Deuces Wild: Raising the Stakes

By L. S. King

Who are these beings that protect certain planets?
Non-corporeal aliens or something more?
Are they...gods?

The Confederation is bent on expansion—
The rest of the galaxy calls it conquest.

And the planetary gods are fighting back.

Slap and Tristan are not only caught in the middle of this war, but old enemies still dog Tristan's trail, plotting his demise along with crooked cops, space pirates, and local thugs.

As if that’s not enough trouble, a gorgeous, gun-toting old friend arrives, and she causes distraction at the worst possible time.

Can Slap and Tristan navigate all the danger and succeed in their mission to stop the Confeds?

You'll love this edge-of-your-seat space opera adventure!

Get it now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. S. King
• Release date: Aug 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005266288

L. S. King

L. S. King has been published in Deep Magic, The Sword Review, Dragons, Knights & Angels, Digital Dragon Magazine, Residential Aliens, and more. Two of her stories were selected for The Sword Review's "Best of..." Anthologies. She has worked as a submissions editor and a copy editor on several magazines and was a founding editor of the online magazine, Ray Gun Revival.She currently is working on novels in the Deuces Wild series and the Sword's Edge Chronicles.

Book preview

DW3

Deuces Wild: Raising the Stakes

by

L. S. King

Copyright 2022 L. S. King, Loriendil Publishing

https://loriendil.com

License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover designed by MiblArt

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Table of Contents

Intrusions

Brielle

Contrasts

Mutual Distrust

Nabbed

Files Within Files

Bait and Switch

Haeron

Uncle Leo

Race Against Destruction

Aftermath

Brango

Button Campaign

Nothing But Bad News

Desperate Times

Freebooters

Morality vs. Reality

War Wolf

Puppets of the Gods

Anger of the Gods

Unhappy Decampers

Many Meetings

Ambushed!

Summoned

Diplomatic Unknown

Hearts Are Trump

Deuces Wild: Raising the Stakes

Intrusions

Slap slammed to his knees and gripped the top of the headstone. If only he could crush it to powder, make it unreal. His eyes squeezed shut, and he imagined lifting his beautiful Shallah by her slim waist and spinning her in a circle, listening to her laugh. She loved to laugh...

How he wished he could walk in the door and be scolded to wipe his feet while Baby Evan crawled towards him with a happy cry.

Slap held his breath, afraid he would break into endless sobs. His forehead touched the cold stone.

Soft, slow footsteps in the grass warned of an intruder. No one knew he was coming here. Not fair. He wanted to be alone. Be with his family. He ground his teeth. Not fair!

So many times he wished he hadn’t lived. And yet—he exhaled slowly at the thought: he could still choose to...not live.

A slightly quavering voice interrupted. You have been given a reason to live again. A new purpose. If you’ll accept it.

Slap didn’t ask how Gran knew what he was thinking; that was just typical Gran. But her gentle voice didn’t ease his heart, merely fueled his anger.

"I never asked for a purpose! I just wanted my home, my family. Was it too much to ask?"

It wasn’t a fair question. The Zendians had nothing to do with the murdering gangster who killed his family. And the planet’s natives did save his life in the aftermath, no strings attached. But the old woman didn’t chastise him, just slowly levered herself down next to him. Her frail hand rested on his arm.

They sat in silence for a long time. Slap refused to talk; he knew what she wanted, what the Zendians wanted, but he wouldn’t give in to her or to them.

Finally, Gran stirred. She tried to rise but couldn’t. Slap stood and lifted her to her feet.

Her old, soft hand touched his cheek, and she smiled, tears in her eyes.

He watched her walk away, anger warring with his grief. He wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t. Let them find their new mouthpiece somewhere else. He didn’t want to talk for the Zendians.

= = =

Tristan tried to open his eyes. No luck. This was why he hated planets! Despite the controlled environment in his house, this was his daily morning torture. He rubbed at the crust gluing his lids shut and sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

He crossed to the bathroom, stifling a yawn.

The shower cleared his eyes and opened his sinuses, and made him feel almost ready to face the day, but still, he couldn’t wait until they were in space again.

