P2PC by Laurie Green

Chapter 1

One chance. No mistakes.

Sair took a deep breath and peered out the open airlock of the merchant ship. This was it. Make a wrong move now and end up the main course at an Ithian feast. He studied his escape route. The pilot wasn’t in sight; he had a clear path to the street outside the hang. He gripped the edge of the hatch, palms slick, legs twitching. Now.

No shouts of alarm mingled with the roar of the busy spaceport when he ducked off the ship. Once out of the hang, he tried to blend with the crowd on the busy street. He sucked in his breath when a sharp-featured man in a dusty sun cloak strode straight for him.

Ithian? No, Carduwan. Thank the Fire Lords. A neutral.

Sair caught the man’s arm. “Where am I?”

The Carduwan registered his size and build; his expression melted from annoyance to fear. “Eliptis hangtown.” He edged backward. “Sir.”

“What planet?”

The man’s eyes widened and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Dartis.”

Just my luck. Word was the Ithians ran as thick as rats in grain on this hell-baked ball.

Sair released the Carduwan, leaning closer to stare into the man’s sunshield. “Where can I get one of those?”

“Yours.” The man fumbled the dark wraparound frame from his beakish nose, offering it.

Sair grabbed the sunshield and slid it home, glad to hide his eyes. Don’t thank him. You’re Rathskian. He grunted, glancing toward the hang entry where a chubby man shuffled onto the street. Damn! The merchant.

Sair froze, but the salesman never glanced his way. It seemed he had no clue Sair had hitched a ride. So far, escape had been easier than expected. At least he hadn’t been served up on a platter yet.

And those I left behind?

The Carduwan strode away, dodging the merchant in his haste.

Sair went the opposite direction, breathing easier when he reached a side street that put him out of sight of the hang. Four strides later he heard a commotion—shouting voices, thumping sounds. He moved back to the corner and peeked around a slag brick column. His heart jumped.

A squad of uniformed men had the merchant pinned against the hang wall, screaming questions in his ears. Their arm bands sported dual bars. Ithian Alliance operatives. Gigadamn.

Sair doubled back and put as much distance between himself and the merchant ship as he could, as fast as he could, without breaking into a run. Panic would draw attention, which was the last thing he wanted.

The Ithians must have noted his absence and tracked the merchant vessel after it left Ithis with Sair stowed away in a freight compartment. Now the poor merchant would have hell to pay. But it would be nothing compared to Sair’s punishment if they caught him.

Head up and sunshield in place, he ignored the rough-faced crewies and hangtown beggars who moved aside as he passed. Being Rathskian offered that advantage. His subspecies’ badass reputation might get him through the streets in one piece. Now to escape this Ithian-infested pebble of a planet before someone recognized him.

With each step, he checked ahead, scanned every building and alley, every corner and doorstep. A glance back confirmed no one followed.

So far, so good. Now, to find a bookie.

Illicit bookers often used a legitimate front to throw off the Universal Flight Authority, or so his guard friend had told him. Sair grimaced, remembering the sound of the Ithian’s head hitting the wall. Former guard friend.

After three more turns and a fork to the right, he spied a kiosk sheltered by a battered frond umbrella. It huddled at the side of a street clogged with foot traffic and whining crew carts. Sair backed into the shadows of an alley and watched. Several crewies stopped to exchange words with the tender. None of them bought. If his guess was right, he’d found what he was looking for.

He glanced down the street in both directions. No uniforms. Go now.

Shuffling with the tide of foot traffic he edged up to the kiosk, angled between two of the floating barstools and parked his foot on the rail. Pressing a coin to the counter, he slid it across to the tender. “Billins, if you have it.”

“Got it raw,” the toothless man muttered in Ithian Standard. He served up an egg-shaped gourd with a hard, stringy shell, and a corroded pair of Billinsboks to tap it.

Sair split the top of the gourd, slid in a drink tube and took a sip. The sour bite of undistilled Billins burned a path down his throat. He dropped his chin to his chest and fought back a cough. The cheap rotgut and layers of grime on the counter were not what he was accustomed to in the marbled manor on Ithis—his last home.

“Yours,” Sair said when the balding man offered him change.

The tender nodded with a slight rise of an eyebrow. “Be needin’ anythin’ else?” The man had taken interest. Good sign, if Sair had guessed right. Disaster, if not.

Sair motioned him closer. “A ship off—preferably fast.”

“Hmpf.” The tender turned to flip a toggle and a cleaner-bot trundled over the counter, swabbing the surface with a sour-smelling chamois. “Rathskian, are ya?”

