Transcript

Chapter II · Blood on My Jets

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Chapter two of Blood on My Jets by August Boudras the LibriVox recordings in the
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public Domain read by Ben Tucker. Chapter two. Mort Weiedman was the same
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Captain Weiedman who had left an arm in the cockpit of a K class scout
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bomber that he had flown through a formation of Marty's while he almost bled to
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death. He looked very military in his blue and silver uniform. It wasn't
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a t SN uniform, of course, but even a transolar express rig makes
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an old soldier feel better. He was another old friend of mine. Like
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Thorston, the three of us had been touched by the war, each in
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our own separate ways. Mort was the one who didn't just feel the yearning
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for space, who didn't just ride on a t SN uniform because it was
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the one available way. Mort had loved the t S in itself, with
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a pride in the traditions that guys like Thorston and me hadn't quite had.
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He'd been a better officer because of it, and the only one who couldn't
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have stayed. And as we'd gone our separate so our ways of thinking had
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changed. Thorston well, he had taken his choice, and someday I might
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have to go into the belt and do something about it. But Mort's attitude
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hurt. He didn't have any respect for me. He couldn't have for a
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man who had resigned his commission and become a planet hopper. He stood at
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the window in his office, his phony arm tucked into a pocket, his
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mustache moving up and down as he talked to me. I don't know why
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they picked you, Ash, he said. I leaned back in my chair.
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I don't either, unless maybe it's because they couldn't find anybody else with
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my qualifications, or maybe it's because they can trust me and they know it.
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I was getting pretty mad. Weedman was the right guy, but I
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was getting sick of being offered jobs without being told what they were. Two
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in two days was a little too much. Weedman turned around. Don't get
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edgy, Ash, I've got my orders. They came down from the top
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brass, and I'll carry them whether I approve or not. But don't get
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me sore. I'm authorized to offer you ten thousand dollars plus expenses for one
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trip to Titan and back. You'll be carrying extremely valuable cargo, and you'll
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be expected to deliver it intact. Do you want the job or not?
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I didn't answer him right away. What was wrong with him? There is
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more than just dislike writing his voice. I don't get I stalled like you've
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said, why me and why Titan? There's nothing out there besides the asteroid
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belt is full of Marty's, to say nothing of Thorston and his crew.
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Nobody in his right mind would try to make that trip without a convoy.
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Weedman flushed for your information. He said, there's a small scientific staff and
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a bubble on Titan. They need a new charge for their power pile,
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and we've got the shipping contract. Our problem is to get it to them
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without Thorston or the Martians learning about it and grabbing it up. That's why
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we dug you up. We need somebody who can fly it out to them
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and fight off raiders at the same time. You're still the best available.
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So that was the big job. No wonder there were so many phony things
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going on for God, for country, and for transolar huh, I said,
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watching the blood leave his face. Now, why should I help you
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pull your fat contracts out of the fire. What's it to me if a
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bunch of technicians don't get their damn fuel. The stuff would be worth plenty
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to either Thorston or the Marty's. Living in the asteroids isn't fun. I've
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done it, and it takes power to maintain a bubble. Believe me,
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they'll throw everything they've got to keep a ship carrying a pile charge from making
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it past them. I must have sounded pretty nasty about it, because Weedman
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actually yanked that murderous motorized artificial arm out of his pocket. He pulled up
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his shoulders and looked at me like I was something floating down a sewer,
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but he kept his voice even. All right, Ash ten thousand plus expenses,
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you'll be given a new kind of ship. It's a model we picked
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up from a manufacturer who had his contract canceled by the TSN. She was
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originally designed for armed reconnaissance, and we've installed the weapons called for in the
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original specifications. She'll outfly anything with jets on it and stand off a cruiser
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given room to maneuver. Does that soothe you or do you want a convoy
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too, he added scornfully. I lit a cigarette and pretended to think it
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over. Actually, of course I was going to take the job. I
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would have anyway, but there were two additional reasons why I wouldn't turn it
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down. There was pat of course, and her orders. Most important,
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though, had been the fact that the message to report the Wheedman that I'd
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found in my mail box at the spaceman's hiring hall had borne a slightly different
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Post Office cancelation on the stamp than the usual. The tea in United wasn't
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quite formed the way it was on the regular stamp. It wasn't apparent unless
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you looked for it, but it was as good as a big red sign
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that spelled out Official United Terrestrial Government Business Act as directed within. Because that's
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what it meant. Sounds better than I expected, I admitted, all right,
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When do I go? Weedman didn't show any expression to indicate disappointment or
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satisfaction. He simply said, tonight, after we check over the details.
