Galaxy Run: Umel Page 2

  “Shall I fly?” EHL asks.

  Nixon collapses in the seat and watches as the ship breaks through a blue haze that hangs above the city. EHL dips itself in and out of a crowded cargo lane of traffic then shoots through a half-busy general traffic lane before emerging into the relative clear above … where is this?.

  Nixon studies what he can see: Mostly low-slung buildings. One large, narrow tower shooting up in the middle of the city. Active coastline with several ports and docks.

  The ship drops itself lower, and that’s the first time Nixon notices the spaceport crowded with ships of every size.

  “Not there,” Nixon says. “Look for something just outside of the main district. Somewhere we might be able to put down … for free.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The ship lifts higher and banks left. It levels back out and Nixon sees where EHL is aiming. It’s a wide expanse of mostly empty land. There are a handful of ships already landed there, but there is still plenty of space to add another.

  “Perfect,” Nixon says.

  “Yes, sir.”

  EHL gives herself more speed, accelerating toward a nice wide patch of dirt at the front of the open field. The ground rushes at Nixon and, for a moment, he thinks about grabbing the controls, but he reminds himself that this was why he’d worked to get the ship’s systems back up.

  EHL pushes harder and the whole ship begins to shake.

  “Whoa, whoa. This is why your systems went down before.”

  EHL decelerates hard, and her front end raises. Nixon feels the back end start to slide around. A moment later, she levels out and drops softly. Suddenly, they aren’t moving. She’s on the ground, coming down like a feather.

  03

  Nixon stands from the captain’s seat and grabs his cloak off the back of the navigator’s chair.

  “Nice job,” he says to the ship.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nixon slips the cloak over his head, and he suddenly feels better. He reaches onto the dash and grabs the case, dropping it into his cloak pocket. Next, he grabs the blaster he tossed up there when he left Exte. He slips it into the waistband of his pants. There, now he feels more than better. He feels complete.

  “I’m going to get some fresh air. See if I can’t figure out where we’re at.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nixon steps across the deck and hits a button on the wall. A moment later the ramp is struggling to unfold. Metal grinds on metal. It hurks and jerks and all takes twice as long as it should. The blaster fire must have done a number to the outside of it, and Nixon is realizing how lucky he is to both be alive and to not be trapped inside this shop without a way off.

  The ramp does finally fully unfold, and, when it does, natural light spills into the ship. The galaxy’s two suns seem somehow brighter here.

  The ramp locks into place, and Nixon walks down. The ground crunches as he steps off the ramp, and Nixon takes a knee. He pinches a bit of the surface between his thumb and forefinger and rubs them together. It’s sandy. The heat from the suns reflects off the ground and warms his face. He shields his eyes with his hand and looks at the open field around him.

  There are other ships here, ships that look like they haven’t moved in a long time. Over there is another small hauler covered in a layer of sand. A speeder is opposite that. It still has a bit of shine, but only a bit. Then, as he walks closer he sees it. The whole back end is crumpled and crushed. And there, on the ground in front of the speeder is a gouge dug into the sand. Nixon looks away from the speeder, following this now-shallow indentation more than a hundred yards.

  He looks back to his left and sees a … he doesn’t know. It’s some kind of piecemeal craft. A bit of this. Some of that. A little of something else. Smashed all together and everything held in place with some strategically placed welds. It’s not a big ship, but it’s in the best shape of any of them out here.

  There’s a woman sitting in a folding chair in front of it. Light blue skin. Darker blue hair pulled into a tight braid that hangs over her shoulder. She’s on her datapad talking with someone. Again in a language that Nixon doesn’t understand, but he watches her for a moment. Her voice gets louder, and she looks his way. He turns away quickly, suddenly feeling very conspicuous standing in the middle of this open field.

  He turns to his own ship and sees that it’s not in the best shape. He runs a hand along the side of the engine that died just after he took off from Exte. He puts a finger into one blaster hole and then another in the next. Whoever was firing at him was a heck of a shot. To hit this engine at that angle and at the speed the ship was going. This shot wasn’t from some low-level criminal like him. This was a pro.

  “Seriously, Shaine,” he whispers. “What were you mixed up in?”

  He steps to the back of the ship and looks at the other two engines. Both are burned to a deep black. He runs fingers through the ashy mess and comes away with a handful of carbon. He steps around to the other side of the ship and runs a finger along the seams where the engines join the rest of the craft, and there’s a gap that’s obviously wider than it should be. Not that he knows exactly what normal would necessarily look like, he just knows this isn't it.

  He steps back, and all the seams are off. Too wide in some places. Too narrow in others. Then he sees the cracks in the metal and the missing rivets and screws and begins to wonder how he ever made it to this field at all.

  The ship is in bad shape. Worse than bad. It’s not flying again, not for a while.

  He steps up the ramp and back inside. He sits back in the captain’s seat.

