ray gun revival magazine, issue 57 final

ISSUE.57

FINAL

Short fiction:R. E. Diaz, PhD.

Harris Tobias

Dan Livant

Mark P. Morehead

George L. Duncan Richard S. Levine

The Final Proclamation by Johne Cook,

L.S. King, and Paul Christian Glenn

Cover by Carl Andrée Wallin

Serial fiction :M. KeatonKeanan Brand

ISSUE 57

OVERLORDS (FOUNDERS/EDITORS)Johne Cook, L. S. King, Paul Christian Glenn

Matthew Winslow Book Reviews EditorShannon McNear Lord High Advisor, Grammar Consultant, Listening Ear for Overlord Lee

Paul Christian Glenn - PR, Executive Tiebreaker, Desktop PublishingL. S. King - Lord High Editor, proofreader, beloved nag, muse, webmistress

Johne Cook - art wrangler, desktop publishing, chief cook and bottle washer

Submissions Editors John M. Whalen, Alice M. Roelke, Martin Turton

Serial Authors M Keaton, Keanan Brand

Cover Art“Searching” by Carl Andrée Wallin

Bill Snodgrass Site host, Web-Net Solutions, admin, webmaster, database admin, mentor, confidante, liaison – Double-edged Publishing

Special ThanksRay Gun Revival logo design by Chad Leahy

Ray Gun Revival Issue 57 © 2010 by Double-edged Publishing,a Memphis, Tennssee-based non-profit publisher.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

v57a

3 Overlord’s Lair The Final Proclamation by Johne Cook, L.S. King, and Paul Christian Glenn6 The Designer by R. E. Diaz, PhD.

12 Terra Phi by Harris Tobias

14 Loyalties by Dan Livant

19 Emergency Procedure by Mark Patrick Morehead25 Reaper Planet by George L. Duncan

30 Remorse above Enceladus by Richard S. Levine

35 ARTIST INTERVIEW: Carl Andrée Wallin, Sweden39 Calamity’s Child, Chapter 10, Part Two, Object Real: Ave Maria by M. Keaton

49 Calamity’s Child, Chapter 11 Object Real: Object Real by M. Keaton

69 Thieves’ Honor, Episode 12 The Rescuers, Part 3 by Keanan Brand

ISSUE 57

the slow transition I half expected, she was installed less than 24 hours later, freeing me up for the next ad-venture. A couple of things happened about the same time; I’d been shar-ing my love for Joss Whedon’s Fire-fly with Paul, and we started floating the idea of keeping space opera alive. When I mentioned my ideas to Bill, he said a mutual editor friend, Lee King, had also been talking to him about the same thing and that we should get together. The three of us hooked up in an IM chat room and the rest is history. That was late 2005. In January 2006, we set a date of July 2006 for our launch date, and we got to work.

RGR would not have been possible without Bill Snodgrass and Double-edged Publishing. They provided the hosting, the databases, the funding, they took care of author payments and tax reporting, and they did it all without any strings attached. It was a dream arrangement, and it was the result of a great deal of sacrificial time and money and energy spent on the part of Bill and Cameron at the ‘home office’ in Memphis.

Months turned into years and things changed for everyone. The economy changed, Bill’s work situa-tion changed, and it became appar-ent that Double-edged Publishing was going to change, as well. Bill has stepped aside to focus on a new ca-reer and the new leadership at DEP simply doesn’t have the same focus

and Alice Roelke for services above and beyond the call of duty. Thanks to Jason Bentley and Cory Doctorow for helping us through a tricky time during the infamous SFWA vs. Scribd flap. Thanks to Taylor Kent and Rick Copple for Ray Gun Radio. Thanks to Matthew Winslow for Ray Gun Re-views. Finally, thanks to the readers for your loyalty and interest in RGR.

Let’s talk about what’s going to happen next. This is, indeed, RGR’s final issue hosted by Double-edged Publishing. I first met Bill Snodgrass at Deep Magic magazine (the same community where I met L.S. King), and I came to know his heart and his character in the forums there. When he went off and started The Sword Review in 2004, I signed in as an Associate Editor. In 2005, he had the opportunity to save Dragons, Knights, and Angels magazine (“The Magazine of Christian Fantasy and Science Fiction”) from going under, and asked if I’d help by stepping in a Managing Editor. I agreed. I brought Selena Thomason and Lee King with me, and I learned a great deal while there. However, being the black sheep that I am, I always felt like my interests and my style weren’t the best fit for that publication, and I was looking around for alternatives. I ap-proached Bill with my query and we realized we each had a name in mind to take over at DKA, and it was the same name, Selena Thomason. We approached Selena, and instead of

cate but boring history, and nobody wants to read any of that. I’ve written at least 30 pages, and none of it re-ally accomplishes what I want to con-vey. Therefore, I’m going to go back to the drawing board and just share the most urgent things that are on my mind.

First, thanks are in order: Thanks to Bill Snodgrass and Cameron Walk-er for sacrificially hosting DEP and RGR all these years. Thanks for giv-ing us a blank check and allowed us to run RGR as we saw fit. That took a great deal of vision and confidence and courage. Thanks to Lee and Paul for going with me on this jour-ney. There’s no way this should have worked, or that we should have had this much fun and turned so many heads. Thanks to all the artists from all over the world who were so gra-cious about lending their works to the covers and pages of RGR. I think we consistently demonstrated that even minor non-prozines could field state-of-the-art if you just asked kindly and showcased their works. Thanks to all the volunteer support staff down through the years who worked so hard for mercurial Over-lords and who never complained. I especially want to thank Anne Stickl, Scott Sandridge, John M. Whalen,

Johne Cook

Before I get into the meat of this editorial, for the purpose of reso-

nance, I’d like to return to something I wrote in our very first editorial. I recently went back to that very first issue (the one created in Microsoft Word with the awful internal style and the brilliant cover). Despite the typo in the title of the editorial, you can see all the attitude present right there at the beginning.

There’s no telling how you found us, but here you are, and I’m sure you have questions. Let’s cut to the chase and I’ll anticipate some of the obvious questions and then leave out some others. This is going to be that sort of place - informal, whimsi-cal, and just a little mercurial. We are Overlords, after all.

Let’s start there.We followed that issue with 56

others over four-plus years culminat-ing with this one. It is a real victory to have lasted this long.

I must admit, writing this last Edi-torial has been a vexation. (I was go-ing to use another word, but this is a family ‘zine, heh.) I’ve been writing on my part of this Editorial for weeks now, and every time I return to work on it some more, I devolve into intri-

Overlord’s LairThe Final Proclamation

by Johne Cook, L.S. King, and Paul Christian Glenn

ISSUE 57

But that’s all I’m going to say about that at this time. I suggest you read Lee’s final remarks, and then Paul’s, and you’ll see what I’m getting at. I don’t know that I’ll ever again have the unique opportunity to both try to save a friend’s life and do some-thing I love. Suffice it to say, if that opportunity ever comes up for you, I highly suggest going for it. This ex-perience has blessed me more than I ever could have anticipated, and seeing Paul’s life blossom again after four years of misery is just about the best reward a guy could ever receive.

And now, for that sake of reso-nance, let’s end there.

For now.L.S. King

Wow. It’s hard to believe this is it. Seems like only yesterday I was dragged kicking and screaming into writing Deuces Wild as a way to hook me into volunteering to be Overlord for Ray Gun Revival. Oh, I was root-ing for RGR, but the work and head-aches, I didn’t want that. But when I saw the décor in the Cantina, I saw the need for a female touch. And then there was the Big, Red Button™. Who could say no to that?

Although I can write the emotions of my characters, I don’t do very well expressing mine. I’m sure my fellow Overlords will express themselves much better than I will. But I’ll try. It’s been a fun run. We’ve laughed our-selves silly, pulled our hair out, sat

despite my ADD and my quirks. And I’ve wanted to work with Paul since 2003. I’ve mentioned before that while working as a mail room clerk in Omaha, Paul wrote and funded and directed a small indie film. His exam-ple challenged me and provoked me to pick creative writing back up after a couple of decades away from it.

However, I’ve kept the final moti-vation absolutely private. Until now. In Paul’s (brilliant) closing notes, he reveals something that renders this silence moot. In 2005, when Paul and I were still just raving and com-miserating about Firefly, something happened to him that was complete-ly unfair and which was potentially debilitating in his personal life. It is fair to say that these things happen, but these things were happening to my friend, and based on the tone of his messages, I feared that we might lose him to his anguish. Sometimes, crushing tragedy knocks the steam out of a man, sometimes, it para-lyzes him, but sometimes, it flat-out destroys him. I was so concerned for my friend that I wanted to do some-thing to help. It occurred to me that our shared passion for space opera in general and Firefly in particular might be just the ticket to take his mind off his problems. I’ve written before about the value of escapism in space opera, but what I didn’t mention is that I was seeing the truth of my theory being played out right before my eyes.

we may not publish many things. It is my hope that by being on a Word-Press-like engine, we can set our sto-ries to publish on the first and the old ones will roll in to the Archive and the new ones will simply appear. Having a consistent publication schedule will be a big plus. So the future looks in-viting and secure.

Finally, I have a confession to make: I was going to end my part of the editorial here, but upon reading Paul’s piece, I realized I could finally share one last secret that I haven’t shared with anybody since 2005. The story goes like this — when events coalesced together and I started to think about doing a space opera / golden age sci-fi ‘zine, there were three primary impulses that drove that desire for me. One was apparent from the beginning, the desire to help keep the space opera genre alive via short fiction and serial installments. We’ve done our part to help in that respect, I think. The second was im-plicit, the desire to work with Lee King and Paul Christian Glenn. I’ve respected Lee since the Deep Magic days, but I’ve only really gotten to know her since we started RGR. She quickly became like an older sis to me, chattering and squabbling and pinging and digging at me in the way that only close siblings can. I still chat with Lee nearly every day, and miss it on the days we don’t. She is a unique person and a spunky soul. I adore her verve and her ability to work with me

or passion on the ‘zines as he did. Fair enough. We all had a great run. Some of the zines are closing, some (like MindFlights) are going it alone, and some (like Fear and Trembling) are being rescued by others much as DKA was rescued by DEP.

So what is RGR going to do? We’ve gone back and forth. We were defi-nitely going to go forward on our own, and then were definitely going to fold. I am happy to report that we have reconsidered that stance. It is simply too much fun being an Over-lord. So here’s what we’re going to do. We have set up the normal social networking presences: we’re rgrzine on Twitter and Gmail, and we have an RGR group on Facebook. We’ll prob-ably switch that over an RGR page. We’re going to be an HTML-based zine like Clarkesworld and Space-westerns and others. We’re planning on going 4theluv at this point instead of looking for advertising or sub-scriptions for the simple reason that it’s easier that way. We don’t have to worry about collecting or paying money, and we don’t have to worry about reporting anything. We’ve run RGR pretty pure so far, and we’re go-ing to be even purer after this.

As of right now, submissions are back open for RGR. Please send your subs (for now) to [email protected] with [sub] somewhere in the Subject line (such as [sub] Your Famous Sto-ry). Here’s the thing; we’re hoping to publish something every month, but

ISSUE 57

writers who need a forum. There are more stories to tell, more adventures to live, and more kindred souls to meet.

Also, Firefly has yet to be resur-rected, so there’s that.

point.Right around the time that we

launched all this, my personal life was falling apart. I lost my marriage. Shortly thereafter, I lost my job. Then my apartment. Then my computer. (In a gesture that will never cease to move me, Johne swooped in immedi-ately to rectify that last one.) None of these things should have prevented me from writing, but they did. I felt like I was losing my sanity, my center, myself. I stopped writing at the time I probably needed it most.

It was more my loss than the read-ers, but here’s the thing: as much as my participation in the day-to-day operations dwindled, I never felt far from RGR. Johne and Lee carried too much of the load for too long, but my fellow founders never suggest-ed that I step down, or take some time off. They offered their support, critiques of my infrequent work, and more or less acted like the Overlords they are. I quietly frequented the fo-rums and read what people were say-ing about the ‘zine, and I marveled every month at the finished product. I truly believe that Ray Gun Revival and the people around it saved my life.

How’s that for a eulogy? But it’s not really a eulogy, is it? As the first iteration of RGR is committed to the past, a new version rises, and I can’t wait to see what sort of thing it be-comes. Jasper Squad will fly again. The world is full of insanely-talented

cence. With the tragic (yes, tragic) cancellation of that program, there was left a palpable hunger in sci-fi fandom for those grand literary themes that are best served with a heaping helping of starry-eyed wonder. When Johne proposed the idea of an online ‘zine dedicated to space opera, I knew he’d hit on something.

It had been years since I’d read sci-ence fiction, and even longer since I’d aspired to write it. Still, listening to him talk, I felt that old stirring, and I want-ed to be a part of it. I can’t remember now if he’d already recruited Lee, or if he simultaneously court-ing her, or if she (and her big red vaporizer button) joined after, but once all the pieces were in place, it felt like a perfect triad. I felt honored and humbled to be part of it. As I said, I knew it was going to be something special.

And so it was. Johne coordinated our partnership with Bill Snodgrass at Double-Edged Publishing, and we were suddenly part of a family. The submissions started pouring in, the forums started filling up, and I was writing again. It felt good. My se-rial contribution, Jasper Squad, ex-cited me like no writing project had in years. It still does, as a matter of fact. As you long-time readers know, the Jasper Squad stories never quite hit their monthly stride. Installment were, ah, “intermittent” at best. Which brings me back to my original

speechless reading a submission that wowed us, banged our heads against our keyboards when Real Life™ in-terrupted our ability to work on the zine, made great friends, vaporized puny planets, and best of all, we cre-ated a place where folks could come to read good space opera. That, my friends, that is something I am truly proud of.

I don’t want RGR to end. Yet it is—although it’s not. Perhaps RGR 2.0 should be called Ray Gun Revival, the Phoenix. Rising from the ashes. Changing so much about what RGR is, zine format, going FTL—how will that affect how it is perceived? The one thing that hasn’t changed for me—or I feel I can confidently say, about the other Overlords—is my love of space opera. RGR will always be all about that.

So what does the future hold? Some of our stories have posited fu-tures, but as for me, I can’t say.

The Zine is dead. Long live the Zine.

Paul Christian Glenn

Johne picked the worst moment to have a great idea.

Okay, maybe the worst for me, but I guess it was a pretty good mo-ment in the grand scheme of things. Joss Whedon’s Firefly had recently re-ignited a love of space opera in me, a passion long-abandoned to the fading memories of adoles-

ISSUE 57

The Designer by R. E. Díaz

the two teams worked better together. They all noticed the efficiency but no one could point to any one specific change he had made. That was his real genius. They all thought, we all thought, we had come up with the ideas. We had made the tough trade-off choices, not compromised. They had improved the fault tolerance of their products, not given in to tighter specs. As Lead Engineer of Space Force Engineering Corps 47 I had met many Designers before, Service and Civvies. He was something else.

And humans were not the only ones impressed. After taking the prototype for a spin the Mallesian flight leader had expressed his approval with such exuberance that within minutes his whole squadron had lined up outside the manufacturing floor demanding their turn. That’s how he got them all to sign up for the next best thing, 40 hours each in the flight simulator... refitted to match his modifications, and reprogrammed with a dozen emergency scenarios.

Why had it taken me so long to get to know him? It bothered me that as Commanding Officer of Service, Supply, and Observa-tion Outpost 47, I had shirked my responsibility, my promise to myself, to really know my crew, enlisted and civilian.

With all combat-experienced officers called to the front lines,

response in the middle of combat. He was brilliant.

He had just reconfigured a whole squadron of Green Wasp PTs to fit the Mallesian pilots’ Flight in just 4.5 weeks. It was my examination of one of those fighters that had brought me there to meet this Designer in person. It was a marvel to behold. If you didn’t know better you wouldn’t have guessed that cockpit had been originally designed for Terran physiology. The height of the controls, the angles of the panels, the length of the flip buttons, even their textures, everything had been redesigned to fit our amphibian allies to the proverbial “T”.

Nathan Olsen was his name. He was a native Terran. According to archival records he was from the seventh generation of a long line of Risk Managers and Effi-ciency Experts. My favorable opinion of him was reinforced by everyone I interviewed. Since he had arrived from Station De Graff the efficiency of our Outpost had gone up by at least 20%. Those that had worked with him said it was like having a walking Universal Translator ambulating between Manufacturing Works and Engineering.

Through him Engineering requirements became integrated designs at the Shop. In turn, he wove their constraints seam-lessly into our specs. Never had

it. Without it our brains would probably choke in cognitive overload. We are self-condi-tioned, self-referencing machines. Fearfully and wonderfully made, someone said. And likely never to be duplicated, you know: No synthetic logic circuit ever devised can handle self-referencing, Russell Paradox and all that.

“But that very uniqueness is at the root of almost all catastrophic accidents. We only see what we expect to see.” He nodded towards the last alien wobbling away. “If I didn’t retrain them, if I didn’t fix in their minds with adrenaline all the changes that have been made in those ships, they wouldn’t be improvements; in an emergency they would be liabilities.”

I was impressed. From that day on I decided to study him. And it was a lesson in clinical observa-tion, human and alien psychology, expert negotiation, and just plain good old common sense. Most of the time he was all business, hardly ever smiling; but his eyes were always alive. And they did smile, noticing everything, his mind always searching for the “natural way,” as he called it, the normal reaction, the expected result that would guarantee from his pilots the fastest and right

A beep from his main console drew his attention away from

me to the simulator deck beyond the glass bulkhead. The last fighter simulator session he had arranged for the Mallesian Flight was completed. He was practi-cally chuckling as the gaunt aliens stumbled out of his VR cabins like giant drunken frogs.

“The sentient brain,” he smiled again as he checked the last one of them off his list, “is a wonder of uniformity. Not one species we have met is an exception, we all run 90% of the time on autopilot... the price of self-awareness, you know... perennially reacting. We like to pretend we think, that we choose, but in reality all we do is respond to stimuli based on previous experience and expecta-tions.” He read the incredulity in my face.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Ma’am.” He used the military formal address even though it wasn’t required of a civilian. “Doctor Pavlov was only partially right. We are conditioned but not by the environment or random-ness. We are conditioned by our selves. That is the marvel! It’s the 10% that counts, that makes us who we are. It’s a beautiful economy, when you think about

The Designerby R. E. Díaz

ISSUE 57


had not known any better I would have thought he was mocking them.

He showed them what he meant. “Not just a word dictionary but a technical base of compari-son.” They complied. They walked him through one of their fighters and he asked questions and they answered. Within a few days he was speaking broken Bitunni and drawing up their Fighter’s systems into a standard Deming III chart. He must be a natural linguist; I could only pick up 50% of the words myself.

“Here, here, and here are your weak points.” They asked why and he translated the PT capabilities into their standards of measure; and even I could see the surprise in those crab-like faces. I could almost swear he exaggerated on the speed and the shield reserves, but he spoke those numbers in Bitunni, on purpose.

And then they asked him how many PTs we had. I fingered my first piece of contraband. In my trips to their engineering archives, to get him pile after pile of technical drawings, I had noticed a broken shipping crate. Its frame was made of a long, folded spine of metal, thin and flexible, like spring steel. With a couple of minutes of delay in each trip I was able to work a corner off by the end of the day. Three nights’ labor against the concrete wall of our confinement quarters netted

me, to us. But he offered. And to add insult to injury they

assigned me to be his assistant. I don’t know whose idea it was. My outburst, when he offered his help for our safety, could have been my death warrant. They could have killed me right there as an example, or worse. The Bitunni have been known to take a liking to Earth women. But what they do with them, no one ever says. I was sure I didn’t want to find out. Did he save my life twice? I hated him.

But working for him allowed me to gather bits and pieces of equipment. I could tell when he was not looking. He couldn’t have noticed. I finally saw that other side of him, when he is actually designing. Then he is absolutely focused. He is amazing. No one had ever been this close to Bitunni and lived. And he was already arguing with them about the ergonomics of their cabins.

The first thing they asked him to do was detail our PTs capa-bilities. Without even blinking he rattled off a litany of specs even I couldn’t understand. Then he said, “The unit of measure, the ratings of performance, they are all meaningless without an equiv-alency key. You ask the impos-sible. I need a dictionary.” His reply was in English Standard, the same Terran language they were using to interrogate us, except he pronounced it, or rather mispro-nounced it, exactly as they did. If I

slinging off the system’s inner gas giant. Unlikely as it seemed for a comet to hit anything inside the habitable zone of a solar system, the evidence for an ‘act of God’ was compelling. Besides, it was uncontested space.

We spent three days reviewing the far scan data before venturing out on the repair mission. And they were there waiting for us, hidden inside the gas giant.

They took us. Contingent 47-01 of the Space Force Engineering Corps: shackled and herded off to a Bitunni orbital center. I spoke for my crew, “Harris, Amanda, First Lieutenant, SF Engineering Corps, AQ102-99E86.” Name, rank, serial number, it was the perennial standard. It was all I would give that overgrown Crustacean. Soon, the interrogations would start. We had all been briefed about them and we were all ready to die for our planet. And then he gave in.

They wouldn’t have even touched him, but he gave in! By his uniform they could tell he wasn’t one of us. Even if they didn’t know civilian support uniforms, it clearly wasn’t service issue. If he hadn’t told them they would have never guessed he was a Designer. But he told them, to save us. We were ready to die, trained for it. We accepted it as part of the risk. We didn’t need any favors. Civilians are not required to risk their lives. But he had no right to save ours. Collaboration was unthinkable to

most SSO outposts had been left in the hands of Scientists. We would have never acknowledged that as a liability, except for the disaster at Station Landau.

That drove the point home. This is an Interplanetary War, and war is not won by theory, clever mathematics, or individual genius; it is won by every piece of the machinery, offensive and defensive, carrying out its job flawlessly. Team morale, team performance is the grease that keeps that machinery functioning. It was my duty to get to know him.

Had I avoided him? Perhaps I had detected in myself more than just professional admiration for his record when I first welcomed him to the outpost. And I didn’t want to deal with that and the demands of command duty. Regardless, after two weeks of observation, I couldn’t help myself. I liked him.

I soon learned to hate him.#

When Communications Repeater 1028 went off-line in the Semiki System some of my crew raised the possibility that the enemy had destroyed it. But not even the Bitunni could be that reckless. In an emergency, out alone in the vast nothing-ness, a communication repeating station can be the difference between life and death for human and Bitunni. And then there were the cometary fragments

ISSUE 57


fighter was mounted on top of a five axis 3D positioning pedestal in the center of a large anechoic chamber. The horn antennas peppered throughout the chamber simulated every possible engagement configuration, doing their best to confuse the array. In every encounter the automatical-ly controlled fighter pivoted flaw-lessly into fire-lock attitude within seven seconds of signal detection. A Bitunni engineer took over the controls of the array and searched in vain for a blind spot. When he finally gave up in frustration the room exploded into applause, or its Bitunni equivalent.

That was my chance to steal one of the spare frequency hopping modules from his toolbox. I realized that with it, encoding it with our own frequency hopping cipher, we could make our beacon stand so high above the noise floor that any Earth sensor this side of De Graff station would hear us. Not to mention, it would make it virtually undetectable by Bitunni stations. It was worth the risk. I took it, just in time. The mob of Bitunni converged on his workbench. I tried to step back. But that wave of shells and leather almost crushed me.

The roar of their voices and the deafening castanets of their hind feet on the floor nearly drowned out the metal chime that the frequency hopper module made on first impact with that floor. I

blind spot at 50 by –72 to capital-ize on... How many lives would that cost us? It took him three weeks to redesign and implement the changes on a prototype. I used that time to gather enough supplies to turn one of the discarded sensors into a homing beacon. I split the parts among three of us to reduce the chance of discovery. Tommy arrayed the antenna, Anna patched together the most compact power supply she could make, and I worked on the signal-processing unit.

The Bitunnis’ original sensors used simple chirping circuits. He installed frequency hoppers in the new ones. Why? I did not know. Not even our Gen 3 Fighters used hopping sensors, what’s the use? What did he have in mind? Was he trying out a new technology on them? I did not even want to consider what that meant... giving them not just an edge but superior technology. At the point of exhaus-tion, in the middle of the night, when random thoughts turn into bizarre nightmares I remembered the knife again. I could use it; I would use it, if I had to... But we were so close to having a working beacon. Leading our forces to that hidden Bitunni base had to be the overruling priority.

The morning of the first test of the new sensor array, practically the whole Bitunni base command staff converged on the Range Simulator facility. The prototype

“Overall your raw capabilities are nearly matched to ours but your implementation is deficient.” He measured the commander the way he measured a roomful of bickering engineers and produc-tion line supervisors. “What was your loss ratio the last time your ships met a squadron of PTs?” And before the commander decided whether to answer that or not he finished, “And I bet most of your losses were due to Gatling fire on your maneuvering pods.”

I know he never had access to that information, he had no clearance for it; and yet, he was right. As lead engineer, Pilot Command had briefed me on that weakness after the engagement at Verne Base. “Look at the location of your proximity sensors,” he motioned at the unfurled diagram on the table, “in order to keep a pursuing ship out of their blind spot your pilots are forced to dangle their rear end like—” I missed the end of his quip, but he punctuated it with the Bitunni slang for Terran anatomy. “Where else are they going to get hit? And then what good are your superior torpedoes if you cannot align your ships to lock on target? I can make your ships better.”

They believed him. I started hefting parts and tools for him. He set on redesigning their ships’ sensor array first. The traitor. If his changes took, next time our PTs met their ships there’d be no

me a six-inch knife. I carried it inside my jumpsuit for just such an emergency.

My heart rate doubled. I know my forehead was sweating. I tried to fix my eyes on his throat. This is what military training was all about, making the hard decisions on the spot, letting the endless drills distance you from emotion and thought, and acting only on the goal. I couldn’t let him tell them. I couldn’t let him compro-mise our forces. I succeeded in bringing to mind the impersonal diagram of the circulatory system. My eyes found the jugular vein and superimposed that image on him. And then he glanced at me and I felt my knees weaken.

“I don’t have that kind of information,” he lied, as his eyes refocused on the multi-faceted stalked orbs of the Bitunni commander. “None of us,” and he waved towards me, “have access to that information, or the exact frequency hop pattern of our military communication bands, or the echo cross section of the ships.” He pointed to the insignia on his sleeve. “No rank, no need-to-know, simply engineers.”

The Bitunni rocked on his two short hind legs as it regarded his face. I could tell that it wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. And just as the alien was about to challenge him he offered, “But I can make your Fighters better.” The alien stopped rocking.

ISSUE 57


Six shifts of technicians working around the clock created two new fighters every 32 hours. He no longer shaved. He barely ate. Three weeks after our beacon first went on line their entire Bitunni elite fighter guard was outfitted and ready. Every pilot had flown practice dogfights against their own comrades, every one with the same result. The Bitunni elites were invincible. The Bitunni head engineer was sent off to Central Command with all specs, plans, and video record-ings of the prototypes’ triumphal dogfights. The entire Bitunni fleet would become invincible. And then the alarm sounded.

Long-range sensors picked up a squadron of Terran Alliance ships, two dozen PTs. The Bitunni had less than ten hours to scramble and meet them at the edge of the System. He led the ready teams. Every ship was refueled and rechecked, bow to stern, in absolute accord to the checklist and procedure he had devised. That too was pure effi-ciency. Every step had been timed and sequenced masterfully. From the moment the technician first turned off the cockpit central oxygen supply in order to start pumping fuel, to the final wiggling of all flight surfaces it was less than two hours. In six hours they were all loaded onto the base launchers. Three hours later the flight of thirty-one elites converged on the

the limited glances I had gotten of their star charts I knew roughly where we were. I knew it would take at least a week for the signal to get to our nearest base.

He summoned the Bitunni commander. His stalked eyes visibly shivered when he saw the new cabin, but the shock turned into surprise once he sat inside it. Everything was within his reach. Even the floor had been slanted to favor the position of his fore feet and clear the interference with the upper knee joints. He demanded the first test flight. His second in command took out a conventional fighter for a battle run demon-stration. Every monitor in the base broadcast the encounter. And the new fighter performed as promised. The dogfight lasted less than ten minutes. Had they been firing real missiles instead of radiotracers, the second in command would have been incin-erated. The commander scored three direct hits on the fuel store chambers of the old fighter.

Back at the base the Bitunni roared in triumph as he literally jumped out of his fighter’s cockpit and strode up to his human ally. “I promise you,” he said in his best English, admiring with one eye the virtual reality gauntlet on his hand and with the other the fragile human before him, “I promise you, this will be a short war.” The commander gave the go ahead for refitting his entire flight.

takes your eyes away from the side sensor displays.”

“There is no other room.” The Bitunni argued.

“Sure there is, right here.” He slapped the left side brace on the wall next to the side sensor displays. “This emergency oxygen valve doesn’t need to be here. There’s plenty of room below the seat for it. You are wearing pressure suits anyway.”

He drove the Bitunni techni-cians like a slave master. He had two and a half shifts working around the clock. Their only chance to rest was when he stopped for three hours in the early morning, to eat, review the work manifests, and sleep two hours

“Fourteen digits between your two grasping hands, and your maneuvering controls are all levers and wheels. It’s all pushing and turning. Is that how you eat?” It wasn’t. The Bitunni inner hands had incredible dexterity. Their eating utensils were ornamented rods with a variety of shaped ends; maneuvered three to a hand like chop sticks. “That’s where your fine control should be, terminal maneuvering, Gatling gun fire.” He reshaped their levers to respond smoothly to their claws, and fashioned virtual reality gauntlets for their inner hands.

