Phoenix Feathers, Part II Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Joss is Boss, and something about these creations of his speaks to me, so I just have to cook up some of my own Stories of the ‘Verse.

***

Phoenix darted through the crowded streets of Dyton City, careful to keep the Stallion’s doctor in sight at all times as they ran back to the ship. This was no easy feat, but he somehow was managing it. For her part, Koyi was flagging a little, but was running on enough adrenaline that she could keep up with him.

After another minute at Phoenix’s torturous pace they caught sight of the docking bay where the Stallion had been berthed. The pair slowed down to cut across the stream of passerby before entering the berth through the hangar door.

They were immediately set upon by the Cody, who looked even more frantic than usual.

“Thank Buddha, you’re both okay!” he sighed. “We were so worried about you when you didn’t come back…”

Looking over the mechanic’s shoulder, Phoenix was relieved to see Nebula slide down off of her perch on one of the cargo boxes to greet them. He hadn’t had time to bring her all the way back to the Stallion, so she had been all alone for most of the way back to the ship. Apart from being a bit winded from her own escape, she didn’t seem to be suffering from any of the shock which could come from being caught in the middle of a gang war.

Phoenix looked over at Koyi, who was holding her side as she caught her breath. She didn’t seem to be affected either, but Phoenix couldn’t really tell. The doctor kept most of her emotions locked away inside of herself. Anger appeared to be her one constant state of mind.

“We’d better get inside in the event that they ‘ad us followed, then,” he told the others.

Koyi nodded tiredly, and Cody led Nebula back up the Stallion’s ramp. An expression of pure surprise was evident on her features, and Cody noticed.

“What’s up, Neb? You okay?”

He sat Nebula back down where she had been when Koyi and Phoenix had arrived and cracked a smile, trying to elicit a reaction from her, but the ship’s pilot stared blankly over his shoulder at Phoenix as he scanned the street outside.

“His accent,” she whispered. “Do you think he lives here?”

Phoenix heard their quiet conversation, and tensed. Then he bit his lip, knowing that somehow, it had to be true. Although he had no recollection of being on Dyton Colony before, his distinctive accent had carried through whatever trauma had destroyed his memory.

Phoenix gazed out of the docking bay, making sure that he and Koyi had not been followed back to the ship by the Talons. He thought he’d be able to spot their deep red uniforms from a kilometer away, even in the streets of the Spaceport District, which were, if anything, even more crowded than those of the Bazaar, but he kept scanning the area, giving Nebula and Cody time to forget about him.

Phoenix hoped they would leave him alone. He didn’t want other people meddling in his past, particularly ones that would give him sympathy if they knew his true predicament. That would only serve to slow him down, and to Phoenix, time was of the essence. Perhaps he could find some clues about his past in these dusty streets.

***

The sharp hiss of pressurized air escaping the ship made the young boy flinch away from the airlock door as it slowly began to open. His rescuers had hardly noticed the noise as they were busy preparing to disembark. They loaded freshly polished bits of salvage that had been taken from the child’s obliterated village into a dozen large boxes, which they placed in turn on the back of a large wheeled transport. One of them, the foreman, looked around nervously, then turned and whistled for the child. The boy stumbled over to the man, not knowing what to expect.

On the days-long voyage, he had been largely ignored by the crew, so he had been able to quietly explore their ship. The men who tended to his needs did so on the Captain’s orders. They were not inclined to babysitting, and were often rough with him. The boy was fearful of the strangers who had saved him, so he had kept his mouth shut about it. Besides, who could he tell? He knew that the majority of the crew wanted him off their ship as soon as possible, and might resort to less subtle means of showing him that he was not welcome. The sooner he got away from these men, the better.

The foreman gestured for him to get onto the top of the transporter, but his arms were not yet long enough to reach the flatbed on its top. With a grimace, the foreman grabbed him under his arms and lifted him effortlessly. The burly man deposited him on the transport amidst the cargo, then hopped up himself to sit on the lip of the flatbed as some of the other men had done already.

The boy couldn’t see over any of the crates or past the massive foreman, but he felt many vibrations begin to throb through the cargo platform. With a roar, the vehicle’s engine turned on and the transport lurched into motion, rolling down the ship’s ramp and into the light of an unfamiliar sky.

