Deuces Wild: Stacking the Deck

Deuces Wild: Stacking the Deck

by

L. S. King

Copyright 2016 L. S. King, Loriendil Publishing

http://loriendil.com

License Notes

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover designed by MiblArt

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Table of Contents

Dirtside

Fractured Facets, part one

Fractured Facets, part two

Fractured Facets, part three

Fractured Facets, part four

Coffee Break

Rock and a Hard Place

Suicide Run, part one

Suicide Run, part two

Final Flight

The Threshold of Escape

Dining with the Enemy

Space-pale

Holding Pattern

Separation

Operation Elephant Entrée

Seeing the Wildcat

Planetside, part one

Planetside, part two

Planetside, part three

Planetside, part four

Showdown

Bête Noire

Acknowledgments

Deuces Wild: Stacking the Deck

Dirtside

Being planet-side wasn’t that bad, in small doses. The grime, variable temperatures, and uncontrolled atmosphere did tend to make Tristan limit his stays on the ground. He tried to ignore the sweat trickling down his back as he wove through the market, pretending interest in wares. His gaze flicked over at his companion, Slap, who was making some purchases for the old woman who had taken them in.

The tall cowboy leaned forward over baskets of vegetables, haggling with a vendor. Knowing Slap would be awhile yet, Tristan moved on, trying to keep under the wide canopies and enjoying the occasional breeze.

A tug at his elbow made Tristan turn.

Sir? A short, rather rotund man bobbed his head, his rolled-up sleeves and apron declaring he was a vendor. We were wondering if you were going to attend the meeting tonight at the Guilds and Merchants building.

No. Why?

Well, since you are the one who broke the back of the Mordas—

"That was an effort between the Separatists and quite a few in the Guilds and Merchants. I was just one small player." Not quite true, but he didn’t want to be some hero to these people because he helped bring down the planetary crime syndicate. They’d merely gotten in his way, no noble intentions involved.

We don’t see it that way, sir. And we’d like your input on the new government—

Tristan lifted a hand to silence the merchant. I’m not from your planet, nor do I live here. I have no vested interest in the outcome of your discussions.

But, sir—

No. He turned his back on the man and strode across to Slap. Are you going to be much longer?

About done.

Meet you by the wagon.

Right.

A wagon. He mentally shook his head as he left the market. Of all the things Tristan had done in his life, riding in an old-style wooden wagon drawn by horses was one of the most ludicrous—and most uncomfortable. But the valley in which Slap’s people lived had some strange, nullifying effect on anything electronic. Not that those rustic Separatists minded; it might even be the reason they settled there, no temptation to pick up industrialized, modern ways.

From what Slap related, his ranch had been at the mouth of the valley and not affected by the phenomenon. His family had owned a—albeit ancient—computer, and their homestead had been a hub for any communication with the outside world. Probably the reason why the Mordas had made a land-grab for his ranch, killing the cowboy’s wife and son in the process.

The Mordas also hunting Tristan had caused his unlikely association with Slap, with the even more unlikely outcome of his friendship with the cowboy. He was still trying to puzzle that out.

Arms crossed, Tristan leaned against the wagon, hoping his body language would dissuade further conversation with anyone.

A patroller from the Security Guild strolled past. So the constabulary still functioned. But by what right, since the criminal faction that had bought and controlled them was nonexistent now? Did the other Guilds and Merchants pay dues for protection? With no government, no taxes were levied to pay for law enforcement.

As he continued to wait, Tristan noted the lack of slave-driven skiffs, which the rich often used, and few of the small, racy flivvers. Most traffic was horse-drawn carts or on foot. The rich likely were pulling out in droves since much of their wealth—and planetary security—had been provided by dealing the Mordas.

Soon Slap ambled over, squinting, a sack over his shoulder and box under his arm. Tired of the city?

Tired of the planet.

Slap tossed his purchases in the back with a grin. Not surprised. Well, we’ll be pulling up stakes soon.

It wouldn’t be soon enough for Tristan.