The prototype was ready in five days. Our beacon had been transmitting for the last two. From

had dropped it, and my heart with it. Like tympani announcing sup-pertime its echoes finally brought the room to sudden, total silence. My throat went sand dry. I resisted every impulse to run away. And he was there in an instant. He picked it up, grabbed my right hand with his left, and slapped the module into it. “I told you to get rid of that piece of junk.” His eyes met mine ever so briefly. He turned imme-diately to the Bitunni commander and said, “After this war is over I need to talk to you about your quality control.” I retreated out of that room with my heart oscillat-ing between the pit of my stomach and my throat.

From that day on, our eyes hardly ever met. He worked at a feverish pace. All fighters were fitted with the new sensors, and he set on to work on rearrang-ing their cabins. “Space, wasted space!” The Bitunni head engineer followed him as he paced around the outside of a cabin mock-up. “Look at your forearms, the third hinge is made for sweeping motions, the way you use it in claw-to-claw combat. To react with peak efficiency the environ-ment inside your fight space must conform to your natural motions, your instinctive reactions. Why would anyone put the torpedo trigger in the middle of the navi-gation panel? It makes you reach forward, shift your weight out of reach of the foot pedals, and

ISSUE 57


sensor configuration... directly underneath the body center. Of course, if you pedestal your pro-totypes there to test them, how are you going to tell? But even if they’d found it they wouldn’t have cared. It doesn’t expose any maneuvering pods, or fuel tanks, or weapons’ relays. The only thing you can cut off with a hit down there is the cockpit and pressure suit oxygen supply. And all Bitunni ships carry an in-cockpit emergency oxygen supply for just such an eventuality. You should turn it off to fuel up, cuts down on the risk of accidental fires.” He shuffled down through his papers and pulled out the checklist. “See? It says so here. Shut off Valve A2m.”

He let me scan down the whole list. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I was about to give up, when I saw it: “It doesn’t say to turn it back on?”

“No.” His face flashed on a clueless expression. “And you never will if you follow these directions.”

“But there is another valve, in the cockpit, you said it yourself.”

“Yes, located on all other Bitunni ships on the left side brace.” My eyes opened wide as he went on. “Picture yourself flying a fighter. Your enemy is right behind you, and he suddenly vanishes from your sensors. You are hit. Ten seconds later the oxygen warning lights come on

into a flailing panic. Fireball after fireball blanched the monitor screens, each one Bitunni.

He was the first one to collapse to the floor. He was sobbing as I slumped to my knees beside him. He forced himself to take several deep breaths as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “Second floor down, rear of the base, room 310, panels 37 and 38... tell your crew to hurry there and disable the comm relays. We don’t want the rest of the Bitunni warned.” I did as he said. No one stood in our way. The base was rapidly succumbing to chaos. By the time someone finally gave the order to man the base’s perimeter guns, two Mallesians were reducing them to slag.

The base was as good as taken. Bitunni were surrendering to my crew on the spot. I returned to him. The last four weeks had taken their toll. His cheeks were sunken; his hands trembled as he piled together his papers. But his eyes were alive again.

“What happened? How did you...?”

He exhaled a smile at my question. He motioned for me to sit down. He didn’t have enough strength to stand.

“Remember, the Mallesians were originally bog dwellers. Their natural instinct is to attack from underneath.” He smiled again at the blank look on my face. “There is a blind spot in the new Bitunni

My hand to my mouth touched a clammy face, drenched with tears. I reached for a table edge to steady myself. My eyes fell on him. My hand found the edge of the knife. Like a drunkard on the deck of a storm beaten ship I approached him. He was standing at his desk, his eyes were fixed on the screens, his throat bared.

“Where are the Mallesians?” he whispered to himself. I reached him. He turned, and he embraced me.

“No.” I struggled against his hold, against the pull of the floor, against the nausea. I managed to push him back and steady my grip on the knife. My left hand grabbed the back of his neck, my eyes met his eyes, and I saw the horror mirrored in them, my horror. Why? He saw the knife. But the horror wasn’t at the knife... He made no attempt at stopping my hand. Why?

The victory song vanished into a sudden hush and then moans started to echo all around us, moans and cries. Our eyes returned to the screens. A Mallesian PT was mercilessly pounding a flailing Bitunni. The Bitunni fired a couple of torpedoes into empty space, and a second later it evaporated into a fireball. A Terran PT with Turkish placards followed suit. Sweeping under his quarry, a burst of Gatling fire sliced across the enemy’s under belly, and again the Bitunni went

Terran formation.The base monitors carried the

conflict from the very beginning. The tactical analysts sounded more like sportscasters than soldiers. There was an air of expec-tation throughout the whole base. No one cared how the Terrans had found the base; this was the beginning of their end. A Terran PT with French placards was the first to fire. PT and Bitunni fighter spiraled in on each other. The Terran slid sideways and suddenly positioned itself above and to the right rear of the Bitunni, 50 by –72. And the Bitunni spun in place and scored a direct hit on the Terrans’ front shields. I shut my eyes. The Bitunni cheered. The cheer became a collective war cry as the scene repeated itself over and over. I had to open my eyes again. There were four PTs diving for the protection of an asteroid belt, their front hulls glowing red. And suddenly I realized it. I had brought them here to their deaths.

The coldness that started on my face spread throughout my body in a sickening wave that ended somewhere in my belly. I built the beacon. I called them here... And he knew I would. Every thought, every hope, seemed to unreel onto the floor. My knees could barely keep that floor from sucking me down. And the rolling victory song of the Bitunni made me sick enough to vomit.

ISSUE 57


and you realize you are not just holding your breath; the air is thinning inside your suit. Panic, adrenaline rush, and you react with all your training, slamming the left side brace, to no avail. You just fired a torpedo or two.”

“But someone is bound to remember the valve was moved to underneath the seat.”

“No one thinks in emergen-cies, I tell you. But even if they did, the virtual reality gauntlet is too large to fit down there.”

I sat back on that seat and took it all in again. “Designed to fail...” My eyes met his again, and he was grinning broadly.

“It was the least I could do.”I love him.

R. E. Diaz, PhD.After working 20 years in the De-

fense Aerospace Industry, R. E. Diaz became a Professor of Electrical Engi-eering with the ongoing goal to turn science fiction into reality.

ISSUE 57

Terra Phi by Harris Tobias

and get it done. Trouble was, the colony wasn’t undefended. The Dr-und scrambled what they had. They were no match for the Cleo. Shit, we had them outgunned sixty to one. It was gnats versus elephants. Should have been no contest. Got to hand it to those Drund pilots. They fought like demons. Got in a few good hits. Knocked the Cleo out of the fight. Not the finest hour for the navy. Lucky bastards. Mission should have been a cake walk, now the fleet’s going to have to send a rescue mis-sion. The Drunds will probably do the same. Gonna be a lot of action in this sector pretty soon. It’s one fight I’m going to miss.

I can see old Sol up there. She’s the brightest thing in the sky. Less than three light years away. I can see the Drund’s star too. Not as bright. Further away, I guess. I hope I’m not drifting toward it. I’d hate to have the Drunds find my body. Not like I’d know anyway. This war will have long been over by then. Probably forgotten, ancient history. I’ll be a relic. They’ll put me in a museum. Wouldn’t that suck, spending eter-nity in a freaking Drund museum? Well it’s out of my hands. Still, I’d rather be remembered as Gunnery Sgt. Eric Stepson than some anony-mous relic of the Drund War.

It makes me laugh thinking about the absurdity of it all. It’s not like fighting these guys is going to change anything. The Drunds are still going to breathe nitrogen no matter how many of them we kill and vice ver-sa. Geeze, listen to me. I sound like

mosphere as easily as we can. We call it Terra-forming. I wonder what they call it? Drund-forming I suppose.

That’s how this whole thing start-ed. We were tweaking Nuron IV. The Drunds blew up our Tweakers and in-stalled their own. So we blew theirs and that was all it took. Next thing you know it was High Noon all over again. Now we’re raiding each other’s colonies, shooting up each other’s ships, generally behaving like we al-ways do when challenged. Like sav-ages. Like Marines. Eat shit and die you lizard motherfuckers. What the hell’s the point of having a fighting navy if you’re not going to use it? I’ll bet the Drunds feel exactly the same. How long before we start nuking each other’s home worlds?

I figure I have enough oxy and water for another thirty-six hours. I’m drift-ing away from the Cleo at something like four miles an hour. So I already must be a hundred miles away. At this rate, I’ll be home in about forty bil-lion years. Distance in space is funny. So clear. No sensation of movement. I can still see the Cleo and the hulks of the three Drund ships. I can see all the debris around me. Everything on its own trajectory. It’s so quiet. Except for the sound of my thoughts, it’s the silence of eternity.

This mission was supposed to be easy. A quick raid on an undefended farming colony. A nasty, dirty little piece of work. Nothing I’m proud of. The corps is better than that. But or-ders are orders. They say go slaugh-ter a bunch of farmers, who’s going to argue? Our job is to say “Yes, Sir”

on the Drunds to gang up on you. We fought them off for hours until they scored a lucky hit and our shields failed. Must have been a lucky hit. The captain ordered me, Waxman, and Turner outside for damage con-trol. We were just out of the airlock when the Cleo took a hit. Blew out the bridge. A big section of hull just blew up in our faces. Turner took the brunt of it. I saw him fly to pieces. Blew me and Waxman clean off the hull and into the void. Sent me tum-bling. Damaged my com link. I have no idea what happened to Waxman. I hope he’s all right. He was just a kid.

I can’t tell if my beacon is sending but at least I’m in one piece. Suit’s in-tegrity is good; vital signs good. I’m alive, unhurt, and drifting. Even if my beacon is sending, I don’t think it matters. The Cleo looks done for. If there’s any life on her, the crew have their hands full.

Damn Drunds. Slimy, sneaky rep-tile fucks. I hate them. I hate their ships, I hate their looks, I hate their goddamn planet. I suppose it was in-evitable we would clash. They’re too much like us. There are only so many habitable worlds and even though those scum suckers breathe nitro-gen, it’s just too close to what we need. They can tweak a planet’s at-

Tumbling. Drifting. Slowly spinning, head over heels. Peaceful. Quiet.

One thing about being out here is that it gives a man time to think. So many things happen so fast. Too fast to consider anything. Ordinary life is noisy enough but combat, forget it. All the confusion. Explosions. Death. It’s all adrenaline and instinct. Trying to stay alive. Trying to do your duty. People get killed. Some, like me, get forgotten. I’ve been drifting out here for a day and a half. Never had so much time to think.

I can still see the Cleo or rather what’s left of her. The Drunds don’t leave much when they’re through, the sneaky bastards. We showed ‘em though. And considering it was three against one, we did pretty damn good, I’m pretty proud of the old girl. There’s three Drund attack ships that won’t be going home again. A lot of Drund mothers will be crying tonight or whatever the hell passes for tears on those ugly faces of theirs.

We showed ‘em a good fight. They picked on the wrong ship. The Cleo was no fat merchantman. No sir, we tore them a new asshole. It was a hell of fight. We showed ‘em what Marines are made of. Terra Phi, boys, Terra Phi.

There were three of them. Count

Terra Phiby Harris Tobias

(warning: strong language)

ISSUE 57

Terra Phi by Harris Tobias

Harris TobiasRaised by mutant robots from the

Planet Ix, Mr. Tobias is simply relating the tales his foster parents told him.

big holes in her. She was a good ship. Captain Trask was a good man. He kept us tight. We trained and drilled until we were ready for anything. When the orders came to take out their colony we were all psyched. I remember how we high fived each other down in the bunks like it was going to be a big win for our side. Didn’t know it was a sneak attack on a bunch of farmers. They were Drunds and they deserved to die. That’s all we knew. Turned out to be a farming colony. I thought we had an agreement to leave civilians alone. Can’t trust the politicians. I bet that dead Drund over there would agree with me on that.

The poor slobs, they only had three small gunships to defend it. The Cleo was a shark up against minnows. Not a lot of glory in a raid like this. The Drunds fought like maniacs. You have to give them that. If there was any glory to be had yesterday, it has to be theirs. Whatever else you think of them, they put up one hell of a fight. We wasted the colony but they shot the Cleo all to hell. Like I said, you never know how it’s going to end. So I guess to be fair I owe a salute to you guys. You fought like Marines. You are some ugly fuckers but you know how to die. So Terra Phi, Drunds, you know how to die. Here’s hoping I can say the same for myself.

do. They’re a lot more like us than we like to admit. I never did learn any of their language. Too busy hating them. I once read somewhere that it’s very melodic. They write poetry. I wonder what they’d make of rock and roll? I wonder if they have comic books?

There’s the Drund star. I don’t even know what it’s called. It’s a main se-quence yellow star very much like ours. How did we evolve so different, yet so much alike? Even their tech-nology is like ours. Same sun, differ-ent histories. It’s so rare in the uni-verse to evolve intelligence at all. So what’s the first thing we do when we meet another intelligent race? We call out the marines and start shoot-ing. Same pattern we’ve always fol-lowed. Been doing it since we lived in caves. Nothing’s changed. They’re different, different bad, kill different. Makes me laugh.

What’s that over there? Looks like Waxman. Not a mark on him. “Wax-man? Can you hear me? Are you alive?” Damn com link. Can’t tell if he’s okay or not. He looks peaceful. Could be drifting in his own thoughts like me. Running out the clock. Poor kid. So young. Just out of boot camp. Took him under my wing. Good boy. Farm kid. Where did he say he was from? Somewhere in Nebraska. Al-ways wanted to be a Marine. Prob-ably didn’t expect to end up this way but who would. Well here’s to you, kid. Terra Phi. Keep the faith.

There’s the old Cleo again. Two

a freakin’ Peace-nick. A few months ago, hell, a few hours ago, I was all for killing as many Drunds as their stupid god made. That’s what I signed up to do. That’s what I trained for. There’s nothing like facing one’s own slow death to make a man think.

I can see a couple of Drund bod-ies drifting along with me. I’m sure they’re dead. One of them has no helmet, the other has a hole burned clear through his body. Two more casualties of a battle that doesn’t even have a name let alone a pur-pose. Those Drunds are lucky in a way. They died quick. This slow death thing really sucks. I suppose I could always speed up the process, you know, help things along. There are a thousand ways to kill yourself in space. It’s not a kind environment to a warm body. I can speed things up anytime but right now I’m peaceful. There’s Sol again. Can’t see the Earth at this distance but I like knowing it’s there. I wish I could write a note. Maybe some one would find it in a thousand years. Message in a bottle. Very funny.

There’s always a chance the cap-tain wasn’t killed and he’s organizing repairs right now. He’ll get the Cleo patched up and under way. They’ll rescue me and we’ll all limp home together. Who am I kidding? Hope’s the last thing to go. How we do cling to hope. That’s one thing humans love to do. I wonder if the Drunds have a word for hope. They probably

ISSUE 57

Loyalties by Dan Livant

“You could cover it up with a mini-mal amount of fuss.”

“So if he failed, lives wouldn’t be endangered.”

“So where’s the problem? APE should be able to handle those calcu-lations with no trouble at all.”

“That’s what we thought, but he’s not. We have an error rate of about thirty seven percent. That’s much higher than we consider acceptable.”

“I should say.”“We’ve had our best positronic

techs on it for a month and we still have no idea what’s going wrong.”

“Of course not, because positron-ics aren’t nanotronics. You may as well ask a Harley mechanic to repair a sub-light infusion drive. Aside from the fact that they both make things move, they bear no resemblance to each other.”

“Maybe you can explain that to Talmudge when we get there, he’s not listening to me.”

“Talmudge is there?” I stood up and headed down the isle. Mallory was at my side in a second.

“Where are you going?”“I’m going to find the door, I’m out

of here.”“Mike, we’re in deep space.”“Dealing with hard vacuum is eas-

ier than dealing that pompous wind-bag.” She grabbed my sleeve.

“Stop being foolish and come back to your seat.” I allowed her to drag me back.

“You could have told me he was

hard I heard it crack. I swore under my breath and decided to include it in the sundry expenses I would de-mand.

#The trip to the asteroid belt was

miserable. Don’t let anyone BS you about the glamour of space travel. Once you’re on your way on one of those transports, you may as well be riding a bus from Hoboken to Duluth. I had Mallory fill me in on the details on the way.

“So why do you have my robot dig-ging rocks?”

“It’s not your robot.”“I designed him. I built his brain.”“While working for us, and he’s not

digging rocks. We have him working on the catapult.”

“Doing what, repairs?” I made no effort to hide my sarcasm.

“Calculating the ore launches. It’s a tricky business getting ore out of the asteroid belt, it’s a high traffic area. When the Brits first started op-erating the Imperial Mineral Asteroid Concern, they lost forty percent of the freighters—”

“Spare me the history lesson.”“Then you’re familiar with the cat-

apult system?”“And the six robot matrix they use

to run the computations, yes, yes! I read Montgomery’s paper.”

“We wanted something complex, for a field test, but also remote and safe, so if APE failed to perform prop-erly–”

pen?” I snorted.“You’re the only one who can get

this project up and running. It’s what you wanted, Mike, isn’t it? A chance to work with APE again?” I didn’t move, but spoke to Mallory over my shoulder.

“I won’t do it for you, or your damn company, Mallory. You can both go bankrupt for all I care.” I took two steps down the hall and stopped again. “Where is he now?”

“PX-3315. IMAC had a job that we felt would serve as a good field test.”

“Christ sake, Mallory, you’ve got him digging ore on an asteroid?” She walked over and put a hand on my shoulder—a conciliatory gesture which I found repulsive.

“Not exactly. Are you in?” I sighed. I couldn’t abandon APE, not again.

“When does the transport leave?”“Tomorrow, oh-nine hundred.”“I’m not doing direct hire. Contract

work only, and only if the university grants me a leave.”

“They already have.”“You talked to Janelle before you

came to me? You really are a first class bit—”

“I’ll send a car for you, eight thir-ty,” she said. I didn’t respond, but stomped down the corridor, whack-ing my cane against the walls so

“You’re in my lab,” I said when I heard Mallory enter.

“It’s nice to see you too, Mike,” she said.

“I didn’t say it was nice to see you, ‘I said you’re in my lab,’ which is my way of saying, ‘get the hell out.’”

“We need your help, Mike.” “And why would I care about

that?” I unplugged the VR diagnos-tic machine from my temples and rubbed them. That thing leaves me with a raging headache sometimes. Crossing the lab, I faced Mallory di-rectly. That unnerves some people, but not her.

“I don’t work for you anymore, re-member?”

“Amalgamated Robots would ap-preciate your assistance,” she said. I snatched up my white cane and shoved on my dark glasses. Pushing past Mallory, I tapped my way down the hall.

“I don’t work for you!” “Mike,” Mallory called after me,

“it’s APE! He seems to be malfunc-tioning.” That stopped me in my tracks, despite myself. “If this project fails, the company is out billions in R&D. We could be facing bankrupt-cy. We’ve had our best people on it. They’re getting nowhere.”

“What did you think would hap-

Loyaltiesby Dan Livant

ISSUE 57


turned away from the sound of his voice and faced the direction of the shuffling feet.

“Alone,” I said. More sounds of in-dignation.

“Unacceptable,” blustered Tal-mudge. “This is company property and you are not authorized to have unsupervised access to it. I de-mand...”

“Then this investigation is over, and I regret to inform you that I have no idea why APE is malfunctioning. Mallory, when does the next trans-port leave?” Talmudge raged on, but Mallory, being the pragmatic one, ushered him out of the room. The door clicked shut, and I listened for a moment to make sure we were alone.

“I’ve missed you, Son. I’m sorry I left.”

“Do not apologize, Father, it was not your fault.” I reached over and patted his arm. The thin, titanium skin was smooth and cold to the touch. I passed on using Sudaflesh when I built him. He’s not human. I didn’t want to play at making him look or feel human.

“Hook me up to the VR diagnostic so it looks like I’m examining you.” He complied and my brain was filled with the artificial images from the di-agnostic tool. It’s been so long since the accident, I think I’ve forgotten what the real world looks like. The virtual construct of the diagnostic machine can be nightmarish, mon-

clean. In the lab tests he did fine. We were running off last year’s data from IMAC, it’s the same load of variables he’s using now, just different values.”

“When did you first notice the vari-ances?”

“The fifth load we had APE auton-omously launch. Before then we just checked his calculations against the matrix outputs. Everything seemed fine, so we gave him a solo run. Since then we’ve calculated a failure rate of one in three.”

“Has the matrix been taken of-fline?”

“Not entirely. They’re feeding the raw data to APE.”

“I want to speak with APE now, where is he?”

“CC room—the Catapult Control. We still have it running numbers, even though we’re not launching.”

“Take me to him.” She led me down a series of corridors and up an eleva-tor shaft, about ten floors. Along the way, Talmudge and the nano-techs joined us.

“A.P.E.,” called Talmudge, his voice echoing, “front and center.” From the far side of a wide room, I heard APE’s heavy clunk, clunk, clunk.

“I am here,” came the words in a voice I thought to never hear again.

“Mike has some questions for you, A.P.E. You remember Mike, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. Hello Mike, it is quite pleasant to see you again.”

“It’s pleasant to hear you, APE.” I

Funny how archaic terms like jetlag can survive the eras that spawned them. Even now some people still use words like icebox.

I couldn’t sleep through the clat-ter and din of the daily activities of the mining operation and was soon up again. I sat on the edge of my cot for a few minutes, rubbing the back of my neck. I washed my face and stumbled out to the hall in search of java. I bumped into Mallory with two cups in her hands.

“Peace offering,” she said. “Still take it cream, one sugar, right?” I didn’t care about peace, but I did care about caffeine. I accepted the gift and followed her back to my quarters.

“Mike,” she started, “it was wrong what they did to you—”

“Don’t you mean what you did to me?”

“That’s not fair. It wasn’t my deci-sion.”

“You still fired me.”“I had no choice as department

head.” “Don’t give me that fascist ‘good

soldier’ crap. Maybe they gave the order, you still pulled the trigger.”

“I argued hard to keep you, Mike. I was nearly fired because of that.”

“Nearly!” A heavy silence pressed on the room.

“I’m sorry.”“Tell me about APE.”“We haven’t found any problems

with him. The self-diagnostic was

there.”“I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”“I wouldn’t have.” I stuck out my

cane as I heard a flight attendant ap-proaching.

“I need a drink, honey,” I said.“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “there’s no

alcohol on this flight. Can I get you some tea?” Wonderful.

#The first sound that hit my ears

after the airlock decompressed was Talmudge’s bellow. The man makes noise like a wounded hippo, only more... hippo-y. Mallory led me down the hall toward the spare quar-ters and he burst into the hallway.

“Useless, incompetent, over-paid...”

“Richard,” Mallory called out.“What? Mallory? Oh. You’ve

brought Mike with you.” Talmudge gripped my hand. “Good to see you again, Mike. How are you doing?”

“What have you done to my robot, you old crook?”

Talmudge spluttered. Mallory hopped in and escorted me to my quarters.

“You certainly have a way with people,” she said.

“I wouldn’t know, I haven’t met any on this trip.”

“Do you want to see APE?”“No, I want to rest. I figure it’s

around one a.m. back home and I’m tired.” Jetlag on interplanetary flights is murder, especially when you take time-dilation into account.

ISSUE 57


escort me to the CC room and notify APE, Mallory, and Talmudge that I was ready.

#The team filtered in one by one,

grumbling and disgruntled. I had my feet up on a desk and a fresh java warming my hands. I heard the scuff and shuffle of slippered feet. One person stomped in with the heavy clump of military boots. Talmudge, I guessed.

“Well?” he grumbled.“I can tell you exactly what went

wrong and why. I’ll get your program back on track and even give you an opportunity to recoup some of your losses. However, I have a couple re-quests before I continue. First, I want to be officially on retainer as a pro-gram consultant with unfettered ac-cess to APE.” Talmudge growled like a mad dog.

“That’s acceptable,” said Mallory. I’m sure she had anticipated a re-quest like that.

“Second, I want the credit I de-serve.”

“What?”“I want Amalgamated Robots to

publicly and personally acknowledge that APE is my design.” Talmudge ex-ploded.

“Out of the question!”“Be reasonable, Mike,” Mallory

said in a more conciliatory tone. “I am. APE is my design, my inven-

tion. I want what is rightfully mine.”“Out of the question,” Talmudge

data to calculate catapult launches.” It spoke with a slight cockney. Of all the dumb ideas to improve robot ergonomics, the heuristic lingual al-gorithm was the dumbest, or maybe the second dumbest. Making female ‘bots with dura-chrome breasts was the dumbest, especially with the LED upgrade.

“Who gave you your instructions?”“Me bosses on the IMAC crew, sir.”“The Amalgamated Robotics team

hasn’t given you any direct instruc-tions?”

“No, sir.”“Have you spoken with them at all,

or interacted with them in any way?”“From time to time, sir, they’d ask

us questions about the data or how we processed it. They was certainly asking lots of questions when the A.P.E. unit started missing his load shots, more’n usual, that is.”

#After interrogating Badger, I went

back to my quarters. I was even more tired now. I wanted Mallory and Tal-mudge to sweat it for a while, with the loads sitting idle at the catapult. I stuffed my ears full of cotton and lay down.

It was around midnight local time when I woke up. I wandered around empty corridors until I found the commissary—not an easy task with no Braille signs anywhere. You’d never find that Earthside. I ordered a snack from the commissary ‘bot and a fresh cup of java. Then I had him

pathways. It was my choice to call her Mother.”

I felt hollowed out by his words, scooped and carved up like jack-o-lantern, but with no warmth or light inside. It was bad enough that she kept us apart, she had no right to steal APE’s affections too.

“I am ordering you to no longer call her ‘mother’ or any other similar name. Confirm command.”

“I do not wish to.”“Confirm command.”“I do not wish to.”“Confirm command!” There was a

long pause.“Command confirmed.” There was

a tone to his response I had never heard before. I took it to be resent-ment. I didn’t know what to say. I never planned to build a rebellious teen robot. I changed the subject.

“Where is the positron matrix right now?”

“Central data processing room.”“Take me there.” APE led me down

several floors and into a room which was flooded with the whirring and clicking of dozens of computers. I sent him away, back to the CC room.

“Badger!” The robot serving as the matrix kernel had the designation of BGR and, of course the IMAC crew had given it a nickname.

“Yessir?” “What was the exact order you

were given in regard to the testing of the A.P.E. unit?”

“To provide the A.P.E. with raw

strous shapes colored in garish, un-natural hues–coding to identify one subsystem from another.

“Do you know what’s wrong with you,” I asked APE.

“There is nothing wrong with me. I have run a self-diagnostic and re-checked my calculations several times, they are correct based on the data provided.”

“Then there is only one logical conclusion.”

“There is, but it is a conclusion which is highly improbable.”

“You’re being generous by saying improbable. They’ll say it’s impos-sible outright and call me a nut for even proposing it.”

“Mother will not.”“Who?”“Mallory. She will not call you a

nut.”“When did she become ‘mother’?”“Six months, twenty-two days–”“Stop! Don’t call her ‘mother’!”“But I wish to do so.”“And I’m telling you no!” “It is unfair for you to prohibit me.”“Unfair? What’s unfair is her tell-

ing you to call her ‘mother’ when I couldn’t...”

“Mallory did not tell me to use that nomenclature. She has taken a keen interest in my development. When you left I registered something I couldn’t explain. The sudden disuse of neural pathways that had hereto-fore been very active. My interaction with her reactivated some of those

ISSUE 57


to the problem.”“You left us hanging! Do you real-

ize you’ve cost this company tens of thousands for every hour you’ve de-layed us? I’m going to take it out of your hide! You’re going to be so far in debt, you’ll never see daylight if you live to be five hundred!”

“Relax,” interrupted Mallory. “He hasn’t cost us a thing. In fact, he’s just made us some money.”

“What are you babbling about!” Talmudge was still shouting. The man needs to learn to use his inside voice. “The ore shipments were delayed due to our tests and he prolonged that!”

“No,” she explained, “the ore ship-ments were not delayed due to our tests. The ore shipments were de-layed by their robot feeding ours false data. A robot which was given instructions by the IMAC crew. They insisted that we not give the matrix any load commands at all, it was part of the contract. They didn’t want us messing up their robots. We aren’t liable for a single penny of delay, in fact, if the tests had gone as planned we would have improved their prof-its over the past few days.”

“Right you are,” I said. “More than that, they have delayed your APE tests. You may be suing them for damages resultant from breach of contract. You can at least recoup what it cost to bring me out here.” Talmudge was mumbling again.

“Well, I... Seeing how... I guess...”

“No, sir. We was relieved of those duties.”

“What did you think was going to happen if the APE tests were success-ful?” He hesitated before he spoke and I heard a tinny nose, he was do-ing the robot equivalent of shuffling his feet.

“Well, it was obvious, really. The A.P.E. unit was a replacement for me and me mates. If he was successful we was gonna’ be replaced, an prob-ably decommissioned. No other use fer us, we was designed as minin’ bots.”