Not bothering to hide his limp, he passed by the great room to the left on his way to the kitchen. Even after all this time, his right calf muscle still hadn’t healed from the injury on Eridani. His jaw clenched in memory of that planet; he hoped never to visit there again!

His partner, Slap, lounged on the sofa, his nose in a book, his long legs crossed and propped on the coffee table, cowboy boots and all.

Mornin’. I made coffee.

Tristan peered at his friend. The nonchalant nod and comment belied the haunted look in the cowboy’s eyes. To be up this early, he must have had another nightmare about his wife and child being murdered and his home burned to the ground. Or about his being tortured on Eridani. Or both. Ever since his return from the valley, he had been rather silent and morose and his nightmares more common, sometimes waking Tristan when he called out or wept.

He ignored the boots on the table; chances were the tall galoot did it on purpose to try to goad him into a response. Tristan poured a cup and sipped the scalding brew. Better.

Did you know that gruntled is a word?

Tristan turned and leaned against the counter, peering blearily through the archway at the cowboy. Yes.

Huh.

What are you reading?

Slap lifted the tome. "Some old stuff, but it’s pretty good. The Shadow Stones by Basil G. Hughes."

After a moment of thought, Tristan said, Published seven or eight hundred years ago.

As close as anyone can figure, yeah. Sometime in the dark ages anyway, after the fall of the Terran Republic but before the new galactic governments got a foothold.

You’ve been reading quite a bit lately.

Gotta do something to pass the time. We don’t have a ship anymore. And I don’t count that fancy planet-hopper you stole from Dray. Can’t use that for cargo.

Yet another debate about Tristan keeping the personal yacht belonging to his late nemesis. You can’t steal from a dead man. He pointed with his coffee cup. And we don’t have a ship yet. I’m working on that.

Slap’s blue eyes twinkled over the top of the book. It don’t seem like you’re in any hurry.

What is that supposed to mean?

I think your eyes are more set on stuff here than on getting a ship.

Tristan glared. The cowboy chuckled and returned to his book. Stuff here. He meant Tanya. The woman had been visiting quite a bit, pretending interest in Tristan, but he knew her true agenda concerned her guild, even if she hadn’t tipped her hand yet. The customer base for the Courtesan Guild consisted mostly of the rich, and when they fled the planet, the cream of her girls soon followed. Streetwalkers were all that remained, hanging about the port area, servicing the crews of the landing ships. On top of that, many of the locals were putting pressure on the new government to delegitimize her guild.

What did she expect Tristan to do about the crippling of her guild and her line of work, much less the political aspects of it?

After another sip, he steered clear of Slap’s implication and replied, I’m no dirtsider. But being this far out, acquiring a ship that suits our business is not that easy.

Why can’t we just buy a cargo ship, then you make the changes you want?

Did they have to go over this again? I couldn’t do all the work myself, and there are not many with the expertise to do it left on this planet. Not since the fall of the Mordas.

Yeah, lots of folks besides the rich skedaddled after you took down those gangsters. This city isn’t half what it was. Too bad Carter ain’t here to help us. Think we’ll ever see him again?

That insane engineering genius, hunted by the Confederation, had traveled with them for some time. Tristan had come to trust him as much as he trusted Slap. After a lifetime of trusting no one, that almost qualified as a miracle, if he believed in such. He shrugged. The universe is a big place, but the Confeds have spies everywhere. If we cross paths with him again, it would be likely the Confeds would too. I hope he’s far away.

I think he’s crazy enough and smart enough to escape them. But I do miss him. Slap shrugged, riffling the pages of the book. If we’re staying for a while, I might go back out before long to see the folks again. And the Zendians.

Oh? I had the impression you weren’t altogether happy with your visit.

With a scowl, the cowboy sat upright, his boots hitting the carpet. I do miss the family, but yeah, it might be a bad idea. You got folks pulling you this way and that here in the city. I get that in the valley. He tossed the book on the coffee table. They have about as much upset there as here. Folks can’t agree on who should be our representatives in the city’s new government.

I thought your father-in-law was to be one of them.

