“He says he's not getting on your ship,” Zazal shouted to Vard Bokren above the roar of the Kjernkor's retrojets. “He's got another idea!”
“Curse all the houses,” the pirate commander snarled, peering angrily at the Llivori. Vard Bokren didn't trust anybody as a general rule, but his reluctant passenger had important information that was worth a lot of Hekayti credits to his Aukami client. “We don't have time for this.” The sirens and klaxons weren't growing any quieter. He tapped the comm pip on his left stump cap and said, “Toka! Dust off! Take the Kjernkor and proceed to the Rigor Strand outpost. And be careful with my ship!”
Toka replied via the comm pip: “Acknowledged, Commander. See you at the outpost.”
The ramp slid upward into the belly of the Kjernkor as the freighter quickly spun, angled toward the heavens, and then bolted skyward. Militia hovercars and local constabulary vehicles screamed into the intersection as the ship lofted back toward the stars. After some brief confusion and direction changes, the law enforcement vehicles resumed their pursuit of the Kjernkor, seemingly oblivious to the Medlidikke and the Lotorian who were left behind. For now. Vard's biggest concern at the moment was that this Llivori had plans to turn him in for a bounty.
“All right,” growled the Hekayti pirate, stepping into an alley between two taverns with Zazal and the Llivori. “What's this other idea?”
Zazal bobbed his snout as he listened to the Llivori – his name was Ribas Salek – explain. Then the Lotorian translated for Vard: “He's got a ship with the latest coordinates for Comorro Station. Should be less of an attraction for trouble than the notorious pirate ship that just blew up two skyscrapers in the middle of Vor. For the official narrative, it sounds like the government is blaming the destruction on Opodian terrorists. Unofficially, though, they want you and your crew dead, your ship destroyed.”
Vard laughed darkly. “They can take a number. So, where's his ship?”
The Lotorian relayed the question in Llivorese. Answer from Ribas Salek: “Opodian impound lot in Ope'mot.” Zazal blinked, his whiskers sagging as he recalled the planetary map that he had reviewed during the flight from Rigor Strand. “That's on the other side of this world.”
“Right,” the pirate muttered. “Because it'd be too easy otherwise.” He shook a finger at Ribas, demanding, “Why'd they impound it this time?”
The Llivori's answer, translated by Zazal: “I buzzed the city with the ship's new name in big white letters on the hull. They took offense to 'Opodi's Vagina.' Hypersensitive, if you ask me.” He chortled. “The impound lot is on the southeastern shore of their harbor. Defenses are practically non-existent. They protect their big temple. They're not so worried about the impound yard.”
Vard furrowed his brow. “You're sure you've got those coordinates, then?”
Ribas bobbed his snout, but then scratched the back of his head with a clawed hand. “Unless the Opodians wiped the database. They've been known to behave badly from time to time.”
“What's the best way to get to Ope'mot?” the pirate asked, waiting for Zazal to translate.
“High-speed cargo tube,” Ribas replied. He led Vard and Zazal down the alley toward a sewer grate. He leaned over, tugging at the grate with strong, pudgy fingers. CLANK! The grate pulled loose. The Llivori set the metal grid square aside. Ribas wiped muck from the grate on his already stained jumpsuit. “The governments avoid doing official business with each other. Officially, Llivori and Opodians hate each other. Unofficially, they have resources we want; we have resources they want. General trade embargo means only properly permitted cargo haulers – the ones who pay really exorbitant fees – can move freight from one nation to the other. Permit fees mean higher prices for people who go the official route. The bigger corporations, though, they make regular payments to the governments – cheaper than permit fees – to fund a cargo tube network. The tubes let the two nations trade with each other without actually coming into contact. Takes all the fun out of it, you ask me. I had a permit! It was worth every Hekker cred that I spent to fly my ship into their city and mock those buffoons.”
Vard's eyes narrowed. When he woke up that morning, he never would have imagined this was how he might be spending his day. It actually amused him more than it probably should have. “So we're loading ourselves into crates to be fired off like a cannon from one territory to the other?”
“Yes,” the Llivori said. He crouched beside the opening in the street, staring down the wrought iron ladder that plunged into the shadowy depths of the sewer system. “One crate, preferably. If we are lucky, the tube coordinators will have the timing for incoming and outgoing shipments properly aligned to avoid collisions.”
Zazal gulped as he finished translating that last bit. Vard scowled. “He's messing with us, Zazal.” He looked toward Ribas Salek. “Right? You're messing with us.”
“They do not always hire the most reliable cargo traffic control operatives,” Ribas said. He then began descending the ladder into the sewers below the tavern district of Vor.
In the universe of ideas, Vard thought maybe there was a worse one out there. He just couldn't fathom it at the moment. So he shrugged and said, “Down you go, Zazal.”
The Lotorian winced. “It stinks in there.”
Rolling his eyes, the Medlidikke sighed. He balled his right hand into a fist and delivered a jab to Zazal's snout. The Lotorian fell to the ground with a yelp, clutching at his snout with his paws. “Why'd you do that?” Zazal asked, struggling to sit upright again.
“Pain'll keep your mind off the stench,” Vard assured him.