Jackson Bluffs – Alice M. Roelke

Jackson Bluffs

by Alice M. Roelke

“Jack of diamonds?” Jackson spoke sideways past a flopping cigarette.

“Go fish,” said Petersby, a large man who needed a shave and seemed to spill out over his space force fatigues. The minimalist space chair’s metal groaned as he shifted.

They sat in the Cricket’s cargo hold on a folding chair and a crate drawn up to a larger crate. Dim lighting—one of the bulbs was out—illuminated the half-filled hold. They played with a deck of well-thumbed cards. The heavy man had a government-issue long rifle leaning against his chair.

Jackson reached out and pulled a card from the pile past the empty, washed-out space-rat tin. Its contents proclaimed it blueberry buckle, but it was now lined with cigarette stubs and ashes. He glanced at the card, then flipped it over. “Got it.”

“You’re kidding.” The soldier leaned forward. “Hardest type of ‘Go Fish’ and you’re still drawing your cards. You’re just too lucky, Jackson.”

Jackson gave a snort. “Not hardly.” He raised his brows and looked around the cargo hold with its skimpy cargo and government guard.

“Well—about cards, anyway,” said the guard. He put his cards down, leaned back, and yawned. He glanced at his watch. “I’m sick of cards. If possible, they’re making time pass slower.”

“If you’re so bored, why don’t you ask your boss how long he’s going to need my ship for?”

Petersby snorted. “I’m not insane.”

A voice growled from the doorway. “Why don’t you ask me yourself?”

Petersby jumped up, grabbed his gun, and snapped to attention. “Sir.” He saluted.

The man in crisp captain’s duds and bars ignored him and stepped forward. His eyes were a little too close together for aesthetics, his ears a little too large. But those same eyes sparked with an intelligence that looked like it might all too easily turn malevolent.

He glared at the smoking man. “You wanted something?”

Jackson had not risen, so the captain towered over him. Jackson stubbed out his cigarette in the tin. “Yeah, Captain Mosely. Been wondering how long you folks will be needing my ship. Got these few deliveries to be made on a schedule, y’know.”

Mosely’s steely gaze traveled down his arrogant nose. “Captain Jackson—and I use the term loosely—we will continue to retain use of your craft unless and until the government deems it no longer has need of your ‘vessel.’

“As for your cargo, we can eliminate the pressing urgency of that with a short trip to the airlock.” His burning gaze scanned the cargo hold, stopped at the North wall and the largest load, in the shiniest crates. “We can begin with those.” He gave a jerk of his head. “Petersby, you may begin—”

The guard looked acutely uncomfortable.

Jackson kept his face impassive. “That won’t be necessary.” He unbent and rose. He stood even with Mosely, who still somehow managed to look down his nose at Jackson. “I’m not trying to tell you how to do you job. Just saying I’d like to do mine. When that’s possible.”

The two men stared at each other.

Mosely regarded Jackson with distaste. “When I am in command of this ship, you will refrain from back talk—or your cargo will be forfeit. Is that understood?”

“Aye, aye.” Jackson gave a sloppy salute. In a lower voice, he said, “Y’don’t need to use a jackhammer to kill a fly, Cap’n.”

Mosely turned on his heel and exited the hold, his steps quick-marching down the metal hall in the distance.

Jackson regarded the door that shut behind him. “That’s me squashed, anyhow.” He sat down and lit another cigarette, eyed the sweaty guard. “Care for another round?”

“Sorry about that,” said Petersby a few hands later, when some of the tension had eased from the room. “He’s just doing his job. But some people enjoy their jobs too much, if you know what I mean.”

Jackson reached his hand up to his mouth and made a zipping motion across his lips.

Petersby, his gaze on his cards, didn’t appear to notice. “It’s this whole Martian rebellion thing. With war liable to break out any day, Mosely’s just sick at being stuck out here in the asteroid belt to entrap pirates.”

“I suspect he’s got his work cut out for him,” said Jackson. “A canny lot, pirates.”

