Chapter 130: Chapter 42: It’s your Funeral

Murmurs undulated through the other crews. The bearded man narrowed his eyes at Rakton. “I won the bid. He’s mine now.”

Rakton pulled the medtech away. “Then why’s he still standing next to me?”

The stocky man cursed out Rakton, who offered an even cruder response.

“Let the man claim his prize!” someone shouted.

“No, let’s redo the bidding,” the Gyhera captain countered. Others agreed. 

Porter tried to settle the crowd. “Please, let’s discuss this like rational beings!”

“Says the person selling people as slaves!” Gaius shouted before one of Rakton’s scavengers silenced him with a gut punch.

Dash unconsciously stepped at the man, who held out a stunner. He backed off, his eyes catching Wesley’s desperate gaze. Still in Rakton’s grasp, the medtech nodded toward the newcomers. Dash glanced to the crew of three, then back to Wesley. The medtech nodded again, forceful. Dash returned the nod, finally understanding the message. The three men needed to win the bids.

Lon and Jido moved behind Rakton as the shouting match hurtled toward violence. Dash feared Rakton might call off the whole event and take off with the prisoners. Maybe to sell them again, or keep them herself. Neither outcome would spare the prisoners. It would only prolong the same eventual fate, or perhaps they might meet their end as victims of one of Rakton’s outbursts.

The bickering swelled within the lounge. Raised voices were bolstered by contentious gestures. An accusatory hand was slapped away, then a body pushed back into the boundaries of their crew. The tension in the lounge threatened to explode, like an overloaded pressure vessel.

Dash peered around, desperate for a solution. He spotted a young Human reaching for his pistol, only to be stopped by Chesser, the Manore captain. Dash saw it, a sliver of hope living in the twisted horrors of the trafficking business. He tore the tape from his mouth, the sensation like a parasitic organism being forcefully yanked off his face. “This calls for a privateer’s arbitration!” he shouted as loud as his aching lips would let him before the guard accosting Gaius could force the tape back over Dash’s mouth.

His words deflated the bickering in an instant, like a referee’s whistle pausing a rumbleball match. The crews turned to their captains, exchanging inquisitive glances, save for Rakton. She said, “What the hell is a privateer’s obligation?”

“It’s arbitration,” the Chesser said, and crossed his sinewy arms. “It’s an old pirate code. Because you’re reneging on the agreed-upon transaction, the buyer has the right to challenge you.”

“Challenge? Like a duel?”

“Yes. Decide on weapons, if any, and winning conditions. Then you line up and begin when a signal is given.”

“You’re joking, right?” Chesser didn’t blink. Rakton said, “I’m game. We’ll go with pistols, since I’d drop him hand to hand.” That earned a chorus of chuckles all around.

The bearded man managed half a smile. “That won’t be necessary, if you just honor the price and give me the medtech.”

“I’m not giving you anything,” Rakton said. “You want him? Then grow some genitals and challenge me.”

There were hushed murmurs and even a few gasps from the other crews. The man stared at the smirking scavenger captain who showed no fear. “Fine. I challenge you.”

“Hold on a minute,” Porter said. “This is strictly a business arrangement, not some gladiatorial arena.”

Dash cursed the Dockmaster behind his taped mouth. He watched helpless, as the other crews huddled inward. “We’ve heard of this arbitration,” the Eviun captain said. “It’s very old, but we agree with the proposal.”

“As do we,” the Gyhera said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I like the sound of it,” the Slyvarkian said.

Boci and Galo leered nervously at Porter. The Dockmaster looked around the lounge, sweat dotting his forehead. “Here’s the deal: you make it quick and clean up the mess. And don’t shoot a hole in the viewport.”

“And the victory conditions? Disarm or yield?” Chesser asked.

Rakton scoffed at the suggestion. “I play for real stakes. To the death,” she said, and patted Betsy on her harness. She then pointed at the clear stretch of lounge between the median and the viewport. “Right there, so you’ll have a nice view before you die. What do you say?”

