The Knockabouts Read online

  The Knockabouts

  D.K. Williamson

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  Copyright Notice

  Copyright 2016, DK Williamson

  Dead Eye Fiction Manufactory

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  . . .

  Another Fine Mess…

  Alarms sounded from all stations on ARC Lance’s command deck.

  “Six… no eight missiles,” Ursula said, worry discernible in her voice.

  Teller grimaced. “Eight? They fired the lot. Must admit, that’s a shrewd move. I get the impression they want us dead.”

  “They’re anti-shield missiles. Why would they fire them when we’re not utilizing our shields?”

  “They carry enough kinetic potential to do a lot of damage, that’s why. The fighter jocks are hoping we won’t risk taking a hit from the missiles and will sacrifice our shields to fend them off. In the meantime, the fighters will drop shields and close on us. They want to reel us into blaster range.”

  Ord growled from his copilot’s seat. “Defensive systems predict three will hit, minimum.”

  Teller grimaced again. “Ho, can you do something about that?”

  “Affirmative, Captain,” the Mech said. “My efforts will not be sufficient however, even if all goes as intended.”

  “Do the best you can. Maximize the odds for us and we’ll roll the dice.”

  “Ridgeline, fifteen seconds,” Ord said.

  Teller nodded without taking his eyes off the control panel displays in front of him. “We stay with the plan. We make the ridge and we can break the missile lock, at least long enough for us to gain some airspace.”

  “Two down,” Ho said. “The missiles will reach us before we get to the ridge, Captain.”

  “Not if you blast them into junk,” Teller said.

  “Four missiles left,” Ursula said.

  “Eight seconds to the ridgeline.”

  “Three missiles left!”

  “Five seconds to impact.”

  “Two—one left!”

  ARC Lance shuddered as a loud bang came from the port side.

  “Hit! We’re hit!” Ursula yelled as the Lance dropped over the ridgeline.

  “I don’t wish to say I told you so, Captain,” Ho said, “but….”

  . . .

  Excerpts from, Cap’n Cosmos’ Guide to it All, the Interstellar Guide for Endeavoring Spacers, courtesy of Cap’n Cosmos.

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  Table of Contents

  1 - Beginnings, Old and New

  2 - Meet the New Boss

  3 - A Journey Begins

  4 - Friends in Low Places

  5 - No News is Good News?

  6 - Pride Goes

  7 - House of Cards

  8 - Old Friends and Old Ways

  9 - Reunions and Departures

  10 - Talking Rats and Fighting Ships

  11 - Holed Up and Digging Up Bones

  12 - Business as Usual

  13 - Confluence

  14 - Flies in the Ointment

  15 - What Lurks in Darkness

  16 - It Ain’t Over Till…

  17 - All Bad Things must come to an End

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  ARC Lance Interior Layout

  The Knockabouts

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  1

  Beginnings, Old and New

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  From the Galactic Institute’s School of Lexicography Free Dictionary, Spacer Lingo

  Knockabout - 1: An experienced and skilful starship crewbeing: RIG, LONG MOVER 2 a: A starship operated independently of a corporate or governmental entity b: esp. A heavily modified and highly capable starship

  . . .

  It was a spacer bar like so many others across populated space, dark, malodorous, and loud. It was what those that plied the Big Black expected to find in a spaceport whether it be groundside or station-bound. The disreputable image that went along with such places was welcome, as it tended to keep the uninitiated away.

  Spacer bars were exactly what the name implied, primarily a spacer’s watering hole, a forum to talk shop, a place for a long mover to unwind and decompress after a far and rough haul—a process that could take days and copious amounts of inebriants. Spacer bars were also a place where some conducted under the table deals, bought or traded information, settled grudges, and sometimes, where the strongest of friendships had their genesis.

  Onto’s, in the FLT-07 Anchor Station on the planet Maelstrom, was one such place, and ten Standard Years before was the site where Teller Skellum and Ord Hawmer forged a friendship that had lasted ever since.

  “Right over there, old buddy,” Teller said pointing to a dark corner in the back. “That’s where I saved your hide.”

  The immense man who sat across the table from him turned his stubble-covered head for a moment to look, then returned his gaze to Teller. “Wrong,” was his rumbling, deep-voiced reply.

  “What do you mean, wrong? I’m not wrong. That’s where it happened. I mean, we were both there. Fire a few synapses in that giant brain of yours, you’ll remember.”

  The giant stared at his friend, a standard bred Human male. Fitting the classically tall, dark, and handsome mold of the species, Teller took great pleasure in needling not just his mammoth partner, but nearly every other being he encountered. The recounting of their first meeting was an old and frequent topic of discussion and Ord was long used to his friend’s jibes.

  “Teller’s memory is faulty,” the giant rumbled. He pounded his wide chest with a fist the size of a pork ham. “Ord fought off those that wished harm on Teller. Ord brought Teller to his feet and was punched for the effort. Teller was fortunate Ord not take offense. Instead, Ord offer friendship. That is what happened.”

  Teller sighed as he looked at the ceiling in exasperation. “If that’s the way you want to remember it, old pal, go ahead. I had those guys right where I wanted them. You should consider yourself lucky we crossed paths.”