= = =

Tristan hoped he didn’t look as sleepy and out of sorts as he felt as he crossed the room and sat at the plain, wooden table. He tried to sniff but his plugged nose wouldn’t cooperate. How did people live on planets with all the dirt and allergens? He couldn’t wait to be back in space, breathing filtered air.

Did you sleep well? Gran asked, pouring coffee into a cup and sliding it across the table to him.

Sleep? With that thing snoring? Tristan jerked his head toward the bedroom door. Having to share a bed with that cowboy was definitely a trial, but since Gran only had one spare bedroom, he had little choice. Tristan shook his head and rubbed bleary eyes before reaching for the steaming cup.

Gran chuckled and turned back to the wood stove. The old woman didn’t chatter on or try to ask probing questions. She seemed to understand he liked quiet and gave it to him. And although her meals weren’t what one would find in a five-star gourmet restaurant, she had superlative culinary skills.

A second cup of coffee and two pancakes later, Slap stumbled into the kitchen, yawning.

Good morning, Gran chirped. How did you sleep?

Slap scratched his head, scowling at Tristan. Well, I woulda slept a’right if that yahoo hadn’t pulled the covers offa me and kicked me outta the bed twice.

I was trying to wake you up to stop the snoring.

Ya coulda just shook me.

I could have set off an explosion and it wouldn’t have fazed you. Tristan sipped the hot coffee. And it wasn’t twice I kicked you off the bed. It was five times. You never even realized it—just crawled back in like a zombie.

Slap snorted and dropped into a chair with a grunt. Gran set coffee in front of him.

The cowboy squinted at the plate of towering pancakes in the center of the table. You done eating?

Tristan nodded, cup to his lips.

With a satisfied sigh, Slap pulled the plate to him, and picked up the pitcher of syrup.

Tristan shook his head.

Halfway through the stack, Tristan was distracted from the amazing sight of Slap’s gormandizing abilities by clopping sounds outside. He rose and went to investigate, Gran and Slap trailing him.

Slap’s father-in-law, Ewan, was astride that confounded horse Slap had adopted and brought back from Eridani. Sean, Slap’s brother-in-law, followed, driving a wagon, a passenger beside him. It spoke much of the Separatists ways and family ties that the older man still considered Slap his son-in-law even though his daughter and grandchild were dead.

Brought a guest out, Son, Ewan called. And thought you might like to keep Príncipe for a few days, until you leave.

Staying for coffee? called Gran.

Ewan shook his head as a tall, thin man alighted from the rustic conveyance, his familiar, crooked grin easing the stiffness in Tristan’s spine: their old friend Carter.

Got chores to tend, Ewan said, but I’m certain my Brìghde will insist on a visit before they leave. He and his son-in-law embraced, slapping each other on the back.

Hello, Captain, Carter said, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I heard your ship might need an engineer.

Not his ship anymore, Slap said as Ewan climbed into the wagon. I own her now. But he’s still captain and pilot. How ya doing, Carter? He stepped over to Carter and pumped his hand.

That ownership is a technicality, Tristan interjected, and you know it.

Slap chuckled. Yeah, since technically we stole her from the Mordas in the first place. But I still got a document that says I’m owner.

Well, whoever is in charge now, Carter said, I need work.

Great. Come on in and we’ll talk over breakfast, Slap said, gesturing Carter toward the door.

Gran stuck her hands on her hips. "Breakfast will have to wait until I cook up more pancakes, you bottomless pit."

Sorry. Slap hunched his shoulders, but the smile on his face belied the sincerity of his apology. He waved to the departing wagon, then slapped Carter on the shoulder as they all walked back to the little house. So what are you doing here anyway?

The captain and I have kept in touch.

Oh? Slap peered sideways at Tristan, who glared as an answer.

Yeah. And when the job I had fell through, I thought, well, it can’t hurt to visit, and maybe sign on if he needs me.

Well, I think it’s a swell idea. Don’t you, Tristan?

Whatever happened to being blessedly alone? Tristan reseated himself at the table. But he had found himself surprisingly pleased that Slap wanted to come with him on Giselle. Carter’s specialties might come in handy too. Tristan downed his now-cool coffee before answering. Sounds good.