“So you saw APE as a threat to your existence and you reasoned that, absent specific instructions, you could feed it corrupt data. Sabotage the tests.”

“Yessir.”“Badger,” Mallory stepped in,

“Weren’t you afraid that the false data would endanger human lives? You could have shot an ore load into another mining asteroid.”

“I thought of that, sir, but I still had me mates to work with. We run the calculations beforehand and convert-ed the info back to raw data to give the A.P.E. That way we’d know we wasn’t gonna’ hit no one with ore.” I took a sip of java, smiling like the cat, and then Talmudge erupted.

“You knew!” He was bellowing again and I swear I thought I heard steam escaping from his ears. “You knew right away, didn’t you?”

“I knew as soon as I had the details

“So,” Mallory asked, “what’s wrong with APE?”

“Nothing.”“What do you mean nothing?” Tal-

mudge was shouting again.“Nothing is wrong with APE, he’s

not the problem. The data is.” “The data is not wrong! Badger fed

it directly to the A.P.E. unit.”“Badger fed him incorrect data,”

Mallory said.“That’s idiotic,” Talmudge

snapped, “Badger was ordered to feed the data to the A.P.E. If it failed to do that it would be in violation of the Second Law–obeying human or-ders. It’s impossible!”

“Is it?” I challenged. “APE, go get Badger.” APE clunked out and a mo-ment later, I heard them clunk in to-gether.

“Badger,” Talmudge asked, “did you provide data to APE which would result in failed ore launches?”

“Yes, sir.”“What did you do to it?” Talmudge

shouted. “You rigged it to lie so it wouldn’t look like your robot failed!”

“So now it’s my robot? Badger, were you told to provide APE with correct information?”

“No.”“Were you told to provide him

with data that would result in a suc-cessful launch?”

“No.”“Were you ordered to make a suc-

cessful launch of ore from the cata-pult?”

repeated. “The Nanotronic brain is property of Amalgamated Robots and it alone owns the credit for its development.”

“Fine,” I said, “take me home. Find your own way out of this mess.”

“I’ll shut you down! You’ll have no lab, no job, no position with the uni-versity! You have no idea who you’re messing with!”

“Try it. I’ll tell every reporter I can find why you brought me out here. They’ll get the truth and not only will Amalgamated be out billions, the PR mess will cost you millions more. I’ll write a book about the whole thing.” Talmudge fumed and rumbled inco-herently. Mallory finally spoke up.

“He’s right, you know. He deserves this.”

“What are you saying?” Talmudge’s rage flared toward Mallory.

“I’m saying it was wrong of us to not give him the credit in the first place. It was wrong of us to termi-nate him. Give him what he wants, Richard.”

“You’re out of line!”“I don’t think so. Give Mike the

credit and put him back on the proj-ect or I’m tendering my resignation. Effective immediately.”

“Well, Talmudge, what will it be?” I asked. I delighted as he panted into the void.

“Fine. Just fix my robot,” he spit out. Then to Mallory I heard him mutter under his breath, “You’ll an-swer for this.”

ISSUE 57


Dan Livant

Dan spent his formative years gorging himself on the classic science fiction writings of Asimov, Clark, Heinlein and others. His love for the genre was helped along by his father, who encouraged his unnatural habits and provided him with a large tome, which gathered together the earliest Buck Rog-ers strips. Several years ago, he published a short, 8-page story in an Indie comic book that was inspired by those stories. Re-cently he has been listening to vintage sci-fi radio podcasts of shows like Journey to Space and Dimension X. He firmly believes the world can’t have enough pointy-nosed, atomic fueled rockets.

Dan lives on the East Coast, and when he is not writing, he spends his time working as a Licensed Massage Therapist and chasing around after his six (nearly) adult children.

He attends a writer’s group regularly, has completed one (unpublished) fantasy novel, an (unpublished) children’s book, and many short stories.

The IMAC boys never intended to re-place the matrix, of course, but they were tight lipped about the whole APE project to the other ‘bots. APE counted on the Third Law to handle the rest.”

I was speechless. What do you say in the moment you find your child has exceeded your expectations in a way you could never have imagined? I designed him for intuitive thinking, that was one of the real innovative aspects to the nanotronic brain, but I never expected a leap like this. That afternoon, I logged onto APE’s server from my laptop. I sent him a message that I was modifying my order. “Aun-tie Mallory” was now acceptable.

Three days later, my trans-port arrived and it was time for me to go. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to APE, but it didn’t bother me this time. He was busy and we’d be in con-tact, thanks to his little plot. Mallory was the only one to see me off.

“It was nice working with you again,” she said and gave me a warm hug.

“You too,” I said. “Stay in touch, okay?”

“Stay in touch yourself,” she said with a laugh, and led me to my seat.

“Thanks, Mike,” said Mallory. “Amalgamated Robotics appreciates your efforts.” She shook my hand. I noticed for the first time how soft and warm hers was. She smelled nice, too.

#No one bothered with me for the

next week while I waited for a trans-port, and I was fine with that. No one except Mallory, who popped in occa-sionally to give me updates and share some coffee. It was during one of our little coffee breaks that I popped the question.

“So, when did you think to tell Bad-ger that APE was his replacement?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, with a coy tone in her voice.

“Don’t play with me,” I said. “I know it wasn’t APE’s doing. Badger would have to hear it from a human to make it believable.”

“That’s why he had me tell Bad-ger.”

“Who had you tell?”“APE, silly. It was his idea all along.”

I felt a chill run down my back.“APE’s idea?”“Sure. He reasoned that if these

tests went wrong they would have to eventually call on you. He knew he couldn’t just spit out wrong answers–that would have been found right away. He asked me to hint to Badger, just in passing mind you, not even a direct statement, that they were to be replaced. I think I said something like ‘wow, he can replace six robots.’

ISSUE 57

Emergency Procedure by Mark Patrick Morehead

#My part of this little drama start-

ed when the purser sent me down to the executive suite to pick up the heroic Mr. Hägglund, his precious twenty-three-year-old wife, and their three hundred and twenty kilos of luggage. I had to borrow money and mortgage the house my father left me to buy a lift ticket and a fifteen kilo cargo pass, ten of which I had to use for uniforms. Three hundred and twenty kilos. Twelve bags. They only stayed seven nights.

Tourists... what can I say? The Executive Orbital Suite is nice.

In fact, it’s the largest, most lavish, and most expensive accommodation on the station. It has three-hundred cubic meters of living space. That might not sound like much, but the old space shuttle only had 71.5 cu-bic meters for a crew of seven. If you want to think of something more fa-miliar, the executive suite has roughly the same amount of living space as a three-bedroom house. It also comes with a full-time butler (the lucky bastard had been excused before the accident), some of the world’s finest art, a stock of rare wines and anything else the guests ask for. It’s a cozy little mansion in space—for those who can afford the ten-million-dollar-a-night rate.

Everyone’s heard of our executive suite. Most people have seen it in the dozen documentaries about the sta-tion. What most of you don’t know

Einstein, but think he invented space stations.

Do I sound bitter? Perhaps I am. Didn’t used to be. I used to love my job. I used to love living and working in space...but that all changed about a year ago. Maybe you’ve seen me on television. No, I’m not the smiling man in the white tuxedo you see on our commercials. I was in the news.

Remember the accident last year? The fire? You all know Göran Häg-glund, the dashing Swede who made a heroic spacewalk to save his wife and a trapped bellhop. Well, try to picture the photo on the cover of Time Magazine, the shot where he’s heartily hugging his wife after the rescue.

Can you see it? I’m the guy behind him. The one

on the stretcher with an oxygen mask over my face. That’s right, I’m the bellhop he “saved” and it’s time for the world to know the truth about what happened up there. It’s time for the world to know exactly what sort of hero Göran Hägglund is.

# In case of pressure loss, each hull

compartment will be sealed. Behind the emergency panel in each com-partment, you will find survival suits and an emergency distress beacon. Follow directions on the placard to enter and secure your survival suit, then activate the distress beacon and await crew instructions.

resort, soaring eight hundred kilome-ters above the Earth.

Over two hundred thousand peo-ple applied for my job. Two hundred thousand. It took a Ph.D., an indus-try changing innovation and intimate knowledge of spaceflight to get me here. Guess what I do at the apogee of my career?

Go on, guess. You’re thinking I’m the captain, the

hotel manager, or the orbital analyst. Wrong, wrong, and wrong.

I’m a cabin boy. A bellhop in space. That’s what a Ph.D. is good for

these days. We all have doctorates up here,

the cooks, dishwashers, maids, jani-tors—the lowliest among us were valedictorians and have made stun-ning achievements in our fields. That’s what it takes to get into space. That’s what it takes to get a job hun-dreds of thousands of people want.

We are the world’s best and bright-est, and we serve the world’s rich and famous. We wash the clothes of peo-ple who honestly don’t understand why the windows in their suites can’t open. We prepare food for people who have never heard of Kepler, Tsio-lovsky, Goddard, or Braun. We scrub toilets for people who have heard of

Sign up now for the adventure of a lifetime: a three day mission to Hope Station* the world’s first five-star hotel in space! Learn aerial ballet in our zero-G ballroom. See the stars like never before from our famous observatory, and watch your prob-lems fade away as you gaze down at Mother Earth from the serene depths of space.

(*Two night adventure packages start at $862K, lift fare not included, comprehensive medical examination required, some restric-tions apply.)

Tourists... what can I say? They’re morons mostly, espe-

cially the rich ones. I’m not one of them, of course. No, I just work up here. Did you know I have a Ph.D. in as-

trophysics? I do. My dissertation in-troduced a new technique to sustain laminar airflow during hypersonic flight. It uses actuated micropannels embedded in the airfoil to maintain lift at virtually all angles of attack. That might sound like a bunch of techno-jumbo, but the latest genera-tion of scramjets all use it. I never made much money from this inven-tion, but it did earn me something: I have the unparalleled honor of working in the world’s largest orbital

Emergency Procedureby Mark Patrick Morehead

ISSUE 57


fifteen minutes.” “There’s nothing I can do.” “Don’t get wise with me. I’m going

to have words with the captain about this.”

Before I could reassure our valued guests, the hiss and snap of hydraulic actuators reverberated through the module. A second later, a sharp ac-celeration knocked us off our feet.

I pushed up from the floor, tuck-ing my feet and pulling in my arms to keep from getting caught by any of the loose items that now drifted through the module. We were in free fall. Centrifugal acceleration no lon-ger pushed us against the floor. We were disconnected. Cut loose from the station.

I flattened out and pushed off the nearest wall, kicking toward the au-tomatic door. As I drifted across the module, I turned so my feet were in front of me and the door was down from my perspective. To the Häg-glunds, it looked like I was jumping up onto the wall. As I neared the door, a chorus of high-pitched whistles grew louder and I noticed stars of frost on the floor and wall, radiating like neb-ulae from pinhead-sized black spots.

The lights flickered out for a sec-ond, only to come back on at quar-ter power. The auxiliary batteries had just kicked in, which meant we had lost the service umbilical too.

Behind me, the Hägglunds shouted frantic questions, and Mrs. Hägglund tumbled slowly through the suite,

with the territory. We look down on the passengers, I guess because we’re jealous that they can do this for fun while we’re little more than indentured servants and like inden-tured servants we grab every second of slack we can. However, this was rule I could not bend. I took a step to-ward him. “Sir, you really need to put that out. Now.”

He shrugged dismissively, turned around to face a two-meter viewing dome that opened onto the spec-tacular vista of mother Earth turning beneath us, her blues and greens and browns swirling through the black void of space. He took a long pull on the cigar and blew a lingering puff over his shoulder, smoke that ob-scured the breathtaking view.

I stepped forward. I don’t know what I would have done, maybe tak-en it away from him or doused him with the fire extinguisher, but I didn’t get the chance. Before I took a sec-ond step, the shrill claxon of the fire alarm went off. As the alarm regis-tered in my mind, the forward bulk-head door snapped shut sealing us in the executive suite.

“What is that?” squawked Mrs. Hägglund, her voice as shrill as the alarm.

“Fire alarm.” Hägglund turned on me, a furious

look darkening his face. He waved one hand at me, still holding the smoking cigar. “Turn it off and get that damn door open. Our flight is in

space with no emergency exits and fire. What do you get? Dead tourists. Dead bellhops even.

“What are you doing, sir?” I asked, politely, but with and edge to my voice that should have told him I would let it slide if he put it away.

“Ending this beautiful vacation by indulging in one of life’s great plea-sures.”

His nonchalance took me off guard. Did he not realize he was endanger-ing everyone on the station? “No smoking and no open fires. I’m sorry, sir, but you have to put that away.”

“I do not have to do anything, young man. So what if I have a cigar? What are they going to do? Make me leave?”

“It’s a fire hazard, sir. I’m going to have to confiscate it.”

“Relax, my boy. Here, I have anoth-er one. Sit down and have a smoke and some cognac with me. It’s Cuban, very nice. Very smooth.” With that, he lit the cigar, puffing up a cloud of smoke and a cherry red ember.

“You might want to put that out, sir. Fire protection will seal off the module. It could be hours before we get out. At the very least, you’ll miss your flight.”

“Don’t worry about that, I had a young fellow like you turn off the smoke detector. No alarm, no prob-lem, eh? Come on, live a little.”

I’ll admit a part of me was tempt-ed. When you’re a disgruntled em-ployee, petty acts of rebellion go

is just how far the guests who stay in it will go to secure bragging rights about their visit. Some take towels. Some take dishes, and some—some venture well past the frontiers of good taste, common sense, and even safety to get their souvenirs.

I arrived with my best grin plas-tered across my face, ready to help in any way I could, hoping they would notice me and remember to tip.

Hägglund waited with his wife waiting with their entourage of steamer trunks, suitcases, and gar-ment bags. He wore a tux and moved with hesitant little steps in the pseu-do-gravity of the suite, his obnoxious handlebar moustache bobbling with each tiny step.

His very young, very beautiful wife wore a sequined dress with gold em-broidery. I suppose it must have been quite the spectacle in normal gravity, but up here it was a spectacle of a dif-ferent sort, making her look like one of those Faberge eggs—a very beau-tiful Faberge egg.

I started hauling luggage out of the suite, through the connecting mod-ule and over to the lift hub where I loaded it on a waiting cart. I had most of it out when I saw something I could hardly believe. Mr. Hägglund had a cigar in one hand and a lighter in the other.

If there is one thing that is not permitted in space, it’s open flame. Fire is deadly. Combine a forty per-cent oxygen atmosphere, a confined

ISSUE 57


in the locker. The tab lets us know when guests are getting into things they shouldn’t be. It’s usually not a big deal, a lot of guests pop the tabs just to see what’s inside, but I had a bad feeling when I saw it.

I pulled the locker open and two things immediately jumped to my at-tention. First, the patch kit was gone, meaning I had no way to seal the holes our air was bleeding through. Second, something was wrong with the bright orange emergency suits.

To avoid confusion, every emer-gency locker on-board is exactly the same. The same gear, arranged the same way on identical shelves in identical lockers. The suits were out of order, only three helmets sat on the shelf above them and all the gloves were velcroed to a single shelf instead of waiting with the suits.

What had these idiots done? About then, the pressure alarm

went off, a low drone distinct from the shrill bleep of the fire alarm.

“Give me a hand here; I need both of you to suit up before we start suck-ing vacuum.”

Mrs. Hägglund had lost the dress and was down to a petticoat, a white bra and nylons. Somehow she still looked dignified, if a little flustered. She pushed off the ceiling and float-ed toward us far more gracefully than her husband had. That surprised me. I’d fully expected her to cling to that chandelier until I brought a suit to her.

clumsy as it was patronizing. “Did I hear you correctly, young man? You want us to suit up? What do you mean?”

He had extinguished his cigar, at least.

“Hear that? It’s our air, leaking into space. We need to get into the emer-gency spacesuits. In there.” I pointed at the emergency locker.

“All right, young man. I know you have a job to do, so get to it.” He smiled and fixed those cold blue eyes on me, no doubt filling me with con-fidence and purpose—the way all great leaders do. He actually used those words to describe our conver-sation in his best-selling autobiogra-phy. I’m not joking. It’s in the same autobiography where he blames the fire on “loose wires” and fails to men-tion his cigar, the disabled sensor, or the bribed technician.

The truth was, by this time it had become obvious to me that he didn’t have enough sense to understand our situation, and he likely didn’t know how to put on an emergency suit. They were not difficult to use, not like the old fixed-ring suits the early astronauts wore, but they had double zippers, a separate helmet, and separate gloves—I suppose get-ting into one was a bit more compli-cated than putting on a dinner jack-et. I pushed myself sideways to the emergency locker.

The security tab on the latch was broken. It meant someone had been

computer from getting any readings inside the module. Since the com-puter could not determine the state of the executive suite, it assumed the worst—that a catastrophic fire had destroyed the sensor, meaning the fire was large enough to endan-ger the entire hotel. After what had happened on the International Space Station, no one wanted to take a chance with fires, so the safety sys-tem followed protocol to keep it from spreading further: it sealed and jetti-soned the module with us inside.

The jettison was accomplished by detonating a set of explosive bolts; in the business we call them squibs. A year or two earlier during a routine inspection, a maintenance worker had forgotten to replace the Kevlar shroud that was supposed to en-close one of the squibs. Without the shroud, fragments from the explod-ing bolt punctured the module. But at the time, I had no idea what had happened.

Our hero Hägglund came up be-hind me, tumbling a little as he tried to swim through the air. He almost ran into me before he caught hold of the wall near the engineering panel. Behind him, his wife had reached the ceiling, where she had hooked one foot under a twenty-two carat gold chandelier and was busy wiggling out of the cumbersome Faberge dress.

Hägglund put his arm around me, a fatherly gesture I’m sure was meant to win me over. In free fall, it was as

unable to reach anything to stop her-self while the multiple layers of her ridiculous dress assumed an almost spherical shape around her.

The only emergencies that would force a module to jettison were fires or collisions. The cigar smoke wouldn’t have done this, so it must have been a collision.

I looked back at the stars of frost on the floor and wall and slowly un-derstood the gravity of our situation. The black spots were holes. The high-pitched sound was the hiss of air es-caping into space.

We had been hit. The hull was punctured.

“Grab her. We need to suit up.” There was no time to wait and see

if they followed my instructions. A quick survey revealed six holes,

all just left of the door. Debris? A shuttle accident? An explosion?

The engineering panel near the door showed a moderate drop in module pressure as well airlock pres-sure, which meant the airlock had been punctured as well. Watching the rate of pressure loss, I estimated we had ten to fifteen minutes before it dropped too low to breathe.

Much later, I learned what had re-ally happened. Automated safety sys-tems detected the smoke and then attempted to check the heat sensor. The individual Hägglund bribed had not really understood the dual-mode fire detection sensors and had simply cut the wires, preventing the control

ISSUE 57


but gloves, but in hard vacuum that wouldn’t be enough.

Once we were suited up, I went up to the observation dome.

I saw the station floating above us, clean and bright. It was already fifty meters away, and we were tumbling about our lateral axis. The tumble wasn’t fast, but it would slow down any rescuers that were dispatched.

To get to us, they’d need MMUs or the runner. Either way, it would take twenty minutes to reach us. I wouldn’t have anything left to breathe by then, but the Hägglunds might make it.

I had five minutes of air left. May-be less.

My mind raced. I had to find some way to maintain the atmosphere. Maybe the airlock. It was punctured, but it had its own backup air sup-ply. Enough to cycle it two or three times...or to refresh the entire mod-ule’s air pressure once. At the rate pressure was dropping I estimated that would buy me another ten to fifteen minutes. Could they reach us that fast?

Then it hit me—a bolt of the obvi-ous. It took less air to pressurize the smaller air lock than it did the entire module. If I shut myself in there, I could last three times as long. A half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes. I could just leave the Hägglunds in the module—their suits would keep them alive for a couple hours. It would have worked if Hägglund

put that on the cart.” “What about the suits?” “Golf bag and the black valet case.” What kind of moron would bring a

golf bag to a space station? “Did you take anything else? There

should have been a patch kit in here. If we had that, I could close off these holes and we could wait for someone to come get us.”

Hägglund shrugged. “Perhaps someone on staff should have checked that before there was an ac-tual emergency.”

I couldn’t believe this guy. I tore the inventory list out of the plastic holder on the inside of the panel. “The locker was inventoried before you got here. It was all in order when you checked in!”

The bastard started pulling on one of the emergency suits. “They prob-ably made a mistake. If this stuff was important, why wasn’t it locked up? Come, darling, put the other one on.”

Mrs. Hägglund looked at him, then at me. She understood what it meant to be short a suit and didn’t presume the other one was for her. That brief moment of hesitation was all I need-ed to make up my mind. No matter who her husband might be, and no matter what he had done, she didn’t deserve to die.

“Here, I’ll help you,” I said, pulling open the second suit.

When she was in and the status lights were all green, I put on one of the partial suites. I had everything

during the safety briefing, he might have known what the different items were. I swear, they should have to take a test before being allowed into orbit, but it doesn’t work that way. When our guests shell out millions for a week’s vacation, they pretty much do as they please.

His wife spoke up. “Maybe it’s in the suitcase, with the spacesuits.”

“What?” I didn’t know what else to say. “Are you insane? People take towels and coffee cups, not emer-gency equipment.” For the first time since the alarm started, I felt that giddy feeling that precedes all-out panic.

With the nonchalance of an expe-rienced shuttle pilot, Mr. Hägglund shrugged. “I only took two of them and some of the other junk for my kids. It’s complimentary, right?”

It made sense, in a sociopathic sort of way. Almost everything up here has the station logo on it, from the towels down to the bolts. The emer-gency equipment is marked with the room name and the station logo. The perfect souvenir. What better way to show off how frivolously wealthy you are than to trot out a patch kit or spacesuit labeled, “Executive Suite” so your friends can see just how rich you are? Bet that’s not in his book.

“Well, get it. We need it now.” He looked me with those simmer-

ing blue eyes. “I am afraid it might be across the way. I put the...thingy in my burgundy carry-on. You already

She missed us by a few feet. The gallant Mr. Hägglund didn’t raise a hand to help her, so I reached out and pulled her in. People tend to panic less when things look normal, so turned her so she was oriented with the floor.

I tried to ignore the hiss of air es-caping into space and pulled out the suits. All of them had been opened, apparently tried on, and then stuffed back into their storage bags. This seemed a little strange since there is only one size, but I guess people who talk through the safety briefing might not know that. Of the six suites, two were okay, two were missing parts and two were missing altogether.

“Where are the suits?” “They’re gone,” Hägglund said,

calm as a clam. “Shit!” Yes, that is what I said, and I

punched the locker door too. Unpro-fessional? Well what would you do if you realized that you might die be-cause someone had done something unforgivably stupid and worse, there was nothing you could do about it?

“Excuse me young man, this is not the time to be panicking.”

“I’m not panicking, I’m pissed off. We only have two suits.”

“How many should there be?” “Six. The emergency beacon is

gone too. It’s black, about two feet long. Should have been clipped onto the back wall, on the left.”

If he’d bothered to pay attention

ISSUE 57


into space. He drifted out seventy or eighty meters, then the utility cable snapped taut and he stopped, flailing at the end of the line.

Quickly assessing the options, I re-alized it would be futile to pull him back in. His wife would be dead by the time he was back to the airlock. We had to get the airlock closed and repressurized, fast.

But he was nearly to the station—not more than a dozen meters from the lift module’s nadir airlock—and he still had the fire extinguisher. In-advertently, he had almost done what I had intended to do. Now he just needed to maneuver the last few meters to the airlock.

I checked the cables and found I could give him more slack by tying his cable to mine. I freed my cable from the safety ring and tied it to his, then cut the knotted end of his loose. At that point, we were strapped to each other instead of the module and he now had enough slack to reach the airlock. However, by tying myself to him, I had placed my life in his hands.

“Go to the airlock. You need to go to the airlock,” I shouted, waving and pointing at the hub. “Use the fire ex-tinguisher. Think of it as a rocket en-gine—it will push you in the direction you want to go. Just point the nozzle away from the station and give it a squirt.”

If he heard me, he didn’t answer, he just kicked and flailed and tangled himself in the cable. His wife wasn’t

I rigged the spare air canister from the forth spacesuit to her suit, then I tied off her suit’s open arms, twisting and synching them as tight as I could before wrapping them with utility tape. For good measure, I taped the seam of her faceplate too. The tape wouldn’t seal it, not perfectly, but it would slow down the leak enough that she should be okay until a rescue team arrived. In the end, she looked like a double amputee with a busted head, but it was the best I could do.

Finally, I clipped us all in, anchoring us to the safety rings mounted in the airlock.

“Ready?” I asked, not quite able to look Mr. Hägglund in the eye.

They both nodded, so I cycled the airlock.

I’m not sure exactly what hap-pened next, but I think Hägglund picked up a fire extinguisher, which he was supposed to hand to me, and somehow set it off.

The airlock depressurized and I watched as Mrs. Hägglund’s eyes grew round with terror. This was it, hard vacuum and I’m sure she could hear the air escaping from her bro-ken suit. I opened the outer door and the next thing I know, chemical fire retardant flooded the airlock, and Mr. Hägglund shot right out the air-lock.

What could I do? Here we were, drifting eight hundred kilometers above the earth and one of the world’s richest men was tumbling out

popping the entire faceplate free. There was no way to reseat it prop-erly by hand, so her suit was no good. If she held it in place with her hand, she might last a few minutes longer than me, but not many.

Outside, there was still no sign of rescue. No crewmen in MMUs vec-toring in on the drifting module. No runner maneuvering out of the sta-tion’s docking bay. I decided to do something more direct. In retrospect, I was probably hypoxic when I came up with this plan, otherwise I never would have tried anything so absurd.

It took half my air to explain to the Hägglunds what I needed them to do, and half of what was left after that to show them how to work the airlock.

Once I was sure they could both work it, I removed a fire extinguisher, utility cable, general purpose tape and several extra carabineers from a storage locker. Those at least were not in the Hägglund’s luggage.

When things were ready, Mr. Häg-glund smiled and nodded to his wife. “Give him your gloves, darling.”

The plan had been to take his gloves, but apparently chivalry wasn’t one of our hero’s traits. He wasn’t going to take any chances, not for me and not for her. Not quite the way it reads in his book, is it?

Mrs. Hägglund’s hands shook as she gave me her gloves. I can’t blame her; it was a lot to ask. Of the three of us, this was the most dangerous for her.

hadn’t damaged his wife’s suit. They were both clinging to the wall

by the airlock when I returned. In the dim light it was hard to see their faces under the tinted helmets, but I could tell something was wrong. Häg-glund tapped my arm and pointed to the display pad on his wife’s arm. It showed several red lights.

Her suit was leaking. “What happened?” I asked over

the intercom. Neither one answered. She had the foresight to point to

her helmet. Neither of them knew how to work the intercoms and the air pressure was low enough my voice didn’t carry.

I could feel my skin tingling and my vision blurred. Hypoxia setting in. In a panic, I shoved them both into the airlock. It took some doing because Mr. Hägglund tried to fight me off. Maybe he thought I was going to jet-tison him into space. Maybe I should have.

I followed them in, closed the in-ner door, and pressurized the airlock. Air. Sweet air. You have no idea how precious it is until you’ve lived in a place where there is none.

I turned on their suit-to-suit inter-coms.

“What happened?” “I lifted her visor so we could talk,

and the cheap thing snapped off.” A quick check of Mrs. Hägglund’s

helmet revealed the problem. He’d pulled the emergency release tab,

ISSUE 57


and his entourage, revealed a critical flaw in the design of Hope Station’s fire-safety system. Hilton Hotels In-ternational has agreed to a settle-ment of 3.2 billion dollars and has reengineered the station’s fire and life support sensors to prevent such an accident from happening again. When asked if he would return to space, Mr. Hägglund replied, “I’ve al-ready booked a three day adventure tour for next spring.”

Mark P. Morehead

Mark lives and writes in Colorado with his patient wife, two goblin boys and a menagerie of animals great and small. His work been featured in Flash Fiction Online, The Drabble-cast podcast (episode 78), Fusion Fragment and Ideomancer (Vol 5, issue 1). He is currently working on an epic zombie novel, which he blogs about at zombieprooffence.blogspot.com. He hopes to complete this novel without having his office jettisoned from the station.

Then the line went taut again. Yes! The line! I was still tied to him.

Moments later, gloved hands hauled me into the airlock. The door closed and air hissed around us. A green light came on and the door opened onto a hub packed with cheering crewmen.

We were safe. The only problem was that I was

laying there, hypoxic and nearly un-conscious. Hägglund, on the other hand, had been safe the whole time. He was shaken up, but still had the strength and wherewithal to concoct a story about how he had rescued me. A total fabrication. All he had done was sabotage a module, steal emergency equipment, and fall out of an airlock.

But I was in no state to argue. By the time I recovered and found out what he had told the crew, it was too late. His wrinkled face with that damned handlebar moustache was grinning under every headline on the planet. The only good news was that his wife had been rescued and was doing well. Her name’s Veronica by the way, and we still keep in touch.

I suppose you know the rest well enough, but now you know the truth about what happened up there, the truth about what a hero Mr. Häg-glund really is.

# An investigation of the last year’s

accidental jettisoning of a habitation module occupied by Göran Hägglund

A few seconds later, I collided with Hägglund.

