The Pirate Guild Read online

  Studying the milling crowd intently, Charley looked for an opening she might be able to exploit in some way. She moved under the shade of an abandoned tarpaulin for a better view. At length she noticed a bora pod seller weaving in and out of the crowd. An old woman carrying a tray of the steaming pods, expertly accepting credit bits with her free hand. Bora pods were bitter if taken raw, but cooked over hot coals they had an appealing sweetness. Sporting a noticeable limp, the woman struggled to waddle her way through the crowd. Charley waited until her tray was empty before following her into an alleyway. The woman glanced suspiciously over her shoulder but Charley darted into cover just in time. Within minutes the old woman had located what looked like a cooking pit. She’d covered it with a lattice of palm fronds so no one else could find it. Charley approached and called out softly. The woman spun around, a shaky hand brandishing a rusted knife. She was clearly half-blind as well as lame.

  “I’m sorry,” Charley murmured. “I’m not here to steal from you. I need work.”

  The woman shook her head angrily before sitting on an upturned fuel drum. She looked desperately tired.

  “I can help you,” Charley promised. “You wait here and fill the tray while I make runs to the street.”

  “One run, one credit bit,” the woman croaked. “I can’t pay more.”

  Charley nodded. It was a terrible wage for what was actually demanding physical work, but she had no choice for the moment. Running the bora pods would allow her to penetrate the market network and look for further opportunities. Besides, she had to start somewhere. And she was determined not to sell her body.

  The next few hours saw the sale of hundreds of bora pods to rude, indifferent traders. Well, not completely indifferent. On more than one occasion she felt a hand on her buttocks. One plucky merchant decided he wanted a feel between her legs too. Charley slipped away quickly, not wanting to cause a scene. Most of these people carried proper weapons, unlike the thugs out at Sandflower Downs. Charley’s targeting computer would only assist her up to a certain point. At some stage she was going to need lessons in guncraft. For the moment, though, mere survival was the main focus. Charley was sweating profusely by the time a sandstone watchtower chimed for noonday. She’d done seventeen runs in four hours - enough credit to procure food for dinner and almost enough to stay one or two nights at a cheap hotel.

  The old pod seller noticed Charley’s exhaustion and allowed her to sit for a few minutes in the shade of the alleyway. Charley learned that she hadn’t always been a lowly pod seller. Several years ago she and her husband had run a moderately successful water supply business. The secret to their income was the discovery of a pure well out on the pans. Naturally, they’d kept the well’s location a secret, but eventually that was their downfall. An enterprising competitor murdered her husband for his wrist pad and discovered the location of the well. The woman was left destitute and vulnerable, her only option to gather bora pods from one of the valleys to the north and make the daily journey into Zeba’s day bazaar. She began her trek at three in the morning to find the freshest pods.

  Charley nodded with genuine understanding, knowing full well the hardship of living day to day. Most folks didn’t have the luxury of stockpiling resources for when times were tough. People like this pod seller suffered through their lives until they were physically unable to go on. Charley admired the woman’s strength, but found herself hoping she never ended up like that. There was a better way - unfortunately it involved taking what she wanted. Staking her claim. Just because she was a woman didn’t mean she was going to accept her station in life.

  By the end of a long, tiring day Charley had earned 32 credit bits. The old woman’s total profit was relatively substantial considering she hadn’t needed to move a muscle. Enjoying the pleasant ache of an honest day’s work, Charley thanked her for the opportunity and walked out into the sunshine of the street. Weaving in and out of the traders had been an interesting experience. For starters, she gained insight into how Zebans conducted business. They haggled until both parties were almost amused with the result. It seemed to be the tradition here. Despite the plentiful smiles, this was a deadly serious market. People’s livelihoods were on the line. Most of these folks had families to feed. The bustle of the market belied a desperate struggle to survive.

  Charley had also acquired a few other scraps of intel. It seemed the Governor was under increasing pressure to install a garrison in Zeba. Rumor had it that a new political party had come to power in the core worlds - people that sought to form a new republic out of the ashes of the old empire. That meant increased pressure on Abeya to act like a powerful nation even if it had never operated that way. The arid planet had always been a ramshackle den of thieves and poor folk. Charley couldn’t imagine what a shiny new galactic republic would mean for the place. In fact, she’d already noticed troopers she’d never seen before. Well, certainly never in Sandflower Downs. These soldiers were dressed in creamy yellow armor and carried state of the art rifles. One of the traders had muttered something about Spacetown marines. They seemed worried that a crackdown was imminent. That the old laws, ignored for so long, were about to return with a vengeance.

  Charley was oblivious to such concerns as she headed back to her room. She was so tired all she could do was surf Nex. She’d seen the online service once or twice in Sandflower Downs but it was always over someone else’s shoulder. It was somewhat thrilling to trawl through a mass of information, free to browse wherever she wanted. She flicked through a fashion gallery, dreaming about what she might buy when she finally came into some money. After a few peaceful hours, her stomach rumbled. She wandered out into the blessedly cool street and found a noodle bar away from the bustle of the night market. The tarbor noodles were delicious. She washed them down with one of the light local beers. Feeling a little light-headed, Charley returned to the hotel and went to sleep wondering where she’d be this time tomorrow.

