Deuces Wild

Deuces Wild: Stacking the Deck

by L. S. King

"Space-pale"

Reggie jumped up, ticking the comm on his ear. "Who is it?" His face darkened. "Again?" He ran for the door, muttering, "Third time this month!"

Knowing it was futile, Tristan followed—until the guards stepped in his way at the door.

Reggie spun and ordered, "Let him come."

Why would Reggie want him along? Was this a planned maneuver? No matter, Tristan would play it anyway, until he had an idea of the cards Reggie truly held.

As they both ran out the door, Reggie called over his shoulder, "Pirates."

Tristan almost snorted as the ship shuddered again. Why hadn't the pirates used an EMP torpedo yet? "A ship this pretty, and you wonder why you have repeated trouble with pirates?"

Reggie half turned, astonishment on his face. "Is that why you had that old derelict?"

Tristan merely glared, and Reggie grinned.

"Good show. You always knew how to pull the best cons."

Revelation showered over Tristan like an icy rain: Reggie still admired him, looked up to him, even though he had been one of Tristan's "teachers." Was Dray aware of Reggie's weakness? Was this a test for Reggie? Circles within circles, wheels within wheels; how many games were being played, and who was playing whom?

"Your mind should be on jumping before they disable us," Tristan said.

"Run from a fight?" Reggie's lip curled. "You've gotten soft."

"Just practical."

"Cowardly, you mean."

The lights blinked out, and Tristan found himself adrift. The expected EMP.

Reggie sighed. "Bugger."

Indeed. Especially without knowing if the yacht did, in fact, incapacitate the pirates.

With the dim, blue emergency lights along the corridor, Tristan could see both guards still training their rifles on him—did they think he wouldn't know their PBRs were now useless from the EMP?

It would only be a few seconds until the microfusion batteries in their PBRs began to overheat to the point they'd have to drop their weapons, and he would have to decide whether to fight. Even with two guards and Reggie down, he'd still have at least six people to disable before they retaliated against his friends.

He waited.

The lights flicked out, leaving Slap in almost total darkness and floating. He gulped as his stomach complained about the weightlessness. What innaworld happened? The only other time he'd seen a ship go dead like this was when Bertha got hit by a EMP from a pirate. Uh oh. Well, Slap wasn't going to sit and wait for pirates to come and get him. Carter had told him once that even coded, locked doors could be manhandled open with the power out.

He tried to swim to the door—not an easy task. Arms and legs flailing, he bounced off a bulkhead and then the ceiling, wishing he had some "down" for his stomach's sake even more than for his frustration at trying to maneuver. After pinging off the ceiling, his body moved downward—toward a chair. As with most furniture on ships, it was clamped down; he snagged it and settled himself so he was aimed at the door, then pushed off with his feet against the chair legs.

Too fast! He hit the door with an oof, but scrambled to wedge his arms and legs in the narrow frame. Once anchored, he came to the hard part, trying to get the door open with so little leverage. Feet to knees braced against the jamb—the sharp edges biting into his legs, he placed both hands solidly on the metal, and began to strain. The door moved a bit, and he wedged his fingers into the crack and pulled, growling with the effort, the opening growing wider and wider.

Slap "swam" into the corridor, gazing up and down for any handholds he might use. The closest he found were the fancy wood moldings, which were no help at all. Perhaps if he gently pushed off and ricocheted off the bulkheads...

"Hey!"

Slap twisted to see a guard—his rifle floating nearby—bouncing off a bulkhead toward him, much as Slap had been planning to try. His partner was, apparently, trying to un-jam something in his own rifle. Slap gulped again, wishing his stomach would settle.

"How did you get out of your cabin?"

"I opened the door," Slap retorted, eyeing the diminishing distance between himself and the guard.

"Impossible! It's too heavy."

Slap shrugged. "If you say so." Get a little closer... c'mon...

The guard grabbed him by the arm, and Slap tried to pull away, setting them both into a whirling motion. They hit the wall, the guard slamming into Slap's torso. That was too much; Slap's stomach rebelled violently. The guard let go, gagging. His stomach subsided, and Slap managed to snag the back of the man's neck and punch him full force in the throat. He let the body go and turned as the second guard cursed him.

He must not have gotten his rifle working because he dove at Slap with both hands free, teeth bared. Globules spattered the guard's face—some right in his mouth. He almost convulsed, retching; Slap wanted to laugh—but his stomach lurched yet again, and he spewed right into the guard's face.

The air was thick and stank, which didn't help Slap's sour belly, but he swiped at the guard, and caught his shirt. The guard wrestled for a few vomit-slick moments, but Slap's brute strength won out, and—with only a moment's hesitation—he broke the man's neck.

He closed his eyes for a moment, shaking off what he had just done and willing himself to do what would need doing. These men all worked for Tristan's old boss, Dray. They were all trained—likely killers. He dismissed Granger's fancy talk and game playing; this was life or death.