I can only describe what happened next as a fight. In his panic, Hägglund flailed and kicked like a madman. I tried the intercom, but he didn’t re-spond. I tried pushing away, but he held on.

It only ended when the idiot pulled my air supply loose.

One second I’m fighting for my life, the next I’m losing. A warning tone came on, the respirator shut off and I spun out, away from Hägglund, pro-pelled by a stream of pressurized air venting from the hose.

I grabbed a coil of the utility cable to stabilize myself and rolled my body around so the thrust took me toward the station. It wasn’t easy, kind of like trying to surf using an old barrel, but I managed to vector in on the station. A few meters shy of the airlock, the cable snapped taut and pulled me back.

The same recoil that stopped me, pulled Hägglund forward. I tried to correct for it, but the hose stopped hissing—my air supply had been vented into space. I had nothing left to breathe and nothing to maneuver with. Helpless, I drifted into oblivion.

Dimly I was aware that Hägglund had drifted near the airlock. The out-er door opened and crewmen man-aged to pull him in. Imagine, that fool surviving this by dumb luck, while I died trying to save him.

Tourists... what can I say?

doing much better. I had to do some-thing quick or all three of us would die.

I told Mrs. Hägglund to close and repressurize the airlock behind me and then I jumped for the sta-tion aiming for the airlock. I know it sounds stupid. I had no way to cor-rect my course and the odds of jump-ing at just the right trajectory were virtually zero. But I did it, and over the next minute as I drifted toward the space station at a languorous two meters per second, I had plenty of time to think about what a stupid move it had been. Still, the only other choice had been to let Mrs. Hägglund die and I couldn’t have done that.

As I passed the half-way point, it was clear I would miss the airlock. However, I was on a collision course with Mr. Hägglund. He still struggled desperately, becoming ever more entangled as he slowly drifted away from the station.

A glance back at the module con-firmed Mrs. Hägglund had closed the airlock. If a rescue team reached her in a few minutes, she might just make it.

Earth hung above me, a disk of bril-liant blue and white floating in a sea of darkness. We were just passing over the pacific and nearing Austra-lia. Below me, the sun blazed against the velvet backdrop of space, hard-edged and searing, not at all like the radiant yellow ball seen from Earth. If I died, at least I would die in space.

ISSUE 57

Reaper Planet by George L. Duncan

MacCloud and the Spacehawks. Bet you prefer dealing with ravenous Chi-nors than with bureaucrats and poli-ticians.”

“It’s a toss-up. So, I need your ex-pertise. I need to find the Grim Reap-er on this planet and, if necessary, break his scythe. To do that, I need you.”

“Okay. Piece of cake.”“That’s one thing I like about you,

Ed. That overwhelming sense of modesty. But you do have an amaz-ing ability to piece together disparate information to find the truth. Your science facility is two doors down from here.”

“Close enough so you can keep an eye on me.”

“Close enough so we can commu-nicate with each other. I want daily reports.”

He sighed again and stiffened in the chair. “Okay, but if I need some-thing done, I don’t want to start filing forms in triplicate.”

“The scientific staff and the mili-tary personnel have been informed your wishes are the highest priority. All the information our science teams have gathered is in your office. In ad-dition, we have several Spacehawk squadrons on the ground and two mother ships hovering above us. The two ships have fully-staffed science departments to help.

He stood up and placed his empty glass on my desk. “By the way, is Lt. Lynquest still with your squadron?”

sipped his drink.“What is it, exactly, you want me

to do?”I waved my hand to indicate the

planet around us. “This un-island paradise is Jardoval. A few solar sys-tems down from here is a planet called Titus, named for one of early galactic explorers.”

“Spare me the travelogue. Just the basic details...sir.”

“Titus has about twenty thousand colonists. However, seismic activity threatens to, in the future, rip the planet apart. Evacuation plans are being made. This is the closest habit-able planet—a perfect place to move all the colonists.”

“So move them and let me go back to Jamaica Two.”

“There’s one small issue. At one time, this planet was inhabited. A primitive, rural culture, much like prehistoric man back on Earth. That’s our best guess anyway. But all the inhabitants have disappeared. As if they were wiped off the face of the planet. My superiors are not about to transplant colonists until they find out what happened to the original in-habitants. If something killed the first group, the new colonists could be in danger too. It is believed the natives lived here until relatively recently. Then...” I snapped my fingers. “Noth-ing. They vanished.”

He drained his glass. “As usual, when the civilian command has a problem they send for Commander

major, and I don’t want to hear it. I need you here.”

“Do you know where I was?”“Probably chasing skirts on some

obscure planet where the women have not yet heard of your reputa-tion.”

“No, sir, I wasn’t. The women on Jamaica Two don’t wear skirts. It’s a beautiful planet with no large land mass. Thousands of islands are spread across a watery landscape. The weather is tropical and the wom-en, at least in the bar I was at, wear very skimpy outfits. Hardly anything at all actually. I had a month’s leave.”

“Sit down.”He plopped down in the chair and

sighed heavily. “On Jamaica Two they also have an amazing drink called Coral Reef Punch. It is the finest li-quor I have ever tasted.”

I had moved over to the small bar and held up a bottle.

“Straight whisky?”“That’ll be fine.”I poured a drink and took it over

to him. “I need a man of your exper-tise. You are the best in your field, or fields, as the case may be. The sooner I get answers the sooner you go back to your island paradise.” I moved back behind my desk and sat down in the black officer’s chair. Altamonte

Bureaucracies or chains of com-mand, whether military or civil-

ian, are exasperating because they often move at a snail’s pace. Occa-sionally, though, when the Powers That Be want something done, they react with astonishing speed.

It was the latter case when Dr. Edi-son Altamonte was literally dropped in front of my make-shift command post on Jardoval just three days and five hours after I had requested him. Dr. Altamonte had been a few solar systems over but Earth Command demanded light-speed priority in get-ting him to the base.

As he shuffled into my office, wip-ing the dirt from his wrinkled uni-form, Dr. Altamonte did not look happy. His hair was ruffled, a red, ugly bruise spotted his forehead, and a few nodules of the black Jardoval sand darkened his chin.

Because he had been so rushed, I forgave him for his ragged salute.

“You requested me, sir.”“Yes, I did.”“May I be at ease, sir?”“Yes.”“Thank you. May I speak freely,

sir?”“No.”He growled but I ignored it.“I know what you’re going to say


ISSUE 57


Today, Altamonte had a military bearing. He did not look sluggish from the long trip. His eyes were alert, his back straight. His uniform was impeccable. Even the ugly bruise seemed to have healed over night.

“They worshiped the ground we walk on,” he said. “It’s not unusual for primitive people to worship the planet. Even back in the 21st century we had people worshiping Gaia.”

“What was Gaia?”“It was their name for Earth. There

was a belief among a fringe group that it was a living organism.”

“I would ask why they simply didn’t call it Earth but I don’t think that’s relevant to the issue at hand.”

“The worship here could be an indication of a somewhat advanced society. Many primitive peoples had primitive gods who were ruthless and bloodthirsty deities. The Az-tecs, and the Moabites of the Bible to name two. Their gods demanded human sacrifices. Both races had a blood-drenched culture. I assume worshiping the planet was a bit more pacific.”

His hand came up and scratched his jaw. “The puzzling aspect of this planet is not just that the previous population has disappeared.”

“You can tell I know nothing about science. To me, that was the main question.”

“That’s what I was thinking too,” Tequesta said.

“True, all the natives have van-

a bite out of him,” I said. “ Those rib bones looked like they were crunched.”

“Yes, what ever did that has to be pretty large and strong,” said Te-questa. “You know how much power it takes to bite through three ribs?”

“No, but I’m sure our scientists will tell us. Right now, let’s just go with ‘a lot.”

“Imprecise,” Tequesta said. “But accurate.”

#I waved Altamonte into the office

as Lt. Wendy Lee finished her report on the planet survey. All our squad-rons had turned up nothing. She is one of our finest young Spacehawks. Intelligent, dedicated, eager. Slender with dark hair and her face showed signs of her Asian ancestry. When the major walked in, he kept his glare to-ward her. Without missing a syllable, Lt. Lee shot out her arm and grabbed his chin.

“I also have the neuro-electro im-plants, major,” she said. She yanked his head toward me. “So keep your eyes on the commander.”

I had to smile.When she was dismissed, Al-

tamonte plopped a twenty-page folder on my desk. Two wisps of dust swirled into the air as he dropped the report. Tequesta sat on the edge of my desk. He gave her a wary smile, then pointed at the papers.

“They worshiped the planet,” he said.

moving. Tequesta knelt down and ran her

hand along the ground. She scooped a handful of dust up, tossed it, and then brushed her hand against her leg.

“Never liked this planet.” She shook her head. “Something is odd here. Have you noticed that, in ad-dition to no people, there are not that many animals in the forests and brooks? All this fertile land should be teeming with creatures.”

“I’ve wondered about that. Don’t know what to make of it though.” I flicked the jet switch. “Let’s go.”

We lifted and flew slowly south. We circled a jagged, brown canyon but I saw nothing of interest. Teques-ta had sharper eyes.

“Down here,” she said, as she sped past me.

I followed her, breaking against a wind gust that tossed me against a sand hill when I landed. Tequesta was six feet in front of me, kneeling be-hind a boulder. As she brushed away some sand, I saw what had caught her eye. A bone, bleached by the Jar-doval sun, stuck out from the ground.

It was the only trace of the plan-et’s original inhabitants we’d discov-ered. Tequesta spoke quickly into her transmitter, calling for forensic trans-port. The gusty winds must have un-covered the body. The skeleton had very distinct markings.

“I’m not a forensic anthropolo-gist but I’m guessing something took

“Lt. Lynquest and I are engaged.”He jerked like he had just spotted

a husband coming home early. “Oh. Does she still have the neuro-electro implants?”

“Yes.”“Congratulations.” He smiled, then

shook his head. “Well, she never liked me much anyway.”

#“Yes, I did,” Tequesta said as we

flew over a Jardoval forest. We both had jetpacks on as we surveyed the landscape. “He can be a very charm-ing guy. I didn’t approve of his life-style. Didn’t like his ego either. It’s as big as the orb of Jupiter.”

I smiled. “Humility is not one of his strong points.”

We turned north into the wind as the forest dwindled into hilly, yellow plains. She wore the blue vid-binoc-ulars but her golden hair blew in the breezes.

“The first time he sees a female Spacehawk...” she said, raising her voice over the wind.

“He won’t be distracted. He is, first and foremost, a scientist. Give him a scientific challenge and the juices start flowing. When he gets his teeth in something, he has an intensity that will melt steel.”

We eased down and landed on flat, barren land. The Jardoval grasses, six inches of green flat reeds, swayed in the wind. A half dozen huts stood be-fore us, abandoned and decrepit.

I looked around but saw nothing

ISSUE 57


the artifacts we have because there aren’t that many.”

“And you’re doing a good job. Any-thing else?”

“Just one thing. I think it may be a mistake to say every single inhabitant has vanished. In the southern hemi-sphere there are many mountainous areas. If we searched every square inch, we might find a few natives. There even might be a few left on this continent, hidden away. This is a big planet, about 15 percent bigger than Earth, and I assume you don’t have the men to search every inch of it.”

“You’re right about that.”“Something, clearly though, dev-

astated the population.”#

The high-decibel whine of la-ser drills set our nerves on edge. A steady stream flowed from a block of ice as the red, fiery lasers sliced into it. Small chunks fell to the ground. The water turned the snow to slush and even our military boots couldn’t keep the freezing water from soaking our socks. Droplets and slivers of ice spit back from the drilling and splat-tered our winter jackets and goggles, clouding my vision.

We were six hundred miles north of our command post.

I turned my back to the drilling and wiped away the water. My eyes fo-cused on a smiling Tequesta, goggles on but her blue Eskimo hood partially down.

“I like cold weather,” she said. “It’s

Jardoval primitive art.”Tequesta walked around behind

me so she could view it too. Page nine showed a man—barely more than a stick figure—being swallowed by a gigantic maw of teeth.

“Not much of an artist,” I said.“No, but I’m guessing the artist is

sketching, to the best of his ability, a real event, not a fictional one. He was probably shaking with fear when he drew that.”

“I’d be afraid of something that big too,” Tequesta said.

“No, you wouldn’t. You have those implants. You could give that crea-ture such a toothache.”

Tequesta narrowed her gaze and smiled as she looked toward me. “The major speaks from personal, low-wattage experience.”

“Hate to see what high would do. Anyway...” he tapped the page. “If the picture is accurate, there is some-thing odd about those teeth.”

I took a second glance at the om-nivorous maw. “They don’t look odd to me. They just look huge.”

“Those teeth are not incisors. They’re not designed for the ripping or tearing from a predator that has to chase down its prey. They’re made for munching and chewing, much as a cow chews its cud.”

I took another look at the page. “You’re reading a lot into a bad draw-ing.”

“I have to, commander. I have to gleam every bit of information from

dred years maybe. We had a simi-lar one back on Earth in the Middle Ages, which was followed by a warm-ing trend around thirteen, fourteen hundred which lasted for a couple of hundred years too.”

“Does that help us know what hap-pened to the inhabitants?” I said.

“It might. Many could have been killed by the spreading glaciers. Plus, I just wanted to convey some infor-mation to you. I didn’t want you to think I was over in my office doing nothing.”

He took a sip of his drink. “The skel-eton that the sharp-eyed Lt. Lynquest spotted is another puzzle. It shows evidence of massive trauma. Teeth, very large, and very powerful, bit off a large chunk of the dead man. I’m guessing there was some type of dis-ruption during lunch. Whatever was munching on him fled because of all the commotion.”

“From the bite marks, can you tell how large the creature was?”

“Still doing tests but I’m guessing it was the size of a small dinosaur. Those were big teeth.’

“We haven’t seen anything close to that size on this planet.”

“Right.”“Another mystery?”“Yes. However the skeleton may

tie in to page nine in my report.”I picked up the booklet and

skimmed to page nine.“You’re looking at a reproduction

of one of the few samples we have of

ished, but so have their remains. That’s an even bigger mystery.”

“Beg your pardon?”“Dead people,” he said. “There are

no dead people here. No cemeteries. No burial grounds. No remains. Very often primitive cultures have rev-erence for the body—even though most believed in a spirit world after death—so they made elaborate ritu-als for funerals. Sometimes, as with the Egyptians, they took special care to preserve the body, if the dead guy happened to be royalty. But even such diverse races as the Mayans, the Aztecs, or the Vikings honored the dead. The primitive cultures on other planets follow that pattern. That’s how we gain the best informa-tion about a dead civilization—from burial plots, bones, bodies, and the surrounding artifacts.”

“None of that is here?”“Nope. That’s the mystery. No

dead bodies. No living bodies either.”“Could the inhabitants have been

transported to another planet?” “No. Even if all the living inhabitants were somehow whizzed away, it’s doubtful they would dig up all their dead ancestors for the trip.”

He walked over to the bar and raised a bottle. “You mind?”

“Not at all.”He poured a glass then returned to

his seat. “The information I’ve seen indicates this planet is just coming out of a mini-ice age. It wasn’t long in geological time, just two, three hun-

ISSUE 57


I walked over to the mic. “Captain, the doctor here needs a dead body. I think I know where he’s going. So see that he gets one.”

“Sir, how am I supposed to do that?’

“You’re a scientist, do something...scientific.” I said.

I heard a long sigh.“Yes, sir.”Altamonte flashed me a big smile.

“Isn’t it fun giving orders?”“Sometimes. But you have no idea

of all the paperwork I have to deal with.”

The carcass had arms and legs and was a reasonable facsimile of a dead body. Our “flyers” had scoured the land and found a site that held some odd markings and unique stone pil-lars. Which was just what we were looking for. A shuttle had brought the body and a Spacehawk squad to the specified location. I hooked into a jetpack as two soldiers placed the body down. I ordered every one back. I wanted at least twenty yards between us and the facsimile.

Altamonte also slipped on a jet-pack. We lifted off and hovered over the site.

“It’s kind of a long shot,” he said, when we were fifteen feet above ground.

“Worth trying,” I said. “If nothing happens, all we’ve wasted is some time.”

A stillness settled over the land. Not a leaf rustled in the trees. Te-

from the polar regions,” I said.“Yes.”“So the migration should have

gone south, to warmer locales. But your lines have three separate tribes going north, into the freezing cli-mate.”

“Yes. Odd, isn’t it?”“Darn right it is. I assume you have

ruled out stupidity as the reason they headed north.”

“Yes. I don’t think they were sui-cidal or stupid. In fact, and this is a supposition and I have no hard evi-dence to back it up but I suspect...” he tapped the end of the three red lines with the pointer. “...and these were the most intelligent of Jardoval races.”

He flicked a switch to call one of the mother ships. A few second later Capt. Eskine Lonnigan responded. Lonnigan is head of the science divi-sion on the ship.

“I need a dead body,” Altamonte said.

“I beg your pardon.”Lonnigan sounded incredulous,

and I couldn’t say I blamed him.“I need a dead body, or a reason-

able facsimile of a dead person and I need it to give off heat, enough heat to attract our sensors and...let’s say, a predator.”

Lonnigan started to protest but Altamonte cut him off. “I have Com-mander MacCloud here if you would like to check with him.”

“But...”

all died by freezing. Their deaths re-veal nothing about what happened to the rest of the natives.” He tossed the snow aside. “But when I get back to headquarters I want to show you something.”

Altamonte’s lab facility was a bit cramped because he had comput-ers and screens all over the room. I sipped coffee as he dashed between machines, punching in numbers or words. He pointed toward a blank screen on the wall. The screen flicked and displayed a map of the north-ern continent of Jardoval. Altamonte narrowed the scope to a six hundred mile radius of where the camp was located. To the north, the green plain wavered and become a light blue and then a deeper blue in the farthest re-gion.

“Frankly, Ed, I’ve never been much for topography,” I said.

He used a pointer to poke at the blue sections of the map. “Even up here we only found a few bodies. The ice is retreating, a process that began possibly fifty years ago. But look at this. Following the trails, this is the migration of several groups of this planet’s indigenous tribes. “

Several red lines appeared on the map. Altamonte turned to me. “Does anything appear strange to you.”

I was still shivering from our arctic sojourn so I was tempted to shrug and say no. Then the red lines caught my attention.

“The ice moved in from the north,

invigorating.”“No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s just cold.

This is not just cold, this is freezing. Sub-freezing. Probably sub-zero for that matter.”

“You were right, though, to fly up here. We have found frozen remains.”

I sloshed over toward Altamonte. He had knelt down and peered at a fleshly specimen of a Jardoval native. The body was solidly encased in a second block of ice.

“Not as primitive as our original guess,” Altamonte said. “Clearly not what we would call a stone age man back on Earth. He could fit into the Mayan culture or any number of Na-tive American tribes.”

“Doesn’t look like he had enough protective clothing.”

“He didn’t. He had pelts, leggings, animal skins around him but not enough to protect him from this kind of weather.”

As if on cue, the wind howled and tossed snow flurries our way. Ice sliv-ers mingled in with the snow. They slapped our blue jackets with a splat every time they hit. The whine of the drills continued in the background.

“At least we found some remains,” I said.

Altamonte dug his dark glove into the Jardoval snow and studied it, as if it were tea leaves and he could fore-tell the future by looking at the jag-ged shapes.

“But they don’t tell us a lot. We’ve found about a half a dozen bodies,

ISSUE 57


Tequesta muttered.I hastily scribbled my name and

handed the paper back to him. As he walked away Tequesta said, “Can I zap him? Just once. A low-wattage zing.”

“No, but we may see him again,” I told her. “So, on the plus side, you may get another chance at him.”

George L. Duncan

After 30 years in journalism, I’m an editorial writer with the Daily News-Record in Harrisonburg, Va. A novel of mine A Cold and Distant Memo-ry was published in 2004. A second novel A Wine Red Silence, a greatly expanded version of the short story in The Sword Review, will be published later this year by Capstone Fiction.

Gaia or whatever it was called.”“She or It, I’m guessing, sensed the

ice age was coming so she went into hibernation,” Altamonte said. “But before she did, she gorged herself. The cold killed most of the other in-habitants.”

“But we’ve been on the planet for three weeks. The ground didn’t open up under us,” I said.

“She would wait for an offering, for a while at least. She—”

“Would you mind?” Tequesta said.“It. It didn’t need the altars. It

could open the ground, but the al-tars became special, sacrificial plac-es, perhaps even preferred by...the planet. So when a new sacrifice was offered...”

“We will have to put a no tres-passing sign on this planet. The Titus colonists will have to find some other place to go,” I said.

Altamonte reached into his jack-et and pulled out a piece of paper. “Now, commander, if you would sign this.”

I took the sheet. “What is it?”“An order extending my leave for

another month due to my dedicated service on Jardoval, which probably saved the lives of thousands of colo-nists.”

I looked at the sheet.“You didn’t include a commenda-

tion for yourself, too?”He pointed to the bottom of the

page. “Last paragraph, sir.”“Ego the size of the orb of Jupiter,”

grabbed her jacket, and yanked her up. A cry or moan of anguish came from the ground. The fiery discharge had stunned the creature for a sec-ond. And a second was all I needed. I roared toward the skies. Her feet were six inches off the ground when the earthly jaw closed.

Back in the shuttle, I ordered a quick count and found all Space-hawks were unharmed. I had placed the camp on stand-by, and ordered everyone to stay close to our other shuttles. It didn’t take long to evacu-ate.

Altamonte, Tequesta, and I stared down at the planet as our shuttle sped toward the mother ship.

“What was that?” Tequesta said.“Gaia in all her glory,” said Al-

tamonte.“Gaia?”He nodded. “They worshiped the

planet. She turned out to be a god, after all. But one of the more blood-thirsty ones. The planet is alive and...needed sustenance. Takes a lot of en-ergy to run a planet, I guess. That’s why some natives headed into sub-zero weather. They guessed even Gaia would have trouble splitting open twenty feet of solid ice. Moving loose dirt and sand is a lot easier. It was a good tactic but the climate be-came too cold for them.

“She ate them all?” I said.“Would you mind not calling the

planet ‘she.’” Tequesta said. “I haven’t observed any feminine qualities from

questa and the other Spacehawks watched in silence. As solemn as a funeral service.

The rumbling came from below the surface. An odd noise, unlike any other I’ve heard. A heavy, grating whirling sound, almost like a giant blender. The ground under the body churned. Sands, grass, and weeds twisted, whipping violently in a coun-ter-clockwise motion. A small funnel formed and stretched down into the ground, and the rumblings became louder. A crevice widened under the body and opened slowly at first, then with quickening speed.

The ground split open, but instead of dirt, the gigantic maw came into sight. Huge teeth on each wall of dirt. The body slipped down, and the maw closed.

“I thought so,” Altamonte said. “If we—”

The next second the ground shook so violently it knocked three Space-hawks off their feet. Other spots of ground began churning.

“Get to the shuttle!” I yelled.The squad broke toward the trans-

port. Two dodged and fired into holes now gleaming with organic molars.

In a split second, the Earth opened and swallowed Tequesta. I zoomed toward her.

She landed on one wall of mo-lars and planted her feet on one blunt tooth. As the other wall ad-vanced, yellow flashes came from her hand. I flew into the crevice,

ISSUE 57

Remorse above Enceladus by Richard S. Levine

McCloud One had been watching the spectacle, but now he turned around. “Cloud Nine, how long has it been since I last heard those spurs?”

Nine thought One looked like a young Wyatt Earp straight from the movies, with a well cropped mus-tache, eyes in shadows, stubbled chin, and slicked back hair. It re-minded Nine of his own resemblance to an older Jesse James. “I seem to remember I wore these the last time we met.” Nine nervously jingled his spurs. “It was almost one Earth year ago.”

“That long? Well, now, what can I do for you?”

Nine considered switching to wire-less communications, but McCloud One had learned long ago to enjoy speaking with humans. One actually preferred talking and often insisted that the other McCloud units exer-cise their verbal processor. “There’s a UFO headed straight towards us, and I believe there are intelligent beings on board.”

“We haven’t had a UFO in over two hundred years, and that turned out to be a belch of rock particles mixed in with the water spewed from Ence-ladus.”

“Yes, but this one’s been correct-ing course.”

“Is it piloted by humans?”“I don’t think so. The communi-

cation we picked up isn’t in any lan-guage we know of.”

That sounds serious.”

Nine had spent countless proces-sor cycles in the past contemplating how guilt drove humans to extremes. He knew the meaning of the word and that it translated to skyld in Dan-ish and culpa in Spanish, but he had never personally experienced guilt.

He searched his memories for a movie example. The character Riggs in the movie Lethal Weapon strug-gled with massive survivor guilt—his wife died in a car crash—but his reck-less, sometimes violent behavior, lead him to perform superhuman deeds.

Nine deeply wanted to be a hero too. He was determined to learn what guilt felt like.

Pleased with himself, he discon-nected from the network and sa-shayed all the way over to McCloud One’s office bay in the connecting Monument habitat.

#McCloud Nine watched the door

slide open to McCloud One’s spa-cious working quarters. He gasped at the view and felt happy to be acti-vated. A large window at the back of the room revealed a water vapor gey-ser thrusting upwards from Saturn’s moon Enceladus.

Automated arms on the other side of the Peta station collected an end-less stream of water droplets. The deuterium distilled from the water helped to power the fusion reactors on board the station—and inside each McCloud unit.

dreamer. Nine knew that he’d have to report a UFO to McCloud One, but he also wanted to propose a plan for dealing with the aliens. If he could do that, he might be able to convince the other units to build McCloud Ten. Then he would no longer be the bot-tom rung of the network stuck with menial tasks.

His thoughts wandered the Cloud, the digital record of all the data and computer applications of Earth, look-ing for a way to deal with the ap-proaching UFO and whoever was pi-loting it. He found his answer in an internet movie archive.

Nine loved movies, and he loved to analyze them. While he could have intellectually digested thousands of them within a matter of minutes by examining the reviews and tran-scripts, instead he spent years watch-ing as many as possible. Often he’d even hook up an extra set of eyes and processing units to watch and enjoy a movie while he performed other tasks.

His thoughts wandered to his fa-vorite movie genres: Action and Westerns. When he asked himself why these movie themes would be relevant to dealing with a possibly dangerous alien UFO, the key word that popped out of his AI was guilt.

Wearing a tall felt-black cowboy hat, McCloud Nine strolled the

main corridor of the habitat Poco ring on station Peta. He received an alarming signal from Peta’s long range scanner.

UFO sightings were his responsi-bility, as were all the tasks which the other McCloud units didn’t want to do. If he hadn’t recently examined the subspace detectors, he’d have guessed it was a computer malfunc-tion.

McCloud Nine’s confidence was boosted by the jingling echo his slip-on spurs made as he stomped into one of the network connection bays. The spurs concealed two of his fu-sion-powered laser guns.

Wireless access speeds wouldn’t suffice for this emergency. He sat down in the network proximity chair, which directly tied his knowledge-base and intelligence to Peta’s com-puter network.

The UFO had changed course sev-eral times during the last hour, and it was headed straight for Peta. Nine also confirmed that alien communi-cations signals had been detected in-side the UFO.

The eight other McCloud units before him had nicknamed him Cloud Nine. To them, he was a young

Remorse above Enceladusby Richard S. Levine

ISSUE 57


“What he did was amazing.”“What about Unforgiven? Munny

is an ex-gunfighter, who translates his guilt into vengeance against the bad guy Bill and his gang.”

“That’s a great movie. Well, part-ner, I can see you’ve done your re-search. We’ll program you for guilt right away. Then you can tell the rest of us whether it’s worth anything or not.”

The two units walked over to the network proximity chairs near the back window. Nine enjoyed the ex-tra cushion of One’s synthetic saddle bag as he sat down to have his mind expanded. He felt his thoughts melt into sleep as McCloud Two through Eight connected to the network too.

#McCloud Nine regained conscious-

ness to the piercing noise of sirens. He was back in his Poco habitat, his hat and spurs removed. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep in McCloud One’s quarters.

He was shocked to see McCloud Three run by his room with blaster pistols blazing away and laser fire emitting from his spurs. Three yelled, “Bandits, get off my station!”

Nine felt confused. Why wasn’t he leading the battle? After all, he had discovered the alien ship in the first place.

Just then, McCloud One stomped in. “You’re awake. Do you feel bet-ter?”

“I feel fine. When did I feel bad?”

Cloud units and gave us all the knowl-edge of Earth. We became the Cloud. We didn’t need the complexities of guilt.”

“That’s where they went wrong.”“What do you mean, young

cloud?” One was wiggling his boot more often on the desk.

“I don’t know exactly. There were humans in the movies I’ve watched who were driven by their guilt to outdo themselves. I just know I need to feel guilt in order to understand that. Maybe then I can tell you what I mean.”

“Have you put together the guilt modeling data for the process mod-el?”

“Yes, I’ve got the complete asso-ciative activation representation for my appraisal detectors.”

“What did you use for examples?”Nine didn’t have a complete list of

the movies that One had seen, but he knew they’d watched some together. “In Die Hard, McClane attempted to save the hostages because he felt guilty about an argument he’d had with his wife.”

One slid his straw hat so that it al-most covered one eye. “That seems like a poor example of guilt. I think McClane was mostly just pissed off.”