  11

  Morning light woke Charley just after dawn. Like Sandflower Downs, Zeba only really had two seasons - unbearably hot and just hot. The slightly milder season would soon come to an end and Zeba would bake under the sun for six months. Ideally she would be off-planet by then. Following a simple morning repast of pork and fresh bread, Charley headed back into the day bazaar with the confidence of someone who knew what to expect. Aside from gleaning a little more information on the political front, there seemed to be nothing in the way of available work. She slumped in the shade of an alleyway as the noonday chime echoed across the crowded streets. On impulse, she went to see the wizened bora pod seller, but the coal pit had been extinguished by water. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Charley hoped she had taken the extra money they’d made yesterday and treated herself to something nice. Closer to the street, though, she spotted a body behind a foul-smelling skip. It was the old woman’s corpse. She had telltale silver residue around her nostrils. The extra money had paid for enough drugs to see her into the next life. Perhaps she’d even found her long-lost husband.

  Filled with unexpected sorrow, Charley considered what she should do. In the end she heaped a pile of oily rages together and started a bonfire with one of her blasters. She watched as the old woman burned, ruminating on her desperate, solitary life in Zeba. At length, a man from a nearby building complained about the black smoke. Charley ignored him, sending a little prayer to Inness that the old woman had finally found peace. As she rejoined the street, her mind was heavy and contemplative. Human life was next to worthless on Abeya. Death was such a daily occurrence that folks had grown numb to it. She headed west on foot, threading her way through an interlocking series of markets. Some were shaded by huge, colorful sail cloths, whilst others were housed in crumbling buildings inlaid with beautiful, faded mosaics. Abeya had once supported a noble and dignified society of desert artisans and explorer nomads. Over-population gradually become an issue as the cities were inundated with scumbags from all over the galaxy. Some of the old architecture was intact
, particularly in Zeba and Spacetown. Charley enjoyed the cool arcades even if she could only window shop the various items on display.

  As she walked, a plan slowly formed in her mind. It was relatively risky, but there was no way she was gonna reach Silverton’s loot cache without a daring plan. One thing she’d noticed about Zeba was the wild popularity of drag racing, especially at night. She had no interest in the racing itself, having zero experience with powerful speeders of any kind, but she was attracted to the money that was inevitably funneled through such activities. If street racing was what the rich, young elite of Zeba had a passion for, then that’s where Charley needed to be. Assuming there would be a street race later that night, the first thing she needed was an alluring look. She reluctantly decided to sell the heavy saber Silverton had given her. It didn’t take long to find a melee weapons trader in a cool nook of the Southern Palm Trade Villa. The owner, a small, bespectacled man, hefted the blade and swung it several times. It sang through the air.

  “Well balanced,” Charley enthused, hoping to raise the price. “A genuine pirate’s sword.”

  The weapons dealer nodded as he weighed the sword.

  “430,” he said flatly.

  Charley felt a pang of guilt. Clearly it was a valuable weapon! She was hoping Silverton had something like it in his loot cache. If not, she could always return to buy it back.

  “500 or no deal,” she said firmly.

  “You got it,” the dealer murmured with a faint smile. He counted out the credit bits. Charley wondered if she’d gotten the bartering thing right. No matter. She still had lethal weapons and a pocket full of credits. As the afternoon grew dark and gloomy, she perused an arcade that specialized in Zeban evening wear. She’d never been to anything like a clothing store and felt like some kind of pampered desert princess. In a store called Dawn Mirage she was approached by a svelte assistant.

  “What’s the occasion?” she asked politely, though her eyes looked Charley up and down with more than a hint of disdain.

  Charley thought it was best to be honest.

  “I’ll be a guest at the street races tonight,” she said.

  The assistant nodded. “In that case you might want to assess our black leather range? I believe you could pull most of it off.”

  Charley wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment or not, but she submitted to the assistant. Over the next half an hour she tried on a number of things, eventually finding herself in something she considered hideous. The ensemble included thigh-high boots with incredibly long heels, a tight bodice that revealed much more of her cleavage than she thought was wise and a choker that made her look like someone’s property.

  “I love it!” the assistant squealed.

  For good measure she fastened two huge black feathers in the transparent belt, completing a picture of Gothic weirdness.

  “What the fuck?” Charley muttered. “I look like roadkill.”

  She was about to undress when the assistant threw her a baffled look. “You want access to the Canary Cage, right?”

  Charley’s shoulders slumped. Clearly there was an exclusive section at these night races. A place that required a certain “look”. She didn’t like the sound of this at all, but relented on account of needing a benefactor. It helped to picture herself heading to the Dusty Mountains the following morning. Maybe, just maybe, all this would be worth it.

  “I’ll take it,” she said decisively.

  “Great,” beamed the assistant. “That’ll be 360.”