Petersby shifted in his seat, warming to his theme. “Personally, I think this whole impressments business is bad going. When you treat pilots like that, no wonder so many of ‘em take to running goods past the blockade, or going in with pirates. Of course, I’m sure the Martian rebels pay well, too.” He carefully didn’t look at Jackson when he said this.

“A bunch of farmers?” Jackson snorted. “How would they? Five of clubs.”

Groaning, Petersby handed it over. Still not looking up, he said, “Fact, some might say that’s where you were heading. Loading up on food and medicines on Luna. Before Ol’ Bossy here impressed your ship, that is.”

Jackson shrugged. “Folks might say a lot of things, but my registry shows I’m headed for Io, and that’s where I was heading.” It was his turn to not look up from his cards. He chewed the end of his cigarette. “Deuce of diamonds?”

“Have you got eyes in the back of your head?” The heavier man slapped the card down on the crate.

Overhead, an alarm began to blare. Petersby startled to his feet, knocking his seat over. “What’s that?”

“Proximity alarm.” Jackson rose. He snuffed out his cigarette with deliberation, but his eyes had gone thoughtful-alert. Now what was going on? “I need to go to the bridge. I may be of some use.”

“Right. I’ll accompany you.” Petersby shouldered his gun with a nod.

Jackson cast him an amused glance. “Don’t see why I need a guard. I’m hardly likely to sabotage my own ship.”

“It’s been known to happen.”

They reached the bridge a moment later.

“Captain.” Jackson gave a distracted nod in Mosely’s direction.

Mosely bristled and looked ready for a snide attack.

Jackson’s gaze slid past him, seeking out the windows onto the void, and the ancient lights blinking on the instrument panels. “What’s the problem?”

A young officer who looked like he’d cut himself pretending to shave swiveled in Jackson’s pilot seat. “Pirates, sir.” He cleared his throat, and his voice went down a couple of octaves. “We’re surrounded.”

Jackson strode forward, glanced at the panels. A small, greenish screen showed the Cricket as a blue dot, showed several surrounding, well-mined asteroids as brown lumps, and showed twelve blinking red dots in a circle around the Cricket’s blue dot. He strode to the window and looked out. Only asteroids appeared dimly in the weak light through the thick, old reinforced windows.

He turned to Mosely. “Have you checked the equipment? Maybe it’s a burble in the machine.”

“I sent a man. He’s checking now.” Sweat stood on Mosely’s face. “But I don’t expect it will be. My—agency recently discovered a new sort of light-absorbent paint, current in use by the pirates. It absorbs nearly all spectrums of light, making them invisible to the naked eye, and even to scanning equipment, until they’re quite close. Excellent for surprise attacks.”

Jackson’s eyebrows rose. “Well, looks like we stumbled on a nest of ‘em. How close is your cruiser?”

Mosely shook his head. “No good. They were to meet us five hundred klicks from here on the patrol. We’re supposed to send a standard distress signal if we run across pirates sooner.”

“Which we can’t do with twelve guns pointed down our throats. Right.” Jackson rubbed his chin. How am I gonna get out of this one?

“Sir!” Another young man burst onto the bridge. “The equipment is—”

The radio crackled to life and a voice spoke, dripping with arrogance and lazy confidence. “Tiny ship. Prepare to be boarded, and meet your maker, if you believe in that sort of thing.”

“What am I going to do?” Mosely stared at the panel from a bloodless face. “If they board, we’re doomed.” He swallowed, and tugged at his collar. “They’ll be sure to make an example out of an impressment officer and crew.”

“—fine,” finished the ensign.

All right. Time for some bluffing. Jackson strode to the controls. “Let me handle this. No matter what I say, keep your mouths shut.” Jackson motioned for the young shaving victim to leave his post. The boy rose.

Mosely snorted. “They won’t let this ship go. Why should they, on your say-so?” His eyes narrowed. “Unless—do you mean to betray us and buy your lousy skin that way?” Mosely leaped from his seat. “Lister! I command you not to leave that chair!”

The boy cast him a startled look and sat down.

“Think you can pull one over on me, do you?” Mosely began to pace.