Yeah, and most agree on Ewan, but there’s to be several elected, and they’re all bickering about the rest. And now some are talking about setting up a council to govern the valley. Others are agin it because we did fine before all this mess so why have a council now? And they want to drag me into the middle. I don’t know why. And the Zendians are trying to get me into their religion.

He didn’t say it aloud, but he was pleading for a ship to take them away from the planet. Tristan suspected this place didn’t quite seem like home anymore.

Shaking his head, Slap rose. He grimaced, his broad shoulders hunching. ’Sides, when I go into the valley, I have to see Aylish.

His dead wife’s sister. Close enough in looks to be a twin from what Slap said, and to salt the wound, in love with him. Tristan could see wanting to avoid that heartache.

Have you ever been in love? the cowboy asked.

Tristan’s thoughts screeched to a halt at the question, and he stopped mid-sip, remembering the dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty, Lydie. Once.

What happened?

She tried to frame me for murder.

Slap’s mouth opened, then closed. He shook his head and snatched his hat from the rack by the door. Going shopping. With a nod to Tristan, he left.

After topping off his coffee, Tristan went to the comdesk in his study and opened an interlink to check on any ships that might be available for purchase. Nothing. Not that he really expected anything new on the market.

He’d have better luck on a planet or space station closer to civilization than this backwater chunk of dirt. He could use Dray’s yacht to go in search of a good ship and arrange for it to be delivered. Or buy through a third party without leaving the planet. He had to consider the Confeds, however. Although violently booted from Zenos by the natives, they wouldn’t abandon their interest so easily. They were most definitely keeping tabs on anything coming or going from the planet, although he doubted they had anything more than scout vessels in or near the solar system. Not after Zendians destroyed their battle carrier in orbit by unknown means.

If he were honest with himself, Tristan wasn’t truly in a hurry to buy a ship, despite wishing desperately to be in space again. Slap had that right. But not for the reason the cowboy implied. Reconnecting with the Cirque des Etoiles, his childhood, and Zvi, the man who had been like a father to him, had sent him into a tailspin. Not to mention that with his nemesis now dead, he was not being hunted relentlessly.

Oh, he had no doubt some of those left in Dray’s organization would come after him, not only for murdering Dray, but for confiscating his yacht, which gave Tristan access to everything. Someone had beat him to emptying a few of Dray’s accounts, but not most—proving Dray kept his interests separated and even those in highest positions were kept at least partially in the dark.

From what Tristan had drained off the accounts he could access, and the fact he had seized or sold a substantial amount of Dray’s assets, he was certain he had hamstrung Dray’s people. Without a significant amount of his old nemesis’ resources, anyone wanting retribution would be severely limited.

Could he possibly actually plan a future, instead of a life that forced him to merely survive one day and then another?

What he needed was time to mentally regroup, and with the Zendians protecting this planet, it offered relative safety while he did so.

He downed the coffee, but before he could rise to do his morning workout, an incoming message buzzed for his attention. With a sigh, he thumbed the comm.

A hologram of a man’s face appeared above the comdesk, about thirty, olive skin—although not quite as dark as Tristan’s—thin, with close-set eyes, and a large, fleshy nose. Mr. Durand? Gaston Durand?

Durand? This man knew his alias from way back in his days with Dray. I go by MacCay now.

The man blinked. Uh...sorry. Yes, sorry.

And who are you?

My name is Anders Ibarra, and I am...uh, an employee, former employee, of the late M. Lefèvre. I—we, that is, my associates and I—uh, would like to meet—

Tristan thumbed off the comm. He sat back, his mind racing. And so the games began.

He opened the files he had downloaded from the yacht, including a complete listing of all those who worked for Dray—and their dossiers.

Ibarra’s expertise was in smuggling. He wasn’t high on the list but was only what one might call, in a legitimate business, a mid-level employee. Tristan leaned back, frowning.

What sort of upheaval had happened in Dray’s organization if a stammering underling was trying to contact him instead of one of the new leaders? It had to be a trap. Tristan had better figure out their game and next move, and fast.