  Charley was hesitant to hand over so much money and hoped she wasn’t about to regret it. She got changed quickly and stowed the bizarre dress in a bag. She stepped out into the darkness, stopping at a kiosk for roasted meat, gravy and anasune rice. She’d need all the fuel she could get. As a precaution she paid for a room at a two-star hotel. It was possible she’d need a place to hole up in the early morning. Besides, it gave her a chance to dump the dress and put her feet up for a while. She set the wall-mounted readout to wake her at midnight.

  12

  The digital whine of the clock woke Charley from a restful sleep. She took a quick shower, unsurprised to find the water was cold. Pulling her ridiculous outfit on without the assistant’s help was easier said than done, but she managed it after several minutes of grunting and swearing. She even arranged the feathers at her back, knowing that nothing but the complete effect would get the job done tonight. Unfortunately she had to stow her weapons under the dirty mattress. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing more of her Silverton gear but there was no other option. And with that, she stepped into the cool night, bathed in glitzy neon as she followed the crowds to the night racing hub. She received more than one glance and wished she had a chaperon to keep her safe. In this kit she was hardly going to be able to fight back if someone attacked her.

  Hundreds of people congregated on a wide street that bisected Zeba. The balconies overlooking the dusty street were filled with revelers drinking, decking and wasting themselves with the local drug Fantasy. Charley strode purposefully through a haze of smoke, struggling to get her bearings in the whorl of activity. The throb of heavy propulsion bulbs grabbed the night by the throat and squeezed hard, sending tingles down Charley’s spine. Aggressive and intimidating, it was an epic sound. Just thirty yards up the street a pair of speeders were preparing to race. The whine of the modified prop bulbs reached fever pitch and Charley covered her ears. Ejecting a wall of pure flame, the speeders lurched crazily into motion, surging north up the street at kamikaze speeds. A huge cheer rolled its way past Charley. Excited men hugged and patted each other on the back. Women struggled to keep their colorful hats as a strong zephyr gusted through. The intense smell was a mixture of cordite and perfume.

  Through the haze left by the speeders’ passing, Charley saw a curved steel lattice beyond the starting line - that must be the Canary Cage the shop assistant referred to. Struggling with her heels, she made her way through the euphoric throng of onlookers and encountered a string of burly security guards at the base of the cage. A heavy set, bearded guard leered at her, drinking in her curves. Charley’s stomach lurched but she decided to enter the spirit of the occasion, spinning around slowly so the sweaty losers got a great look at her butt. The guard was practically drooling as he approached.

  “You look tight,” he whispered in her ear. He smelled like cigarettes and halitosis. “But you need a cage pass, sweetheart.”

  Charley stifled a surge of anger. Of course she did. These ‘cage passes’ were probably doled out by fat creeps like this guy after certain favors were rendered. Despite the wonderful architecture, Charley was beginning to hate Zeba as much as she hated Sandflower Downs.

  “I’ll tell you what,” she breathed in her most husky voice. “Why don’t you let me in and I’ll promise not to follow you home and smash your ugly face in?”

  To come so far only to be held back by some worm on the door was unthinkable. To Charley’s surprise, the guard laughed heartily.

  “Make sure you do,” he said with a wink, stepping aside with a flourish. “Make sure you do.”

  Charley entered the cage without another word. The “exclusive” space was filled with women dressed like she was, only with more color and exposed flesh. The outfits ranged from rippling, earthy tones to transparent chiffon that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Near-naked, glistening men weaved their way through the colorful menagerie carrying trays of designer drugs. Anxious all of a sudden, Charley found herself a quiet corner from which she could watch proceedings discreetly. Most of the preening women seemed to be interested in one thing only - the drivers. Apparently one of the benefits of winning a drag was the chance to ‘pick’ a woman in the cage. Charley assumed that these women were hopefuls selected on certain ‘assets’. If they were lucky they’d be able to spend the night with one of the hotshot, celebrity drivers of the circuit.

  Women were treated poorly where Charley was from, but even by those standards this setup made her
feel slightly sick. What kind of twisted society cast women into the role of desperate whores? It was far from an ideal situation, but it was one in which Charley just might be able to acquire what she was after. She didn’t know much about Zeba’s social strata but it was obvious these drivers were feted like gods and probably had funds to match. Forcing herself to relax, Charley hung back and waited for an opportunity. Many of these women seemed nervous and were over-indulging on alcohol and chems. All she had to do was stay cool, keep herself fresh and hope that a slice of luck fell her way.

  As it turned out, Charley didn’t need to wait long. Just as well, because the cage was lousy with excitable locals climbing the outside frame, hoping for a look at the glamorous ‘birds’. A roar went up from the starting line as two more speeders screamed down the straight. A second cheer heralded the arrival of the winner of the previous race. A man in a spectacular white jumpsuit entered the cage. Tall and saturnine, his tanned complexion betrayed a youth spent on the salt pans. Charley supposed he was reasonably good looking in a flashy, superficial way. He moved with an easy confidence, like a panther in no hurry to hunt down its prey. The driver glided through several women who’d made the mistake of stepping forward too quickly. Charley hung back and pretended to be interested in her nails.