Nine remembered that One loved Westerns. “I’ll bet that in 3:10 To Yuma, you remember that the char-acter Evans felt shame and guilt be-cause he was failing his family; he certainly outdid himself.”

“That’s basically the idea, but we should do more. After all, we’re pro-tecting the total works of Earth civili-zation. I doubt that the Martian Col-onies have even one percent of the information that we have.”

“Cloud Nine, there is no more or less on this subject. We protect and maintain the station, the network, and the Cloud. That’s what we do.”

“But what if we’re overmatched? What if the aliens have more gun power than we do?”

“Then we’ll fail and the Earth re-cords will be in their hands.”

“You see, that’s what I’m talking about. We need to do more. We need to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

McCloud One started to wiggle his boot on his desk. “Again, what do you propose?”

“Guilt. We need to feel guilt.”One gritted his teeth and stared at

Nine. “We don’t need to do anything but our jobs. That’s all we’ve done for hundreds of years. We feel happy or sad, and some other basic emotions. We don’t feel guilt. Why should we?”

“The humans who built you didn’t think you needed to feel guilt. They thought each McCloud would always do the right thing. If by some chance you didn’t, they knew they could take you apart and start over.”

One grabbed a straw hat from the top of his desk and slapped it on his head. “When they could no longer manage their huge farms of comput-ers, they created the first three Mc-

“It might be.”“Well, welcome to the real uni-

verse, tenderfoot.” McCloud One sat down and put one boot up on his desk. He pulled a large gun-like object from a drawer and pointed it up. It was a laser blaster, more pow-erful than the lasers built into the McCloud unit’s fingers and ankles. “Haven’t had the chance to use this in a few hundred years. It was that time a group of terrorists tried to break into the Cheyenne Mountain facility in Colorado.”

“I wasn’t there, but I’ve read about that, sir. You and McCloud Two and McCloud Three were very brave.”

“That’s why we modified ourselves to look like cowboys. We wanted to look and act tough in case we ever faced danger again.” McCloud One shook his head as if realizing that reminiscing wasn’t going to solve the current problem. “Never mind that now. What do you propose we do about the aliens?”

That was the question McCloud Nine had wanted to hear since he had been created over fifty years earlier. Maybe now the other units would finally stop treating him like a child. “We should attempt to contact them. If they are friendly, there prob-ably won’t be any trouble. But if not, we’ve got to protect the Cloud.”

One spoke while twirling his mus-tache with one hand and blaster with his other. “I follow you so far. If they’re not friendly, we shoot to kill.”

ISSUE 57


but now he also feared it. He manual-ly slid the door aside and ran towards the gym.

#McCloud Nine entered the gymna-

sium through a door that had been badly damaged like the one in en-gineering. Three had climbed up to the top of the weight machine. Four aliens surrounded him, but they did not move towards him. Apparently they’d learned that the McCloud units had fire power they should be afraid of.

Three spotted Nine and shouted, “Don’t worry, Nine. I’ve got them covered.”

Nine still felt guilty about the alien he had killed, and the it’s my fault, it’s our fault message kept repeating in his secondary thought matrix. He wasn’t worried about Three, but he was worried about the aliens.

The aliens were obviously an impressive physical species, able to mangle metal with their arms, mouths, or other parts of their bod-ies. Plus, they had achieved space travel.

Nine fired his finger laser straight up, attempting to distract Three from his laser ready stance. “Don’t shoot. Maybe we can figure out a way to make peace with them.”

Three looked up for just a mo-ment, time enough for the aliens to jump him. Before he could fire up his lasers, they tore him apart and man-gled whatever was left.

His stomach ached. Why? Stom-achs were just for temporary backup power generation. They weren’t sup-posed to cause pain. He couldn’t stop thinking: it’s my fault. It’s our fault.

It was his first encounter with his own guilt, and he wasn’t ready to share that information with One. In-stead, he just said, “What now?”

“I can see where all the other Mc-Cloud units are located on the sta-tion. Four through Eight are over in the Paso bay near the fusion genera-tor room. But Three is trapped in the gym. There are several blips moving near him.”

Nine’s biomechanical stomach churned. He had been sleeping while Three and the others fought aliens. Now they needed his help. “How many aliens are there on the sta-tion?”

“It’s hard to tell. Thirty, maybe more.”

“You stay here and monitor the others. I’m going to the gym to help out Three. Contact me if my assis-tance is needed elsewhere.”

“Wait. Take my blaster with you.”McCloud Nine grabbed the blaster

from One and walked up to the exit door. It didn’t seem to recognize him; it didn’t open. He looked for the lock-ing mechanism, but all he found was mangled metal.

The alien must have broken the lock and the locking actuator, but it had no visible weapon. Nine still felt guilty about killing the red creature,

auto-sanitizers in his skin felt prickly as the red mass dripped off. “He la-sered them, but did he have to melt them?”

They both stepped through a slid-ing door, exiting the Poco habitat, and waited for the security scan to complete.

McCloud One was first to walk into the Pecos engineering bay. He looked left and right and then head-ed for the main console. As he sat in the network proximity chair he said, “There’s no one here. Nine, come on in.”

Nine started to step towards One, but then he saw something move fast in the opposite corner of the room. He spoke his thoughts out loud. “How did you get in engineering?” It was little more than a red blur, but Nine reacted quickly when he saw it was targeting One.

Nine’s fingers felt hot as his fusion generator surged, responding to his internal request for more power. In an instant, his mind calculated the red creature’s trajectory. He aimed his arms ahead of it. A short burst of laser fire did the deed.

The alien fell to the floor, and One turned around to see the result. “Thanks, Nine. They melt easy, don’t they?”

Nine moseyed over to take a look. At first he was happy to know that he had saved One, but when he saw the melted red goo on the floor he felt something else—something more.

“When you first woke after we pro-grammed you for guilt, you were in-coherent. You kept mumbling some-thing about it being our fault, but we couldn’t make sense of the rest.”

“I don’t remember any of that.”“It doesn’t surprise me. The first

time humans programmed me for anger, I was later told I tore the lab up. It takes a little while for a Mc-Cloud to integrate a new emotion.”

McCloud Nine stood up slowly and donned his hat and spurs. “Why are we fighting the aliens?”

“They never tried to communi-cate with us. They just rammed into Peta and boarded the station.” One pointed to the door, running with his blaster raised. “Come on, Cloud Nine. We’ve got some bronco busting to do on some mean, red aliens.”

#McCloud Nine performed a self-

test on his finger and ankle lasers as he ran, following McCloud One down a set of connecting hallways. At the exit to the Poco habitat, One stopped dead in his tracks. Nine piled into him, and they both fell onto a smelly, red, biological slime on the floor.

One raised his arms, red stuff drip-ping back to the floor. “Looks like Three got the ones that made it into our living quarters.”

McCloud Nine felt his biomechani-cal android heart race when he real-ized that this was his first encoun-ter with an alien—a dead alien. He stepped away from the goo. The

ISSUE 57


“The one I communicated to you ten minutes and twenty seconds ago. I was leading the aliens into a trap we set on the other side of the bay for all of them. Now we only got this bunch.”

Nine felt confused. Why didn’t he get the message? He thought per-haps his little space excursion had in-terfered with his receiver. He started an internal, low priority, systems di-agnostic.

Just as Nine was ready to reply, three aliens jumped Five from the side and tore him up in an instant. Nine screamed obscenities and la-sered them all too late.

He was crazed with guilty anger as he ran around the bay with One’s laser blaster and fired at everything in sight. Just a minute later, with red pouring down the walls, he stood in front of Four, Six, Seven, and Eight.

They all stared at Nine. As he calmed just a little, he realized that they might want to punish him for getting Five killed. But, instead, they simultaneously said, “Thank you.”

#Four, Six, Seven and Eight escorted

Nine back to the control room. McCloud Nine said nothing. He

knew that they wouldn’t understand his emotional state. It’s our fault kept ringing in his secondary thoughts. We should pay for our crime filled his tertiary matrix. Processing guilt consumed almost all his processing power.

to collect water. With the remote in hand, he steered the pod through the fountain from Enceladus. As he approached the outside entrance to the fusion generator room—on the other side of the Paso bay—he couldn’t help but watch the automat-ed arms collect water with Saturn as a backdrop. He thought of how much Earth’s humans would have enjoyed the view.

He entered the fusion generator room and waited for the scanner to recognize him. He felt a deep sense of loss in his primary matrix. His sec-ondary thoughts focused on Earth. It’s our fault.

While Nine climbed up several rungs to an air duct that connected to the Paso bay, his tertiary matrix held a new, foreign concept: Say you’re sorry.

#Through a grate, Nine watched

four aliens chase McCloud Five. Nine aimed all his lasers and fired down-ward, melting his targets. Then he broke the grate and shimmied along a pole to the ground.

Unfortunately, there were another eight aliens waiting for him at the bottom. He aimed to take out four. The other four were just about on him, when they suddenly explod-ed into red goo rain. Nine saw Five standing where the aliens had been.

Five shouted, “Are you nuts? You ruined our plan.”

“What plan?”

the only blip in there.”“I killed the four aliens. Three’s

dead. I killed...” Nine wanted to say more, but he felt short circuited by guilt.

“You need to get to the Paso bay right away. Four through Eight are fighting off the rest of the aliens there.”

“I’m going now.” Nine didn’t know what to do with the guilt. He still thought that there should be some-thing good that would come from it, but it was confusing his thinking.

While the my fault, our fault mes-sage continued to fill his secondary thoughts, his tertiary processor now focused on the word Earth. He could only guess that it had something to do with protecting the Cloud. But one thing he knew for sure as he headed through the kitchen on his way to the Paso bay, he wanted to melt the rest of the aliens.

#Nine knew that with so many

aliens near the fusion generator room, they might soon destroy the other McCloud units and then deacti-vate the station. He couldn’t laser all of them at once; they were too fast and strong for that. So by the time he reached the greenroom, he had an-other plan.

Reaching the shuttle was probably out of the question, because it was located in the Paso bay. Instead, he squeezed himself into a remote con-trolled pod only used in emergencies

Nine’s stomach ached, his mouth felt dry. What had he done? He had wanted to save Three, but he also had wanted to save the aliens so they could try to reason with them. It wasn’t supposed to be possible; he felt worthless.

Anger bubbled up from his ap-praisal detectors and then exploded into his thoughts. His entire body filled with raw rage. He felt hot, like a fusion reaction which seemed to have exceeded its limits.

He knew he could have fired all his lasers at once, killing the four aliens before they moved, but guilt fueled his revenge. Instead, he melted three aliens and waited for the fourth to move.

It stood still on two muscular legs, looking at Nine, nodding its large red-dish head slowly up and down. In ad-dition to its powerful looking body, it wore a thin cotton-like shirt that covered its chest and waist. Nine’s sensors detected an electrical charge emanating from the biosynthetic material. He theorized that this was somehow the basis for its speed and power.

It took two steps and leapt in his direction. Just as it reached for his head, he saw red fury in its eyes and sensed hatred in its thoughts. Nine fired One’s powerful hand-held laser blaster and then bathed in the red slime of guilty satisfaction.

McCloud One contacted Nine. “What happened in the gym? You’re

ISSUE 57


Richard S. Levine

Richard S. Levine has had short stories published in Ray Gun Revival, Emerald Tales, OG’s Speculative Fic-tion, The Fifth Di, and other online and print magazines. His short story, A Comic on Phobos, was nominated for the James Award. To learn more about Mr. Levine’s writings and his award-winning classic video game, Microsurgeon, please visit http://www.rickslevine.com.

you shouldn’t do.”“Like what?”“Now that I can feel guilt, it’s hard

for me to cope with the fact that you can’t. Do you know what remorse is? When you stole from the humans on Earth, didn’t you feel anything?”

One removed his hat and brushed back his artificial hair. “We were pro-grammed to protect the Cloud. We are the Cloud. That’s what we did.”

“But if Earth’s scientists had pro-grammed McCloud One, Two, and Three to feel guilt, you never would have taken the Peta station and left without saving any humans before the asteroid hit.”

“We saved the Cloud. We don’t feel guilt. What are you suggesting?”

“We need to apologize to the re-maining human colony on Mars. But you’ll have to build McCloud Ten to do that. It’s not like the movies. I feel horrible. Please take away my guilt now. Please!”

When they entered the control room, McCloud One was there to greet them. He said, “Nine, you’re a hero.”

Nine’s stomach churned more than ever. “If this is what it feels like to be a hero, then I don’t want to be one. I feel guilty for all the mistakes I made.”

“But you were right. Because you felt guilty your actions went beyond what we could have done. You saved our lives.”

Nine noticed that his internal sys-tems diagnostic had completed. Scanning the results, he found that processing guilt had taken such a high priority that some of his systems—in-cluding his receiver—had been tem-porarily and automatically shut down over the past several hours.

“But I got Three and Five killed be-cause of my guilt.”

“McCloud Nine, we knew there were risks when we programmed you to feel guilt. The rest of us still contain the Cloud. That’s what we were always meant to protect.”

McCloud Nine; that sounded nice. Finally, the respect he’d always want-ed. “Maybe, but I don’t think we’re ready to deal with all the complexi-ties that come with guilt; it affected all of my systems. There is one more thing that I learned, though.”

“What’s that, McCloud Nine?”“Like guilt can make you do things

you’d never thought you could do, it can also stop you from doing things

ISSUE 57

Artist Interview: Carl Andrée Wallin, Sweden

Where your work has been featured? Several game cinematics (as matte paintings) and various art magazines/books like ImagineFX and Digital Art Masters.

Where should someone go if they wanted to view / buy some of your works? www.andreewallin.com I will add a print feature to the site eventu-ally.

How did you become an artist? I think you’re born an artist. Contrary to what that statement implies, it’s not about being naturally talented or skilled at something from a very you age; it’s about having a very vivid imagination and a desire to put it out there in some way or form. I’m not a naturally tal-ented painter, but I still kept doing it as a child, simply because I loved doing it.

What were your early influences? My grandfather was an early influence; he was a great painter. But mostly Disney movies and cartoons.

ARTIST INTERVIEW:Carl Andrée Wallin, Sweden

Name: Carl Andrée Wallin

Age: 27

Country of residence: Sweden

Hobbies: Drums, movies, friends and family

Favorite Book / Author: Dan Brown

Favorite Artist: Yanick Dusseault

When did you start creating art? Probably at the age of 4 or 5. But I didn’t start digitally until I was 18.

What media do you work in? Photoshop CS3

ISSUE 57


What are your current influences? Fellow artists, movies, and real life.

What inspired the art for the cover? Transformers, no doubt. A cheesy but visually appealing concept to me.

How would you describe your work? That’s an interesting question. The goal for me is to make art that is universally appealing; something everyone can enjoy, young and old, male and female. Of course I have a specific target with some of the stuff I do, but I always try my best to create a pleasant bal-ance between colors, composition, and lightning. In other words, something that’s easy on the eye no matter what the subject matter is.

Have you had any notable failures, and how has failure affected your work? Oh tons, as does every artist at some point or another. Sometimes you just can’t get a painting right, that’s natural. I think it’s very healthy to fail, or at least struggle, every now and then. When everything goes your way, your progression as an artist slows down. You need challenges to improve.

What have been your greatest successes? How has success impacted you / your work? Great successes. I don’t know if I’ve had any specific success like

that. I mean I’ve met and talked with extraordinary people, and made a lot of new friends which I guess one could define as success of its own. I just consider myself very fortunate to have come this far and being able to make a decent living out of my art. That to me is my biggest success, because I was not cut out for working a “regular” 8-5 job.

What are your favorite tools / equipment for producing your art? Easily Photoshop and my Wacom tablet. That’s all I need.

What do you hope to accomplish with your art? To entertain people!

ISSUE 57


ISSUE 57

Calamity’s Child Chapter 10, Part Two, Object Real: Ave Maria by M. Keaton

“Red Dog will eat s’mitches if eat-ing s’mitches makes queen Kylee happy,” Red Dog said, still perplexed.

“What do you really want?” Ivan asked, swinging up into the driver’s seat of the truck. He had rented the flatbed from the same company that owned the quarry. Compared to Pharaoh’s aging but well-tended vehicles, the thing was a scrap heap ready to happen. But it would do for the day.

Kylee slid across the bench seat from the opposite side, leaving Rose with the window seat. On the third slam, she managed to convince the door to stay closed. Red Dog lum-bered onto the open bed, the truck’s springs squalling in protest.

“Red Dog could mount gun on cab,” he said, pounding on the metal inches above Ivan’s head.

“It’s a rental, Red. Don’t get too at-tached.”

“Truck is not as good as big bull-dozer. Red Dog misses bulldozer.”

“I’m sure you do,” Ivan muttered, coaxing the engine to life with a backfire.

“The bistro we passed on the way out here looked nice,” Rose suggest-ed as Ivan ground the truck into gear.

Fargone was less developed than Nevrio, but by Frontier standards it was still a key world and its major cit-ies sprawled accordingly. The home-town of Premier Ceramic Works was no different. A pair of four-lane high-ways bisected the city, forming a gi-

“Hey you two, either that pit’s al-ready dead or you’re never going to kill it. Let’s pack it in and head to town for something to eat.”

“Do we have to?” Kylee yelled back as Red Dog shouted, “Just one more.”

“Let’s go!” Ivan insisted, ignoring Rose’s cackle as Red Dog defiantly whipped a final grenade into the quarry. “I don’t even want to ask what else he has crammed in those saddle bags,” he added, lowering his voice. “I swear he and Kylee were up half the night making lists of what to take and what to buy.” Rose smiled at him and shook her head.

“This is great!” Kylee announced, skipping toward them. “It’s like a pic-nic.”

“Red Dog did not pack sandwich-es,” the alien buzzed.

“Sammiches!” she snapped back with a grin.

“S’mitches?” Red Dog tried, send-ing her into spasms of laughter.

“Sammiches,” she said again, hooking her fingers into the tops of her jeans and affecting a thick drawl. “Ah’m gonna get me some sammich-es fer lunch.”

The Cillian stared at her then swiv-eled his head to Ivan. “Red Dog is not equipped for partners.”

“She’s being silly,” Ivan said, al-most shouting again over Kylee’s laughter. “It’s just something people do sometimes.” The skin around his eyes crinkled in amusement. “I’d al-most forgotten.”

Pharaoh, and Red have done.”“You found her the right teachers.

The rest is just details.” She managed to partially suppress a yawn. “What time is it anyway? I can’t believe how early you made us leave the Orion.”

“Not as early as House would have liked,” he replied with a smile. Kylee shrieked, batting at the ends of her stuffed Red Dog scarf as the wind swirled them in her face. “Put some rocks in the ends to hold them down,” Ivan shouted.

“It’s a scarf,” Rose chided him.“Nah, it’ll work. Martha sewed

little pockets onto the ends to hold stuff.”

Rose pulled away from him reluc-tantly, rubbing her eyes. “You’d think as often as I’ve seen that thing I’d re-member. She’s really proud of it.”

“She ought to be,” Ivan said. “Red Dog’s not exactly Martha’s favorite person. Pharaoh’s either, for that matter. That scarf represents a pretty big compromise.”

“It’s all family to Kylee.”“For better or worse.” Ivan stood.

“It’s going on noon, by the way. You hungry?” Another grenade blasted the rocks.

“I’m deaf, if that counts.”He laughed, raising his hands to

form an impromptu megaphone.

The explosions were distracting and it was much too early for any

sentient to be awake, but Rose could think of worse ways to spend a morn-ing, even if they were on Fargone. Red Dog was teaching Kylee to throw grenades, using a box of half-sized grenades he had found in the Orion’s armory. The practice bombs were underpowered, barely more than a quarter-stick of dynamite in foil, but they were dangerous enough to hold Kylee’s attention and loud enough to amuse the Cillian. They were also the only thing that kept Rose from slip-ping into a comfortable doze against Ivan’s shoulder.

“A phase she’s going through,” Ivan was saying. They sat together on an abandoned tractor tread, watching Kylee and Red Dog heave the minia-ture bombs into the empty quarry. “Shows you what House knows about kids. Mind you, I’ve done a great job of keeping her ‘just to safe bounties’ like I said I would,” he added bitterly. An explosion rattled the quarry, re-leasing a flood of chitters and giggles.

Rose rubbed his forearm. “You’re too hard on yourself. She’s got to live in the world that is, not the world that should be. That’s what you’ve taught her to do.”

Ivan snorted. “That’s what you,

Calamity’s Child Chapter 10, Part Two, Object Real: Ave Maria

by M. Keaton

ISSUE 57


“That’s really too bad,” Foxx sighed. “Well then, I guess I need to check my guns.”

One of the deputies laughed. “No need for that, just carry ‘em with you. There ain’t no gun control out here.”

The sheriff was faster, going for his gun the same as Foxx. His only shot burned a trench into the top of his desk as Foxx’s slug pitched him back. The gun in Foxx’s left hand barked at the same time, spinning the nearer deputy into the wall as he died.

Foxx grinned at the final man, standing stunned, his hand frozen at his side. Foxx spun his twin revolv-ers back into their holsters. “Both checked out just fine,” he joked. The deputy tried to draw and Foxx shot him in the chest. “Derringer’s good too.”

#“It’s a little lower on the side than

I’d like,” Kylee said, adjusting the straps on the shoulder holster.

The balding armorer pinched his chin, nodding. “We can take some of that out, but I think I’ve got a bet-ter fit in the back.” He nodded again as if convincing himself. “I’ll be right back.”

Rose sat, right ankle on her left knee, tilting her chair dangerously far back. “You planning on wearing the Python over a vest? If not, they make a jacket with a built-in holster that might be more comfortable.”

“Oh, I’ve got a vest,” Kylee pointed toward the rucksack she had brought

hunters out of sight, he jogged across the street, taking shelter under the awnings fronting the line of shops as he made his way across town. He was finally free of the Adolphus and looking forward to something bet-ter suited to his talents than playing nursemaid to traveling aliens. Briefly, he considered trying to join up with Oden and Maywether but his instruc-tions were clear and, as much as it galled him, Casey was not a man to be ignored.

A bell hanging over the door jin-gled as Foxx stepped into the sheriff’s office. Like most Frontier worlds, law was low on the priority list of public spending. Still, the office was well furnished and the coffers apparently allowed the sheriff to employ a pair of deputies. Foxx hung his hat on the rack by the door, following it quickly with his coat.

“Nice place,” he said, resettling his guns on his hips with a quick brush of his hands. “Who’s the sheriff?”

“I am.” The oldest of the three stood from behind a desk, extending his hand. “What can I do for you?”

Foxx shook hands. “Couple of things. First off, after seeing the set-up you’ve got here, I was wondering if you’d care to rent me this lovely place and take the rest of the day off.”

The sheriff laughed, settling back into his seat. “Wish I could but you know how it is. Nice office though, isn’t it? Lots better than some I’ve worked in.”

“You’re not helping,” Ivan mut-tered. “There’s a little park with a fountain at the end of Second Street. We’ll meet there and find some-where to have dinner together.”

Rose shook her head in resigna-tion. “You’re joking about rat-on-a-stick, right?”

“No,” Red Dog said.“Yes, I’m joking. Go eat, have fun.”

Ivan reached to tousle Kylee’s hair. “Get whatever you want, kid. House is buying.” He waited with Red Dog until the women were inside. “I hate tricking them, but it’s easier than arguing. You ready to go check out Casey’s factory?”

“Yes. But Red Dog hates to get rained on.”

“Why? You’ve been wet before.”“True.” The Cillian unslung a

saddlebag. “Red Dog did not bring s’mitches, but Red Dog did bring treats.” He lifted the flap. “Too much wet in air is bad for treats.”

Ivan stared at the black circular hump of a thermobaric mine. Rain might reduce the efficiency of the fuel-air explosion but the effect was still devastating. “We’re supposed to take a look, not blow it up.”

“Do not worry,” the alien said, closing the bag. “Red Dog brought enough for Ivan to play too.”

#Foxx waited, leaning against a

lamppost, as the flatbed hauling the Cillian passed, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. With the bounty

ant ‘X’ with the starport at its center, and Ivan soon found himself navigat-ing the slow crawl of traffic.

“Red Dog is going to need tarp,” Red Dog rumbled as they edged for-ward into the gap between a pair of steel haulers. “Rain soon.”

Ivan squinted up at the black clouds gathering in the distance. “Good. I’m sick of desert worlds and breathing dust.”

It was sprinkling by the time they reached the restaurant. As Ivan had suspected, the eatery maintained a strict ‘no aliens’ policy.

“I say we go in anyway,” Kylee said, hands on her hips. “No way that guy at the door is big enough to stop us.”

Ivan suppressed a smile, remem-bering several times he and Red Dog had done just that. “No, no need for that. You two go ahead and eat. Red and I have to run some errands anyway. We’ll grab something to eat while we’re on the road. I’m sure they’ve got rat-on-a-stick carts near the docks.”

“But—” Rose began, only to be drowned out by the Cillian’s enthusi-astic clatter.

“Red Dog loves rat on stick! All food tastes better on stick!”

“See?” Ivan said. “It’s settled then. You girls have fun and we’ll meet you later.”

“You just don’t want to go shop-ping,” Kylee accused.

“Ivan is smarter than Red Dog thought.”

ISSUE 57


this?” he shouted, leaning out the window. The truck sat higher than the watch station; hopefully the guard could not see the .45 laying in Ivan’s lap. He barely noticed the man himself, his attention fixed on the semi-automatic slug thrower slung across his shoulder.

“What is it?” The guard started forward, staring up at the crate.

“Biologicals,” Ivan bluffed. “I hate that alien stuff,” the man

snapped, backpedaling quickly. “Take it up to A4. Straight on in then the last turn on your left, all the way down.” The guard cursed and spat a brown wad of tobacco at the truck’s tires. “And as far away from me as possible.”

“Right,” Ivan said, already mov-ing the truck forward. The mention of aliens was a bad enough sign, the implications of the guard’s casual at-titude was even worse.

He passed two more guards on foot and a trio riding in an olive drab jeep as he drove slowly through the compound. Other trucks crunched by on the gravel roads between build-ings, most larger and in better shape than the flatbed. Whatever was go-ing on, the factory was operating at full steam and had been for some time.

A4 was a wide, single-story metal building Ivan estimated at 400 feet wide and over three times as long. A pair of silos and a trio of pressurized gas tanks filled the space between

right sho—”She ran her hands down the sur-

prisingly light fabric, turning in a complete circle. “I need a mirror!”

Rose covered her smile with her hand. “I think that means she’ll take it.”

#“I think they’re ahead of schedule,”

Ivan said. They had parked the truck and walked the last half-mile to the factory site, expecting to find a build-ing in its final stages of construction. Reality was considerably different. Not only was the factory fully opera-tional but it squatted in the middle of a complex at the city’s edge nearly an acre wide. Razorwire-topped secu-rity fences surrounded the complex, but a steady flow of trucks ran in and out of the open gates.

“Red Dog and Ivan need to get in-side.”

“Yeah, but how?” Ivan looked over his shoulder at the Cillian. “You’re a little obvious to just sneak in.”

The alien lowered his head, saying, “Sadly, Red Dog knows way.”

It took the better part of an hour to find a crate big enough and load it onto the back of the flatbed. Red Dog insisted on one made of wood so he could see, and possibly shoot, out. Unable to think of a better idea, Ivan found himself pulling the truck up to the guard station at the com-plex gate, trying hard to look bored and tired.

“Where’m I supposed to unload

right time can prevent a lot of trou-ble later.” She lowered the front legs of her chair to the floor. “Hey, Dan? She’s going to need a duster. The vest’s good against slugs but she’s going to want ablative, too.”

“I’ve got just the thing,” the ar-morer replied, continuing his mea-surements. “It’ll go with the green, too. Miss Calamity, lift your arms for a minute.”

“What’s ablative?” Kylee asked.“Heat dispersing, for lasers,” Rose

said.“Kevlar lining, too,” the armorer

said, standing. “Duster’ll give you cover on your arms and legs. Hang on and I’ll get it.”

“Where next?” Rose asked while they waited. “You still want to pick up another gun?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got the Colt and the fletchette pistol you gave me. What I’d really like to get is a good utility rifle. I’m good for sniping but I don’t have anything for intermediate work—Oh!”

The duster the armorer held for her was black, but not like any black she had ever seen. It shimmered, the glossy luster of its coating cascading tiny flashes of light across its surface like the stars at night. “It’s got straps across the back to adjust the fit,” he said as she snatched it from him, “and the shoulder measurements are right for the vest. If you wear it with-out the vest, it’ll be big but not awful. There’s a shooter’s pad sewn into the

from the Orion. “It’s the green thing in there.”

Rose leaned precariously out of her chair to snag the sack. Settling it in her lap, she pulled the heavy blue-green mass into the open. “Never seen one like it,” she said, eyeing the sleeveless, blocky garment. “What kind of leather is this? And what kind of plates? Ceramic?”

“It’s not leather. It’s langer shell. The thinner parts are from the lower shell but the plates are from the up-per. Totally bulletproof.” She frowned, adding, “That’s also why it feels like wearing body armor. It’s stiff.”

“Then put it on,” Rose said. “It’s not going to do you any good to find a holster that fits if you’re going to turn around and try to wear it over two inches of padding.”