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The ship's equipped with standard TSN controls, and you'll have lots of time to
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test her flight characteristics once you get out in space. What happens if she
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explodes? Don't I get to test her first? No, there isn't time,
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and it would be a dead giveaway. For the first time I saw
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something like satisfaction on Weedman's face. Then if she explodes, well, Frankly,
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Holcombe, that's your problem. I spent the afternoon being briefed. One
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thing was off my mind. If I had official orders to take this job,
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then the SBI would be keeping a tab on me. It made a
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difference knowing that no matter what kind of a mess I got into, somebody
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would at least know what had happened to me, and most important why I
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was given a company flight suit and a hip rig for my stermy. I
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put those on and was taken to within a block of the port in a
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shuddered car. Not going all the way to the spaceport was my idea.
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The reason I gave Weedman was good enough. There was no sense putting up
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neon markers to indicate that I was up to something special. But I had
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better one than that. I had to give Pat a chance to get in
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touch with me. It didn't work out that way. I began walking down
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toward the transolar revetment using a short cut sheet, looking around for Pat.
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It was a cinch she had had some kind of a tail on me,
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and I was expecting to see her step out of almost any of the doorways
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up pasted. Instead, I heard something back up the street the way I
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had come. Boot soles whispered on concrete. I turned around and looked buried
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in shadow, I couldn't see anything. I turned back around and kept on
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walking, and I heard a holster being unsnapped. I stopped to listen,
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and there was only silence. I moved and somebody slipped a safety catch.
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I leaped suddenly to my right. My shoulders touched the wall of a house.
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My hands blurred forward, one locking on my holster and holding it down,
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the other scooping the stmy out and clear of the leather. Then blurring
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again as I shot my hand as far away from me as I could.
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Fired down the street and spun myself away from the building. I fired again
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in the street lamp above My head smashed into bits. Then I was in
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a deep doorway, crouched waiting while ribbons of light cut creases in the wall
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where I'd been. That was how it began. There were endless minutes of
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silence, and then some one would drag a heel or kick a step.
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There'd be the kick of my gun against my palm, and once the count
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on their side dropped from five to four. A dot of light flickered from
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behind a high gutter, and rock chipped off a wall near my head.
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I ducked, kissed the sidewalk with my belly, slithered down a flight of
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steps to a basement alcove, rolled over and slid behind the stone on the
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way down. I fired back, and I heard a rasp of metal on
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stone, Not the momentary rake of a belt buckle or button, but a
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gun dragging its muzzle against curbing. While the man who fired it kicked his
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life away in the gutter. I heard it drop the last inch to the
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street. I knew they'd be flanking me pretty soon. I heard cloth whisper
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as two of them slipped off to each side. The fellow they'd left behind
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began firing from all angles, weaving back and forth to cover them. He
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put too much pattern in his weave, though, and that was his mistake.
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The pattern broke and became random as the gun spun out of his hands
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before he could even realize there was a shot coming. Two. I rolled
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away from behind the steps, crouched and patted away on the balls on my
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feet. My boots had special sponge soles on them. But even so,
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a lance of blue slashed down the street against my calf. I plowed into
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the sidewalk, furrowing my brow and tearing meat off the knuckles wrapped around my
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gun. I tried not to catch my breath too loudly as I dragged myself
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behind the ornamental outcrop of the banister on the next flight of steps. My
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leg felt like there was a railroad spike driven into it, and my knuckles
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were numb and stiff. I worked my fingers to keep them from freezing up
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on me, even though jolts of pain came up and hammered at the backs
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of my eyes. My face felt wet and itchy. I lay there,
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waiting I got one more of them. He decided I was dead and poked
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his pale face out against a black wall. The face vanished in a burst
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of red, and he sprawled back. I chuckled. There wasn't much I
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could do but chuckle. The one guy left had me cold. I had
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no idea where he was, but he'd seen the flash of my gun.
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I couldn't shift position fast enough or quietly enough to get away. All I
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could do was lie there. He took a chance and jumped me. I
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never heard him coming. A gun bounced off my head and I went under,
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but not before I looked up and saw that it was Pat herself.
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End of Chapter two.