The lines in Carter’s face relaxed a bit as he sat. I’m glad to hear that. It’s...hard to find work—good work—when you...don’t have a background or résumé to your name.

Slap caught Tristan’s eye with a knowing look. Of the three of them, the only one with a legitimate history was the cowboy.

Well, Slap drawled, I don’t see that as a worry with us, huh, Tristan?

Refusing to be baited, Tristan merely inclined his head.

= = =

Tristan carried the plates to the sink. Gran batted at him when he offered to do the dishes.

The hot water makes my old hands feel better. You go on and visit. I’m certain I’ll have chores for you later.

I’m certain you will too. Unable to keep from smiling at her, Tristan left her humming at the sink and wandered outside.

Slap was racing the stallion around the property, and Carter sat on a bench in the shade by the side of the house, watching. Tristan joined the engineer with a nod.

He seems to be much better than right after Eridani. Is he all right now?

Tristan stared hard at the cowboy, remembering the physical wounds Slap endured after being captured by the Eridani emperor and tortured. He’s...healing. I don’t know what they did to him, but it left deep wounds on his soul. Whatever his alien friends here did to help him, it got him past the worst of it, I think.

Carter fell silent for a time, then asked, How soon are you leaving?

I’m not sure. We have several orders for cargo from the Separatists, but legitimate runs don’t net the kind of money black market does.

Well, considering there’s no Mordas and no government yet, technically there is no black market at the moment, is there?

Tristan snorted, flexing his right foot to ease the tightness of his not-fully-healed calf muscle. He should have seen a doctor right after they left Eridani, but it hadn’t seemed important then. The pain was bearable, and he could hide the limp most of the time, but the limited movement irritated him.

Nothing I’d touch.

So you’re waiting for more lucrative deals to drop into your lap?

No, actually. I’ve been waiting for replacements for some personal items I need. When I was brought here, injured, everything I had was rendered ineffective.

Ah. Carter nodded. Your vest’s toys. I heard about the strange effect this valley has on electronic equipment. I’d love to learn more about that.

His eyes on Slap’s antics with the horse, Tristan replied, "I’m sure you could, if we have the time, but since you’re here, you can see to any work needed on Giselle."

Glad to. I’m surprised you’re staying here though and not on the ship. This is so out of the way, and hard to get to.

Precisely. The people have a mistaken idea I’m some kind of hero. I’ve had several requests to go to the city to help with discussions on the government they’re trying to set up.

Chuckling, Carter leaned back and stretched out his legs. I see. So, are you heading to the city soon?

Tristan glared. Only to go to the ship.

You, young man, Gran’s voice called from the doorway.

Carter twisted around. Me, ma’am?

You two can be useful while you chatter. Come get these buckets and get busy shelling.

Shelling? Carter rose and walked over, staring into the buckets.

Don’t dawdle. Take them over, and you two get busy, or you won’t have peas for supper tonight.

The engineer complied, and both men stared at the long, slender, green pods in the buckets.

Peas? Carter murmured.

Oh, land’s sakes! Gran set a pot on the ground in front of them. She picked up a pod and deftly split it open, then thumbed the peas into the pot. There. Don’t tell me you spacer types can’t figure out how to shell peas.

Shaking her head, Gran went back into the house.

= = =

Tristan viewed the captain’s cabin with a sense of homecoming, especially since he had replaced most of his library.

Y’know, said Slap’s voice from behind him, the best cabin should belong to the owner.

It’s called ‘the captain’s cabin,’ retorted Tristan.

Chortling, Slap held out an e-pad. We have two cargoes heading out, and three to pick up and bring back.

Turning me into a legitimate businessman?

I’m sure you’ll find side stuff for yourself, but I do appreciate that you’re helping my people and the Guilds and Merchants.

Tristan sniffed, reading the contents. He stopped at the one planet’s name. Medan?

Yeah. Why?

Tristan pursed his lips, shaking his head. Surely one quick stop on the planet would be unnoticed; nothing to worry about. Surely. Have you stocked the galley?

Stuff’s been ordered and should be delivered in three days. You still planning on leaving then?

Yes. Tristan opened a new file on the e-pad and began making a list. Here are some items to add. He finished and handed the pad back to the cowboy.