The boy looked around to make sure that nobody was watching him, then sprang into action. He crawled over to one of the boxes in particular and reached up to grope with his fingers over the rim. The top of the box was cool to the touch, and studded in ten places with softer circles. He had watched several of the men using the boxes, and had noticed that they all pushed the circles in the same order. He closed his eyes, visualizing the box, trying to find clues as to its relative orientation. The only distinguishing feature of the box was that it had one handle on either side for carrying.

Locating the handle on one of the sides, he hesitated, knowing that there was still a good chance that he was positioned wrong. Then he reached over the top and tapped in by touch the sequence that he had observed the crew using. To his horror, the box emitted a loud beep, rejecting his combination. He recoiled from it, glancing at the foreman, then at the rest of the men. It appeared as if the loud motor and the rushing wind had blotted out the sound.

The boy slipped behind the box to the side with the second handle, and tried again. This time, the lid popped upwards in the wind, flying backwards to expose the crate’s contents. The boy hopped upwards, pulling with his arms and using the force of the wind to pitch him over into the box.

Suddenly, the spluttering of the heavy vehicle’s motor subsided, and the men who had perched themselves on the cargo platform hopped off and started unloading the goods. The boy hurriedly reached beneath the top layer of junk to wrap his hand around a small object and pull it free. Then he jumped up onto the top of the box, which was still attached to the rim at one end, and rolled back down onto the metal grating of the flatbed transport. He lay still, trying not to attract any attention.

The boy could now see that they had stopped in the middle of an avenue crammed with billowing tents and bustling crowds. Dust was everywhere, dulling even the colored pendants that flew from an endless network of cables that crisscrossed between taller buildings.

The foreman directed the other crewmen to stack the crates by one of the tents in particular- a tattered, olive grey one- then moved to the closed tent flap and slipped inside. One of the men found the crate that the boy had tampered with, the lid hanging off the top and pointing accusingly towards the unmoving child.

“What is this pile of go-se? These babies are supposed to be fool-proof!” he snarled in disgust, and another man walked over.

“Not if a fool uses them, you idiot. Next time actually lock the gorramn thing, dong-ma?” The second crewman flipped the top back on the crate and pressed down, eliciting a loud click from the box as it sealed. He then pushed it towards the first man, who sullenly hauled it off the transport and over to where the remaining boxes stood.

After another few minutes, the foreman came back out of the tent carrying a large pouch that jingled with coins. Catching sight of the boy, who was sitting with his back to the driver’s cabin of the transport, the foreman whistled, and the child crawled to the edge of the vehicle and hopped down to the sandy road. After a moment’s hesitation, he moved to stand squarely in front of the big man. The man regarded him for a moment, then strode back to the tent and swept aside the flap over the entrance. He beckoned the boy inside.

The boy stepped into the expansive tent, looking about him in wonder at its hidden opulence. From the outside, the big tent didn’t look like much, but the interior of the tent showed no signs that it was but meters removed from the harsh light and gritty air of the streets outside. It was decorated with all kinds of exotic treasures, things the boy had never seen before or could ever hope to see again.

The foreman entered behind the boy, nudging him further into the tent. In the center of the space, a man reclined on heaps of pillows strewn across a deep rug. He raised a hand and lazily waved the foreman and the youth closer.

The boy felt the foreman at his back, shoving him forwards, and he didn’t try to resist him. He was transfixed by this new man’s stare. His blue eyes were as cold as ice, and his thin smile told the boy that he was an extremely dangerous man who was used to being obeyed without question.

The man spoke. “Is it true, that he has no family? That no one knows he survived?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“You. Come closer so I can see you,” the blue-eyed man said to the boy.

The foreman gave him another unnecessary push, then shuffled his feet nervously as the boy was looked over. He glanced at the boy himself, wondering what his employer could possibly want with one so young. He supposed it was none of his business. All he wanted was to get the bothersome kid out of his sight. And, as they say in the salvage business, out of sight, out of mind.

The foreman’s eye then caught a glint of metal, and he sprang forwards, grabbing the boy by the arm. The child gasped as his clasped hands were pried open and an object fell to the floor with a clatter. The foreman scooped it up with a frown and handed it to the blue-eyed man.

It was a mariner’s sextant. It was old and battered, with most of the mirrors missing or bearing deep cracks.

As the blue-eyed man turned the device over in his hands, the boy fought against the foreman’s hold, feeling anger for the first time in his life.

The man raised his eyebrows and stared at the struggling youth. “Is this yours?”

The foreman cursed as the kid bit at his arm, then viciously backhanded him across the face. The boy cried out in pain, falling to the floor of the tent.

