Deuces Wild

Deuces Wild: Stacking the Deck

by L. S. King

"The Threshold of Escape"

"Granger pulled the collar of a heavy jacket up around his face, his breath steaming in the cold. "Stand up slowly, and hand over the weapons."

Slap turned as he rose, two PBRs trained on him.

"I see you wasted no time," Tristan said. "The canisters?"

"Astute, as usual." Granger smiled, his eyes glittering with victory. "This is only a precaution, you understand. We're here to rescue you, you know. But considering our previous misunderstandings, I feel this is prudent. Now—your weapons, please."

One of the men marched past Slap to get Carter's weapon, and another to Tristan. That left one for Slap, along with Granger. He didn't think he'd need to even let Tristan know he would try something, but would Carter react fast enough?

Slap gingerly lifted his PBG out of its holster. He handed the weapon, along with a glower, to the nearest guard. The man nodded toward the fire, where Slap's blade rested, stuck into a piece of wood. "Your knife."

As Slap bent over, the man added, "And don't try anything funny."

"If I were gonna try anything, believe me, it wouldn't be funny." Slap flipped the knife and held it, hilt out. The man met his eyes with a sneer.

"Don't." Tristan's voice was low and commanding—and stopped Slap right before he lunged.

"He is well trained, this backwater lacquey of yours," Granger murmured.

Slap scowled, and the fancy-dressed slime smirked, as if daring him. He glared back. Just wait, you smarmy lizard.

Granger's eyes wandered past Slap and narrowed. "So, this is the one who turned the tables earlier. The ace up your sleeve. What is your name, young lady?"

"My name's Addie, and I'm not a young lady." The wildcat's voice was as willful as ever. Slap wasn't sure if that was good or not, but Granger's eyebrows lifted, an amused smile crossing his face.

With slight bow and a sweep of his arm, Granger asked, "Shall we go to my yacht?"

"Why should we go anywhere with you?" Addie lifted her chin.

Slap stifled a groan.

Granger chuckled. "Perhaps you should examine the fact my men have particle beam rifles aimed at each of you."

"You wouldn't be so brave if it were just you and Tristan. He'd have no trouble walloping you!"

The dandy frowned, then he looked enlightened and stared at Tristan. "So you're using 'Tristan' now. How telling. But"—he adjusted his collar—"shall we continue our conversations where it is more comfortable? I have three cabins prepared." He bowed to Addie. "I shall instruct a fourth be made ready." He held out his arm indicating they should begin walking. "Gentlemen. Lady."

Addie opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Slap grabbed her ear and hauled her along—much as his father had done to him years ago—heedless of her yelping, "Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!"

"Gonna get yourself killed," he hissed, "and us too. Now, hush, girl!"

The snow crunched under their feet as they all followed the one guard holding a light. The other two guards brought up the rear. Granger sauntered along slightly to one side, and Slap swore he'd find a way to knock the self-satisfied expression off the man's face.

They appeared to be heading east, if they were indeed going in a straight line since leaving the camp. Slap remembered seeing a dark line in the distance, but hadn't been sure if it had been more trees or mountains. He wondered why they'd landed so far away. They trudged on.

Addie finally broke the silence by sniffling. "I can't feel my feet," she whispered.

"It's not far now," Granger said. "We had to hide the ship under a cliff, since we are now as wanted as your dear 'Tristan.' Fortunately, the rocks there have a high mineral content, and thick evergreens also help cover us from visually being spotted. The ship's transponder is, of course, currently disabled."

As they drew close, Slap saw the lines of the yacht gleaming in the moonlight; much larger than Bertha, long and clean—Jaguar class. Granger's boss, the mysterious Dray, must be loaded. He stopped gawking as a guard shoved a rifle in his back. He sure hoped Tristan had some sort of plan...

Each of Tristan's companions had been shown to a cabin aboard Reggie's yacht and locked in. Tristan, however, was brought to the bridge—which was a true, albeit tiny, bridge with a semi-circle layout, not merely a functional cockpit as Giselle's had been.