Jackson stood back from the chair. “Think about this logically, captain. They’ve got us already. And maybe your big ship as well, because they’ll know to look for it—even how to contact it, if anyone talks. They don’t need that information from me, and they wouldn’t be grateful enough for it to keep me alive.” He shook his head. “No, if I want to live, I’ve got to keep us all alive. So give me a chance. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

Mosely glared at him thunderously. Seconds ticked by. On the green screen, the red dots drew nearer the blue.

Mosely gave a jerk of his head. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Jackson accepted the seat from the relieved-looking Lister, and swiveled to face the controls.

Mosely gestured to Petersby. “Stand guard. If he tries anything—shoot him.”

Petersby unslung his gun, looking unhappy.

Jackson swiveled to face the room again. “I need absolute silence. For this to work, they have to think I’m alone.” Jackson waited, looking from person to person. No one spoke. “Right, here goes.”

He pressed a button and spoke into a once-shiny grill. He brayed, in a voice startling unlike his own, “How-do, gentlemen? Looks like you caught yourselves a Jedder Leans. Guess I ought to say ‘congrajulations.’”

He flicked a glance at the Earth space force crew. They blinked, exchanging looks. He could almost hear what they were thinking. The thick Marsman accent seemed wildly unlikely coming from the dark-haired pilot of modest, Earther height. Why should the pirates buy it?

The radio crackled again with an incoming message. “Yeah, right. Tell me another. You’re Jedder Leans and I’m president Jenkle.”

Jackson leaned an elbow on the panel and drawled. “Mr. President, I’m pleased to make your acquaintanceship. Although I’d be a mite more pleased if you weren’t getting ready to declare war on my planet—and if y’all hadn’t put that reward out for me. Made it a mite hard to get off Luna, with all them bounty hunters around.”

The pirate snorted. “Tell me another. Prepare to be boarded. If you were Leans, you’d already have transmitted a picture of yourself. This is just a simple-minded attempt at a bluff.”

Jackson swiveled, held a forefinger up for silence to the Earthmen, and pressed the transmit button again. “Shore I would, if’n I had myself a ship with video picture capability. You think I picked this bucket of bolts because I liked the color? I was kind of pressed for time. And shore”—he held up a finger again—”board if’n you want. But you’ll just slow me down and that’ll please the Earthmen real well.” He released the button, and fumbled for a cigarette from his pack.

The reply took longer to come this time. “What makes you think we’d care—even if you were Leans?”

Leans pressed the button, snorted loudly. “Please. Most of you-all got on the wrong side of Earth law. Some of you even loyal Marsmen, I’ll wager, join up soon as the Declaration’s signed. You’d lose your eye teeth sooner’n slow up somebody who’ll be causin’ as much trouble for Earth as I will, once I reached the outer colonies.”

He spoke out of the side of his mouth, his cigarette bobbing. “Maybe being a racing pilot and stunt dude ain’t the same as being a hero, but it shore as hell gives me a platform to talk from. Why d’you think Earth’s so eager to shut me up? Probably afraid I’ll get all the outer colonies to rebel, too—not just send help and volunteers to Mars.” He leaned forward and crossed his arms.

“So sure, gentlemen. Come on and board. Satisfy your curiosities, and shave precious hours off my ETA. Maybe even slow me down enough for some of them bounty hunters to catch. If you got to, you got to.” He waited a beat. “Or you could let me prove my identity to you—right here, right now.”

Static; he waited; the Earthers shifted, barely breathing. Mosely looked at Jackson like he was insane, or a genius, or both. Petersby looked slimy with sweat. And the young ensigns looked goggle-eyed with fear.

“How would you do that?” The pirate’s voice held skepticism. But it also sounded far less assured than he had at the beginning of the conversation.

The moment he’d been waiting for. Jackson leaned forward and pressed the button. “You see that asteroid yonder? The big donut-holed one?” It lay just beyond the ring of pirates, on a slow-rotation vector, no doubt caused by the same mining crew that had burrowed out its insides.

“Yeah? What about it?”

“Those squirrel tunnels go all the way through. Wide enough for my skiff to get through—just. Maybe even some of your ships would fit.”

