Deceived - By Paul S. Kemp Page 0,2
his own sloppiness.
He did not bother reattaching the straps. Arigo’s men would have to undo them to unload anyway.
He loosened his blasters in their holsters and pushed the button to open the bay and lower the ramp. The door descended and snow and cold blew in, the tang of ocean salt. He stepped out into the wind. The light of the setting sun made him squint. He’d been in only artificial light for upward of twelve hours. His boots crunched on the snow-dusted black rock. His exhalations steamed away in the wind.
Two of the men from Arrigo’s freighter detached themselves from their ship and met him halfway. Both were human and bearded. One had a patched eye and a scar like a lightning stroke down one cheek. Both wore blasters on their hips. Like Zeerid, both had the butt straps undone.
Recognizing neither of them rekindled Zeerid’s earlier concerns. He had a mind for faces, and both of the men were strangers.
The drop was starting to taste sour.
“Where’s Arigo?” Zeerid asked.
“Doin’ what Arigo does,” Scar said, and gestured vaguely. “Sent us instead. No worries, though, right?”
No Scar shifted on his feet, antsy, twitchy.
Zeerid nodded, kept his face expressionless as his heart rate amped up and adrenaline started making him warm. Everything smelled wrong, and he’d learned over the years to trust his sense of smell.
“You Zeerid?” Scar asked.
“Z-man.”
No one called him Zeerid except his sister-in-law.
And Aryn, once. But Aryn had been long ago.
“Z-man,” echoed No Scar, shifting on his feet and half giggling.
“Sound funny to you?” Zeerid asked him.
Before No Scar could answer, Scar asked, “Where’s the cargo?”
Zeerid looked past the two men before him to the third, who lingered near the landing ramp of Arigo’s ship. The man’s body language—too focused on the verbal exchange, too coiled—reinforced Zeerid’s worry. He reminded Zeerid of the way rooks looked when facing Imperials for the first time, all attitude and hair trigger.
Suspicion stacked up into certainty. The drop didn’t just smell bad, it was bad.
Arigo was dead, and the crew before him worked for some other faction on Ord Mantell, or worked for some organization sideways to The Exchange. Whatever. Didn’t matter to Zeerid. He never bothered to follow who was fighting who, so he just trusted no one.
But what did matter to him was that the three men standing before him probably had tortured information from Arigo and would kill Zeerid as soon as they confirmed the presence of the cargo.
And there could be still more men hidden aboard the freighter.
It seemed he’d descended out of atmospheric blackout and into a crossfire after all.
What else was new?
“Why you call that ship Fatman?” No Scar asked. Arigo must have told them the name of Zeerid’s ship because Fatman bore no identifying markings. Zeerid used fake ship registries on almost every planet on which he docked.
“ ’Cause it takes a lot to fill her belly.”
“Ship’s a she, though. Right? Why not Fatwoman?”
“Seemed disrespectful.”
No Scar frowned. “Huh? To who?”
Zeerid did not bother to answer. All he’d wanted to do was drop off the munitions, retire some of his debt to The Exchange, and get back to his daughter before he had to get back out in the black and get dirty again.
“Something wrong?” Scar asked, his tone wary. “You look upset.”
“No,” Zeerid said, and forced a half smile. “Everything’s the same as always.”
The men plastered on uncertain grins, unclear on Zeerid’s meaning.
“Right,” Scar said. “Same as always.”
Knowing how things would go, Zeerid felt the calm he usually did when danger impended. He flashed for a moment on Arra’s face, on what she’d do if he died on Ord Mantell, on some no-name island. He pushed the thoughts away. No distractions.
“Cargo is in the main bay. Send your man around. The ship’s open.”
The expressions on the faces of both men hardened, the change nearly imperceptible but clear to Zeerid, a transformation that betrayed their intention to murder. Scar ordered No Scar to go check the cargo.
“He’ll need a lifter,” Zeerid said, readying himself, focusing on speed and precision. “That stuff ain’t a few kilos.”
No Scar stopped within reach of Zeerid, looking back at Scar for guidance, his expression uncertain.
“Nah,” said Scar, his hand hovering near his holster, the motion too casual to be casual. “I just want him to make sure it’s all there. Then I’ll let my people know to release payment.”
He held up his arm as if to show Zeerid a wrist comlink, but the parka covered it.
“It’s all there,” Zeerid said.
“Go on,” said