His old friend sat in the captain's chair, and the crewmembers at the left and right stations had their eyes riveted to Tristan. Reggie gestured toward the empty center station: the pilot's seat. "Would you like the honors?"

Too many competing questions flitted through Tristan's brain, but he kept his response to: "Why?"

"You are the best pilot I know. And, due to your genius, my standing with the Confederation has been left in some doubt. Leaving the planet will prove to be tricky, and since your life is in as much jeopardy as ours, I believe I can trust you to get us safely away."

"Staying here would be safest," Tristan responded untruthfully, just to see what reaction he'd provoke.

"For how long? The fleet won't leave orbit until they have secured the planet. And since you so very spectacularly destroyed their base, I have no doubt finding you is their top priority."

"Then you were foolish to bring me aboard."

Reggie's sneer turned cold. "Don't give me that. My life is on the line as much as yours now. I never remembered you having a death wish, so as long as our asses are in a sling together, I know mine is safe. Now—" Reggie paused and leaned forward, his hazel eyes flinty. "Fly us out of here."

"I'll need time to see what she's got."

"You have until they find us. And although this rock face has kept us from being discovered, I doubt we have very long. I'll leave it to your discretion how much time you need."

Tristan sat and began examining the controls. Familiar design, similar to his previous yacht. "Alcubierre engine," he commented without looking up.

"Designed for it," Reggie said with pride.

Of course. Dray would only get the best, not some inferior ship with an after-market drive having one-tenth the speed because that's all the structure could handle. And Carter had already ascertained the vessel had firepower on par with Giselle. This yacht was as deadly as she was beautiful.

"She's fast then, 100c or near that, probably on par with the Confederation patrol ships," Tristan murmured. "Jump drive?"

"Military."

Good. The capacitor would charge in one-fifth of the time compared to a civilian drive. Not much chance that he'd get lucky twice, but: "Twin capacitor?"

"Are you out of your mind? Where in the world would one get a twin capacitor?" Reggie asked. "Why would anyone even want one?"

Alas. That old freighter spoiled him. But Reggie was right; a twin-capacitor jump drive was rare—between cost and the fact even the paranoid Confederation military found little use for them. Had Lyssel stumbled upon a derelict with a twin-capacitor or paid some exorbitant amount for one? Most likely the former; Tristan doubted the dead gangster had possessed the money or means to search for and buy one.

Reggie had already stated the Interstellar Registry Transponder was deactivated—probably with a program similar to the one Giselle used. What was the old saying? Locked doors only keep honest people honest. Registry Transponders only worked well in policing honest people.

"I assume you have sensor dampeners or scatterers?"

"A three-tier ECM. They should not be able to detect us once we're in space."

Tristan whirled in the chair to face Reggie with a cold stare, recalling a time when Reggie had almost gotten them both killed with a similar presumption. "'Should not.'"

Reggie paused, then accepted the correction—and memory—by tipping his head with a slight shrug, almost apologetic. "For a while, anyway. Long enough."

"That's subjective."

A smile spread. "Don't be pedantic."

An old in-joke. Hilarious when they were still cock-sure boys in men's bodies, bitter now, so many years after the betrayal. Tristan's lips thinned, and he turned back to the console. "The Confeds most certainly sent out probes to look for us. The second we lift off, they'll find us, despite your three-tier system."

Propulsion had been set to hot standby—the ship was powered down, so it could not be detected, but could be in the air in as little as thirty seconds. Excellent. Not so excellent was their amount of fuel—to have enough for the jump drive, he couldn't use the Alcubierre for a sustained amount of time. That wasn't his biggest worry though.

"Because of the probes," Tristan continued, "our most dangerous moments will be when we're using the standard engines to get through the ionosphere to the threshold point so I can activate the Alcubierre, not in the five to ten seconds after cutting the drive and waiting for the distortion field to dissipate so we can jump."

Tristan studied the readings on the fleet dispersal in orbit. "I need to talk to Carter."

"Who?" Reggie sounded honestly confused.

"Donegal."