Static crackled over the old comm system. “Yeah, like we’d risk our ships! That’s insane.”

“Well, not for me. Yes, I’m just that damn good.” He sat back, stretching his legs. “So how ’bout it, gennelmen? Wanna see your proof—and a free Jedder Leans ‘air show’—all in one go? Or do you still prefer to come aboard?”

Static burst over the radio, without words.

Mosely stepped forward, red in his face. “What’s wrong with you? Are you insane? If you crash this rust bucket, we die. If they board we may die—but if you crash we certainly will!”

Jackson swiveled and gave them looks of mild surprise. “Why, you don’t think I can do it?”

An ensign burst into speech. “I know you can’t do it!”

Jackson frowned. “Of course I can. What do they teach you at that academy of yours, if not how to fly?” He turned back to the controls. “Now be silent.”

Over the comm, a burst of static accompanied loud, enthusiastic speech. “What the hell! Do it, Leans—if you are Leans! And if you’re not, we’ll watch you crash and burn!”

Jackson depressed the button. “Right! Here goes, gennelmen—if you are gennelmen.” He leaned back, cracked his knuckles, reached for the piloting controls, and grinned.

“Stop!” Mosely jerked forward, fumbled for his gun. “You make one move for that asteroid and I’ll gun you down.”

Jackson’s hands paused mid-air.

A gun pointed at Mosely’s midsection. “I don’t think so, Captain.” Petersby’s voice held a hard edge.

“Wha—” Mosely gaped at the heavy, hard-eyed guard. “Are you pointing a gun at a superior officer?”

“No, I’m not.” Petersby spoke in an even tone. “And I’ll explain that to you later. For now, stand back and keep quiet. Slide your gun across the floor.” He didn’t move his gaze or aim as the captain’s gun stuttered across the battered metal floor. “I happen to think Jackson’s got a better plan for getting out of this mess than you do, and I’m willing to see him try it.” Without moving his head, he said, “Go ahead, Jackson.”

Jackson, who had been watching the preceding with a raised eyebrow, lowered it and swiveled back to his instrument panel. “Aye, aye—Captain.”

The whole brouhaha had taken less than two minutes. Now he began to play upon the instrument that was his ship. With one hand, he controlled the yaw, with the other, the pitch. He peered out the window as well as at the screen. Jackson looked back and forth from screen to panel to cracked window. He adjusted course—and punched the accelerator.

The little ship shot forward. Into the inky black she zoomed. Past the pirate ships, and bullet-straight toward the donut asteroid’s center.

Mosely screamed. The ensigns yelped. The acceleration threw all the Earth personnel stumbling across the room.

Petersby grabbed for a wall, his gun hand off balance.

Mosley took two stumbling steps forward, his hands out for the bigger man’s gun.

“Not another step!” croaked Petersby.

Jackson, braced in his chair at the controls, held still and concentrated on flying.

A shot rang out.

The ship’s engines thrummed in a steadily increasing whine. Jackson held his course.

“Ugh.” Mosely, gripping his arm, began to collapse. “You shot me.”

The asteroid grew larger and larger in the window, blocking out all stars. Someone screamed. The little ship rocketed down the dark tunnel.

And shot out the other side. Jackson learned back, turned a knob the whole way left, flicked a switch. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

One of the ensigns sobbed hysterically.

Over the radio, pirate cheers preceded and accompanied the static. “Hot damn! You did it! That’s some piece of flying. Go give those Earthlings hell, Fly-Man!”

Static burst in and out, cutting into the whistling and stomping sounds as the little ship continued at its accelerated pace, no action to the contrary being applied to slow it.

“Just let them bounty hunters try to follow you! We’ll teach ‘em a thing or two!”

Other voices chimed over the airwaves. “Give ‘em hell, Leans!”

Jackson grinned. He pressed the button. “Y’all don’t forget to write.” He began to cross his hands behind his head. Oh yeah, the shot.

He turned around, to see one of the youths tying a tourniquet to pale Mosely’s upper arm.

“Fool could have killed me,” said Mosely hoarse-voiced.

