Doomed Cargo

  Doomed Cargo

  A Space Rules Adventure Part 2

  Ian Cannon

  First published 2019

  By IanCannonBooks

  DFW, TX, U.S.A.

  All Rights Reserved

  © Copyright 2019

  www.IanCannonAuthor.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that no part of it may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author or authors, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it was published and without a similar condition being imposed on the publisher or subsequent purchaser.

  Cover design by

  www.DerangedDoctorDesign.com

  Edited/Proofread by Barrie D. at www.barrierdavis@gmail.com

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Don’t forget!

  Thank You For Reading!

  BOOK 3

  ALSO AVAILABLE at AMAZON

  Chapter One

  There were no two ways about it. This was bad. In fact, it couldn’t be much worse. She was booster booffed. Totally screwed. Tawny knew it the second she saw him.

  Yep—she recognized that guy.

  She sank a little lower in her chair, tried to be invisible.

  Gazing back over, she checked to see if he’d seen her. She had to risk the eye contact.

  Please, let him just leave, she thought.

  Nope, he was busy guarding the exit. He was security.

  Great. Now what?

  She looked around staying as invisible as she could in the sparsely crowded room. Space freighter crews sat around the tables leisurely waiting for their turn to be released for departure. It was a roomful of hard-nosers and blue collars. Even a slimeball or two. Hubbub was low.

  The room had two long viewports on both sides. It was beneath the lunar belly and attached to the rock by big overhead stanchions, an endless gray and black sky of jagged moon features. It was a planet turned upside down—a hard, rocky landscape above, the star-speckled sky below.

  Through the port side she could see a full assembly line buzzing with activity. It was miles long, segmented into stages and passing huge pieces of fabricated superstructure along a stage at a time, like an enormous extrusion machine fashioning the monumental guts of the Cabal undertaking.

  Through the starboard viewport was the rest of the moon. Out there, the Cabal had constructed the foundry’s pieces and placed them meticulously in accordance with their operation. It was a complex of platforms, towers, and cargo bays clinging to the landscape overhead.

  The operation was massive, the biggest industrial venture she’d ever seen. They were turning the Stathosian moon into a machine—a big, fat planet killer.

  This was the Menuit-B moon cannon.

  These machine makers were her people. At least they had been at one time. Now she was back to sabotage their little operation for the Orbin Royal Council. They wouldn’t be too happy about that.

  And damned if she didn’t know the guard standing over there. She couldn’t place his face exactly, and she couldn’t remember his name, but she knew him. And if he recognized her, too—the bi-hells would hit the fan.

  Of all the pockets of people in the system, of all the tiny bits of humanoid-kind spread out across a hundred planets, of all the stupidest ways to get caught by the war machine, it would have to be right here smack dab in the middle of it on a mission to stop its march.

  Balls.

  She grumbled to herself. That’s what she and Ben got for breaking their Space Rules. No getting involved. And here they were … getting involved.

  Good lords.

  She glanced back at the guy. He was leaning against the wall inspecting his hand comm, probably reading holo-images from buddies and co-workers stationed at other areas of the moon project. He was doing anything but guarding his post. Tawny crooked her lips. She remembered him now. They’d served in the same outfit on the moons of Tremus and Jingut. It was during her time in the Confederation 791st frontal attack squad—the 791 FAS’s. They called themselves the cog-killers. He was a grunt. She was sniper support. He was a bad soldier. Too dumb to lead. Too dumb to follow. Big, physical, always with a wandering mind. It was amazing he’d survived the war long enough to be stationed on a Cabal-run military project. He wasn’t much good anywhere else.

  Oh, what was his damn name?

  Private something.

  She scanned his rank insignia and had to hide a giggle. Still a buck private. Dumb-narse. Maybe his stupidity would work in her favor.

  She scrunched her face, memories from a deeply-fogged past resurrecting in her mind. That guy—what’s-his-name—always ran with another dude. They had been buddies, inseparable. He was the big dumb one, the muscle. The other dude had been a scrawny little runt, but smart; a heckler, always poking fun at other’s expense. She couldn’t remember his name, either. That was eight years ago, universal. It felt like a hundred. He was probably dead, the rotten, little…

  “Cog-killers!” someone called.

  Tawny froze, her skin going cold. She turned around in her chair and looked up.

  Nope. The guy wasn’t dead at all. He was standing right there, looking at her with a quizzical grin, all one hundred and thirty pounds of him. Little snot. He strutted to her table, slid out the chair and sat. “You’re, uh…” he snapped his narrow fingers trying to jog a deep memory, and said, “Corporal Tawny, Group Zero from Raylon.”

  Group Zero. The designation for an orphan. He seemed to enjoy pointing that out.

  It was time to act casual, but not lie. Tawny gave him a big smile of recognition and said, “The Tremus moon, right?”

  “And Jingut,” he said. “You remember. Dorlin,” and he put out his hand.