Sair tensed. “What of it?” He bore no hideous kensmarcs on his face, but his powerful build and dark features betrayed his subspecies. If the Ithians had traced him here, no doubt his bounty was being aired on all the electraboards. Had this man seen it?

The tender shook his head. “Got nothin’ for a Rathskian.”

“Why’s that?” Sair held his breath.

“Ship leavin’ at sunset today, but the mate’ll slit your throat.”

“What ship?”

The tender tilted his head. “Specter.”

Sair almost choked on another swallow of sour Billins. “The Specter?”

“S’right.”

“You’re talking about Mennelsohn’s prototype?”

“Know ships?”

“A bit.” More than a bit, in this case. A detailed model of the Specter occupied a shelf in his quarters on Ithis, next to several dozen other starship models he’d fashioned by hand. A hobby that became an obsession.

“Mennelsohn built this proto a‘fore he died. His brat flies it now.”

“And it’s hanged in Eliptis?”

“Yep. Comes in once or twice a calendar. Ship’s a P2PC. Planet-to-planet courier. Special cargo vessel.”

“They fly passengers?”

“Yeah. But not you. Mate’ll slit your throat.”

“I can handle myself.” Or bluff my way through.

The man looked him over, craning his neck. “Mebbe so.”

“Where’s the ship hanged?”

The man looked him in the eye and rubbed his thumb across his fingertips. “Twenny-five replas.”

Sair nodded, slipping him the coins. He hated to pay so much, but if he didn’t find immediate passage, money wouldn’t matter.

“Bay Blue Eight.” The tender pocketed the coins and wiped his hands on his grease-stained apron. “Wouldn’t go there though, even big as y’are.”

“Thanks for the advice.” Sair pushed away from the kiosk and peered down the street toward the hangs. Deal with the Ithian cannibals that hunted him or a belligerent crewie? No contest.

“Watch out for that mate,” the tender muttered. “Make a fillet of ya.”

Sair gave the man a curt nod and threw a quick look over his shoulder. Still no tail, but no telling how many electraboards plastered around Eliptis broadcasted his image. He was going to get real popular, real quick. At least now he had a chance of getting off this rock.

He made his way through the crowded streets—a thriving populace of thieves, thugs, whores and pirates who collected like flies around the spaceport. Offworlders were easy victims for their ilk. Bay Blue Eight couldn’t be far, but already a dozen pairs of eyes sized him up before drifting on to softer targets.

Sair knew he looked the part of a tough combatant, but the trappings were a ruse. If confronted, he’d have a hard time getting his knife out of its sheath without fumbling it, and any of these rogues would tell in an instant he had no skills in the fighting arts. Altercations must be avoided. If recognized, he’d be cooked. Literally.

He wasn’t optimistic about his chances of negotiating passage. Most captains who risked taking on illegals charged three times the normal passenger rate. With few remaining coins, he couldn’t afford much. He could only make an attempt and hope for a wicked stroke of good luck. Were the Fire Lords smiling today?

A Parolian female approached him. Judging by the quality of her scanty t-skins and crystal tattoos, she was a hang-whore with a generous clientele. “Care for a merge?”

Sair ducked his head to her as he passed. “N’thanks.”

She fell into step beside him, looking up at his face. “Why ya rushin’ so?”

“Business in the hangs.”

“I doubt it would take you long.”

His mouth twitched at the insinuation, but he stayed focused. “I never rush such things.”

She made a raspy growl deep in her throat. “I’ll bet ya don’t.”

He wasn’t pleased the hang-whore had taken an interest, but didn’t want to call attention to himself by getting indignant. “Maybe next trip.”

“I don’t fancy the wait.” She sidled up to him and ran a hand down his flank. At least she hadn’t fondled his genitals in public like the Ithian slave buyers were known to do. “For you, I’ll deal way down.” She flashed an orange-toothed smile.

Sair shook his head and edged away with a subtle lengthening of his stride. The female’s persistence concerned him. He brushed his knife and club to make sure she hadn’t lifted either. “Slow day today, is it?”

“Never a slow day for me. I just like the looks’a ya.”

Sair glanced at the crowd that shuffled past between the high, boxy steelonate hangs. “The streets are full of men who aren’t in a hurry. You’re losing coins wasting time on me.”

The raspy growl came again. “Yer no waste, that I can see. Tall. Nice frame. Strong face. Looks like ya keep yersef clean and clipped. And the fine outer layers…” She tugged at his jacket. “Tellin’ me ya’ve got a coin or two to burn.”

“But not the tempas to go with it. Maybe next trip.”

He glanced over her head at a hovering electraboard. His image filled the screen, along with his bounty in bold, red letters. 14,000 replas. Live capture only. Empora’s Hades!