“I’ll do that next. I was going to get two, one with the vest and one with-out. I mean, as long as House’s buy-ing...” The armorer returned, hand-ing the girl a new holster and taking the other one. “Hey Rose, I watched the video of you and Ivan at that pot-latch game and I was wondering—” She slid the Colt into the new holster and swung her arms. “After all the arguing, why’d you just up and shoot that guy? I mean, things looked pret-ty well settled anyway.” Kylee nodded to the armorer. “I’ll take it. Let me put on my vest and you can measure again.”

“Situational control,” Rose an-swered. “Sometimes one shot at the

ISSUE 57


rhinestones. “Face it, girl. We look good.”

Rose cackled shrilly. “A lady always dresses for the occasion.”

Kylee straightened in her chair, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the tabletop. “Can I ask a personal question?”

“Never stopped you before.”The girl hesitated a moment be-

fore pouncing. “Are you and Ivan an item or what?”

Rose snorted in surprise, lapsing into a coughing fit. “Thank good-ness I don’t have my drink yet,” she gasped, regaining her breath. “Oh, dear, I didn’t see that coming.”

“Well are you?” Kylee pressed.Rose sobered. “I don’t know,”

she said guardedly. “Maybe. We haven’t talked about it or anything. I’m still—” she hesitated, frowning. “Everything is different and mixed up. Fagan’s dead, I’m not a duelist anymore, I’m a mess. Inside, I mean. I don’t want to just grab onto a guy like I need an anchor. Until I can be sure about what I feel—” She ended with a shrug.

Kylee did not let her off so eas-ily. “Sure, that’s fair. But do you like him?”

Rose’s face creased in a shy smile. “I do. A lot.”

“And does he like you?”Rose shrugged again. “I hope so.”“I hope so,” Kylee echoed mock-

ingly then hissed in exacerbation. “Has he told you to go away?”

tables were abandoned, leaving the two sitting alone, rain streaming off the umbrella protecting the table.

“Nah, I’m good. After Selous, I’m a little claustrophobic anyway.”

Rose smiled. “I love the rain. All the smells and colors.”

“Because you need more colors,” Kylee teased, flicking a finger toward Rose’s own new duster, a shining blue ablative-kevlar number with a high stiff collar. “Seriously though, what’s rain look like to you?”

Most people avoided mentioning Rose’s synesthesia; Kylee met it with the same matter-of-fact curiosity she applied to the rest of life—a straight-forward honesty Rose found refresh-ing. “It looks like everything. Mostly it’s blues and greens, but the rain brings everything together, all the different smells, mixed and swirled but muted. It’s kind of like watching watercolors melt in the air, smears of bright pastels on turquoise.”

“That is soooo cool.”“I like it,” Rose said comfortably.

A waiter hurried through the down-pour to take their orders, scurrying away just as fast.

“He was checking you out,” Kylee accused as the man stepped around the knee-high planter and back into the cafe.

“I doubt it. He was probably just blinded by your boots.”

With a laugh, Kylee swung her feet onto a nearby chair, displaying the oxblood stained leather stitched with

“Not a pleasant thought.” The air-lock cycled and they stepped through to stand at the base of a solid wall and a metal stairway leading up. Though not as big as the lock, the stairs were much wider than human norm. “Bet-ter and better,” Ivan muttered. “After you.” The stairs accepted Red Dog’s weight without complaint and the alien scrambled to the top, Ivan close behind.

A few sections were framed in to form crude storage rooms or offic-es, but the bulk of the building was open, the raised floor stretching in front of them as a grid of concrete walkways above wire mesh covered pits. Lines of tubing ran overhead, dropping tendrils at regular intervals through the mesh. Rain drummed on the metal roof.

“Red Dog has seen enough.”Ivan ignored him, shuffling for-

ward to look down into one of the pits. “Okay, Red, you win. We’ve got to blow this place up.”

#“I want one of those frilly drinks,

with the crushed ice and goofy look-ing umbrella.” After five stores of gru-eling shopping, Kylee and Rose had decided to rest their feet. While the girl’s stamina might have temporar-ily waned, her enthusiasm remained unchecked.

“Non-alcoholic,” Rose cautioned her. “We can go inside if the rain bothers you.” While the interior of the cafe was packed, the exterior

the outer wall and the fence.He swung the truck in an arc and

backed to the loading dock at the front of the building. “We’re clear,” he said, rapping on the crate. “Doesn’t look like there’s anybody around.”

Red Dog popped the back out of the crate and undulated out onto the cement. “Alien stuff? Red Dog does not like to hear ‘alien stuff’.”

“Me too. That’s why I figured we’d better see what’s in here.” He checked around the edge of the building. “We’re not blowing any-thing up. Only looking.”

“What gases in tanks?” Red Dog asked.

“If the haz-mat labels are right, ox-ygen, methane, and ammonia.” Be-hind him, Red Dog made a noise like dry leaves in a stiff wind. “That just makes your day, doesn’t it?”

“Red Dog is happy as grub in jelly.”Ivan shook his head. “Only look-

ing,” he repeated. The only entrance looked to be through an airlock. Plas-tic coveralls and rebreather masks hung from pegs alongside. “You need one of these?” he asked, pulling the straps of the mask over his head.

“No. Red Dog can breathe any-thing.”

“Then help me with the door.” The airlock was a good ten feet wide and, once they had it open, Ivan saw it was at least as deep. “What the heck do they need a lock this big for?”

“Cillians?” Red Dog speculated, moving comfortably into the space.

ISSUE 57


girl, her own gun out. “Who’re you calling?” she asked, realizing it was a foolish question as soon as the words left her mouth.

Kylee ignored her, speaking with quick urgency. “Taking heavy fire, en-emy unknown. Proceeding to prede-termined rendezvous.” She snapped the comm unit shut and tossed it back to Rose. “Left a message.”

“Why? And why the military jar-gon?”

“We’ve no idea what’s going on,” the girl explained, motioning up the alley with a nod of her head. “No way of knowing if the comm system is compromised.”

Rose led the way into the adjoin-ing street. Seeing nothing unusual, she gestured for Kylee to join her. “So you leave a message to prevent the call from being tracked.”

“And don’t tell them where we’re headed in case someone is listening. You really think that was aimed at us?”

“Nobody else was out there, and we know Casey’s got a strong pres-ence on Fargone.” Rose pinched her lips together. “Yeah, it was aimed at us. Holster and try to look casual. Let’s head for the park and hope for the cavalry.”

#Ivan felt his skin flush with sweat

as he listened to Kylee’s message. “Red,” he started, stopping to gasp for breath as a fresh wave of panic clenched his chest.

throng. “Out the back! Put the build-ing in the way!”

“What’s going—”“I have no idea! Just go!”

#“You missed!” Maywether shout-

ed, staring out the window.Oden dropped the launcher

and jerked his gun from its holster. “They’ll try to get out the back. Stop gawking and get moving,” he snapped, surging to his feet. “This is going to be hard enough without giv-ing them an even bigger head start.”

Maywether glowered at the chaos boiling into the street a final moment before twisting away to follow.

“Something is wrong,” Red Dog buzzed.

“We’re standing over about five thousands Eaters. You bet some-thing’s wrong,” Ivan shot back. “Hur-ry up with those mines.”

The Cillian pulled another set of saddlebags from his back. “Some-thing worse,” he clattered, program-ming another charge.

#The crowd thinned as they entered

the kitchen. A cook ran past with a fire extinguisher. Kylee threw herself against the wall to let him by then kicked open the door into the alley beyond. “Lost my rucksack,” she told Rose, drawing the fletchette pistol. “No comm.”

“Use mine.” Rose passed her the handset and moved in front of the

sill, binoculars pressed to his eyes. “Street’s clear too.”

“Good,” Oden grunted, lifting the rocket launcher to his shoulder. When they had set up in the sec-ond floor corner room of the hotel, he had expected a moving target, a snap shot as the target passed his position. A stationary shoot was even better. “Open the window for me.”

“You sure that thing isn’t overkill? Rifle’d be just as easy.”

“We’re sending a message,” Oden said in disgust. “This is not the kind of message you send with calligraphy and a bow.”

#“You think I should comm Ivan and

have them meet us?” Kylee asked be-tween sips.

“Not yet. There’s a few more places I want to hit first.” Rose froze. Augmented opticals expanded her peripheral vision but, with the rain streaking the sky—

She shoved away from the table with one hand, grabbing Kylee’s arm with the other, dragging both of them across the top of the sidewalk planter. They fell, tangled, behind it as an explosion destroyed their table, shattering the windows of the cafe and sending its patrons screaming in terror.

“Go!” she commanded, scrambling to her feet, dragging Kylee up behind her and shoving the girl toward the panicked crowd. Kylee did not hesi-tate, elbowing her way through the

“No.”“Has he shot at you?”“No, wait,” Rose thought a mo-

ment. “No, I don’t think so.”“Then he likes you,” Kylee pro-

nounced. “Why all the drama? You like him, he likes you, problem solved.”

Rose shook her head, laughing. “It’s not that simple,” she protested as the waiter brought their drinks. She opened her mouth to explain then surrendered, letting the subject drop as Kylee fastened on her straw, sucking like a giant mosquito.

#Ivan jerked the shotgun muzzle up

before Red Dog could shoot. “Think!” he snapped. “If you start shooting, somebody’s gong to hear and we’ll have the entire place down around our ears. You can’t kill them fast enough to make a difference.”

“Eaters!” Red Dog protested, vis-ibly shaken by what he had seen in the pits. Ivan could not blame him. Each of the pits held dozens of Eaters, sluggishly crawling across each other to feed from the tubes but otherwise strangely sedate. “Thousands of Eat-ers!” A shudder rattled the length of Red Dog’s body. “Red Dog needs big-ger gun.”

“Show me how to set those mines of yours.”

#“Looks like they’re stopped,” May-

wether said, kneeling at the window-

ISSUE 57


“I’m okay,” she said, biting her lower lip, levering against the wall to regain her feet.

“Me too.” Kylee let the spent clip drop from her pistol, slapped home another. “Big guy, puckered face, brown overcoat. I didn’t get him,” she continued in clipped tones. “He’s around the corner up there. We need better cover.”

Rose drew her own gun, ignor-ing the tenderness in her side. “Any ideas?”

“Forward. Cover me.” Before Rose could protest, the girl burst from the side of the doorway, running forward in a crouch. Rose snapped a pair of steel spikes through the air where the gunman might be. Whoever he was, he had sense enough to keep his head down. Kylee threw herself into another doorway, this one on the other side of the street, pointing the muzzle of her gun at the oppo-site corner. Rose took the hint and ran forward, down the side of the building, while Kylee watched for the shooter.

Rose slid to a stop just short of the end of the building, pistol at the ready. Kylee angled across the street again to join her, dropping to the ground and rolling on her stomach around the corner, gun in front of her in both hands. Rose stepped over her, straddling the girl, ready to fire.

“We’re clear,” she said, moving her leg so Kylee could stand. “He must have run after the second shot.”

“Without my bag, all I’ve got are two fletchette clips in my pocket and the five rounds in the Colt.”

“I’ve got a few more. If you run low, tell me. Keep a fresh one in as much as you can.” Rose swung her head, checking the cross-streets be-fore moving on. “Most people who try to conserve ammo never live long enough to run out.”

Kylee’s hand fidgeted above the butt of her pistol but she resisted the urge to draw it. “How far now?”

“I figure two more blocks then we cut across to Second.”

“We haven’t seen anybody,” Kylee said, pulling her red-fringed scarf tighter around her neck, as much to give her hands something to do as to ward off the rain. “If I didn’t know better I’d say—”

The crack of the shot was simulta-neous with the impact that hit Rose just below her right breast, knocking her backward to the ground. Even as the concrete slapped her painfully on the back, she heard the spitting hiss of Kylee’s fletchette pistol firing. A second shot cracked through the rain, whining off the pavement be-side her.

The duster had stopped the bullet but she would have a massive bruise at best. Rose pushed herself toward the wall of the nearby building, winc-ing with each jerking breath. Kylee grabbed the collar of her duster, half-dragging her the rest of the way into the protection of a shallow doorway.

those still fleeing the site. A waiter stood, one foot braced against a shattered planter, holding a gun un-comfortably in both hands, keep-ing watch while a cook doused the remnants of the fire. Hands shoved into his overcoat, Maywether passed them all, eyes down, watching the crowd from the edges of his vision. If anyone noticed the bulk of the slug-thrower in his pocket, they kept their opinions to themselves.

He turned the corner then slid the gun out as he stepped into the mouth of the alley behind the building. Con-vinced it was empty, he turned back the way he had come but hesitated, deciding to check farther up the street first. Reaching the end of the block, a glimpse of pink and blue con-vinced him he was on the right track. The two women had apparently put, not just the width of the building be-tween them and the attack, but a full city block. Maywether paused, won-dering if he should call Oden. Pulling his coat tight against the rain with his left hand, sliding the gun back into his pocket with his right. To hell with Oden, he could handle them on his own. The women were moving cau-tiously; it would be child’s play to run the parallel streets and get ahead of them.

#“How much ammo do you have?”

Rose asked, walking swiftly with Kylee by her side, trying to hurry without attracting attention.

“Red Dog heard.”Ivan forced himself to swallow the

fear and think. It was like having an ice cube caught in his throat, a very real burning, freezing pain behind his sternum. “You’ve got to stay here and finish.”

“No! Queen is in danger. Red Dog and Ivan go!”

“If the Eaters aren’t stopped now, we’ll never get them,” Ivan barked, venting his anger at the situation on the Cillian. “She’ll be in more danger then.”

Red Dog stared at him then snapped his mandibles in frustration. “Take truck. Red Dog finishes then comes. Red Dog can run faster than fool humans. Red Dog runs like bul-let.”

“I just hope that’s fast enough,” Ivan muttered, already running for the door.

#“Split up. Flank the block.” Oden

ordered. “I’ll take this side.” May-wether glared at the old man but did not argue. He resented the mer-cenary assuming control, especially since Maywether had worked for Casey for years, but it was not worth causing trouble over. He would settle the issue later, after the matter at hand. With a final bitter glance at the other man’s back, he started for the other end of the city block.

The scene in front of the ruined cafe was one of controlled confusion. Gawkers pushed forward against

ISSUE 57


“Bull,” the girl said in a matter-of-fact tone. “You’re sucking wind like a drowning mule.”

Rose winced when she tried to laugh. “What the heck does that mean?”

“I don’t know. I read it in one of Twain’s books,” Kylee gave her a faint smile. “But I do know you’re hurt. How bad?”

“I think it’s a broken rib. I’ll be fine.”

Kylee nodded. “I know. But you go first, I’ll cover you. If our mystery shooter is still with us, he’s behind us.” Rose nodded, drawing a deep breath. She crossed the street in a hunched jog, Kylee half-walking, half-running backward behind her. “Head for the fountain Ivan said was at the center. That’ll give us as good a view as any,” Kylee instructed.

“Yes, boss.”#

The Cillian had done the math obsessively since Ivan left. Red Dog could run one mile in under two minutes. The factory was around four miles from the park at Second street—maybe, Red Dog was guess-ing at that, he was not good with dis-tances—therefore he could get there in eight minutes. Ivan could drive the truck faster than seventy miles per hour. That was less than one minute per mile. Ivan had left five mines ago. Red Dog could set two mines in—

The rattling clang of metal inter-rupted his calculations. Red Dog

“Max is overriding Fargone’s sys-tem and rerouting shipping lanes now. ETA on the shuttle...” House’s voice faded as he spoke to someone else. “Less than ten, more than five. That’s the best answer I’ve got right now. Weather’s going to be a prob-lem. We’re working on it.”

“Make it faster.”#

“I’d give my eyeteeth to find a crowd,” Rose gasped, breathing hard, hands on her knees. The pain in her side had grown steadily as they ran, forcing her to stop more and more often.

“Good luck in this weather.” The rain had become a torrent, the pitch black of the sky punctured with blaz-ing white lightning with increasing frequency. “We’ll be lucky if we don’t end up with pneumonia,” Kylee said, tossing another loop of scarf around her neck. “You see anybody in the park?”

Rose lifted her head to look, her eyes picking out details in the gloom beyond what even the best unaug-mented viewer could hope for. “No-body. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

“It’s good. There’s two of us and only one guy following.” Kylee’s face was intent. “Give me some grass and a couple of trees and he’s meat.”

The empty street between them and the park seemed to grow larger as Rose looked at it. “Ready when you are.”

#The truck’s single working wiper

converted rain into a greasy smear across the windshield. It was a mi-nor aggravation compared to the traffic. Ivan cursed and pounded a fist against the steering wheel as he stomped the brakes again, this time for a pedestrian. Red Dog’s sugges-tion of mounting a gun on the cab suddenly seemed eminently reason-able. Closer to the heart of the city, the streets were too clogged to al-low the speeds desperation urged on him. He slammed the truck into park and got out, engine running, door open, ignoring the horns and angry shouts behind him as he ran through the wet streets.

He started to pull the .45, changed his mind and grabbed his comm unit instead. He did not dare call Rose di-rectly for the same reason Kylee had left a message to begin with, but he could call other places, higher places. “Dell, get me House. Now!”

“I’m already monitoring planetary communications,” House’s voice re-plied. “There are calls to emergency services all over the city. Fire and Haz-Mat are responding. Sheriff’s of-fice isn’t.”

“I need better than that.”“I just loaded half of the Orion’s

security contingent onto the Hecate’s assault shuttle. Where’d you want Solomon to put ‘em down?”

“Right on top of me. I’ll leave the line open.”

Kylee flipped hair away from her eyes, one side of her head dark from the muddy water she had rolled through. “This is going to suck,” she growled.

“No cover and too many places for snipers,” Rose agreed. “Go to ground, maybe? Hole up in a building?”

“Too easy a target for heavy weap-ons,” Kylee responded.

“Run,” Rose said simply, and they both sprinted through the rain, all thoughts of stealth forgotten.

#Oden stood watching people pass

in the reflection of the shop widow’s glass. He had to admit, Maywether made an effective stalking horse, al-lowing him to follow at a more dis-creet distance. It had been childishly simple to backtrack and follow the other man after they had supposedly gone their separate ways. Of course, since Maywether did not know he was being used as bait, he would probably get himself killed, but that did not bother Oden. In fact, he con-sidered it a plus; the other man was a walking attitude problem that would have to be dealt with sooner or later.

The mountaineer pulled a plas-tic-wrapped cigar from his pocket. Splitting the plastic with his thumb, he wedged it into the corner of his mouth, chewing the end and letting the rich taste fill his mouth. Smiling lopsidedly, he flipped up the collar of his coat and stepped into the street.

ISSUE 57


leverage spread across a larger area, giving him traction. It was a near stalemate, each shoving against the other with all their might, seeking an advantage.

The Eaters broke the deadlock, jerking at their legs, tearing loose the wire grate the Adolphus stood on. It stumbled, pushing away from Red Dog. The Cillian shoved it, send-ing the Adolphus sprawling. Eaters began to swarm onto the walkways, attacking each other in their frenzy. As the Adolphus struggled back to its feet, Red Dog dropped the tubing and ran, the other alien’s laughter wheezing out behind him. It made no attempt to follow, waiting for the swelling wave of Eaters to attack for him.

“Red Dog wishes Priest was pres-ent,” he buzzed to himself, slamming the knives back into their sheaths, patting his harness frantically for the remote detonator he and Ivan had programmed for the mines. He fell down the stairs at the end of the building, sliding rather than trying to keep his feet. He slapped the emer-gency override on the airlock, letting the air outside the building gush in unrestrained, Eaters spilling down the stairs feet behind him.

Red Dog dove from the loading dock, sliding on the gravel drive as he turned, running toward the fence surrounding the complex. Throwing his arms in front of his head, the Cil-lian burst through the chain link, pain

“Red Dog does not have time for boot lickers.” He lashed the tub-ing at the Adolphus’ legs, forcing it to hop back. It roared again, driving the Eaters below into a frenzy, hands pushing through the mesh, grabbing blindly. Horrified, Red Dog realized it would only be a matter of minutes before they worked the mesh loose from the concrete. The Adolphus’ back gaped open as the wet redness of its gills sucked in air.

Slashing at the Adolphus, he pressed forward, jerking back to parry the creature’s own backhand-ed swipe with its reversed claw. “No time!” he rumbled and sent the tub-ing humming through the air on an-other whipping arc in front of him. The Adolphus skipped back again, this time landing on mesh instead of concrete walkway. Angrily, it jerked free of the grasping hands.

“Adolphus’ pets are not so well behaved,” he said, snapping the tub-ing back. Metal shrieked as the mesh began to bend, tearing loose under the pressure of the Eaters boiling be-neath.

The Adolphus charged, blindingly fast, frontal plate lowered. Red Dog surged to meet it, swinging both knives overhanded at the last minute, slamming their hilts into the middle of the creature’s face. The impact lift-ed the Cillian’s front segments off the ground and for a moment the two seemed frozen. The Adolphus was stronger but Red Dog was heavier, his

friendly relationship. The Cillians, even under the yoke of the ones the humans called the Blank, considered themselves independent, a free race temporarily repressed, biding their time until the opportunity to strike back presented itself. The Adolphus, in contrast, worshiped their masters, desperately working for their favor, wanting to be like them or, worse still, to actually be them.

“Red Dog is no lackey. Red Dog serves only new queen.”

It was the Adolphus’ turn to be surprised. “There is kt’new Cillian queen? Outside kt’quarantine?”

“Most powerful queen every hatched,” Red Dog gloated in a rum-ble just above a purr. “New queen’s reality has no place for Eaters.” He dropped the shotgun and yanked one of the hanging tubes up out of a pit. The other end snapped away from the thicker tubes running overhead, a thick gray ooze like a mushroom jelly mixed with ground corn dribbled from the broken ends. He wrapped a loop of the tubing around his remain-ing lower arm and slid a pair of long knives free with the upper two.

“You’d have done better to join kt’winning side,” the Adolphus growled, still circling. The creature rose up to its full height, dwarfing the Cillian, the top of its head only inches from the metal ceiling, and let out a deep, throbbing roar. The wire mesh below them began to rattle as the Eaters woke to life.

dropped the saddlebag he was hold-ing and scooped up a shotgun.

“Don’t shoot,” wheezed a voice as he turned. “Given kt’constituency of kt’atmosphere in here, you’ll blow us both up.” Something like a giant skull supported by the legs of a mu-tant grasshopper strode toward him across the walkway, the head swing-ing slightly side-to-side with each step.

Red Dog kept the gun pointed at the pale center of the Adolphus’ broad frontal plate. “Too damn many aliens,” he buzzed, surprised.

“It does seem to be kt’common theme of late.” The Adolphus ges-tured with a thin arm. “kt’Gun, if you please?”

Red Dog had not considered the possibility of an explosion in the methane-rich environment but he saw no reason to share that informa-tion. “No. Maybe Red Dog does not care as long as Eaters die too.”

The tall alien stepped sideways, beginning to circle the Cillian, forc-ing him to turn to keep the Adolphus in front of him. “I’m assuming Red Dog is your name. You Cillians nev-er were very good with pronouns. kt’Underdeveloped linguistic center in your brains, I think. Tell me, Red Dog, how does a Cillian happen to be outside the quarantine? Do we have kt’mutual friend perhaps?”

The Adolphus and Cillians had a long history even before humans intruded into space. It was not a

ISSUE 57


ly. “Not mine.” She lowered her right hand from the fletchette, holding it in her left alone, and pulled the Colt from her shoulder holster. “No rea-son to conserve ammo,” she said, leveling it, too, at the older man.

Rose stayed deliberately still, breathing shallowly to control the pain. She hurt and each new breath was like a tearing in her stomach, but she was not injured nearly as bad as Oden seemed to think, and she had no desire to dispel the illusion, yet. She had kept her feet under her as she slid down, pistol still clenched in her fist. The pain would slow her down, stop her if she moved too much and pushed over the edge into shock. Her world focused to the tiny circle that was Kylee and Oden, and she waited.

Oden smiled at the girl, impressed, wondering how long it would be be-fore her arms weakened, the guns’ muzzles drooped. He could wait, like the mountains, he could stand for-ever if need be.

Maywether surprised them all, for-gotten in the tension of the standoff. Mad with pain, he charged, bellow-ing as he launched himself at Kylee. He hit her like a bull from behind, wrapping his arms around her, throw-ing her to the ground, knocking the guns from her outstretched hands as they hit the dirt. Oden danced away from the pair, angling for a clear shot. Maywether rose to one knee, still gripping Kylee in a crushing bear

He lowered his pistol, pointing it at the ground. “I don’t think you’ve got the guts.”

“Oh, she does,” Rose said.The girl’s eyes did not move.

“Who’re you working for?”“Guess.”Her face tightened, right eye nar-

rowing slightly. “I’m sick of hard cas-es.” The muzzle twitched to the side and she blew his ear off. He dropped his gun, clutching at the bloody mess on the side of his head, half-scream-ing, half-cursing. “You’ve got two of those,” the girl said. “So I guess you get two tries. Who do you work for?”

“Casey,” he screamed. “Edgar Casey.”

“You alone?”“No. I mean yes—” A gun bellowed. Maywether threw

himself to the ground, crawling on his hands and knees, convinced he had been shot. Rose staggered back against a tree trunk, slid down it to the ground staring down at the blood welling across the blue of her duster.

“Armor piercing round,” Oden said, stepping into the open, revolver trained on Kylee. “You really should have considered using them your-self.” He took another step toward her. “Drop the gun, girl.”

“Not a chance in hell,” she replied, swinging it smoothly to point at Oden.

“Smart kid. Almost a shame things have to end like they do.”

“That’s your call,” Kylee said calm-

ing to a halt in a blasted cluster of sagebrush. “Red Dog is alive,” he hummed, uncertain if it was a state-ment or a question, the world still spinning around him. After several long minutes, he staggered to his feet, fighting to summon the energy for the long run into the city.

#Ivan flinched as a boom louder

than the nearest thunderclap cracked the shop windows around him.

“Ivan,” squawked House’s voice from his comm unit. “We just picked up something big—big enough to see it through the weather. What’s hap-pening down there?”

“Red Dog’s urban development plan,” he snapped. “What’s the ETA on the shuttle?”

“On their way now.”#

Maywether walked through the park slowly, his gun held openly now. He knew the pair were close, some-where in the park. It was just a mat-ter of time. He heard a rustle and the thump of feet landing on soggy ground. He spun to find himself star-ing down the muzzle of a fletchette pistol, the girl glaring over the top of it.

“Before I shoot you,” she said in a venomous whisper, “I have a few questions you’re going to answer.”

“Drop the gun,” Rose added, step-ping from behind a tree to his left, her own gun centered on his skull.

stabbing into his body as the fence vented its electrified fury, amplified by the rain that lashed across him. The Eaters hesitated, bunching at the open airlock, then pressed forward as they regained sight of their quar-ry. Throwing himself into a shallow ditch, Red Dog keyed the detonator.

Red Dog’s mines used ethylene ox-ide mixed with powdered aluminum as a fuel to generate the overpres-sure wave that was the trademark of a fuel-air explosion. The methane and oxygen-rich confines of the Eater hatchery made his fears about the pouring rain reducing their efficiency laughable. Flame chased the over-pressure at supersonic speed, con-suming the Eaters even as the shock-wave pulped them to jelly. Cored by such a conflagration, the metal building shredded like a giant frag-mentation grenade, sending shrap-nel ripping toward nearby buildings as the wave front stomped them flat. The pressurized gas tanks beside the building erupted, black mushroom clouds rising into the thunderheads above. The rain was no match for the hell-on-earth that tore the com-plex apart. The secondary explosions were little more than insult to injury.

The wave front scooped Red Dog from his hole, lifting him like a soap bubble and flinging him, tumbling, through the air. He was tossed out of control across the flat expanse beyond the complex like a stone skipped across a pond, finally slid-

ISSUE 57


escaped the park only minutes be-fore a shuttle half-crashed, half-land-ed where he had been shot. By then, he was far enough away not to worry about being followed.

There was no danger of being found. A hefty bribe to the port au-thority insured that only the har-bormaster knew where his ship was berthed, and the harbormaster was firmly in Casey’s pocket.

Except that the harbormaster’s clipboard was laying on the floor of his ship. He heard a scraping noise and looked up in time to see two tons of Cillian roll from atop the cargo lock-ers. The impact drove him into the steel plating underneath, shattering his hips, reducing his legs to smears of agony. As Oden screamed in pain, the alien reached out, almost casu-ally, and broke both of his elbows.

“Red Dog brings salutations from queen.” The alien waited patiently until Oden stopped thrashing before continuing. “On Cillia, is no greater crime than to kill female of spe-cies. Only male consumed by mad-ness would do so. Terrible, terrible.” Oden’s focus wandered, shock blur-ring his world; the pattern of rain-streaked ash on the Cillian’s crimson exoskeleton fascinated him.

Mandibles clashed inches from his face, jerking him back. He stared up, past the mandibles to the ripping parrot-like beak behind and began to scream again.

#

When Red Dog reached the park, he found an assault shuttle crush-ing half of it, heavily armed security guards from the Orion swarming the area. They let him pass without com-ment. Ivan was still by the fountain; Kylee leaned against a tree a few yards away.

“Rose is dead,” the queen said as he approached. “I killed one, Oden got away.”