  Hesitantly, she shook it saying, “Private Dorlin, seven-ninety-first. Right.”

  “Now it’s Lead Corporal,” he said brandishing the insignia on his lapel like a great trophy, “Group project coordinator for the Cabal engineers, security, sector eight-eight-one-oh-four, Stathos.”

  “Right,” Tawny said inferring the construction project going on all around them. “Planet killers.”

  He leaned forward, said, “We’re not just killing cogs anymore.”

  Yep—she was totally booffed.

  Ben did not like being made separate from his wife. It made him nervous, gave him an added element of concern to poison his mind. Plus … she was good in a fight. Really good. He never knew when he might need her.

  Nevertheless, the security contingent of the Menuit-B project had separated them upon their arrival. It was protocol. Tawny had stayed back in the waiting area. Ben had been told to follow one of the admin associates through a network of tunnels and airlocks. He strolled easily behind the guy with two security guards pacing behind. He looked back over his shoulder giving them a grin. They didn’t respond, just kept their stoic eyes glaring forward. These Cabal boys didn’t mess around. Their paranoia of outsiders was pounded into them from military school. It made Ben feel completely alone.

  Of course, they had plucked him and Tawny from REX, too, and there was no telling where their ship was, currently. Ben was none too happy about tha
t, either. REX was escorted by tug to the privateer hangar. He was probably mag locked to some docking frame stuck between dozens of other ships. Poor REX. He was probably a nervous wreck.

  They moved into an office and Ben found himself standing in front of a Cabal contract administrator of some sort. The gold blade-and-plume insignia on his lapel told him he was a man of rank. The look in his eyes endorsed Ben’s assumption.

  The man looked at his admin assistant and said, “Is this him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His eyes never left Ben, just looked at him with an ambivalent expression. He didn’t look to be in any mood for conversation. Ben tried to soften him with a wry grin. It was self-preservation. It didn’t work.

  He said, “I am High Major Varkin, Menuit security minister. I’m the security administrator of this facility. I run it. It’s mine.”

  There was a bloated pause. Ben finally said, “That’s great.”

  “You want to explain yourself?”

  Ben looked at the admin assistant, then to the two guards flanking him, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

  The man said with a pointed tone, “Why are you here?”

  “You have my manifest. It’s all there,” Ben said. That earned a dry look, one that he regretted immediately.

  Varkin swished the holo-window of his manifest away and said, “It means nothing.”

  “It’s an authentic manifest.”

  “So?”

  Ben filled the ensuing silence with a nervous grin. He hated to ask, but—“What’s the problem?”

  “You have a new ident load, conforms to our newest inspection protocol.”

  “That’s the point.”

  Varkin leaned way back in his chair. “No privateer has rolled this out yet.”

  “Heh—” Ben said pacing right, then left, waving a finger at Varkin. “You know, that’s what the last Cabal security guy said.”

  Varkin acknowledged his manifest and docket information. “I know,” he said. “Dekorrah’Bha. Security minister Troicka. Irrelevant.”

  Ben froze on his feet. The two men locked eyes. Ben got the sneaking suspicion he was being thrust into an unwinnable situation. It squirmed up his spine. That kind of thing usually ended in a fight. He pursed his lips, hiding his thoughts.

  Two guards. One to either side. Both with hip blasters. Both with stun batons. Could be worse.

  Varkin continued, “It also says you’ve recently been to the Mortus moon.”

  “Yeah.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Aqua run,” Ben answered. “It’s right there. It’s all in my freight history.”

  “There’s no need for aqua on Mortus,” Varkin said. He tilted his head at him in observation, those steely eyes going into slits. He was reading him, testing. It made Ben shiver. Varkin said, “There’s no outpost out that way. No colonies.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” Ben said in reflection.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Varkin said sharply.

  Ben gave him a look like a dog that got caught eating cat plugs. His face melted into a wide, toothy grin, if not a bit sly. “Look, have I done something to pinch you guys by the penirs?”

  Varkin inhaled and steepled his fingers on his desk. “You’re also from Golot Major.”

  Ben made a that’s-just-typical look and said, “Ah—and there it is.”

  “You’re Golothan.”

  “I’m an independent.”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “Uh—yeah there is.”

  “Uh—no there’s not,” Varkin returned. There actually was. But Ben knew what he meant. High Major Varkin’s point was clear—I’ll say what is or isn’t.

  Ben nodded in a capitulatory way. He was space punked for sure.

  And of course there’s the admin guy. He won’t be any problem in a fight. But Varkin? That guy’s was an X-factor.

  “Are you telling me you people never have privateers from Golot?” Ben asked with that sly, distrusting tone of his.

  Varkin gave him a condescending grin and said, “Captain Standish,”—at least he didn’t doubt Ben’s fake name—“we are the United Confederation Front. Golotha is the capitol world of the Imperium. Do you take us for fools? This project is being built for military purposes. Even an independent from Golotha would consider that rock to be their homeworld.”