Petersby stood back, gun still in hand. “We’ll have to give him proper treatment. The fool’s going into shock. Send a distress signal as soon as it’s safe, Jackson.”

“You.” Mosely’s glazed eyes refocused on Petersby. “You’ll be court-martialed!”

The ensigns gave him a pain patch on the neck, and his voice began to slur with its effect. “See you hanged fr’m a yardarm!” He shook his uninjured arm’s fist, just before his eyes fell shut.

Jackson flicked the autopilot switch and faced Petersby. “So, I take it you’re some sort of undercover officer?”

“That’s correct.” Petersby eyed the prone Mosely with distaste, then returned his attention to Jackson. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I figured it was something like that.”

“Oh?” Petersby trained his no-longer innocuous gaze on Jackson. There was a pearl-hard interior to that grey gaze, an intelligence less bluster-filled than Mosely’s. “What gave it away?”

“Figured a real guard who was scared of his boss wouldn’t go around bad-mouthing him to a civilian the second his boss’s back was turned. Especially since you ought to have known Mosely could be listening in from the bridge.” He stretched his hands behind his head. “And. . .you were trying just a little too hard with those questions about my destination.”

“Ah.” Petersby nodded. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.” He tilted an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to know what I’m here for?”

“Figured you’d tell me that if you wanted me to know.”

Petersby grinned. “Yeah, you just don’t want to let me know what you’ve guessed.” He sat down in an observer’s chair. It groaned. “I was here to investigate Captain Mosely’s behavior on commandeered ships. We’ve been having reports of him turning pilots to the enemy’s side by his obnoxious manners and use of excessive force.”

Petersby shifted. The chair creaked. His eyes changed color slightly, to a craftier gray. “And what about you? You were awfully good at faking Leans’ accent. A sort of exaggerated Marsman drawl. I’ve listened to the news. That was close enough to be indistinguishable.” He paused. “And where’d you learn to fly like that?”

“Shucks, mister. Twarn’t nothing,” drawled Jackson. He grinned. “I’m good at accents. I watch the news, too. Leans has been on a lot lately. Mostly stock footage of his stunts, since he disappeared. Gave me the idea to impersonate him.”

“What about that flying? That was ace level flight skill—and there’s no high-tech nav-computer on this old junker. How’d you learn to fly like that?”

“Now that’s easy. I was a racer for three years out by Beta Colony. Can’t get better pilot training than that if you pay for it.” He grinned and scratched his chin stubble. “I’d still be out there if I hadn’t had a downturn in fortune, and needed to take a job, run some turns flying freight.”

Petersby’s gaze narrowed. “Out by Beta—interesting. Isn’t that where Leans got his start?”

“Yep.” Jackson chuckled, shook his head. “Too bad we can’t all be that famous.”

Petersby regarded him. “So you never met him? Wouldn’t happen to know where he is at the moment, either, would you?”

Jackson chuckled again, rubbed his chin. “If I knew that, wouldn’t I turn him in for the reward? I could do with a few cool Earth bills in my account.”

“I’m beginning to think no reward will ever be high enough to catch Leans. If that’s how even pirates react—” He rose, shook his head. “Well, I’d say Earth has formed herself a pretty powerful enemy in Jedder Leans. Excuse me, Captain. I’ll make arrangements to get off your ship. We won’t catch any more pirates with this crate, and perhaps the Wolverine will still be able to intercept some of those that waylaid us back at the asteroids.”

Jackson looked noncommittally polite. He gave Petersby a loose, sloppy salute, and watched the heavy man leave.

“There’s something I don’t trust about that man.” Petersby stood on the deck of the Wolverine, his hands crossed behind his back. “Have someone pull his files and I’ll look at them when I have time.” He watched Jackson’s ship move into the distance. Wolverine‘s captain turned from his shiny panel to face Petersby. “Why’d you let him leave, then?”

“Can’t grapple and drag his ship along with us to catch pirates. It would cause ten worlds of trouble. Slow us down, or worse. Especially if he’s in league with the Marsers. He could warn the pirates of our coming, or try to break away from us at a key moment—any number of bothersome effects. No. There will be time enough to catch up with him later.” He frowned, and scratched his forehead. “I don’t suppose he could be Leans? He was awfully good at that voice.”