Slap read it and grinned. You gonna be cooking too, huh?

Tristan didn’t deign to answer. From down the hall, starboard side, Carter called to him, his voice cracking, Captain? Someone here to see you.

Tristan spun and headed for the side hatch. Carter’s eyes—huge and glazed—were glued to the visitor, and no wonder. Tanya, the president of the Courtesan Guild, looked as alluring as ever. Distracting as ever.

We need to talk, she said without preamble.

He inclined his head and led the way around the hall to the port side. With a wave of his arm, Tristan indicated the door to the rec lounge. Her straight back and solid stride as she walked ahead of him put him on guard.

He sat in one of the cushioned chairs on the side and looked up in anticipation.

Her eyes flashed as she stood before him. It was cliché but true—she was gorgeous when angry. And it made the ache inside him spread.

They want to disband the guild and make my profession illegal. I warned you this would happen.

Push. Fight. You have the drive and will.

"Not against all of them. Her shoulders drooped slightly. And with many of the wealthy leaving the planet, it isn’t as lucrative as it was, either."

Tristan shrugged. You might look into a different career.

Her lips thinned. "You would say that. Perhaps you’d even like that—want that to happen. Perhaps you’d rather I not work in this business. That this might make me run to you, be your—what? Little wife? Clinging to you like a helpless damsel?"

Tristan rose, glaring. You talk of a wife as a diminutive thing instead of a partner, someone strong enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with her husband. He stopped, looking away and grinding his teeth to keep from saying too much. Never since his youth had he been so close to opening his heart. She had no idea the affect she had on him. Did she think it was merely her body that attracted him? Her mind, her drive—by Orion’s belt, what a team they could have made! But she had made her choice.

When he looked over, she wore a stunned expression.

He swallowed, his jaw clenched. Finally, he said, "Don’t presume about me. You made it clear I was merely an interest as long as I stayed tied to this planet. I’m not." He pushed past her.

She whirled, grabbing his arm. Now, wait!

With a quick snatch, he replaced her grip with his own on her wrist. He held her arm between them, meeting her eyes evenly. Focus your will on what you want, and you can attain it. But don’t come to me to be your Prince Charming and rescue you. You don’t play damsel convincingly.

He released her and waited. She regarded him warily, eyes narrowed. It was a mistake to ask you for help.

I hope that was rhetorical.

Her nostrils flaring, Tanya swept out of the lounge.

He waited, heart thudding, then strode out—out of the room, out of the ship. Damn her for making him dream. Damn himself for dreaming. The fresh air hit him, and he closed his eyes for a second. Business. Yes. He had some personal items to collect.

= = =

Slap set the meats in cold storage. Today is the day. I’m leaving the planet again. The going-away party with Gran and his in-laws had been mostly happy. His sister-in-law Aylish hadn’t made any scenes, but still looked moon-eyed. He’d tried to be gentle but firm; he could never love her as he had her sister. His mother-in-law Brìghde had cried.

He shut the door and glanced at the rest of the food littering the counter of the galley. They’d eat well, anyway.

Hey, Slap, we have a visitor, Carter called, wiping his hands. A Mr. Lejeune wants to talk to the owner.

Slap dumped onions in their bin and turned to see a portly middle-aged man with curling grey-white hair and a well-tailored business suit standing in the doorway with the engineer.

Well, you found him. Slap grinned and held out his hand.

I deal in gems and jewelry, Mr. McCarty, Lejeune said, shaking Slap’s hand. You might think my business was lucrative with the large population of wealthy people, well that we used to have anyway, but paying protection to the Mordas also went deep into my pockets. I am now looking to expand my market. And I have a salesperson I wish to entrust with this task. Lejeune hesitated. She is my youngest daughter, Adamant. She is a good person, Mr. McCarty, but without a mother, she has become headstrong, and I, I have not been good in giving her direction.

Slap’s stomach told him something was coming, and he might want to duck. But he owned a ship now and had to do business, didn’t he? He waited while Lejeune shifted his weight from foot to foot.