  “Not me.”

  “Regardless, we’re issuing a seizure of your vessel for security inspect.”

  Ben drew in a large, angry breath. “You’re detaining me?”

  A smug smile. A head nod. “That is correct.”

  Four guys. Not too bad. With a little surprise, anything is possible.

  Varkin continued, “You’re carrying a shipment of heavy industrial alloy-gel. What better disguise could there possibly be for the transport of heinous materials?”

  “Uh—bad cannon casings. Rigged blaster cells. Faulty plasma engines. Second hand O-rings. Old gaskets.”

  “You have a partner, too,” Varkin said cutting him off.

  Ben flinched back the tinniest bit.

  “A Raylon female.”

  Ben’s anger hit the top of his head, almost blew out.

  Varkin said, “She’s currently in the personnel holding lobby.”

  Ben said as unemotionally as he could, “What about her?”

  Varkin said in a sharp, authoritative voice, “Detain her, too.”

  The security admin nodded, “Yes, sir,” and spoke into his wrist mol subcutaneous comm device. “Sector seven, holding bay nine, personnel security. We have a Raylon female that came in with an RX-one-one-one freight hauler. See to her immediate detainment, command order six-six-seven-eight-oh-one.”

  Varkin’s eyes drifted to Ben bearing the slightest grin. He said in a flat, careless voice, “We will hold her as leverage, you see? That is, until you give me the answers we want to hear.”

  Ben gave Varkin his most even-featured look trying to hide his processing. This was a botched job. It was time for fight or flight.

  Or both.

  Ben forced a smile at him and held it until it hurt his face.

  “Now,” Varkin said, “if you don’t mind, I’d very much like it if you—”

  Ben spun around, jacked the nearest guard across the eye socket with a violent sucker punch. The guy’s head jerked back. Ben went for his blaster, but the guy recoiled and unleashed his baton. Ben had to redirect on the fly. He grabbed the guy’s weapon hand and the two pirouetted around leading the baton in a full circle.

  The other guard surged forward on the attack, but the baton jabbed him in the throat with an electric sizzle. His mouth opened and he spumed a wretched noise. Vomit splashed everywhere.

  The others froze, shielding themselves from the spray. Everything went quiet as Ben and the guard locked against each other, both making an impulsive, “Ick!” noise.

  “I fink he gonnit in ma mouf!” Ben cried.

  The guard looked at him horrified.

  Ben reeled around bending the baton at his attacker. The guy struggled back, desperately. They floundered across Varkin’s desk, Ben on his back, the guard on top. Varkin leapt back, assessing. He lurched forward to join the struggle, but Ben forced the baton at him.

  Another sizzle. Another wretched hack. Ben dodged, thrust himself from under the guard, hit the floor. Varkin vomit rained down onto the desk. The guard faded back, the look of repulsion all over him. Ben grabbed the fallen guard’s blaster, came up and fired. It was a paralyze beam. The blast hit him in the back and spun him around. They made eye contact, both agreeing it was better than the stun wand. Ben shot him again and he dropped unconscious.

  A groan came from the corner. Ben spun around, blaster at the ready. The admin assistant shrank in the corner, eyes wide.

  “Call off the seizure on my wife,” Ben commanded.

  “I—I can’t,” he said.

  Zap—Ben shot him. He fell twitching and shimmying. It was time to haul some nars
e.

  Ben bolted from the office, spitting like a maniac and wiping his tongue on his shirtsleeve. He had to get to Tawny, get to REX, get the hells off this station.

  Now—where do they keep the senior staff hover skiffs? There, through that airlock hatch.

  He sprinted into a vehicle bay and spied a long row of executive craft. Some were single-manned vacuum dinghies, others were larger four-seaters. He went to a voice pad and said, “Six-six-seven-eight-oh-one.”

  One of them buzzed into life, bobbing on its sudden mag cushion. It was a disc-shaped two-seater job with a full canopy over the pilot seat. It made Ben smile.

  “So what are you, on leave from your platoon?” Dorlin asked still grinning in that guessing kind of way.

  Tawny said, “Yeah. On leave.”

  “Just had to come check out the cannon project, eh?” he said proudly presenting the view like a game show host presenting his stage.

  “That’s right,” Tawny said, shooting for amicability.

  “So how long ago was the seven-ninety-first? Seven, eight years ago?”

  Not wanting the conversation, Tawny quipped, “Feels like a hundred.”

  Dorlin wore a big smile. He was obviously reflecting back on their time together in the same platoon—the many skirmishes, the battlefields, the colliding armies. “It sure does.”

  Dorlin’s head twitched. He blinked once and gave an impulsive nod. He looked back up at her, his expression going serious with a thousand tiny nuances. Tawny squinted at him. She knew when a soldier’s brain-implanted comm mol gave him an order. Dorlin had just received one. It was probably something like—apprehend the Raylon female.