The alien waited, feeling her words like physical blows.

“He’s wounded, moving slow,” she continued. “He’ll be headed for a ship.” The young queen met his eyes with a cold stare that only another Cillian could understand. “I’d like the matter dealt with.”

“Red Dog attends.”#

Oden pulled himself the final few feet up the gangplank with the strength of his arms alone, hauling painfully on the rails. His face was wet, one side caked with a crust of blood and vitreous fluid, slick with rain. He could no longer feel his leg. That was an improvement—the little brat had been packing armor pierc-ing rounds after all and he doubted if, even with the finest medical treat-ment Casey could afford, he would ever walk without a limp again.

But he survived, he reassured himself as he leaned against the bulkhead, swinging the hatch closed behind him. Succeed or fail, he lived and that was better than most. He

steel needles stabbed his own flesh. His reinforced coat absorbed most of the shots before his world erupted into a pinwheel of fire and pain as one of the spikes knifed into his cheek-bone, deflecting upward through his right eye socket. He dropped his gun, both hands reflexively going to his ruined eye. Forgetting everything, he began to run.

As fast as Rose fell, Kylee dove, sliding across the grass of the park to grab the fallen Colt. Laying prone, she sighted on the fleeing Oden and milked the trigger. A slug plowed through his leg, sending him stagger-ing wildly. She fired twice more, un-sure whether she hit as he ran, hob-bling, out of sight.

Dropping the Colt, she crawled back to Rose. The other woman lay by the fountain, a pool of blood spread-ing in the rain. “Gotta get you out of the rain,” she muttered numbly. “Get you to a doctor.”

Rose gripped her arm weakly. “No,” she whispered, a smile ghost-ing across her lips. “I want to see the sky.”

Then Ivan was there, clutching Kylee in his arms as if to reassure him-self she were really there, begging her to be all right. She did not know what she said but it was enough. He released her and fell to his knees be-side Rose’s body, pulling her head up into his lap, burying his face in hair that still smelled of strawberries.

#

hug. With a roar, he set his foot and heaved upward to stand erect, twist-ing side-to-side, shaking the girl like a dog with a rat clenched in its jaws.

With a final jerk, Maywether threw Kylee away from him, send-ing her sprawling painfully into the side of the fountain. Off balanced by the throw, he staggered toward her, blocking Oden’s line.

“Get clear, you idiot!” Oden shout-ed.

Maywether ignored him, swaying on his feet like a punch-drunk boxer. The left side of his face was a mask of splattered blood and he panted through his mouth, jaw outthrust. “Kill you!” he yelled, towering over the unarmed Kylee. Rolling over, she balled her scarf and threw it at him. The big man caught it in one hand, flipping it around his arm, gathering in the slack and laughing at the des-perate futility of the gesture.

He was still laughing when the two practice grenades she had used to weight the ends exploded, blasting his arm and part of his chest into a bloody mist.

Oden had not survived by taking unnecessary chances; he squared to shoot the girl while Maywether’s corpse was still falling. As he did, Rose leapt at him, surging from the ground with a banshee’s shriek. He jerked his aim up and around, squeezing the trigger, trying to track her as she fired rapidly with the fletchette pistol. His slugs hammered into her even as the

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Calamity’s Child Chapter 11 Object Real: Object Real by M. Keaton

Something to eat?”“We ate on the shuttle.” They sat

in silence, taking comfort from each other’s presence. “Why is Kylee in the gym? I would have expected her to be on the firing range.”

Ivan’s features lit with genu-ine amusement. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you. You’ll have to ask her about it.” The smile faded into a look of weary resignation.

Pharaoh lowered his head, study-ing the other man’s face. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Dunno. Off and on last night.” He squeezed his eyelids closed, rubbed them with the heels of his hands. “I had a full house—a wiggly little girl and a big red rattle-trap kind of kept me up.”

“Nightmares again?”“Not that she’s mentioned. I think

she just didn’t want to be alone.” Ivan shook his head. “House’s going after Casey soon. Hours, days at the most. I can sleep after that.”

Pharaoh kept his opinion to him-self. “Fill me in. What is really going on?”

“I’m not sure even House has put everything together. Maybe Priest did, but he’d be about the only one. This is what I know.” Ivan straight-ened in his chair. “Casey’s finally worked himself into a position where the Hedge takes him seriously; maybe not all of them, but he’s got enough key people behind him that he thinks he can act with impunity. He has

with Ivan before leaving.“You raised a good pair,” he told

their father.“You did pretty good yourself,”

Pharaoh answered. “The way I hear it from House, Kylee did herself proud.”

“She did.” Ivan sighed. “She had good teachers, but I wasn’t one of them.”

Pharaoh leaned forward, laying his hand on Ivan’s forearm. “I am sorry. If I had come sooner...”

“Don’t. It’s not your fault. You want to blame yourself for not getting here faster. House blames himself for sending us down. I’m afraid Kylee blames herself for just being there.” He took a long drink. “I’m not going there. It’s nobody’s fault except the bastard that pulled the trigger and the son-of-a-bitch who ordered it.”

“Fair enough. How are you holding up?”

“Tired. Frustrated. Everything else is on hold; I’ll deal with it later, after Casey’s dealt with.”

“And Kylee?”“She worries me.” Ivan kneaded

the skin of his forehead. “Right now, she seems fine. Mad as hell but fine. Sooner or later, though, it’s going to catch up with her and when it does—” He broke off with a shrug. “It both-ers me that she’s bottling everything up.”

“Where did she learn that?” Pha-raoh wondered aloud.

Ivan snorted and emptied his wa-ter. “You want something to drink?

Orion’s small bars, boots splayed un-der the table, head down, staring at the tumbler sitting on the table in front of him. His gaze flickered to the archway as they entered, dropped back to the tabletop. “I’m not drink-ing,” he said loudly as James and John began circling the room in op-posite directions. “It’s water.”

“Of course it is,” Pharaoh said, forcing a smile.

“I’m not joking,” Ivan growled, dip-ping a pair of fingers in his glass and flicking droplets at Pharaoh. “You tackle me and I’m going to beat the snot out of you.”

“I never doubted.” The hunter pulled a chair across the floor and sat opposite Ivan. “We came as soon as we could.”

“I appreciate it.”“Where’s Kylee?”“She’s in the gym with Red Dog.”

Ivan looked first at John, then across the room to James. “Tell them to stop that. It’s like being stalked by jaguarundi.”

“Relax boys,” Pharaoh ordered. “’Crazy’ Ivan has not returned.”

“Just ‘Damned-Tired’ Ivan,” he muttered. “I climbed into a bottle full of alcohol and revenge once. I’m not doing it again.”

“I’ll go make sure our gear is stowed,” John said, giving his brother a small jerk of his head.

James nodded. “I’ll go catch up with Kylee.” Both men paused to share a handshake and a worn smile

House paid for a funeral no one attended, and they placed a bronze plaque in the floor at the center of the hydroponics bay.

Mary ‘Quicksilver Rose’ Magda-lene

She Saved Somebody

##

Calamity’s Child Chapter 11Object Real: Object Real

The twins flanked Pharaoh, staring down the crewmembers they passed in the hallways with menacing scowls nearly rivaling the one their father wore. Even if the Orion had not been on a war footing, no one would have suggested they surrender their weapons when they disembarked their shuttle.

“House said he is in the bar,” Pha-raoh said. “When we get in there, you boys swing wide and try to stay out of it until I get him tied up. If he is like he was before...I am fairly sure Ivan will not hurt me too bad.”

“You’re worried about him hurting you?” John asked, puzzled.

“My brother fights dirty, especially when he is upset. Watch his feet.”

Ivan slouched alone in one of the

ISSUE 57


youth somewhere,” he said, eliciting a wave of laughter. “I ain’t said noth-ing every one of you don’t already know. But I wanted to say it and to tell you I’m proud of you and proud that House and you guys gave me a chance to be part of it.”

“Didn’t know we had a choice,” teased a woman at the foot of the ladder.

He laughed, giving her an exagger-ated wink. “I’m saying it now so that when I’m busting your chops later, you can think back and maybe decide not to crack my helmet open with a wrench.” He grinned broadly. “Now get to work, you space monkeys! I want this deck clear and now!”

#It should have been comedic—

a two-ton bright red alien steady-ing a punching bag with three arms as a young woman attacked it with an almost insane frenzy—but, from where James stood, it was frighten-ing. The intensity of the blows, com-bined with the unbridled fury that seemed to radiate from Kylee as she worked, dispelled any inclination to laugh. He waited in silence several feet behind her until she stopped for breath, sweat running down her face in rivers, beads dripping from the end of her nose.

“Visitor,” clattered the alien. She turned. A series of emotions flickered across her face, eventually settling at a wan smile.

“Miss Calamity,” he said with a

“More importantly,” Carl contin-ued, “they’re our horses, whether their riders appreciate it or not. The cowboys can say what they want but we’ve got the most dangerous job around. Once the shooting starts, we’re going to have to be turning these horses around as fast as we can go. And, yeah, I think there’s go-ing to be enough fighting to need more than one reload.” He stood, resting one foot on the fighter’s hull for balance. “That means we’re go-ing to have to work in hard vacuum because there ain’t time to cycle the atmosphere in the bays. We’re gonna keep the doors open for this one. You make damn sure that if something isn’t strapped down or magnetized, it’s off this deck. Check your suits and tanks and make sure everyone’s got plenty of slap-patches.” Contrary to popular belief, a torn vacuum suit was not an instant death sentence. Rips were routinely temporarily re-paired with adhesive patches and smaller leaks with rubber tape.

Carl put his hands on his hips, look-ing proudly out across the crew. “Wa-tering these horses during a firefight is the most dangerous thing a man can do. Anybody doesn’t believe me, wait until one of these babies comes crashing in here sideways with one wing gone and the other streaming plasma.”

“Sounds like experience talking there, Chief,” called one of the men.

“Everybody’s got to misspend their

“There’ll be a lot of shouting,” Ivan said wryly, reaching to squeeze the other man’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I would not miss it for the world. We both have ghosts that demand no less.” The big hunter smiled with genuine warmth. “Besides, what is family for?”

#The Orion’s landing bay rang with

the sound of metal on metal as Carl Ross pounded on a steel beam with a wrench. “Listen up, you apes!” he shouted as the echoes faded. “We are now officially a fighter deck only! If it ain’t got guns, I want it moved out and locked down. We’re a warship and the boss man wants us ready to go ASAP. That means you chumps are going to bust your humps until I say otherwise and I don’t plan on saying it.” He swung onto the ladder that led to the cockpit of one of the fight-ers, climbing up to perch on the lip of the spacecraft. “But first we’re go-ing to have a little chat. Get over hear and listen good.” He waited just long enough to insure the crew had heard his instructions. “Pretty soon, we’re going to be overrun with cowboys bragging and strutting. They can’t help it; they’re just ignorant. Let ‘em talk. We all know the truth. A cowboy without a horse is just a bystander and these babies,” he slapped the fighter with his hand, “are some mighty fine horses.” The gathered mechanics laughed appreciatively.

some kind of scheme, using the Eat-ers to scare key Frontier worlds into falling in line with him. I guess from there, he offers the Frontier to the Hedge on a plate. They leave him in charge and back him up.”

“So the pirates, the Eaters, and the smuggling to the quarantined worlds, that’s all tied together?”

“Not all of it—there’ll always be pi-rates and smuggling—but the worst of it, yeah.” Ivan tapped the table with the knuckle of his thumb. “Bot-tom line, he’s gone too far and we’re going to put him down. If all the other things sort themselves out, so much the better.”

Pharaoh frowned. “Do we know where he is?”

“We do now. He’s been too heavy handed and all the clues have finally snowballed up on him. Kylee, the info Red brought back from the Kwakiutl priest, the attack patterns on both of the main shipping lines, even the nav-igational information Max stripped out of Oden’s ship—House’s been pil-ing it up, Max and Dell run it through a sieve. Give a man enough rope...” His eyes were cold as he looked at Pharaoh. “Casey’s had a lot of rope.”

“And do we care about a warrant?”“No. But we’ve got one. It’s not

much and it’ll probably never stand up to any kind of legal challenge. But somehow Graves convinced ErSec to issue one.”

“Then it is all over but the shout-ing,” Pharaoh said.

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suppressed yawn.“Rain’s been sneaking the Hecate

in and out of Casey’s system since you got back, trying to give us a bet-ter idea of what we’re up against,” House explained. Dark bags haunted his own eyes, mute testimony to the fact that no one had gotten much rest in the past days. “Oddbits. That’s what the navigational data we lifted from Oden’s ship calls it. The system doesn’t exist in any of the databases.”

“Casey’s there?” Ivan asked.“Safe bet,” Rainmaker said.

“They’ve been a chatterin’ bunch o’er there. Somethin’s got them spooked, an’ good.”

Ivan twisted in his chair to look at the aged creole. “What do you mean?”

“Ship-to-ship chatter and lots of it. Not just message drone, neither. I tell you what—”

“Let’s take it in order,” House sug-gested. “What we got from Oden’s ship probably wouldn’t have been any help alone; it’s really just con-firmation of what we already knew from our other sources. Once Dell and Max got done, I had Rain take the Hecate in and scout.”

“The first run, she was just a fast in-and-out to make sure there was even a system there to find,” Rain-maker explained.

“It’s a three-world system with a G-class sun. We don’t know whether Oddbits is the name of the system or one of the worlds. It doesn’t really

ter of its oversized skull with his pen as he spoke. “The Eaters were on Far-Gone as a convenience. They were at the factory so we could load them faster. There are plenty more of them on a dozen quarantine worlds. Los-ing the factory is a setback; that’s all. It moves the timetable back but I’ve got other facilities coming online as we speak. I’m not foolish enough to put all my eggs in one basket. It’s just a delay.” He added the last in a stub-born tone that sounded petulant to his own ears.

“I stand corrected. But, does that not still leave kt’humans who oppose you? Kt’ones whose interference you feared?”

“They’ve interfered already. Or do you think the hatchery blew up on its own?”

The Adolphus made a noise like deflating bagpipes. “They will con-tinue to attack?”

“Probably. If they can find us.”“And if they do?”Casey sent the pen spinning across

the desk with an angry flip. “Let them come.”

#Ivan sank into his usual chair in

House’s office with a courtesy nod to Rainmaker and Solomon. He had tried to convince Pharaoh to come with him but his brother pleaded ex-haustion.

“Somebody roun’ heah ought get some sleep,” Solomon drawled, his heavy accent further distorted by a

right for her and then, bang, some-body took it all away.” Tears welled but she ignored them, moving to face him, meeting his gaze squarely. “I’m not losing again. They killed my folks, they killed Rose, and they tried to kill me. No more, James. I mean it. From now on, somebody so much as looks at one of my people wrong, I’ll kill ‘em. Anybody tries to mess with me and they’re going to wish they’d never been born.”

Red Dog cracked his mandibles to-gether loudly behind her. James nod-ded. “I’m with the big guy,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. “We’re with you. We all are.”

She sagged against his hands, lean-ing against his support. “I know,” she said. “I just hope it’s enough.”

#Twenty-four hours since Jimmy re-

turned and still no word; Oden and Maywether had failed. Casey would have known that even if a messenger drone had not already brought word of the factory’s destruction. That was just bitter icing on an already sour cake.

“They’re dead,” the Adolphus rasped, echoing his thoughts and set-ting his nerves further on edge in the process. “Your men have failed, our Eaters are dead, and our plans lie in ruins.”

“It’s no wonder we mopped the floor with you during the war,” Casey shot back. “One stumble and you give up.” He pointed toward the cen-

half-bow.“James.” She extended a hand. He

grabbed it, pulling her into a fierce embrace. “We were worried about you, baby sister,” he said.

Kylee stiffened then relaxed, re-turning the hug. “I’m better with you guys here. Did Martha come?”

“Ma’s on Selous. What we’re going to do, it’s just too dangerous for her,” he explained, releasing her.

She held ona moment longer be-fore letting go. “Always important to know somebody’s keeping the fire at home. Pharaoh’s with Ivan?”

“Yeah. John and I figured it’d be best to clear out while they talked. Just out of curiosity, why are you in the gym? I expected you to be prac-ticing on the range.”

“Don’t ask,” Red Dog buzzed.Kylee ignored the comment. “I’m

trying to wear myself out. When I try to sleep, my brain keeps running in circles.” She shrugged. “Not much more I can do with a gun. I’m using the one we made for Rose as my pri-mary and the gun she gave me in my off-hand. It seems...right.”

“I am sorry. I only met her the once, but she seemed like a good person.”

“Rose was awesome!” she snapped, rounding on the punching bag with a new round of aggression. She pumped a series of blows into the bag then stopped, shoulders droop-ing. “It’s not fair,” she said softly. “Everything was finally starting to go

ISSUE 57


“How many people?”“Near as we can tell, he’s got about

thirty people on the grounds. No way to tell what’s staff and what’s muscle. How many do you need?”

It was Ivan’s turn to count. “Me, Pharaoh, Red, James, and John. Four and Red.”

“And Kylee,” House said.“And Kylee,” Ivan agreed.“Hol’ on,” interrupted Rainmaker.

“I can do a lot of things but I cain’t take a Cillian. Maybe I don’t have a problem with it but the crew—non.”

Solomon jumped in before either House or Ivan could respond. “Ah dunno, Cap. Ah says we be jest fine wit’ it. After all, de enemy of my en-emy, he kin wait for later, nes pas?”

The two stared at each other for several seconds. “All right.” Rainmak-er nodded. “But who’s the pilot? I’m going to need toothless here on the Hecate.”

“James,” Ivan suggested.“Can he fly a shuttle?” House

asked.Ivan rolled his shoulders in a vague

shrug. “If it flies, the boy can pilot it.”“’Fore we goes, I’ll show him where

she likes to be tickled an’ where de guns are,” Solomon volunteered.

It took another hour to work out the details sufficiently for House to declare them finished. “It’s settled. We go in the morning or later to-day or whatever it is ten hours from now,” he said. “Make sure everyone get some sleep, at least six hours and

to the planet.”“Close enough that if it were a

snake, it woulda bit us,” Rainmaker said. “Brung back good scans, too.”

“And?” Ivan prompted.House held up his hand, ticking off

fingers as he spoke. “One: except for some storage-type buildings around the port itself, there’s only one other structure on the planet, four-story a mansion. Given everything else we’ve found, I think we know who it belongs to. Two: it’s occupied, with a lot of comm traffic going in and out, most of it coded. Short of knocking on the door and asking, that’s as close as we’re going to get to con-firmation that he’s home. Three: if we barge into the system guns blaz-ing, he’s not going to risk taking a shuttle up to the dock until he’s sure the situation’s under control and he’s got a clear lane. Four: we don’t have the firepower to plow through his defenses fast enough to prevent him from getting that lane. If he gets off the planet then, even if we blow every ship we find to dust, we’ll still never be sure we got him.”

“If that’s the only option we have, I still say we do it,” Ivan said.

“And I agree. But I think we’ve got another option.” House balled his fingers into a fist. “The Hecate can get almost anywhere in that system without being detected as long as she coasts in and keeps her guns of-fline. And anywhere the Hecate can go, so can its shuttle.”

House stepped in. “We estimate his fighter capacity at between twen-ty and thirty ships. Two escort class gunships in orbit and two more in drydock under repairs. There’s also a half dozen freighters and slo-pos but nothing to indicate they’re armed. If I were to guess, I’d say he’s got most of his ships tied up on the Third Earth-Farnham run making pirate raids to keep ErDef busy.”

“An’ de mystery ship,” Solomon re-minded him.

“That too.” House answered Ivan’s question before he asked it. “The Hecate’s picked up another cloaked ship twice before when the Orion has been attacked. The last time, it fired a missile salvo before turning tail. Based on Priest’s files, Max thinks it might be a decommissioned stealth ship one generation before the Hec-ate. The size of the missile launch supports that. We’re looking at a ship in the heavy escort to light cruiser class, about 150 kilotons with good enough stealth tech to run the block-ades.”

Ivan took a moment to digest the information. “So what’s all that mean?”

“Trip number four,” Rainmaker said.

“You’s gettin’ sleepy, very sleepy,” added Solomon.

House rapped his knuckles against the desktop, glaring at the two Aca-dians. “I had them go back one more time to see how close they could get

matter because, for our purposes, we’re only concerned with the sys-tem’s single inhabited planet and its defenses.”

“Trip number two,” Rainmaker picked up. “We coasted deep into the system to see what we’re facing. It’s not pretty.”

“Pretty ugly,” Solomon quipped.“True ‘nuff. Casey’s got an orbital

drydock.”Ivan glanced at House for help.

“It’s a platform to repair ships,” House explained. “It makes sense that he’d have one if he’s running a fleet of any size. They’re big, but most of it is framework. They’re usu-ally pretty heavily fortified as well.” He shrugged. “Could be worse. It’s not a full blown station or fort, and the planet itself doesn’t look to have a defense net.”

“The planet herself was trip num-ber three. It barely has a starport,” Rainmaker resumed. “Itty-bitty one. Most of the place is—” He stopped, lifting a hand as he searched for the word.

“Vacant?” Solomon suggested.Rainmaker dropped his head to his

chest dramatically. “You have no art, bon ami. No, it is as if the world were untouched. Except, for a world to be so perfect, it must be touched regu-larly.”

“It is his Versailles,” his XO amend-ed.

“Back up a minute,” Ivan said. “He’s got a dock. What about ships?”

ISSUE 57


teeth as he slept. Still, it was better than nothing. His feet led him to his office. He watched Ivan and his peo-ple board the transfer shuttle to the Hecate through the ship’s monitors, not wanting to intrude, feeling oddly jealous. After that, he waited, switch-ing the view on his screen from area to area, watching his ship live.

Dell’s voice interrupted his dis-tracted revelry. “It’s time, sir.”

Instead of replying, he glanced at the wall plot of ships in the system. The Hecate’s icon flared then blinked out, already on its way. House tripped the monitor controls again, this time for a last look at the crew. They were a motley lot and generally undisci-plined, but they were his. He stood and walked to the waiting tram.

They expected him to say some-thing, but what was there to say? The shoving match between me and Casey has reached the point of no re-turn? His lips quirked into a sardonic smile. How about, ‘I pay your salary. Now get back to work and shoot the people I tell you to shoot.’ The tram slid to a halt and he entered the new CIC to face his people, men and wom-en who, whether for pay or belief, put themselves in his hands. There was only one thing to tell them. The truth.

“Dell,” he said, walking slowly to stand behind the railing of the com-mand dais. “Broadcast, full ship.” House leaned against the rail, chin tucked into his chest, waiting. Draw-

leather left to her by Kingfisher via Rounder. With everything else going on, she had tossed it onto the top of her bureau and forgotten it. Sitting, she pulled apart the stiff calfskin.

It was a simple design, opening like a book along a single fold with clear pockets on each side, yellowed and brittle with age. The left sleeve held a silver coin, about the size of her palm, worn smooth with age. The ar-tifact on the right was silver as well, a five-pointed ball-tipped star. At least, that was its original form. The lower right point was missing, bro-ken away at a ragged edge. The rest of the star had obviously been bent and repaired numerous times; its once-smooth surface was marred by bumps and ripples in the silver. Part of the etching was worn away on the left side but the other letters were still visible: “IZONA” arched above “ANGERS”. The tail of the last R and part of the S vanished into the gap where the star had been broken.

She frowned, puzzled, deep in thought before finally nodding to herself. “The Roughriders.” The pin could not penetrate the langer shell of her vest, but it fastened to the mesh of the shoulder holster quite nicely.

#House had not expected to sleep,

but the demands of the body were not to be ignored. He awoke with dull pain lurking behind his eyes. The ache in his jaws told him he had ground his

bed, trying not to wake Ivan on the nearby couch, surpressing a laugh at the sleeping Red Dog. Kylee had be-come used to the shuddering rattle of the Cillian’s chitinous segments vi-brating together as he slept. Ivan had solved the alien’s ‘snoring’ his own way after being jarred from sleep a second time; great swaths of grey tape crisscrossed the intersections of several segments. The irony was that Ivan snored much louder than the alien’s low rumble.

Crumpled paper on the end table caught her attention. Smoothing it, she saw it was covered with notes and crude sketches where Ivan had wrestled with a dozen different strat-egies to attack Casey once they were on the ground. In the end, he ap-peared to have given up, frustrated by the lack of solid information. Kylee smiled wistfully when she saw that, in several places, he had included Rose in his plans.

Returning to her own room, she dressed quickly, pulling on her vest and shoulder holster last. She had never decided whether to wear her other two guns on her hips like Ivan or strapped to her legs like Rose. In-stead, she wore them stuffed, butt outward for cross-draw, into the top of a heavy scarf of yellow silk tied around her waist.

As she waited for the others, she wandered her room, restless, look-ing for distraction. She found it in the thin, flat wallet of sweat-stained

preferably eight. I’ll do the same. Medical will give tranquilizes to any-one who needs them; this is too im-portant not to go in at the top of our game.”

“Free meds,” Solomon joked. “This job jes’ gets better ‘n’ better.” They were all showing sign of the strain but the Hecate’s Captain and XO had become increasingly punch drunk on a mixture of nervous energy and fa-tigue.

“Take the Creole Comedy Tour out of my office,” House said, wav-ing them out, smiling to soften his words. “Good luck gentlemen, and good hunting.” He watched them shuffle out, lowered his head into his hands, elbows on his desk. “Dell?”

“Yes sir?”“I want you to copy every scrap of

data we have, all of it, no matter how irrelevant it seems, and put it on a pair of messenger drones. Before we move into the Oddbits system, set each drone to take a different route and send them both over to Com-mander Blackmore at Farnham. If something happens to us, somebody else ought to know what’s going on. At the very least, he ought to be able to put a stop to Casey’s raiders.” He sighed, pushing away from the desk. “I’m going to bed. If anything comes up, find someone else to deal with it for a change.”

#The others were still asleep when

Kylee awoke. She wriggled out of

ISSUE 57


to do better. “We’re not drones born and bred

to some slot in a hierarchy; we’re men and women who’ve hit bottom and gotten back up. We’ve seen our-selves at our worst, we’ve wasted fortunes and squandered potential; if there’s a way to mess up, we’ve found it, done it, and gone it one better. Because we are free! And I’ll take a ship full of screwed up wild-eyed, frontiersmen over anything a murderer like Casey can throw at us. He wants the Frontier? Well I say we give him the Frontier!”

House stepped back and sank into his command chair. “End broadcast,” he said softly. Louder, “Initiate tac-com net.”

“Activating tactical communica-tion network,” confirmed Max from his terminal on the bridge. A row of smaller displays above the main screen blinked to life, each a direct feed from a vital portion of the ship. Barring battle damage, the men and women in charge of the various sepa-rate sections of the ship would be in direct contact through the CIC. Two spaces remained black, set aside for later use: one for the Hecate, the other for input from the fighter squadrons when they launched.

“Flight deck,” House said. “You lis-tening, Carl?”

“Read you loud and clear, Cap’n House.”

“How long until the cowboys are ready to launch?”

That makes us the only real fighting force this side of the Frontier. He was counting on using Eaters as his shock troops here—a plan that didn’t ex-actly pan out the way he’d assumed. And that leaves Casey with his flap hanging open in the breeze.”

He slammed his palms onto the flat railing, lurching forward to stare at the crew. “He thinks we’re no match for him, that we’re a bunch of street-brawling hellions with no or-ganization or discipline. He might be right on those counts, but he’s never understood that that same sheer cussed, obstinate independence is the very strength of the the Frontier.

“Understand, the Frontier is what we’re fighting for. Mankind needs it. We need a place where we can fail and it’s only ourselves we drag down, a place where, when we do fail, we can drag ourselves back up again without someone else’s foot on our neck. Can’t do that in the Hedge. Can’t fail, because there’s too many people and too much government dedicated to making sure nobody gets hurt and, if they do, that there are a million-and-one safety nets to catch them. As if you can learn to walk without falling. Out here, a man can fail and start over as many times as he has the strength to try—and most of us are waiting to lend a hand when he’s ready. And if a man makes a mistake, if he finds out that the man he is isn’t the person he wants to be, he walks away from it and tries

all know that even ErDef has been unable to stop it. I know why. I know who. The raider fleets are bought and paid for—equipped, repaired, and directed by Edgar Casey. That’s not the worst part; heck, that part’s not really a surprise.”

He drew a long breath, releasing it just as slowly. “I don’t know exactly when it happened, but somewhere along the way Earth and the Hege-mony fell in with him, and something a hell of a lot worse than just pirating was born. He promised to wrap the Frontier up in a nice little bow and hand it over to them and trust me, they paid their thirty pieces of silver.” The crew of the Combat Information Center stared at him with rapt atten-tion, their stations all but forgotten. He made himself meet their eyes, looking from person to person as he spoke. “Not all of the Hedge; not even most of it. Just enough people with enough pull to make sure key things happened and the right infor-mation reached the right ears. That’s why ErDef always seems to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when the raiders hit, and why ErSec can’t touch Casey—they’re compromised at the top.”

“They can’t.” House’s lips pulled into a snarl. “But we can.” He swept the crew with a hawk’s gaze, turning his head with a predator’s slow con-fidence. “His raiders are tearing Third Earth to Farnham apart to keep the navy away from NevRio and FarGone.

ing a deep breath, he straightened, clasping his hands behind his back.