Now floating near the ceiling, Slap tried to think. What should he do now? Free his friends? He didn't even know which cabins they were in, or much about how this ship was laid out. He was on the port side, facing the bridge. Ha—if he could take out the bridge crew... Not likely! But still—he wasn't going to go down without a fight, not against Granger's men and not against pirates! So, the bridge it was.

A rifle drifted near, and he caught it—hot! He let it go with a cry. Did the EMP cause that? If so, would all the weapons be useless? Slap smiled.

He pushed off the ceiling and slowly maneuvered his way forward, pinging off bulkheads, still gulping occasionally, not only because of the zero-g, but from the smell of his own vomit clinging to him.

Reggie turned to the guards and ordered, "Get those batteries changed before they heat, expand, and wedge."

Tristan contained his amusement as, before the two guards could even lower their rifles, the heat grew to beyond discomfort levels and they had to let go. Both quickly snatched the straps of the PBRs, looking sheepish.

Reggie groaned. "Did you think he wouldn't know?" He eyed Tristan. "Idiots. Should I require your parole, since your companions are still safely tucked away?"

"Need you ask?"

Reggie glared at him for a moment, then sniffed. "Let's go to the bridge." Over his shoulder, he called, "You two—fix those rifles then join us." He nodded fore as he pushed off a bulkhead with both feet. "The nearest ladder is just ahead."

Slap grunted and was rewarded by the bridge door opening by inches. The lights began to come up, the door shut, and gravity began to pull on him. Slap realized he had been propped upside down in opening the door—he fell with a loud whuff.

He rolled, but before he got to his feet, he heard Granger say: "Astonishing!"

From his half-kneel position, Slap set his shoulder and aimed for the direction of the voice.

"How did your friend manage to—ooof!"

Slap grinned with satisfaction as the body hit the wall. Granger's eyes were closed, but from pain, not unconsciousness. Slap drew back a fist, but Tristan snapped his out first, connecting with Granger's chin. The lizard slumped to the floor like a puddle of jelly.

Slap's eyebrows went up, but Tristan only said, "Glass jaw."

"Know your enemy?"

"It pays." Tristan stopped, his nose wrinkled, and he stared at Slap in disgust.

"Yeah, I know, but the guards didn't like it either." Slap nodded down the corridor.

"Dead?"

"Yeah."

"Then we're in it now. How many?"

"Two."

"Six to go, as an estimate."

"Do we tie him up and hide him?" Slap asked.

Tristan pursed his lips. "No, Take the bridge first—and fast. And, we don't know if they have working weapons, so be careful." He squatted down and rifled through Granger's clothes. He quickly pocketed several items. Then he took off Granger's shoes and held one in each hand. "I'll go first."

Before Slap could ask how they were going to get into the bridge, Tristan hit the key switch and the door opened. The captain and both crew members jumped up. He threw both shoes—each hit a crewman in the face. He dove at the captain, and Slap rushed in to take the two shoe-attacked ones.

Hitting a woman didn't sit well with Slap, but he had no chance or choice to be gentle. He grabbed both by the neck and lifted them, and cracked their heads together as hard as he could. They fell like sacks. He turned to see the captain was down too.

Tristan dove into the pilot's chair and began checking for.... "Pirates?" Slap asked.

"Disabled but not destroyed. Our capacitor won't be ready to jump for fifteen minutes, ten for a short hop."

Slap felt everything bulge and contort—which his stomach didn't like, but he was more used to that than the weightlessness—then everything returned to normal.

"I've distanced us from them and am setting the ship to auto-jump when ready, weapons on defensive just in case. We have to get the rest of this ship under our control and fast. I've locked out communications, using our old code from Giselle for access."

Slap nodded.

"There's two guards on the deck above with working weapons, probably on their way here by now. And least two more elsewhere, probably engineering. I need to take them out now." Tristan swiveled and rose from the chair in a smooth motion.

"How?"

"Only way is for me to do it myself, before they realize their own people aren't in charge up here."

Tristan ran to a panel near the door and slid it open. Three PBRs hung inside. Tristan snatched one, grabbed a power pack, thwacked it in place, and tossed it to Slap.

Slap double-checked the multi-function display, then adjusted the power setting. He looked up to see Tristan hefting a rifle and nodding at him. "You open the door, I'll line of sight them from behind the captain's chair."

"Isn't there a hatch or something so you can sneak out?"

"Yes, but that leaves the two from above. Frontal assault. Now get over here and get ready."

Slap leapt over to stand by Tristan, but before his friend could move, the door opened, and both guards jumped in. Slap seized the one's rifle and yanked—the man flew forward and crashed into the pilot's station. Heat rushed over Slap—Tristan cut it fine in aiming at the other guard.

"I think you gave me a sunburn," Slap retorted.