  “Welcome back, sir,” the ship says.

  Nixon reclines the seat slightly and says: “Thanks.”

  He sighs and looks to the ceiling. There are hairline cracks in the metal up there too, the stress of the flight even reaching inside the ship.

  “Can I get a status update?”

  “A status update, sir?”

  “You. Your state. How are you doing? If we needed to fly …”

  “Yes, sir.” The ship goes quiet for a moment. “Two of my three systems are down.”

  “Three?” Nixon sits up and starts pushing random buttons on the dash for no real reason, it’s just something to do.

  “Flight, navigation, and environmental. I also have significant structural damage.”

  “I have visual confirmation of that last one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nixon stands and goes back to the hatch. He looks out the opening and down the ramp. He sees the woman across the field sitting in front of the hand-made ship. She’s not talking on her datapad anymore. He watches her stand and begin moving boxes and equipment back inside. The shadows are reaching long across the sandy field.

  A breeze kicks up, and flutters the bottom of Nixon’s cloak. The woman across the way pulls a kerchief that’s been loose around her neck up so that it covers her nose and mouth. The wind catches the sand and starts blowing clouds of grit that ting against the side of the ship.

  The woman picks up her pace, grabbing boxes two at a time and moving them inside. The clouds of sand whip across the ground, beginning to obscure everything. She’s moving fast, but it’s methodical. She’s done this before.

  These winds blow hard and straight. They keep the clouds of sand low, and now all he can see of the woman now is the top of her ship. One of the suns hits a spot on the hull. He hadn’t noticed before. It’s bright metal, new metal, and it catches in the light. That ship has had repairs.

  There’s someone here on this planet that can help him get his ship fixed, close the seams and patch the holes and get him flying again.

  He steps back deeper into the ship and sits in the captain’s seat. He pulls his datapad from his pocket and taps the screen to open it up. A few taps later and his credit balance is up in front of him. It hasn’t changed. It’s just as small as when he left Exte, and getting this ship fixed won’t be cheap. He needs to find work.

  04

 
; Nixon’s hands ache. He’d been able to find work early today helping load one of the ships at the port just north of the city center. All day lifting boxes that weighed at least as much as he did. Not only did it kill his hands, but he could barely lift his arms.

  The ramp locked into place with a thunk, and Nixon shuffled his feet into the ship. He collapsed into the captain’s seat and pulled out his datapad. He opened up his credit balance, just to make sure he hadn’t been conned by the guy who’d offered work. Something tickled Nixon wrong when the guy approached that morning. Nixon couldn’t put a finger on it. Maybe he’d been the hustler so long that everything made him suspicious. Maybe this guy reminded him too much of himself.

  There they are, the twelve credits he’d been promised. Nixon sucks in a breath then unleashes a scream. Twelve credits. Suns up to suns down picking up and putting down boxes. Arms that feel like they are about to drop off. All he got was twelve credits.

  He screams again. The ship responds. “Sir?”

  “It’s nothing.” Nixon sits back up. His stomach feels like an empty pit.Twelve credits and they didn’t even give him time for lunch. He walks to the galley and opens the cabinet. Two more packages of Bowtan meat and noodles to rehydrate. On top of repairing the ship, he needs credits to restock the ship with supplies.

  He starts the noodles heating and goes back to the main deck. That’s when he sees the case, and he thinks of Shaine. He sees his friend back in that courtyard on Exte, pushing the case toward him. Shouting at him about finishing the job. Then his vision cuts to a few moments later, like it’s been edited by someone who puts together those shows he watches on his datapad. He’s at the exit of the courtyard, blaster fire exploding all around him, trying to figure out how he can get back to help Shaine. His friend is lying on the ground after being hit in the shoulder. He’s rolling over to his back when three shots catch him in the chest and split him open.

  Nixon pulls the case off the dash and pulls at the seam where the top and bottom of the two sides come together. He tries to pry it open, but it doesn’t budge.

  The noodles beep from the galley. Nixon eats and tries to tabulate how much getting this ship restocked and repaired is going to cost him. He struggles, though, because he can’t keep his mind off of Shaine. Nixon begins to build the back story in his head. If he can’t ask Shaine what’s happened then he can imagine.

  He’s tucked away again in his exit from the courtyard, and he sees Shaine sitting at the same table he was at when the two friends met that morning. He’s waiting again, but for someone else. Two men come in together then go their separate ways once inside. Then a woman looking at her reader, the same one Nixon saw when he met Shaine. Then, after a few minutes of sitting in the quiet, two more men enter the courtyard. These are them. Nixon knows it. A pair of toughs.

  They are in black. Long sleeves and long pants with light armor on the outside. They aren’t openly carrying blasters, but their clothes are so bulky there’s no doubt they have them tucked away somewhere.