And he would think better while working out. The rooftop living area made a perfect spot for all his workout equipment. He and Slap had argued about installing a dome on the roof. They finally compromised; instead of a permanent dome, they installed one similar to those used in the galactic circuses, controlled by emitters, although this one wasn’t as sophisticated as the ones for the circuses, merely controlling sunlight, not gravity or atmosphere. Slap could have open air when he wished, but when Tristan wanted, he had an opaque surface that filtered much of the blistering sunlight and allowed him to control the temperature.

He programmed the dome for his workout setting and began his warm-up stretches.

= = =

Slap ambled along the street, his thoughts nominally on what he would buy in the market today for their dinner, but more on what was going on with Tristan. He seemed in no hurry to leave the planet. Slap teased him about Tanya, but Tristan didn’t really seem smitten with her. So if not her, then what?

His friend seemed more relaxed, more human. He even occasionally smiled—a real smile, not a cynical one or merely a predatory show of teeth. Maybe with Dray gone he didn’t feel the need to run and watch his back. Whatever it was, Slap liked this new Tristan. Well, except for that moustache and closely trimmed goatee. That just made him look evil. Funny he kept that look when he was acting less evil these days.

Slap!

From across the street, Addie waved and then ran towards him, her hair bouncing in loose curls. Glad I ran into you! I was coming to say good-bye. Daddy and me are leaving. He says he can’t make a living here anymore.

He could understand that. The man was a renowned jeweler and needed to be more accessible to his customers as well as able to expand his clientele.

I think that’s a smart move. Wish him my best. And to you too.

Thanks! She gave him a hug and ran off.

He was going to miss the brat, a little, despite the fact she was more annoying than swarm of buzzing blue flies. At least now she couldn’t stow away again and cause them headaches.

Empty windows of deserted stores stared at him, most minus their awnings, though a few tattered rags dangled forlornly here and there. Gone were the majority of the kiosks, and most folk wandered about on foot. Slap hadn’t seen one slave-piloted skiff, and only two flivvers skimmed by. With the downfall of the Mordas and, on top of it, the Zendians showing they could safeguard their world, those who could leave already had, including all the off-world aliens. Many humans were trying to get off planet as well, fearing the Zendians would descend from the mountains and make good on their threat to close down the spaceport, isolating Zenos from the rest of the galaxy.

Ahead, a beggar sat, knees up, leaning against a building, his meager earnings scattered in a rag next to him. Slap considered contributing, but if you give to one, then the guilt of not giving to them all grew like a disease.

The man nodded to him, picking a scab on his leg. The beggar didn’t seem too old, but it was hard to tell with a beard stained by who-knows-what and his skin desiccated by the desert sun, not to mention the dirt encrusting his body.

It was too late to pass by without dropping something in the rag now, but before he could fish a coin out of his pocket, the beggar said, Been folk asking about your friend, Mr. Slap. Not lookin’ friendly-like either. Just thought you should know.

Just Slap. And how did you find out about this?

Mendicant’s Guild always pass on news to those what we call ‘couthy.’

Couthy. Did this man have Separatist ancestry? It would seem so from the use of such a word. But that wasn’t important. Another thought was. So does your guild often pass on news? Do folks pay for you to keep your eyes open for them?

Against the guild’s rules. Not that some haven’t tried to persuade our guild leader. Offered percentages to earnings if we pass on what we see. Things were bad when the Mordas was here, but it’s good now. We’re left alone.

So you don’t gather intel for a little extra earnings?

We’d get kicked out of the guild. Not what we can’t decide to pass on a tidbit to a friend. The beggar squinted up at Slap. Gratis, of course.

Of course. Slap tossed a whole quel onto the rag. Take it easy, friend.

= = =

Tristan bounded off the beatboard to the high bar, ignoring the buzzing of the comm. He hung there for a few seconds, enjoying the sensation of his muscles and bones stretching. The last thing he wanted was an interruption. But how long would that blasted thing carry on if he didn’t answer?

He dropped with a sigh, trod over, and hit the button.

Yes?

Sir, my name is Vermeersch. You have to hurry, sir, it looks like someone is setting up an ambush for Slap!

What?

A man came in earlier to ask if I knew who the tall one was, walking north along Rua Barros, so I told him. Lots of folks ask about him and about you. But he and another were talking near the intersection and now they’ve hidden, like they’re waiting.