The foreman looked to see his employer’s reaction, but the blue-eyed man merely awaited an answer.

“No, sir,” said the foreman. “That little trinket is rightfully ours by salvage, and is now yours, along with the rest of it.”

“How did one so small get his hands on it, I wonder?” mused the blue-eyed man.

“Your guess is as good as mine, sir. We kept an eye on the cargo at all times. I remember sealing that piece o’ pretty in meself. Can’t see how it got out again.”

The foreman’s employer stared at the inert boy before him, considering. He fiddled with the sextant, then placed it beside him on the thick rug. Then he turned his gaze back on the foreman.

“How much?”

“Sir? You already payed for the sextant, sir.”

“No, you mistake my meaning. You must have had some purpose in mind, bringing him before me. Other than demonstrating the unenviable level of attentiveness of your crew.”

The foreman coughed uncomfortably. “Ah, sir. That’s…if any apologies need to be…” He fell silent, looking from his employer to the youth at his feet.

The boy raised his head painfully, his dark eyes meeting the cold blue ones that were fixed on him.

“…How much?”

***

“Thirty platinum? That’s outrageous!” Monty tore at his beard in frustration, but Vitelli was unfazed by the huge man stomping around in front of him.

“That’s after we figure in what you’re selling me,” the merchant added calmly.

“Thirty platinum is a tall order for a simple transport like the Stallion to meet,” put in Priscilla.

“Miss…Ganlen, have I got that right? Miss Ganlen, that sum doesn’t even come close to what I’ll ‘aff to go through to get all this stuff you’re askin’ o’ me. Top-class ID forgery for a crewmember, a brand new Ship Registration an’ a pulse beacon keyed to it, not to mention a place on the top of the Dyton Docks Maintenance Schedule…that’s some pretty costly stuff you’re askin’ of me. And to top it all off, you were late by, wot was it? Twenty two hours?” Vitelli turned towards his lieutenant, who nodded, her clipboard out.

Monty ran a hand over his bald head, wiping onto his tattered browncoat the sheen of sweat that had accumulated from the heat of the afternoon sun. “Look, we explained that already. We had to jury-rig our main drive just to get back in the sky. We haven’t had a chance to do a proper damage assessment yet, and there’s no telling what our patch job did to the old girl!”

Vitelli shrugged. “Wot I’m sayin’ is just this: that’s quite a laundry list for what you say is legitimate cargo, an’ it’ll cost you.”

Monty grimaced, but looked to Priscilla. She nodded slightly.

“All right, but we’re going to need some time to come up with the thirty platinum.”

“’S a done deal.” Vitelli beckoned in the direction of the building and several of his men walked out and began to carry the crates inside.

“We’ll just be hanging on to these, then, as a sort of down payment. You know how it is.”

Clarke spoke up for the first time since he had left the docking bay. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Vitelli looked at him, sizing the old tracker up. “I just like to be sure.”

He smiled at them.

***

By the time that the Stallion’s Mule threaded tiredly through the hangar door, Monty still hadn’t thought up a way around the serious debt that the crew was now in. Priscilla and Clarke jumped off while he deftly spun the hovercraft about in the small space and put it in reverse, backing it up onto the cargo elevator that hung down from underneath the Stallion.

Monty powered down the Mule and hopped out of the cockpit, a move which belied his bulk. He looked around the hangar and noticed that the kid had changed into some new clothes. Phoenix was currently playing Cody at Go, which was a welcome sight, since the mechanic hardly ever let up on trying to get Nebula to play. Koyi was watching them, no doubt bored to tears by the long day aboard the ship. She looked over at him as he approached the group.

“How’d it go?”

Monty sighed resignedly. “Got a bit of a wait ahead of us while our man supplies us with some things that needed getting. Probably be a few days.” He stared off into space for a moment, then perked up a bit. “You know, now that the job’s been made, we can all feel free to get out, see the sights. Probably still a few hours away from nightfall. See the Bazaar?”

Koyi and Cody stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing. After they recovered, they both emphatically declined his offer.

“Suit yourselves,” Monty shrugged, then stumped off to lock the hangar door for the night. It swung closed with a metallic clang.

Across the street from the Stallion’s docking bay, one of the many beggars in the spaceport district stirred from where he had been sitting in shadow for the last three hours. The dark-robed figure walked across the road to glance at the readout on the side of the hangar door. He noted the ship name, type, and tentative departure date before he slipped into the constant stream of travelers, merchants, and the scum that walked the streets of Dyton City.

***