“Surgery for height and facial features, in less than five days? No, I don’t think so, sir.” Wolverine’s captain turned away. “If he’s carrying illegal cargo, we’ll catch him later. For now, concentrate on the pirates, sir.”

“Yes.” Petersby frowned at the decreasing ship on the screen. He turned away from the screen. “Better hurry up, if we’re going to catch them.”

Aboard the Cricket, Jackson whistled a fragment of ‘La Marseillaise’ slowly through his teeth. He glanced at the ancient, rear-view camera display. It showed the big ship growing smaller and smaller, retreating towards the cluster of asteroids where the pirates had lurked.

“Good luck,” he muttered.

If the Earther fellows had had a better communication system worked out, Petersby could have sent Wolverine straight to his catch. They’d wasted precious minutes by not having a code worked out, and not daring to use open ship-to-ship communication, in case the pirates overheard them and sprung the trap backwards.

Well, it worked out for me. At least I’ve got a head start on them.

He hit a button on his dash.

A frequency of rising and falling static issued from the Cricket. Overhearing ships would likely think his transmission system had wonked out. All except one.

The two ships continued to part. Their distances increased until the Wolverine showed as a tiny, flickering dot on Jackson’s screen. Then it blinked off.

He continued to fly. Then, at last, a reply: answering, rhythmic static.

Jackson changed course, veered to meet the ship that veered away, rose from its perch camouflaged on a tiny, slowly spinning asteroid alone in space. The ships met, docked.

Jackson waited, slouching smoking in Cricket’s hold.

A man in a stylized Mars-red beret entered, looked all around. “Jackson.”

“Foxman.”

“Where. . .?”

Jackson took his cigarette from his mouth, and nodded as he spoke. “Over there.” He pointed to the bright, clean crates on the north wall, the ones Mosely had wanted to jettison. “Had a deal of a time getting him off. Closer than you’d think. Ask me to tell you about it some time.”

Foxman looked at his face. “You’re not staying?”

Jackson shook his head. “Nope. You can uncork and defrost him just as well without me. I can’t wait. I have to lead a man on a wild goose chase.”

Foxman raised his brows. “Where you headed?”

“Io. That’s where my manifest says, and I’m going to need to be squeaky clean for awhile.” He smoked another thoughtful drag. “I think I can get some recruits out that way. Pilots don’t make it long out by Jupe’s moons if they aren’t good.”

He watched while competent-looking red-beret’d men and women unloaded the north wall’s cargo, handling one large casket-shaped box with special care.

Foxman was last to leave. Jackson walked him to the airlock. He took his cigarette out of his mouth again. “Oh, and tell Leans when you defrost him—he owes me one.”

“I don’t think anyone will argue with that.”

“Yeah—well—you haven’t met Leans. Or seen him when he loses a race to you.” He shook his head. “Still won’t admit to it. The man thinks he’s the best pilot in the solar system.”

He shut the airlock after Foxman, returned to his cockpit with a lounging, rolling walk. While he walked, he whistled.

Planting himself into the pilot’s seat, he patted an ancient panel. “Time to lay a trail, Cricket.”

Alice M. Roelke has been writing since the age of eight. Her SF/mystery e-novella “The Space Station Murders,” by A. M. Roelke, is currently available for sale from MuseItUp Publications, or on Amazon. Her novel, Watch Over Me, will be available from the same publisher in 2012.

She’s also had things published by Young Salvationist, GateWay S-F, Ray Gun Revival, Tower of Light Fantasy, Wayfarer’s Journal, Haruah: Breath of Heaven, Residential Aliens, Stories That Lift, Ethereal Tales, Digital Dragon, the Christmas in Outer Space anthology from Whortleberry Press, and the Of Fur and Fire Anthology from DreamZion Publishing, and Daily Science Fiction.

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Jackson Bluffs – Alice M. Roelke, 4.2 out of 5 based on 12 ratings