  Ord grunted. “Ord does. Every day,” he said with sincerity.

  Teller glared. “Don’t go sentimental on me. Say, when did you pick up the word fortunate anyway?”

  “Two days past. Ord has Syndicate Standard Speech program. Remember? You bought it for Ord. Ord learn.”

  “Yeah, I vaguely recall something like that. I’m pretty sure I meant it as a joke. I was drunk and figured you’d never use it.”

  Ord smiled. “Teller was wrong. Teller frequently is.” The giant laughed.

  “Frequently? Another new one. Terrific.”

  “Fantastic could also be used.”

  Teller grumbled. “That’s all I need, Ord with a large vocabulary. I ought to space the blasted thing. Like you don’t already have enough words to butcher. Anyway, you’re doing it wrong. You’re supposed to start at the beginning of the letter system.”

  The big man let out a booming “ha” and drained the large tankard of ale he held. Adjusted for scale, it looked like a juice glass in his hand. Teller looked at the dark corner once again and recalled the incident that brought Ord and himself together. His friend’s version was close to the truth, but Teller enjoyed the exchanges he shared with Ord.

  A deal gone bad, that’s what started it all. A simple purchase of grey market parts for a starship in need of restoration became complicated, the way things often did for Teller. The parts were out of spec and damaged, but the group of thugs selling them demanded payment nonetheless. They’d risked a great deal to acquire them and were determined that Teller pay up, bad parts or not.

  Teller saw it differently of course. He wasn’t going
to pay for them, and that was that. The parts were not those he specified, and it was a matter of principle. The fact he didn’t have the funds for payment had the parts been as advertised was irrelevant, at least to Teller.

  That was where the conflict began. An impasse turned to fistfight, one Teller was hoping to avoid using silver-tongue diplomacy. At first, it seemed to go well. In retrospect, insulting the leader of the group was probably a mistake, but he was versatile and could throw fists as well as hurl insults. He sucker-punched the largest creature in the group, a Gorsaurian, and managed to drop the group’s only gunslinger with a lucky elbow to her jaw. That’s when things went awry. He thought he had time to snatch the package of parts and make a break for it. It seemed like a good idea at the time. If only he’d stepped off with his left.

  He ended up flat on his back, on the floor, with a Bedrosian assassin’s spike in one nostril. A slight thrust and it would have been over. He had a plan to make his escape, or so he recalled, but he didn’t have time to put it into action. The situation shifted radically when a large dark shape loomed over the man with the spike and an instant later, the spike scraped its way out of Teller’s nose as the man went flying onto a nearby table.

  The lizard-like Gorsaurian stepped over Teller and punched the dark shape. The shape grabbed the Gorsaurian by the throat and carried him to the nearest wall. As they moved away, Teller saw that the shape was a heavy gravity Human, as burly and strong and dim-witted as the species came. The giant was Onto’s bouncer and Teller did not envy the wall or the Gorsaurian.

  The spacer saw his chance. Grab the parts and run while the gang fought the big dumb hulk from Heavy-Grav 9 or wherever he came from. It was not the best plan he ever had.

  As he grabbed the package, the leader of the group grabbed him, and as he was disappointed to find, the woman gunslinger was quite conscious despite his best efforts in the previous scuffle. She was no longer just slinging the gun, she was pointing the blaster directly at his face, finger on the trigger, blossoming bruise on her jaw line, and vengeance in her eyes.

  “I’m certain we can work this out. This is all just a misunderstanding, babe,” Teller said innocently. He knew immediately she wasn’t going to buy it. As he wondered if there was any way to survive a blaster bolt to the head, a flying bottle knocked her unconscious and sent her weapon tumbling into the darkness. The remaining thug tried to push him to the floor. A quick glance made clear to Teller the flying bottle was the giant’s doing. The monster closed on him and the group’s leader as they struggled beside the table.

  Teller felt an immense hand encircle his neck from behind and soon found himself facing the gang’s leader who was held in a similar fashion in the giant’s other red-brown colored hand. Teller threw an awkward punch at the leader and missed, striking the giant. I’m dead, he thought with a grimace.

  “Look, I didn’t know you had a partner,” the gang leader said looking sideways at the massive man that held him. It was obvious he didn’t know the giant was the bar’s bouncer. “Let me live and you can keep the parts. Sell’em to somebody else. Even even, okay?”

  Teller tried to speak, but all he managed was a croak.

  “Even even. Partners,” the giant said in the deepest voice Teller had ever heard uttered by a Human. The giant released the gang leader and the man raced for the exit, bouncing between onlookers, tables, and booths in his haste to escape.

  Teller pointed at his mouth and croaked again.

  The giant looked at him. “Partners?”

  Teller jiggled his head in what resembled a nod and croaked.

  The giant released him and patted him on the shoulder. “Partner.” He pounded his wide chest with the largest Human fist Teller had ever seen. “Ord. You?”

  “Teller,” he gasped. I need to find a way to shed this guy, he thought. Just as soon as I’m clear of trouble.

  Teller returned to the present and looked at his friend across the table. He smiled. Still haven’t managed to shake the lug.