“Thinkin’ ta brush me off?” She moved in front of him, blocking his path. “Fine and mighty, aren’t ya? Think yer too good for the likes of me.”

He stopped, glad the darkened sunshield hid his eyes. Time to end this before she got wise. “I am the likes of you.”

She stared at him, her face skewing. “Ah. Manwhore.” She spat on the ground, just missing his boots. “Got no stomach for a gig’lo on my turf. Go on, move yerself off.”

Sair stepped around her and continued with a conceding wave of his hand. His gaze swept the street. Pure luck no one had taken notice.

Gigolo? He held back a grin as he picked up his pace. One thing he’d never been called.

The next turn took him past a row of blue hangs. He recalled the tender’s warning and decided to get a good look at the ship’s mate before starting negotiations. If the guy was just some little weasel who made up for a lack of manhood with a sharp blade, Sair would take his chances. It would be safer to risk a cut throat than to remain on Dartis. It was the look of the captain that really mattered. What sort of man would captain a legend like the Specter?

Bay Blue Eight was an older hang; the rusting doors and walls would serve better as scrap. Such a pity hanging a proto like the Specter inside low-rate salvage like this. Captain must have fallen on hard times.

He spied uniforms with arm bands ahead, a squad of IAI questioning a gang of crewies not twenty steps away. He ducked into the hang and flattened against the wall, watching through a tear in the steelonate until the agents moved down the alley in the other direction. He released his breath and pushed off the wall, then turned toward the ship.

She sat back in the shade on stout struts, glowing milk-white. Sair stepped closer, eyes wide, correlating her lines to the model he had spent a calendar building. He took in the sleek, rounded angles of her fuselage and twin tail risers supporting a horizontal airfoil. Atmospheric assists, he knew; Specter didn’t need such devices to travel through the vacuum of space.

The full-scale Specter was bigger than he’d imagined, pushing the bounds of patrol class toward a light cruiser. She looked shipyard new. Not a scratch, not a scuff. Though she must be pushing seven calendars old now and untold billions of flight milos, she sparkled with the pristine glow of a vessel awaiting her maiden launch.

Sair’s gaze settled on the registration numbers and bright red diamond insignia. Licensed out of the Azures, she carried the registry of preference for half the pirates in the galaxy. He blew out his breath. No kid of Mennelsohn’s would resort to piracy, would he? Zaviar Mennelsohn must have left a fortune to his heirs.

Sair noticed a slip of a girl lying on the gangway ramp. A mirrored sunshield wrapped her face, ear-to-ear and her long, black hair spilled over the edge of the tread. She looked to be dozing, one knee bent and foot planted on the ground. Crewie’s daughter, maybe?

Sair dialed his sunshield darker. No sense letting this kid get too good a look at him.

She raised her head when he approached. Like a cat, she was on her feet in one fluid jump. Sair’s eyes moved to the rise of her breasts and the flare of her hips; an athletic package contained in a sleek, olive-drab flight suit. His mistake. She was little…but no little girl.

He stopped at the foot of the gangway. “Cap here?”

“Why?”

“I’d like to talk to him.”

A twitch pulled at the edge of her mouth. “I’m the mate. Talk to me.”

The tender’s warning echoed in his head, and he stifled a smile. Watch out for this little breeder? Had to be a joke. “I don’t do business with crew.”

“You Rathskian?”

“What of it?”

Her knife flashed as it caught the sun. “I’ll gut you, you bastard scum.”

Sair threw both hands up and leapt back as the woman took a swing at him. The tip of her blade slashed the left breast of his jacket. “Sunnabitch!”

She lunged again, this time dropping the blade low, set on gelding him. Sair scrambled out of her reach, cold sweat breaking out on his neck. She was good with her knife. Damned good. Mate’ll slit your throat, the tender had warned, but it wasn’t his throat she was after.

“Put the knife down, you crazy marka. I’m a customer.”

“Not on this ship, heo.”

He made a grab for her knife hand. Foolish. She blocked with her free hand, seized his wrist and wrenched it at an unnatural angle, immobilizing him. Her blade sliced across his palm in a slow, excruciating cut. A blatant sign of contempt. “Heo.”

“Zjel!” A woman’s voice rang out from the direction of the street.

The little slasher released him and backed off a step. Keeping one eye on his assailant, Sair cradled his wounded hand and stared at the blonde who strode toward him.

~*~     ~*~     ~*~

Word Count:  110,000

Flavor:  Science Fiction Romance Adventure

Status:  2011 Golden Heart Finalist, now being marketed

Author:  Laurie Green is an award-winning writer.  Her bio can be found on the Author page.

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