Free Pirates of the Outrigger Rift by Gary Jonas, Bill D. Allen Page A

being
worked over by Nebulaco’s finest. After he was patched up from being blindsided
in the bar, they brought him to the detention center for questioning. That was
at least three hours ago. He was tired, thirsty, hungry, and he thought he had
a mild concussion.
    The room was a gray box, and he sat in the middle of it under
a lamp hot enough to bake cookies. The lead interrogator, a dark man with one
eyebrow named Sergeant Cox, had the personality of a hemorrhoid.
    “They were Nebulaco Security men on special assignment. You
blew an important operation.”
    “They didn’t identify themselves. I had no idea what was
going on. Besides, I was in the free zone. Corporate Security isn’t even
supposed to be there.”
    Sergeant Cox sighed and massaged his temples. “Why did you
help the girl?”
    “What girl? You keep talking about a girl. I don’t know any
girls on this stinking planet.”
    Cox got up in his face. His breath smelled like old cheese. “Don’t
play games with me, Chandler. I want answers or you’re going to spend the rest
of your life in a deep, dark hole that smells like your own shit.”
    There was a knock on the door. Cox walked over, opened the
door, and spoke briefly with another man. He returned white.
    “Mr. Chandler. I am very sorry for the misunderstanding,”
Cox said. “There has been a mistake. I apologize, and I am to express my
regrets and extend to you every courtesy of the Nebulaco Corporation.” His
hands shook as he removed the restraints from Chandler and helped him up from
the hot seat. “I hope you’ll have it in your heart to forgive us.”
    Chandler shook his head. “What?”
    “I had no idea who you were. Those field officers gave us
misleading information. We’ll have you out of here immediately.”
    Chandler grinned through his bruises. The ass-kissing
continued for another ten minutes, all the way out the door, where he found a
limo waiting for him. He looked behind him and wondered how many people had
left the place in style, not counting those who left in a box, of course.
    The door to the limo hissed open and Randol nodded to
Chandler. “Get in.”
    Chandler slid into the seat beside him. The limo smelled
like it had just come off the showroom floor. It had a fully stocked bar and a
plush interior. He looked at the old man for a moment, then raised his arm and
moved it backward through Randol’s body. The image flickered, then re-formed as
Chandler pulled his arm back from the holo. “Didn’t think so.”
    “Somebody talked,” Randol said.
    “No shit. What do you need me for? You should be the
detective.”
    The limo pulled away from the detention center and rose in a
lazy circle toward the traffic flow.

    Sai trudged through the rainy streets, past the shanties and
closed shops of the dilapidated West Side. It may have been risky to walk those
streets, but there were fewer people to dodge, and this way she could sneak
back into Starman’s Quarter and possibly avoid detection. Nebulaco Security had
no doubt alerted the taxi companies and public transports by this time.
    She glanced upward and saw the beacon lights of the starport
through the mist of falling rain. The lights cut sharply through the darkness,
radiating into multiple spectrums. They beckoned wandering starcraft home to
port, back to a safe haven. The Silver Dollar wasn’t too far away now. Hopefully,
she could find Jensen, leave quickly, and try to find a safe haven of her own.
    She heard something behind and above her. She whirled
around. Movement up high. The hum of flywires cut through the white noise of
the rain. Three men flew toward her out of the darkness, each clad in black and
red. It was a street gang. Sai recognized the colors: Tenel’s bunch—the
Flyboyz.
    They glided gracefully toward Sai. Each man had devices
grafted to his forearms that shot molecular wire-lines with static hooks on the
ends. They fired the hooks ahead to lock onto an array of anchor points the
gang had mounted