  One of the men says something. Shaine stands and responds. Nixon is too far away to understand the conversation, but he doesn’t need to hear it to know that it’s not good. The other man responds to Shaine, and Shaine says something back, something he shouldn’t have. One of the men pushes Shaine in the chest, and he stumbles back.

  Shaine catches himself then puts a shoulder down and charges the smaller of the two men. He drives through him and they both fall to the ground. Shaine rolls himself on top of the man and pulls back his arm, ready to drive his fist through the guy’s nose and into the paver stones underneath him.

  “Hey!” Nixon can hear that. It’s the man who’s still standing. He’s pulled a blaster from somewhere and has it leveled at Shaine’s back.

  Shaine puts both hands up and stands. The other man, the smaller man, stands and dusts himself off. The conversation begins again. Shaine does most of the listening. Then it’s over. The men leave, and Shaine sits back down at the table. He’s still for a moment and then digs into the folds of his cloak and pulls out the case. He rolls it over and over in his hand then slips it back inside.

  Nixon slurps the last of his noodles then crumples the paper container into a ball. He steps back out to the main deck. That’s where he sees the case, the real one. He picks it up again and feels the cool metal on his palm. He runs a finger along the seam where the top and bottom of the box come together. He slides his thumb across the locking mechanism. Then he sees Shaine handing him the box. He tells Nixon that he’s counting on him. That Mira is counting on him. Not just because of the credits they’ll all earn, but because … No.

  He doesn’t want to think about it.

  He grabs his datapad from the dash and pulls up his credit balance. If it were this high at home—wait, where’s home—he’d think he was almost rich. Almost two dozen total. But he’ll need100 times that to get his ship fixed. More probably. But tonight, he needs some of those credits so he can drink away these memories of Shaine.

  ++xxx++

  Here’s what Nixon has learned in the last few days:

  He is on a planet called Umel. Learned that from the guy who gave him his first job here. Five credits to help him move a dozen boxes out of the back of one warehouse and into another. It took half the day, and at the end of it the gentleman gave Nixon a meal.

  Umel was mostly uninhabited until someone found minerals just under the surface. Then the whole place was crushed by instant population. It was all people trying to find their little personal fortune, but it quickly fell into the hands of one of the cartels. Everyone who’d come here quickly left just as fast.

  Judging from the crowd in this bar, most of those who were on Umel were Snapsits of one variety or another. That includes the female Snapsit sitting next to him. Her skin is a deep blue and her hair is cut short and close to her head. She’s in short pants and a short-sleeved shirt with a floor-length vest that hangs over the back of her stool. It’s made of a material that Nixon doesn’t recognize. It’s heavy and thick and tightly woven. The outside of it is covered in loops, and she mindlessly runs a finger around the inside of one while they talk.

  “So tell it to me again,” Nixon says.

  She sets a sweating glass down on the bar top in front of her and wipes her hand dry on her vest. She then reaches that same hand into one of the pockets and pulls out a small pink rock that’s been rubbed shiny. She lays it on the bar and says: “There. Smell that.”

  Nixon picks it up and puts it to his nose. His eyes go wide and his head jerks back on instinct. He drops the rock, and it bangs a divot into the thin wood of the bartop.

  “Oh my … what the …”

  The woman throws her head back and her laugh fills up the room. She scoops the rock back up and puts it in her pocket.

  “It’s Gee-Stat,” she says. “It’s awful like that. But you process it. Make it into a powder, and it’s amazing on anything. It’s rare, so it’s expensive. But it makes everything you eat taste … I don’t know. It’s just this amazing little thing. And Umel is crawling with the stuff. It’s practically made of it.”

  “This is what all the fighting was about early on.”

  “Early on? It’s been the source of every conflict on Umel for as long as the place has been populated. Even now.”

  “There’s still trouble?”

  She wipes a finger across the front of her glass, and it comes back slick. She licks off the wet. “There will always be trouble, but Umel is much too civilized for it to be out in the open now.”

  Nixon tips his head back and finishes what’s left in the bottle he’s been nursing for the last while. He sets it on the bar then sticks out the same hand and offers it to the Snapsit woman.

  “I’m Trevor,” he says.

  “Oh my, we haven’t done that yet? I’m Laana.”

  “So if this trouble isn’t out in the open then …”

  “Then it’s in the shadows,” she says and grabs her glass again.
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br />   “And how much of that trouble is caused by Tychon?”

  Laana shakes her head. “Gee-stat is too small-time for Tychon. Takes too much to get it out of the ground for the amount of pay off. But these littler operations make it work. It’s on the back of cheap labor, but if you need the credits they have the work.”

  Nixon sits up a bit straighter. “Oh, yeah?”

  Laana finishes what’s in her glass and sets it back on the bar top. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Tell me more about that, because I can use the credits.”

  She points Nixon up and down. “They are guys like you. They have warehouses of mineral all along the coast. Right near the boats.”

  Like it was waiting on her cue, one of the big ships that takes the minerals out to the starport blows its horn.