I thought this job might instill some responsibility in her. And, some sense. If you’re willing to take on my daughter as a passenger, to be my salesperson, I would greatly appreciate it.

Well,—Slap scratched his head—I don’t see why not.

The thing is, Lejeune said, you’ve already met her. He held his hand out to the door and the curly-headed Addie stepped around, scowling, her hands stuck in the pockets of her—what was that get-up? Yeah, it was a one-piece jumpsuit similar to what Slap had seen many a spacer crew wearing, but instead of the standard tan or grey, this one involved a strange curlicue pattern in wild colors. A designer space jumpsuit?

Slap let his weight settle onto one leg and crossed his arms, nodding in her direction. So you’re through trying to kill Tristan with a rocket launcher?

She wrinkled her nose. I said I was sorry.

Slap bit his lip, trying not to smile. What would Tristan say? A vision of his friend’s reaction made a smile tug at Slap’s mouth, and he found himself replying, Mr. Lejeune, it would be a pleasure.

= = =

After giving Addie a quick tour of the ship, Slap left her to settle in and returned to the galley to finish putting away the foodstuffs. Eggs, mushrooms, carrots...

Do you have the galley stocked now?

Slap straightened with a nod. Sure do. He nodded at the volume tucked under Tristan’s arm. What’s that?

A book.

I know that, Slap said, rolling his eyes. What’s in it?

Poetry. Hundreds of volumes of it, spanning centuries. His friend tipped his head. I don’t suppose you have any interest in poetry.

Sure I do. Slap cleared his throat and began, There once was a man from Nantucket—

Tristan sighed—making Slap grin—but before he could leave in a huff, Slap said, We have a passenger.

He stopped. We’re not a passenger ship.

She’s a salesperson for a jeweler. She’s unpacking in her cabin now.

Tristan seemed to consider the prospect. I suppose that’s acceptable. But you know I don’t like—

Addie bobbed up at the doorway beside Tristan. I don’t either.

You! The look on Tristan’s face was worth it all. Slap bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Their mutual glares seemed about to set off a fire. Tristan turned to Slap, hooking a thumb at the girl. "She’s the salesperson?"

Adamant Lejeune, Addie said, lifting her chin. Sales rep for Lejeune Jewelers.

Lejeune? Tristan’s eyebrows rose. French?

Belgian.

The smidge of interest on Tristan’s face vanished, and he turned away from her, shooting Slap a black look. You approved this, without asking me?

Well, I am the owner.

The dark man spun and left, muttering under his breath.

Addie stared after him. Not very friendly, is he?

Well, he don’t cotton being shot at, I reckon.

"I said I was sorry."

Yeah, you have. I hope you mean it.

She brushed some curls from her face. Besides, he started it, wanting to space me, then stranding me on that planet.

He also finished it, taking down the Mordas. Much as you hated them, you oughta remember that. Slap busied himself putting away the rest of the produce, ignoring her loud sigh. Best make sure you’re settled in. We should be taking off soon.

After Addie left, Slap let himself laugh out loud.

= = =

Where’s Carter? Tristan asked, looking up at the old ship. She’d been through so much, and, despite the partial refit, looked her age, a century-old Canary-class freighter. "I need to know if Giselle is ready to go."

He’s in engineering, where else? Slap replied. I asked him how ol’ Bertha was earlier. He started rambling about secondary something-or-others and other stuff I can’t make heads or tails of, but finally said she was fine to fly.

"Good. And her name is Giselle."

Slap’s eyes squinted in a grin. I like Bertha better.

Tristan sighed and climbed the ramp, Slap following, but a voice behind him said, Excuse me. Are you the captain?

Tristan turned to see a port supervisor at the edge of the dock-pad, carrying a clipboard. I am.

I have a list of port fees due for this ship. They have to be paid before you can leave.

Let me see them. Tristan held out his hand. Looking over the fees, he saw many were new ones—the power vacuum was sucking everyone’s greed into it like a wormhole. He handed the clipboard to Slap. This is the owner’s headache.

Leaving the cowboy stuttering, he entered the ship with a smile.

Fractured Facets, part one

Slap had argued and moaned when Tristan refused to allow the cargo to encroach on the section of the bay