Where?

On Rue Neuve near the corner of Rua Barros. That empty storefront.

You didn’t call Leddy? Not only the newly elected mayor, the man was also Tristan’s former snitch/employee.

I figured you could get there quicker and know what to do. You know what the Security Guild has been like. Mostly on the take, and slow to act without financial incentive. One of many problems Leddy faced.

All right, but call him now.

Tristan took the steps three at a time. He snatched a particle beam gun from its rack in his room and raced to the foyer. He blinked as the door shut behind him, realizing he hadn’t even put shoes or a shirt on. Great. He pelted north on the pavement, silently cursing. This had better not be a false alarm!

= = =

Slap moseyed along the street, his woven bag of raw ingredients for dinner in one hand. The beets had looked good, and Tristan hadn’t made borscht in ages. His mouth watered in anticipation.

Hey, Slap!

The cowboy turned. He vaguely recognized the man; he worked for the Guilds and Merchants.

There are strangers here, asking about Mr. MacCay.

So I’ve been told.

Different strangers. I mean, they’re not together. Or I don’t think they are.

So there’s more than one group of people asking about Tristan?

The man nodded.

Thanks. I’ll pass word along to him.

The man tipped his hat and hurried away.

Slap sighed. His friend seemed to attract danger like a cow patty attracted flies. He chuckled. What would Tristan think of being compared to a pile of dung?

He crossed the Rue du Méandre and grinned; a strange name for a street that ran straight and didn’t actually meander. Ahead, a figure several blocks away ran north towards him. He squinted against the sun and shaded his eyes. That looks like Tristan, and he’s racing like the devil himself is after him!

Slap quickened his pace to meet his friend, but a woman stepped out from the far side of the Rua Barros, gun raised, and fired at something he couldn’t see at the intersection just ahead.

Slap slowed, ready to pull out his back knife. What was going on? The woman smiled, tipping her stunner upwards as a sign she wasn’t intending on using it again. She took few steps into the street but didn’t come too close.

After the bright smile and the weapon, the first thing Slap noticed was her long, corkscrew blonde curls. She wore boots, jeans, a lightweight shirt with an open vest, and a backpack. She could have passed for a Separatist. Well, except for the stunner.

Not willing to turn his back on her, Slap walked sideways towards the corner and peered around the edge of the store. Three men sprawled on the sidewalk, and their weapons weren’t stunners but particle beam rifles.

What the—?

Tristan arrived—wearing only his black workout pants, his PBG in hand. He glanced at the downed men and turned to the woman.

Her smile widened. Hello, Gaston.

Brielle

The entire world seemed to halt and tilt for a split second as Tristan beheld the woman holstering her stunner. This was the girl who had escaped from Dray with him, covering and trusting each other with their lives until they knew they had lost their pursuer long enough to change identities and truly disappear. Although it did take two tries before they were successful.

Or rather, she was successful. Tristan had been bold, in his own mind anyway, not staying completely hidden, but taunting, playing cat and mouse. Now, with a little age, insight, and introspection, perhaps he had just been arrogant and reckless. And lucky.

But this girl—or now, woman. For her sake and safety he had made himself forget her name, her face. Or so he thought. Her voice, her accent, hadn’t changed. More memories cascaded. He managed a one word reply: Brielle.

She smiled. Yes, I can use that name again.

Of course, she had changed her name—as had he. He had to admit, she looked well. Still young and extremely fit. He cleared his throat. I’m using Tristan now.

Shouts and pounding feet caused him to turn. Several shopkeepers rushed over, stunners in hand, the local police hard on their heels. Perhaps the shopkeepers should be auxiliary Security Guild, they certainly seemed more watchful, not to mention less likely to be corrupt.

Some of the officers ran to the downed men, while two aimed weapons in Brielle’s face.

Tristan pushed their rifles down with his arm. She’s not the criminal here.

Sir? asked one.

She’s with me.

Sir.

The officers all backed up a step with obvious deference. Tristan resisted the urge to shake his head or roll his eyes.

We’ll be at my house when you have answers from those goons. Without