"Whatever for?"

Tristan turned to face Reggie. "He can tell me what the Confederation procedures are. I can guess, but I'd rather deal with facts."

Reggie sighed, and inclined his head at the crewman at Ops/Communications. "Very well."

The man returned the nod, and Reggie lifted a hand in permission. Tristan hoped he kept his icy façade intact despite seething inside at Reggie's imperious posturing. He kept his gaze on Reggie as he asked, "Carter?"

"Sir?"

"They're letting me pilot us out of here, and we're getting ready to take off. The moment we do, the probes will locate us. Tell me what to expect."

"The probes must have already found the canisters, just as our captors did—"

"Rescuers," Reggie corrected in a sing-song voice.

"—which means patrol ships are loitering above atmo. As soon as the engines fire up full the probes will detect us. The patrols will be able to zero in and project our course, then plan an intercept for when we pass through the ionosphere. They'll lock on to the yacht and start firing to cripple the engines."

"That's about what I suspected."

"Also, patrol ships have the capability to cut through interference from their own Alcubierre drive to detect the distortion from another ship's drive. We'll likely have several ships on our tail, so be careful."

"Anything else?"

"Not really, Sir. You know what you're doing and don't need any engine room kibitzing."

Tristan snorted and swung back around to the console. That's a first. He entered his flight plan into nav and held his breath as he switched the engines from standby to full power. The resultant thrum through the ship ran through him as well, invigorating him despite the situation. He waited the forever it seemed to take for all systems to show green.

"How far do you want me to push the engines to cut our time in atmo?" Tristan asked over his shoulder as the yacht lifted off.

"I want my ship intact—through both your piloting and from the Confeds. I leave it to your discretion."

Tristan reserved his wonder as to what Reggie was up to in entrusting him with this—his pilot certainly could handle the situation, if not, he or she wouldn't be working for Dray. He could theorize later, if he got them out of here safely. The ship rose, and he pushed the engines until they red-lined, screaming.

"It's too much!" Reggie shouted. "Pull back!"

"My discretion," Tristan retorted, inwardly pleased that he managed to provoke Reggie into raising his cultured voice in such a gauche manner. "I want to beat their patrol ships' interception—if possible."

Patrollers were built for speed—and if Carter was right, they were already zeroing in, waiting. He had to hit the Alcubierre drive as soon as physically possible, before the patrols could take out their engines.

He watched the display, the countdown until he could safely engage the Alcubierre...

Blips appeared, triangulating, closing in. Their intersection coincided almost to the second when Tristan would have the yacht high enough to activate the drive. He looked at the waving red lines, indicating engine stress and overload and then at the Alcubierre engagement threshold.

This was going to be close...

He entered the course for the drive, and waited. Just as the patrol ships came within range, he set the yacht into a corkscrew, hoping to gain a few extra moments before their targeting computers could lock on.

A shudder ran through the ship.

"Hostiles firing, Captain," the woman at Tactical announced.

"Return fire," Reggie ordered.

"Belay that!" spat Tristan. Threshold! He hit the Alcubierre; the world bulged.

The two crewmembers let out an audible sigh. Tristan let his breath out slowly in satisfaction, but stayed alert. One more spot of danger lay before them. Lack of fuel, short Alcubierre run; Tristan dare not use it for more than a minute, maybe two. Patrollers would likely be clinging to their hull as soon as they dropped into regular space.

Tristan deactivated the Alcubierre, the field began to dissipate, and—as predicted, his fears formed into five patrol ships materializing alongside.

"They're creating a localized Alcubierre bubble around us to try to stop us," Tactical called out.

A warp lock would be a worry if Tristan wanted to engage the Alcubierre again, but he had different plans. He activated the jump engine. True, the negative energy of the bubble cut down the range of the wormhole, but it still took them beyond the reach of the patrol ships. They couldn't arrive where the yacht was before the capacitor was ready for the next jump, even if they could extrapolate where the wormhole exited.

They were safe from the Confederation. Tristan spun to face Reggie. Now the true danger loomed.

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