Everyone in the lounge directed their attention at the bearded man. He paused and viewed Rakton with an unsettling casualness. “It’s your funeral.”

---

The crews reoriented themselves along the lounge walls, giving Cutter and Rakton room to face each other without risk of collateral damage. Rakton stood on one end, a few of her crewmembers around her. Parr and Bloek huddled with Cutter.

“No way that crazy old lady is that quick on the draw. She’s out of her mind, right?” Bloek said, glancing across the way at Rakton.

Parr let out a perverse laugh and smiled at Cutter. “I bet he gets two in her heart and one in her head before she hits the deck.”

“You better nail her first,” Bloek said. “You see the pistol she’s packing?”

“This isn’t my first time. I’ll be fine,” Cutter said. He left unsaid his agreement over the concern about Rakton’s gun. He hadn’t seen an old-model hand cannon like that in ages. He ensured the smooth release of his sidearm from his hip holster. “Be ready for the fallout.”

Parr tapped the side of his jacket. “Don’t worry. Regardless of what happens, the kid is coming with us.”

Cutter understood the underlying message. If he failed, Parr was taking matters into his own hands.

“What about his request?” Bloek said. “About his old captain and the pilot?”

Cutter shook his head. “The situation is too volatile. We’ll be lucky to walk out of here with the target after this.” He gave Parr a stern stare. “Same thing goes for that chief engineer.”

Parr said nothing, but Cutter was sure the stocky man had no intention of following orders. All Cutter cared about was the kid. If Parr wanted to go on a personal vengeance crusade, that was his choice. Cutter would wait, safely aboard the Pursuit.

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The pair took up positions across from each other. The lounge went silent, yet was filled with a nervous energy. Cutter ensured the safety was off on his pistol, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He set his feet shoulder-width apart, rolling his neck in a circle in each direction. Her unwavering confidence nagged at him, but he pushed it aside. He needed to focus. Victory gave him the target, and his mission. He could not fail.

Rakton grinned at him from across the way. Cutter glanced again at the serious piece of firepower on her hip. One which she wouldn’t get to use.

Chesser stood atop the median to address the two combatants. “Here’s how we’ll proceed. Once you’re ready, I’ll start the countdo—” was as far as he got before Rakton snapped her wrist, extending a hidden weapon. Cutter reached futilely for his own as Rakton fired a shot dead center into his chest.

---

The bearded man fell to the ground, arms splayed out to the side.

“Winner!” Rakton cheered. She found Milia among the line of prisoners and held up her weapon. Dash’s throat tightened. It was Dorothy—the same gun Milia tried to use on Rakton. “That’s how you do it!”

“You dirty hull scraper!” the stocky man snarled, and drew a snub repeater from beneath his jacket. The wicked little weapon extended its stock and barrel as it rose to his shoulder.

“No!” his tall partner said, drawing his own repeater while grabbing the stocky man’s shoulder. The slight delay allowed Mylo to wrap his arms around Rakton, who had drawn Betsy. By then, every available weapon was out and threatening violence on the other crews. 

“You cheated! We’re taking the kid!”

“Try it, and I’ll put you down like your captain there!” Rakton said, and shook Mylo off.

“The little human is right. You’re dishonorable!” the Gyhera captain sneered.

“And you know what honor is?” the Eviun captain said.

The other crews joined in on the fracas. All the shouting, grunting, and screeching interfered with the translations of every PD, creating further chaos. The prisoner guards, distracted by the fray, didn’t notice Dash remove the tape once more and shift close to Gaius. “Get ready to act. This might be our only chance to escape.”

“If we don’t get blown away in the crossfire,” Gaius said as the downed man twitched.

The man lifted his head from where he had fallen supine to the floor. Rakton’s eyes shifted, catching the movement too. Her scowl dissolved into an annoyed glare, as if wondering how he wasn’t dead, when he aimed his pistol at her and shot her in the face.

