Published:
June 6, 2023
Fan link copied

0


0

+0
Medical Bay compromised. Storage Bay compromised. Rear Thruster 3 compromised. Rear Thruster 2 compromised. Rea—
The Advanced Warning System continued to rattle off the damage report as more shots buried themselves deep within the small Pondskipper spacecraft. This style of ship, meant only for small trips between planetside and moonside, had no form of ballistics shielding. Harlan groaned, shoving the throttle lever into its locked position and let the ship’s thrust wane. He flipped open a locket hanging off his neck and smiled at the picture within. “Looks like we’re getting boarded.”
The cockpit was spacious; room enough for two with some to spare, but when the officer stepped in it felt suddenly cramped. Harlan saw a grinning face dimly reflected in the glass façade ahead of him.
“You gave up too easy, Harlan,” the man said. “I was hoping for more of a fight.”
“I know when my goose is cooked, Dev.” Harlan said as he snapped the locket shut and placed his hands on the control panel. He felt handcuffs clasp around his wrists shortly after.
“Just expecting more from the ‘luckiest man in space.’ Disappointing.”
“You don’t fight with luck and win. I just take it as I go.”
Dev grunted, as if he agreed, and radioed back to his craft. “Rope her in, boys. We’re square here.” An alert washed across the command screen: Tractor Beam Established, and the ship began a slow drift backwards, towards the planetside.
* * *
They quickly processed and booked Harlan on the surface, locking him inside the four stone walls that served as his jail cell. The Smuggler’s Retreat, Harlan and his peers took to calling them. In their line of business, you found yourself in a forced vacation every so often. He was just getting comfortable when the door to his cell opened.
Three guards stepped inside, crackling electric prods pointed at Harlan to keep him pressed against the far wall. From behind, a man just past middle-age stepped in. He had salt-and-pepper hair with a full white beard, cropped short. The guards were dismissed with a brief nod, and the door shut securely behind him. Harlan relaxed a bit, sitting down on the hard, thin mattress as the man who had joined him took a chair. The man’s gaze was enigmatic, emotionless, betrayed only by a slight glint in the eye.
“Back again, Harlan? How many times does that make this?” he asked.
“Seven; almost got my punch card all filled out,” Harlan quipped.
“You’d think you would have learned by now.”
“Smuggling’s all I’m good for, Thatcher, you know that.”
“With your skills? We only caught you because you let us. There’s work for someone like you, lawful work.”
“I was a felon before I got into smuggling. Seven times arrested now, too. No corpo wants a guy like me around.”
“Guess you’re right,” Thatcher started.
“You want to hire me?”
“No, no. You’re staying right here, Harlan, sorry. No more of your tricks, no more lawyers. I’m afraid it’s the end of the line, kid. You’ve got a balance due, and it’s time to pay it.”
Harlan rolled the sleeves of his shirt up. Both of his forearms were crossed in burn scars. They collided together and looked like sevens. “Unless I get lucky again, you mean?”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Thatcher said, raising his hands and shrugging his shoulders. “The universe doesn’t love anyone that much.”
“You’re probably right,” Harlan said, laughing. Thatcher stood and knocked on the door, prompting the guards to open it. “It was good to see you, Dad.”
“Same time tomorrow?” Thatcher asked, a smile hinting at the edge of his mouth.
“If you’re lucky,” Harlan responded. He took satisfaction from the sound of a stifled laugh just beyond the door as it shut.
* * *
General Thatcher awoke in the middle of the night to furious knocking at his chamber’s door. He shook himself awake and jumped out of bed. It seemed like seven wasn’t his lucky number after all.
He stormed down the corridors, retinue of guards in tow, and came to the cell that held his son. The bright spotlights of the prison yard greeted him as the door opened. The far wall was gone entirely, the edges of the stone still smoking from an explosion. On the bed, tidied up neat and proper, sat a note and a locket. Thatcher picked up the locket, looking down at a picture of his late wife, then read the letter.
Sorry I couldn’t stay long; work to do. It was nice to see you again.
Hold on to Mom for me, I’ll be back for her soon enough.
All the best,
Harlan

Copyright 2023 - SFS Publishing LLC
Unlucky
You don't fight with luck and win
J. Charles Ramirez

0

0

copied