"Need it, you're space-pale." Tristan swung the rifle butt at the head of the man crumpled on the console. Slap winced at the crunch.

"Engineering?"

"Let's go," was Tristan's answer.

Granger was still out cold. Slap stepped over him and followed his friend, checking behind them, finger on the trigger of the PBR. Carter and Addie should still be locked in their cabins, so he should be safe in shooting anything that moved. Should.

"How big is the crew on a ship this size, do you think?" Slap whispered.

"Minimum of eight. Not counting Reggie or the captain."

"Two to go."

"At least, probably more."

As they approached the stern, Tristan murmured, "Engineering spans two decks. We have no idea where they'll be, or even how many. Be careful."

Slap nodded.

"And try not to miss and make a mess of engineering either."

That would definitely not be good. "I'll try."

Tristan snorted. "You open the door, I'll go first."

Slap nodded and took the right side, by the key switch. Tristan glanced at the MFD on his rifle and nodded. Slap hit the entry switch and the door swooshed open. As Tristan entered, a voice behind Slap yelled, "Don't move!"

Disobeying, Slap whirled and found himself in an aiming standoff with a guard.

"Drop it," the man snarled.

"You drop it."

"I said, drop it!"

From inside engineering, Slap heard the sounds of particle beams zapping. Dammit, he was supposed to be covering Tristan's back! "You drop it!"

"I'm not playing games, you ignorant dirtsider! Orders or not, I'll take you out if I have to!"

"You do, and Tristan'll take you out. We've cleared about the whole ship. Even your boss. Play nice, and he might let you live."

The guard laughed. "You think I'm afraid of that cocky popinjay? Monsieur Lefèvre is the one to fear, not that traitor!"

"Then go ahead and shoot."

The guard hesitated. "I'd—" Zzzzzt! The man's charred body fell, and Slap spun to see Tristan in the door of engineering.

His friend hit the key switch. "Engineering is cleared—and sealed for the moment. Let's go back to the bridge." Tristan began walking. "With only two of us, any remaining crew could evade a sweep, but if I lock down all three decks..."

As they approached the bridge, Slap stopped to look down at Granger, still slumped over. "Tristan? Think he's really out or faking it?"

"Keep an eye on him if you wish. I'll be through here in a minute." Tristan ducked into the bridge.

Slap raised the rifle, just in case. That dandy wasn't going to catch him napping.

True to his word, Tristan wasn't long. "The decks and cabins are all coded now. We can sweep each deck, and if any of Dray's men are hiding, they'll not easily evade us." He gazed down at Granger. "Let's gather all the refuse and space it."

Slap's jaw dropped, he pointed at Granger with the muzzle. "He ain't dead!"

"Neither are a few others. Let's just finish the job."

"I ain't murdering anyone who ain't dead already!"

"What do you want to do, set them up in cabins and serve them aperitifs?"

Slap didn't know what "aparateefs" were, but Tristan's sarcastic attitude stuck in his craw, and he took a step forward, gritting his teeth. "I ain't killin' 'em!"

"They'd murder you if they got the chance!"

"I don't care! If they're alive, they're staying that way!"

"What do you suggest then? They're a danger to us while they're on this ship."

Slap thought a moment. "A lifeboat."

The door opened, and Slap grinned to see Carter sitting in a chair, head in his hands. He looked up and jumped to his feet, eyes wide. "You really did it!" He ran toward them. "How did you do it, Sir?"

"I had no choice," Tristan replied dryly. "Slap muscled his way out when the EMP hit."

Carter chuckled. "I'm not surprised. What did you do with all of them?"

"The dead we consigned to space. The living"—Tristan glared at Slap, who glared back—"we put in a lifeboat. We're going to set them on course for Cassiopeia Station with the distress beacon activated right before our next jump."

Carter's eyebrows lifted as he looked from one to the other. "Ah." Carter frowned. "Where's Addie?"

"We haven't let her out yet," Slap said.

"Saved the best for last, did you?" Carter asked with a smile.

Tristan didn't look amused. He nodded at Slap. "You can let her out. I'm going to the bridge."

As Tristan strode down the corridor, Slap asked, "Any idea which cabin she's in? We actually found you first by accident. We just started at the one end..."

"No, sorry."

Slap handed Carter a PBR. "Here. I doubt there's more bad guys hiding in cabins, but just in case, Tristan says to keep a rifle handy."

Carter hesitated and then took it, nodding. "I...agree."

The two continued down the port side to the next cabin. Slap readied his weapon while Carter stood by the key switch on the side. They exchanged nods, and Carter opened the door.

A gasp followed by a shrill squeal told Slap before seeing the mass of curly hair that they'd found Addie. She rushed forward to hug Slap, but pushed back, her nose scrunched up. "Ew. You stink."

Slap laughed. "Wait till you see the forward corridor." Then he sighed; cleaning that up wasn't going to be fun.

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