now. Hurry up."
"Brago's Bands! You never are short of ideas, are you?"
"Just get dressed."
Slap sighed and pulled on the overalls. They gathered at the waist, and had a vest-style top with open sides, a plus in this climate.
Tristan opened the bags and gave Slap his pack. Slap tucked the one guard's gun inside the waistband of the overalls with the fleeting thought that he was glad it had a safety. Especially considering where the muzzle was pointed.
His partner shed his slave get-up and quickly donned his new guise. He tossed his black vest over one shoulder and arm, hiding the tattoo and the gun. He carried his bag on his other arm. With a jerk of his head, he indicated they should start walking again.
Two maintenance workers shouldn't be noticed. Slap hoped anyway. They walked through the gate to the shipyards without anyone batting an eye. Tristan even waved to crewmen loading cargo.
"Which ship is it?" Slap asked, glancing at the dock-pad numbers. "Betts did get that info, right?"
"Yes. It's just ahead now."
Two men stood in front of the ship. It was small, a private cargo vessel rather than the typical huge freighter Slap had imagined. An older model, too—perhaps Canary class, probably one hundred years old, refitted at least once. It didn't look very space-worthy.
They walked toward the ship, Slap waiting for Tristan's nod. Just outside the circle of light from the dock pad, they pulled the guns and fired. Slap couldn't feel sorry—two more Mordas dead.
They ran up the ramp to the door and listened for a moment. Tristan nodded, then ducked inside. Was he taking a chance or could he hear that well to know no one lurked nearby? Not waiting, Slap entered and closed the hatch behind him. As a precaution, he closed the inner lock too. Tristan had found an access console nearby.
"I've locked out the cargo hatches," Tristan hissed over his shoulder. "No one can enter from outside now. Make your way aft on this deck, then around and fore to the bridge. Check all the rooms, the crews' quarters, galley, heads, everything. And don't get skittish and shoot before looking. It might be me."
Slap rolled his eyes. He turned and headed to the back of the ship, his heart pounding as he expected to find a Mordas henchman at every turn or inside each room. He sighed with relief when he finally got to the bridge.
Tristan lounged in one of the chairs, now wearing his black pants and vest. "Glad you finally arrived."
"I've been searching the ship, and you've been sitting here?"
"I checked the lower deck—cargo bays, engine room, then made my way up here. There's still a chance that someone is hiding aboard, but we're safe in here for the moment. I can change the registry after we lift off—Lyssel loaded a program that allows it. Makes sense in his line of work. Anyway, it frees us to go. Hook your pack and strap in."
Slap secured his pack, and the gun, then sat in the chair indicated, pulling the straps tight.
Tristan called for clearance, and when the tower questioned him, he reminded them whose ship it was, and that although Lyssel was dead, his business wasn't.
After a pause, the reply came. "Cleared for departure."
Slap swallowed, gripping the arm rests as the ship lifted off. What bothered him more—leaving the only planet he had known, despite the sorrows it contained, or the unknown in front of him?
Tristan looked over at him, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "You know, you looked quite natural mincing about in those tights."
Slap scowled. "They were binding."
return to "Reluctant Allies, part one"
continue to "Reluctant Allies, part three"
© 2006 - 2010 L. S. King