  Ord was working for next to nothing as the bar’s bouncer back then. He knew the manager of Onto’s was underpaying him, but could do little about it. Little pay was better than being broke, and Maelstrom was no place to be without credits. Even though he didn’t know his name, Ord recognized Teller for what he was, a spacer, and bar rumors said the man had his own ship, making him a freelancer. Both were true, but Ord’s loose grasp of the language didn’t relay to his brain that Teller was new to the indie spacer field and the ship was closer to being sent to the breakers than lancing across the stars.

  It turned out the bad parts the newly formed partnership acquired were usable, with a little ingenuity and tweaking. A broke spacer quickly learned that ingenuity and tweaks were two ways to make up for a lack of funds.

  Ord knew little of starships, and even less of how they functioned, but despite this, and contrary to the common perception that Humans from heavy gravity worlds lacked intelligence, he learned. Teller thought the giant might be useful for brawn work and keeping thugs away, and once the old military tub turned freighter was back in spacegoing form, he’d dump the dumb clod and go his own way.

  Teller soon found that the big lug was useful. More than useful in fact, he was a quick study with a knack for the job. He worked hard, and as time went on, came up with numerous innovations that sped things along and made the ship better than Teller might have managed on his own. Eventually, over many months and struggles, the starship came together, and by the time she was spaceworthy, the pair were all but inseparable.

  “We gotta get a name for her,” Teller had said one day as the ship neared completion.

  “She’ll be fast, yes?” Ord replied. His grasp of Syndicate Standard Speech had improved during his time with Teller.

  “In space actual, she’ll be something, unless she comes apart on us in flight. If that happens, we won’t have anything to worry about ever again. We’ll see how fast she can transition into slipspace once we get her out in the black. I’d be surprised if we don’t have to make adjustments to the drives and gens before that happens. The setup on our Raker Effect generators isn’t standard fare.”

  “They will work.”

  “For a guy who has one space transit under his belt and never crewed a starship before, that’s a bold prediction.”

  “Ord read tech. Make adjustments. Will work.”

  Teller drew in a big breath and let it out. “I know you took to this fast, pal, but the Big Black is a capricious beast.”

  “Will work.”

  Teller shook his head and sighed. He’ll learn. “Since you’re so sure and got the problem licked, I guess you got time, right? You up to figuring out what we call her?”

  “Lance.”

  “That’s a man’s name. Some guy by that name do something for you? Save your life maybe?”

  “Not man. Weapon. You throw and thrust.”

  Teller was surprised, something that was becoming a common occurrence with regard to Ord. “ARC Lance. I like it. If she pushes into slipspace first time out, that’s what we’ll call her.”

  “Arc?”

  “A-R-C. Acme Rapid Carrier. That’s the company name I registered.” He suppressed a smile. “I’m pretty sure I mentioned it.”

  “You did not.”

  Teller laughed softly. “Well, that was an oversight on my part then. Just so you know, you’re half-owner.” He paused. “I’m sure I mentioned it.”

  Ord ignored Teller’s bait as his heavy brows went up. “Ord own part of it?”

  “That’s right, big man. Even, even. That’s the deal.”

  “Partners?”

  “Partners.”

  “Ord name ship?”

  Teller laughed. “I told you, If she pushes into slipspace first time out, we call her ARC Lance. Deal?”

  “Deal. She’s the ARC Lance.”

  Teller shook his head at his partner’s unwavering faith.

  Despite Teller’s doubts, Ord was right. The Lance made s
lipspace with ease on her first run and the name stuck, save for a few times they had to alter her registry or transponder to avoid issues with authorities.

  . . .

  Maelstrom, a wet planet whose habitable zone seemed wracked with storms on a permanent basis, was no one’s idea of a vacation getaway. Putting down there was a challenge and common wisdom said it was not worth the trouble unless you were doing one of two things. One was conducting business by delivering goods to—or transporting algae or sea life off—the planet. The other was avoiding attention, also known as lying doggo, cooling off, having a dodge, taking a laylow, or any of countless other expressions. Maelstrom was a popular destination for such.

  Teller was there for neither of those reasons. He’d taken title to a starship in lieu of pay owed to him after surviving a dangerous job turned harrowing experience less than a month after leaving military service. He thought he was getting the better end of the arrangement. Shortly after arrival on Maelstrom, he swiftly learned the bird he gained title to was little more than junk. Things then took a turn for the worse when he found that because of volatile galactic currency conversion rates, his bag of Nethar ducats were essentially worthless on Maelstrom as well.

  With nothing but a grounded starship and a bag of nearly worthless metal plates, he was stuck. Anyone who knew anything told him trying to rebuild the ship that would become the Lance was a fool’s errand. Teller’s response was, “I was once an aerospace fighter pilot. I’m used to errands and being foolish. In fact, I have a real talent for it. Sounds perfect for me.” The idea of making an initial flight with a cobbled together junk heap in the middle of a cyclonic storm was daunting, but he felt it beat military life by a large margin, and he had few other choices. The task seemed impossible, but he persevered. Even so, he was reaching the end of his endurance when Ord grabbed him by the neck and declared them partners. It would prove to be a difference maker.