The single blast left the lounge in silence. Every set of eyeballs watched Rakton’s body float in the air before it fell backward off the median and slapped on the floor like the spoils of a hunting trip. In her final instance of flouting rules, decorum, and common sense, her stubby finger—resting in Betsy’s trigger guard—was jammed backward by the impact. Dash’s beloved weapon fired its potent payload and struck a Gyhera in the neck. The remains of the Gyhera dropped to the floor, a lifeless husk.

Before anyone could fully process what happened, and more importantly, how they should react, the returned-from-the-dead man threw a fist-sized cylinder into the air.

Dash saw what was coming and had already dived for cover, pulling Milia and Gaius with him, when a blinding light and deafening explosion engulfed them all.

---

Pressed against the ground, Dash avoided the blinding light of the flashbang grenade. His ears rung from the blast and the gunfire. Chaos ensued as the crews targeted anyone who wasn’t one of their own. The wild shooting struck the walls, the ceiling, equipment scattered about. Burning bits of metal and composites flew through the air, singing exposed skin. Bodies and limbs splayed across the floor.

A body fell between Dash and Milia—their erstwhile guard, sporting a large hole in his forehead. A pistol rested in his death grip. Dash and Milia eyed the weapon, then each other. She lunged for it. Dash pulled the man’s sleeve, hoping the pistol wouldn’t slip from the lifeless hand. Milia’s fingers brushed against the barrel as Dash swung it his way. He pulled it free and aimed it at Milia.

She froze, eyes shifting between the barrel and Dash. He narrowed his eyes at her and fired. She reared back, then looked behind her. Another scavenger was dead at her feet, pistol in hand. She grabbed the weapon, clutching it to her chest. Spinning around, she held it in Dash’s direction, but not aimed at him.

Gaius unlocked his biometric restraints with the finger of the dead guard. He did the same for Dash. Milia crawled closer to be freed as well.

The other crews had found cover behind the lounge seating, service stations, scattered containers, and construction equipment. The shooting lessened in ferocity as tactics replaced reactionary firing. Despite being the smallest party, the repeater-equipped pair hiding in the median maintained fire superiority. Their weapons ripped apart a foolish person who charged their position.

Beyond Rakton’s fallen body, Dash spotted the train of maintenance carts on the periphery of the chaos. “Over there,” he said, and handed his pistol to Gaius. “I’m getting Betsy back.”

They low crawled to the carts as the repeaters barked out another volley against the slave-dealing crews. Dash pulled his beloved pistol free of Rakton’s still-tight grip, and the two extra magazines from her harness. Then he unstrapped Dorothy and stuffed her in a pocket. An Eviun took a shot at him, hitting Rakton’s bloated corpse instead. He went to fire back when he heard another shot and saw Milia firing from behind the carts. He quickly crawled over to her.

“Now we’re even,” she said.

“Look there!” Gaius said, pointing at the tunnel where they had been led into the lounge. The three Terminus officials fled inside, followed by Rakton’s crew covering their escape. In their midst, the ops crew, and a tuft of blond hair. Wesley, being dragged by the arm.

“I’m not leaving without Wesley,” Dash said.

“Rakton may be dead, but I need to have a word with Mylo,” Milia said.

“We’re all going in the same direction then,” Gaius said.

“We need to work together if we want to get out of here alive,” Dash said. He met Milia’s gaze. “We team up, then we’re done. I want your word.”

“You have it,” Milia said. “Now, give me yours.”

Dash studied her slim face for any hint of deception. Truth be told, he didn’t have much of a choice, and neither did she. He nodded. “Now, to get out of here.” He scanned the lounge escape options. The neighboring tunnel—which connected to the heart of the station—was clear. A viable escape route, if they could cross the open ground to it.

Dash pictured the map of Terminus in his head. “We can get out through the next tunnel over, then cut over to the plaza on the tram,” he said. Peeking through the cart, he saw the overhead irrigation system of the median beyond.

His movement attracted repeater fire, the rounds ripping holes through the tops of the carts. Milia said, “We need to do something or they’ll shred us.”

“Working on it,” Dash said. He reached inside the cart and found the button to unlock the door. It swung open. He tapped the panel, hoping it still had power. The display switched on.

“Get ready to move,” he said.

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