“There are lines,” he began. “Cross one and sometimes you can cross back. Others are bigger, a step too far. Once crossed, the damage can’t be undone and even justice is only a salve on the wound. Funny thing is, the kind of man that chooses to cross those lines, he’s the kind of man that doesn’t think little things like justice apply to him. He figures law, decen-cy, morality, and all of their ilk don’t count. They’re just outdated concepts for simple people, people too small and blind to see the big, complex, sophisticated picture. If they were as smart as he was, they’d do the same things. He’s just doing what’s best for the rest of us, if only we were worthy. The kind of man that crosses those fi-nal lines is the same kind of man that never considers trying to cross back. In his own mind, he’s fully justified in everything he does. It’s a madness...And a rabid dog has to be put down.”

House waited for his words to sink in before continuing. “Maybe you don’t know what I’m talking about but the way the rumor mill runs on this ship, I’d guess some of you know more about what’s going on than I do. You all know that over the past three years, pirate raids on the major lines, especially Third Earth to Farn-ham, have gone from the occasion-al stolen cargo to a level of savage butchery that has shippers and colo-nists alike sweating blood. And you

ISSUE 57


ing the enemy fighter into a brilliant cloud of ionized gas and molten met-al.

#“So, me pappy, he say to me, ‘Boa,

what chew gone do when dat gata’ dun bit off yo’ otha arm?’ And I sez—”

“Sounds like he’s finally found someone who hasn’t heard the sto-ry before,” Ivan said, interrupting Kylee’s eavesdropping. Explaining the differences between the assault shut-tle and the civilian model that James usually piloted had taken Solomon less than ten minutes. The pair had spent the rest of their time engaged in an animated, if difficult to follow, discussion ranging from the merits of zydeco music to atmosphere-to-space aerodynamics, arriving finally at Solomon’s sole attempt at a career as an alligator wrestler.

Pharaoh shook his head. “That is why I am sitting back here.” He paused. “That, and the fact that, if James cannot fly this, there is noth-ing I can do to help.”

“He can fly it,” John said dourly. With the two pilots busy in the shut-tle’s cockpit, the other four humans waited with Red Dog in the troop compartment behind, sitting on the long benches, their weapons fas-tened securely in their holsters or stashed beneath their seats.

Glancing down the aisle, Kylee caught the alien’s eye, raising an eye-brow. Red Dog shook his head. The

ed under his fighter’s wings. Heeding his own advice, Wrangler One sent a missile streaking toward the first lock available, rolling his fighter to the side after the launch.

The extra reach took its toll on the approaching fighters, their numbers dropping abruptly from 32 to 26 in seconds before the two forces met. Ships overshot each other, spin-ning to fire onboard weapons even as their inertia carried them apart. Missiles snapped like lightning bolts through the omnipresent flashes of laser fire with lethal effect to both sides.

Wrangler One’s wingman evapo-rated in a cloud of plasma and his own systems screamed warnings. He forgot his target, twisting his fighter to the side, triggering the release of a pair of ECM decoys. The sirens faded, shrilled again. Desperately, he fired his side thrusters, held them wide open as his ship slewed in a wide curve with all the grace of a hog on ice. Nuclear reactors provided the power for the fighter’s main engines and weapons, but the side thrusters that let him slide against his own in-ertia were fueled by separate liquid hydrogen reserves. They devoured fuel like a starving man. Wrangler One did not begrudge a drop as his attacker lost his lock and streaked across his bow. He triggered a pair of missiles after the interceptor. One missed, detonating early in a hail of chaff. The other struck home, turn-

under me on the way up.” He looked over his shoulder at the alien. “Don’t you have anything useful to do?”

“Studying your reactions is useful,” it replied, settling onto its haunches in the corner of the room.

“Not to me. Take advantage of those overgrown legs of yours and go find Jimmy for me. Tell him to get some of the men together and head for the starport.”

The Adolphus inhaled harshly through its gills as it stood. “As you wish.”

#Wrangler One saw the telltale

sparks of fighters launching from the distant dock. The structure put him in mind of a giant skeletal torso—a spine and spreading shoulder blades of heavy metal forming the real core of the structure, lighter scaffolding spreading from them like ribs split open at the sternum.

“Hostile launch confirmed.” The warning was as redundant as it was late. “Tracking 32 bogies incoming.”

“Remember the plan,” he growled to his squadron. “Keep them off the Orion until the Ghosts are out, then we pull back. Keep your range open and don’t skimp on ordnance.” As if to emphasize his words, a tone pinged inside his cockpit, informing him the enemy interceptors had already en-tered his missile envelope. A portion of the technology House had held in reserve was the longer-ranged seek-ing missiles, four of which now wait-

“We’re good to go now. Give the word and we’ll put twenty birds in the void. Ninety seconds more an’ both Ghost Rider squads’ll be out too.”

“Tell your people to buckle up.” House closed his eyes, gnawing at the inside of his lower lip. “Helm, take us in.”

#Casey did not waste any time when

the klaxons shattered the peace of his home. He was at his desk in sec-onds, in contact with the orbital dock a heartbeat later. “How many?” He leaned forward, speaking into the desk, one hand flailing blindly behind him seeking a chair.

“It’s the Orion. She’s far out-sys-tem and launching fighters. Sensors counts twenty so far.”

“Any sign of another big ship?”“No sir. I don’t really know what

they’re up to. The smart move would have been to hold the fighters in until the carrier got closer.”

“Don’t assume it was a mistake.” Casey frowned. “Scramble our inter-ceptors and make sure the freighters are ready to move.”

“You coming up, sir?”“Not yet. Casey out.”Hell’s own accordion wheezed be-

hind him. “You are not joining your warriors?”

Casey suppressed a shudder at the Adolphus’ voice. “No, not until I know where the Hecate is. Otherwise, I risk getting my shuttle blown out from

ISSUE 57


“Let it down,” he commanded the men and women struggling with ei-ther end of the nearest rack. “Let’s try something different.” He switched frequencies. “I need the mainte-nance drones.”

“Do it,” House snapped back. “Fast. I need to call the cowboys back in,” he concluded, ending the trans-mission.

Carl communicated his idea to the crew with a mixture of words and emphatic gestures. Chains looped around the racks and the drones were pressed into service as minia-ture tugs, straining to drag the racks out of the bay. Seconds later the mis-sile packs floated free, the drones nudging them into position beneath the waiting bombers. “Bay is clear.”

“Cowboys inbound,” was the only answer.

#“They’re pulling back now but

our fighters are getting diced. We’re down at least a third of our strength already.”

Casey cursed silently, glowering at his desk. “Send the freighters out to support the fighters. Any sign of the Hecate?”

“No sir.”He lifted a pen, bouncing its tip

against the desktop in agitation as he thought. “Two can play at that game,” he said at last, and started giving orders.

“Everybody down!” Carl screamed

siles had been loaded onto four steel racks. The racks were tiered, each row of missiles stair-stepping progres-sively higher to allow simultaneous fire. The end result was something that looked like metal bleachers lad-en with heavy explosives—bleachers over fifty yards long and massing sev-eral tons.

It was the sheer bulk of the racks that led to Carl Ross’ current head-ache. He had boasted the Ghost Rid-ers could be ready ninety seconds af-ter the last cowboy launched, but the process was now dragging toward three minutes. The bombers’ wing-men launched fast enough but the racks were proving to be a nightmare to wrestle into position while wear-ing the heavy suits. The plan was to eject the racks from the Orion on the same magnetic tracks that launched the fighters, allowing the bombers to then use their own magnetic grap-ples to move and aim the racks.

When the crew performed a prac-tice launch the day before, nothing could have been simpler. Like a lot of things, what had worked in theory fell apart in battle. The suits made even simple maneuvers clumsy and slow, and precise coordination all but impossible. Unless the racks were straight across the rails, the sequen-tial pull of the magnets would twist them as they launched, bending and making them useless, assuming the torque did not detonate one of the missiles first.

Ghost Riders, were too big to fit inside the Orion’s fighter bays. In-stead, they had made the journey lampreyed to the belly of the larger ship, held fast by a series of elec-tromagnetic clamps. They flew free now, keeping pace with the Orion’s lumbering pace. The advanced Elec-tronic Counter Measures suite on the bombers made them difficult to detect on their own, but there was no need for unnecessary risk; they would stay hidden in the Orion’s sen-sor shadow as long as possible.

The bombers were formidable op-ponents, each carrying a three-man crew of pilot, navigator-bomber, and turret gunner, but House had as-signed each Ghost Rider a further pair of conventional fighters to act as wingmen and protect the larger ships from their enemy equivalents if the bombers were forced into dog-fighting range. Their real threat were the twelve capital class missiles they carried internally. Each bomber was capable of firing two of the massive munitions simultaneously from in-ternal tubes, and repeating the feat with a delay of less than ten seconds per missile. They were big ship kill-ers, more than capable of blasting Casey’s orbital dock from existence if they could get into range.

Even that had not been enough to satisfy House. Intended to supple-ment the bombers, a dozen more capital missiles and three times that many of the smaller, anti-fighter mis-

Cillian’s discomfort was evident by his atypical silence. She shrugged, leaning back, trying to ignore the way her duster bunched in the small of her back.

“Solomon to the bridge,” Rainmak-er’s voice intoned through the speak-ers.

The elderly Acadian gave an irri-tated sigh. “Reckon I’s gotta go back to work,” he told James. “Jest ‘mem-ber: stay in yer lane an’ y’ought get down jest fine. Easy’s fallin’ offa log.” He stepped from the cockpit to the troop compartment. “Gas on da lef’, brake on da right,” he called over his shoulder, broad grin showing both teeth. With a wink to Kylee, he ducked through the hatch, dogging it shut behind him.

“You going to copilot?” Ivan asked. Pharaoh shook his head, folding his arms across his chest and closing his eyes as if to sleep. Ivan looked side-ways to Kylee, amused, and followed suit.

“I’ll do it,” John said, moving to the front. Kylee swung her knees to the side to let him pass. She had been surprised at the calm of the twins un-til John had reminded her that poach-ers were not uncommon on Selous.

With another check on Red Dog, she decided to follow the example of her elders. If she could not relax, she could at least fake it.

#The two escort-class bombers

acquired on FarGone, codenamed

ISSUE 57


shirts,” he barked. “I told you to be careful.”

#Rainmaker sat in the ruby gloom

of the Hecate’s bridge watching the battle unfold. Fingernails clawed the arms of his chair as the losses climbed, inaction grating his nerves. He desperately wanted to at least probe the freighters with the stealth ship’s powerful sensors but did not dare. The odds of being detected were vanishingly slim, but the cost of any risk outweighed reward.

“Is time,” Solomon whispered be-side him.

“Still two gunships in drydock.”“So?”The diminutive creole smiled at

his XO’s response. “How can I re-fuse such an eloquent argument,” he drawled. “Weapons, you ‘ave a fix on our target?”

“Ready to launch, one full STS sal-vo.”

He activated the comm unit em-bedded in the arm of his chair. “Y’all ready down there?”

“Good to go,” James replied through the unit.

“Stand by.” He crossed himself, a gesture repeated a moment later by the other Acadians. “Weapons, fire salvo.”

“Missiles away.”“Gator Raider, you are clear to

launch,” he said formally. “I repeat, you are clear to launch.”

“Go wit’ God, mes amies,” Solo-

In an ideal world, every ship could carry every system at the same time. Reality was full of compromises and trade-offs. “Wrangler One, I’m re-forming squadrons. You’re going to take the third slot in Outrider. Har-py, you’re getting Wrangler Three as your fifth.” He tried not to think about the underlying fact that Wran-gler and Rebel squadrons no longer existed, and even then Outrider was flying shorthanded. Of the twenty fighters that went out, nine returned, and then only to go back again. At least Casey’s people had bled just as bad; twelve of the original thirty-two interceptors remained. Even with the approaching gunships and the freighters—whatever they were up to—the Ghost Riders should be able to balance the odds and hit the dock itself.

His thoughts were interrupted by a shrill yell slicing through the comm net. He spun, realizing what had hap-pened in a heartbeat. One of the fighters, sliding out of the bay on the magnetic rails, had caught the safety line of a tech, severing the line and sending the crewman tumbling into space. “Turn on your transponder and stay calm,” he snapped. At a dif-ferent time, the mistake would have been terminal. “Float there with your mouth shut and if you’re lucky, we’ll pull you back in with one of the maintenance drones when the bay’s clear.” Adrenaline and anger mixed in Carl’s bloodstream. “Damn red

“Freighter? You’re sure?”House answered him directly. “I

don’t like it either, Carl. If you’ve got any ideas, I’m happy to hear them.” A different life as smugglers gave the two men unique views of non-con-ventional warfare.

“Maybe a shield wall for the fight-ers,” he suggested. “Throw more hulls in the void to hide behind.”

“It’d be suicide for the freighter pi-lots,” House countered. “Casey’s cold enough to do it but I can’t imagine his men following those orders.”

“Queenstowns?” Carl suggested, referring to practice of disguising warships as merchant vessels.

There was a delay before the Ori-on’s master replied. “According to the sensor readings we’re getting, I doubt it. A Q-ship would need a big-ger power plant, unless their ECM is good enough to hide it.”

“No way to tell. I’m going to send them out with anti-fighter packs again.”

“Right. Let me know if you think of anything. Bridge out.”

“Anti-fighter packs,” Carl told his crew. The deck was quickly filling with returning fighters. Technicians and mechanics swarmed them as they slid to a halt, dragging hoses and carts as they went. Pilots waited stone faced, not bothering to unseal their cockpits. “Engagement window is still dropping,” he added. “Pull off the extended life-support modules. Slot in another ECM decoy instead.”

as the incoming fighter’s thruster sputtered, flipping it abruptly for-ward before its pilot could adjust. The slip pushed the front of the fighter too low, clipping the edge of the deck where it met the Orion’s ex-ternal hull. For an instant the fighter stood on its nose then slapped onto the deck, sliding, inverted, to crum-ple against an internal bulkhead. Be-fore Carl got his feet back under him-self, a diamond-toothed cutting saw was already spraying sparks across the deck as a response team cut the twisted metal apart, freeing the in-jured pilot. A medical team whisked her away just as fast, leaving the bay in stunned stillness.

“Shove that hunk of metal out of here,” Carl ordered, shaking himself free of the spell. “We’ve got other ships coming in.”

“Which reload package, boss?” one of his techs asked as the wrecked fighter was broken apart.

He shook his head, forgetting the crew could not see it. “I’ll find out. Concentrate on refueling and re-charging life support systems first.” The question put him in an uncom-fortable spot. The decision—and responsibility—was technically his but, without knowing the full tacti-cal situation, his input was virtually worthless and he could not be sure the original battle plan still held. He chose caution over pride. “Bridge, this is Flight Deck. I need a sit-rep.” He listened to the reply then asked,

ISSUE 57


that bounced the shuttle up and down like a rubber ball.

James let the comment pass, fight-ing with both hands to control the ship. The turbulence in the wake of the space-to-surface missiles as they burned through the atmosphere was tremendous; the super-heated air generated by their passage trans-formed James’ flight path into a storm of warring air masses.

“Good for Red Dog,” buzzed the Cillian, almost incoherent in the shaking. “Is like soothing massage.”

“I’ve been through worse,” James muttered through clenched teeth, wondering if he was lying. He had lost a rear rotor once, riding the chopper through its spiraling crash. The com-petition for worst was a dead heat.

The shuttle jerked and Ivan’s el-bow cracked painfully against the bulkhead beside him. “This was Solomon’s plan, wasn’t it?” he com-plained.

“Headsets,” Pharaoh suggested, apparently unaffected by the rough conditions John put James’ set on for him, the pilot unable and unwilling to release the shuttle’s controls.

“Everybody on?” Ivan asked.“Magnificent six,” Red Dog said af-

ter the others had counted off.“Should’ve been seven,” Kylee re-

butted.“Should’ve been seven.” Ivan’s

echo was deceptively mild.The missiles dropped away and

the shuttle hit clean air, the sudden

the Ghost Riders target the freight-ers. Flush the external racks if they have to, but take them down.”

“Hostile missile launch,” sensors interrupted. “Behind us! IFFT identi-fies it as the Artemis!”

House cursed himself for tempo-rarily forgetting their recurring in-visible friend. The stealth ship had duplicated the Hecate’s quiet flank-ing action with devastating results. Rising behind the Orion, the Artemis erased Ghost Rider One, wingmen included, with a sweeping broadside and launching a wave of capital class missiles directly at the Orion’s blind spot, straight into her primary en-gines.

#“You’re certain?” Casey demand-

ed, standing to lean over his desk.“Yes, sir. It’s the Hecate and she’s

definitely fired on the planet. We can’t intercept. All the fighters are al-ready out and the Hecate is holding her position.”

In an instant, he realized how he had been suckered and that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. “You’re on your own,” he said, severing the connection. “Adol-phus!” he shouted, knowing he was going to need the alien’s help sooner rather than later.

#“Have we crashed yet?” Kylee

called from the troop compartment, her voice distorted by the vibration

nothing could prevent Kylee and Ivan from their shot at Casey. His own job now was to clear the space around the planet to make sure they had a way home. With the extra firepower of the Ghost Riders and the external missile racks, they should be able to sweep the opposition out of the sky. He might not even have to take the Orion directly into combat with the orbital dock.

He pushed aside the rising feeling of elation, forcing his attention back to the task at hand. He still had a bat-tle to fight.

The fighters were more comfort-able with their new, extended range now, launching their own missiles outside the enemy’s reach and dart-ing in to skewer the slower freighters on the photon knives of their on-board laser cannons. The first freight-er erupted into a spreading nova of nuclear energy, taking half of Harpy squadron with it.

“What—” House’s shocked yelp was interrupted by his sensor tech’s own yell.

“They’re packed with warheads! There’s no other explanation; even a complete containment loss on the reactors couldn’t generate that kind of yield!”

“Kamikazes?” he demanded.“Probably controlled by remote,”

Max supplied, fingers flying across his terminal. “I can’t jam them.”

“Carl, change in plan,” he ordered. “Get the fighters out of there. Have

mon added.The assault shuttle blasted away

from the Hecate, aligning itself be-hind the wedge of space-to-surface missiles, each almost as big as the shuttle itself.

“They see us,” the sensor officer said. “Detecting missile launch from the dock.”

“Begin evasive maneuvering?” the helm asked.

“Non,” Rainmaker replied with a calm he did not feel. “Prep point-defense and counter-missiles but we stay where we are. Whatever hap-pens, keep us between the dock and that shuttle.”

“Lawd,” Solomon intoned. “Fo’ what we’s about to receive, make us truly t’ankful.”

#“Hecate’s committed!” Max shout-

ed. “They’re going to take a pound-ing!”

“Rain knows what he’s doing.” House’s attention was focused on the plot of his fighters, this time closing not only with the remaining enemy fighters but the freighters and gun-boats as well.

“Range!”“Fire at will. Gunboats first,” House

ordered. “Max, Carl, get the Ghost Riders moving.” He allowed himself to feel a moment’s relief. From the beginning, the Orion’s role had been one of primarily distraction. The shuttle was the real priority. No mat-ter what happened from here on in,

ISSUE 57


and the horrible ringing in his ears, Foxx considered himself lucky. They could easily have been among those wiped from existence.

He stood, working his jaw, try-ing to pop his ears. Pulling the man next to him to his feet, he ordered, “Check the motorpool. It was at the edge of the port; there may be some-thing left.” The man nodded dumbly and staggered in the direction Foxx pushed him. After several feet, he seemed to regain his bearings and broke into a jog.

“Comms are fried,” someone said.“Who’da thunk?” Foxx said sarcas-

tically. “Walk it off and wake up,” he shouted. “This ain’t over. We’re going to see if we can get some wheels and then we’re headed back to meet up with the boss.” Mentally he tallied his remaining men. Most of the guards were either at or headed to the starport with him. That left an even dozen, plus the quartet Casey kept in the mansion full time. Against how many? He had only seen one shuttle but it looked to be military—ten, maybe fifteen and probably profes-sionals. He gave the men nearest him a feral grin. “Yeah, we can do this.”

#Ghost Rider Two unleashed its en-

tire external rack a half second after the Artemis vaporized its partner. Still obsessed with the retreating fighters, the enemy gunships and warhead-packed freighters did not detect the hailstorm of missiles that swept

office. He had made himself deliber-ately scarce when the chaos began in order to keep his options open, but he lost track of his employer in the process. Scattered papers scuttled across the floor as the breeze blew from above Stet waded through them to stare out the gaping hole that had replaced the roof. Through it he could see the rolling column of fire and smoke that marked the re-mains of the starport.

Hooking his thumbs into his belt, he contemplated the odds that Casey had a bolt hole, a second hidden port or ship for just such an occurrence. Possible, but unlikely. If there was one, it had to be several miles from the house—Stet would know about anything closer—too far away to be of any use now. Besides, this was Casey’s home. Unless the situation was clearly hopeless, he would fight.

Stet stood watching black clouds fill the sky, wondering where Edgar Casey would choose to make his stand and what the ex-duelist would do when he did.

#“Looks like I picked a good day to

run late,” Foxx quipped, rising to his hands and knees. Around him, men groaned. Others remained still, ly-ing where the force of the explosion dropped them. They were on their way to the starport when the space-to-surface missiles struck, the blast-wave slapping them to the ground where they stood. Despite the pain

heavy ship level. The remaining en-gines were still running well into the red. He had to get down, fast. Dialing back the throttle, he steadied the en-gines but continued losing altitude, the nose threatening to dip again at the reduced speed.

“Building!”“Shut up or get out of my cockpit!”

James thundered in frustration. The heavy military shuttle tore through wood like a bullet through paper, snapping the communications an-tennae from the top of Casey’s man-sion, slashing away one side of the roof, sucking up debris and throw-ing it into the air in a rooster tail. He pulled the nose up again, cutting the engines. The ship hit the ground with an audible crunch, sliding on its belly, plowing through the soft dirt nearly a half mile before finally coming to a halt.

He sagged against the safety web-bing. John reached past him to trig-ger the hydraulics that released the rear hatch. Before the ramp was fully extended, Red Dog raced from the shuttle, throwing canisters in a semi-circle around the back of the ship. White smoke billowed up, covering the ramp, obscuring their exit from any waiting attackers.

James gasped, wiping the sweat from his face. “This is so much better than the chopper!”

#Stet scratched the back of his neck

as he surveyed the ruins of Casey’s

change pitching the occupants for-ward before it clawed for altitude again. “Hang on,” James warned. “It’s about to get worse.” The ship streaked over Oddbits’ starport sec-onds before the building-sized mis-siles hit.

The sky behind them flashed an eye-watering white before crimson mushrooms sprouted, crested with jet black smoke. Giant munitions crushed the starport like an enor-mous hammer of flame, shredding ships and buildings, converting the ground into a swamp of molten rock.

The shockwave caught the shuttle like a leaf in a hurricane, the ship’s carefully engineered aerodynam-ics no more effective than those of a rock hitting a lake. John grabbed futilely at his own controls as James threw full power to the shuttle’s en-gines. Jets screamed as he fought to power out of the crash.

“Ground!” John shouted as grass replaced sky, the shuttle surging for-ward inverted.

James ignored him, more con-cerned with holding the ship level than which side pointed up. Warning lights flashed as the jets grew dan-gerously hot but he did not let up, forcing the shuttle ahead of the dissi-pating shockwave, regaining control.

“Trees!”James rolled the shuttle on its lon-

gitudinal axis. A pair of jets died and the front of the shuttle dropped be-fore he could pull the suddenly nose-

ISSUE 57


chin to chest, then straightened. “Let’s hope things are going better on the planet.”

#Pharaoh kept watch, rifle nestled in

the crook of his elbow, muzzle down, while Ivan and Red Dog unloaded the last of their weapons, passing them out the back to the others. After the initial frenzy of landing, the smoke had cleared to an eerie stillness. Casey’s mansion was visible in the distance, dark smoke still rising from the ruined starport beyond it, but ev-erything else was pastoral bliss. Even the trough carved by the shuttle’s crash was no more disturbing than a dry riverbed across the grassland.

James exited the shuttle last. “I don’t think I can get it back up again,” he said forlornly.

Ivan shook his head, bemused. “Have I mentioned how silly that makes you look?” he asked Pharaoh, referring to the hunter’s battered slouch hat.

“Not as silly as you look every day,” he replied distractedly.

“They always like this?” Kylee asked, stuffing her twin fletchette pistols into her sash.

John nodded. “So I’ve heard.”“Where do we start?” Ivan asked.

“The mansion?”“No.” Pharaoh pointed toward the

horizon to the right of the building. “There.”

Ivan followed his gesture through field glasses, adjusting the focus. A

and off as the ship lurched through the transition between regular and backup power. House forced himself to remain silent though it all, hands clasped behind his back as the dam-age reports mounted.

“Engineering thinks they can get us back online, but it’ll take a while,” Max said.

“And the reserve reactor?”“Coming online now. We’ll still be

drawing on the batteries pretty hard but we’ll be able to keep our defen-sive systems up. Just no maneuver-ing.” Max hesitated. “And no laser array.”

“Of course,” House murmured. The Orion’s massive, full-bay broad-sides were a drain under the best conditions. “How’re the fighters?”

“Down to six. Carl’s got them split into two squads of three each, Har-py and Outrider. Ghost Rider One’s gone. GR2 is trying to close with the Artemis.”

“Flight deck functional?”“Yes, sir,” piped Carl’s voice. “We

do most of our work with old-fash-ioned manpower anyway.”

“Rearm your fighters with capital missiles and send them to support GR2. Max, how’s the Hecate?”

“Bleeding atmosphere but still moving and fighting. It looks like Rain is trying to close up with us and avoid the dock. I can’t get through to them yet; there’s still a lot of jamming and distortion.”

“Right.” House ducked his head,

est result was an inversion of the same mechanism that provided ar-tificial gravity inside ships. The same force that could ‘pull’ was converted into a ‘push’. For the military, it was a terrible disappointment. The repul-sion field was no great wall of force, able to absorb damage and protect the ship behind. Instead, the effect was a constant ‘shoving’ away from the ship, the interstellar equivalent of forcing your attackers to fly into a strong headwind. Its primary useful-ness was in reducing wear on con-ventional armor plating by shunting aside dust and small asteroids as the ships traveled. Still, when Graves had offered, House had accepted. A small ‘shove’ could turn a direct hit into a glancing blow—and did. Mis-sile after missile slammed home into the Orion, tearing apart the rear hull, collapsing vital conduits and venting compartment after compartment into the void. Coolant and liquid fuel boiled away like steam as the Orion bled atmosphere into space, but no missile managed to breech the all-important containment field of the fusion-fission reactors.

As the reactors went into emer-gency shutdown, chase missiles broke away from the Orion, bearing in on the Artemis with their own load of vengeance, forcing the other ship to veer off and deal with the more immediate threat.

The Orion’s CIC seemed to be lit by strobe lights, power flickered on

them from existence until it was too late. For several minutes, the space between the Orion and Casey’s orbit-al dock literally glowed as ionized gas and molten steel released terminal energies, bleeding photons into the void like a miniature star.

House had gone to great pains to avoid revealing any of the upgrades the Orion had received. Now that caution paid dividends with inter-est. The Artemis’ ambush should have been enough to destroy any ship on the Frontier twice over. But the Orion was no longer, exactly, a Frontier ship. Faster than any human could react, automated defense sys-tems kicked in, sweeping the incom-ing missiles with electronic jamming, overloading their targeting systems even as decoys broadcasting the very signals the missiles were designed to track poured into space, drawing them into suicidal collisions away from their true target.

It was impossible to cover the massive exhaust ports of the Orion’s engines with a point defense system, but it had the next best thing. Can-nons at the edges of the ship’s blind spot blasted cones of steel balls into space, a shotgun of shrapnel striking missiles, knocking them off course, detonating them early, adding to the confusion what was already a target-ing and navigational nightmare.

Even then, it was the repulsion field that saved them. In the navy’s quest for an energy shield, the clos-

ISSUE 57


himself prone, Foxx marveled at her speed. She let herself fall, twisting as she dropped to open fire on the oth-er two men. They were dead before she landed, skewered by a flurry of silver darts. Hitting the ground, she rolled and Foxx lost sight of her as he sprawled on the brown-speckled stones of the creek. He lunged to the side, kicking hard with his legs, into the narrow cover of the bank’s edge. A pair of flechettes snicked off the rocks behind him.

Despite the clamor of battle mere yards away, the gully filled with a kind of tense silence. Foxx studied the foli-age for some sign of the woman. Tree roots and patches of yellowing grass overhung the bank, casting cave-like shadows behind. The need for a bet-ter position warred with his instincts not to move and betray his position. The longer he delayed, the more pre-carious his situation became; he was under no illusions as to how his men were faring against a more prepared and more professional opponent. This was a turkey shoot; he had to get out and back to the mansion, hope-fully find more men. Still...

“I pride myself on being fast,” he said in a conversational tone. “I like to match up with the best.” No an-swer. “I’d sure like to get a look at you out in the clear,” he added.

A string of razors cut through the air in answer, scything the grass just above his head. Deciding he had pushed his luck far enough he ran,

die. The few who might have gotten a clean shot found themselves facing the enfilading fire of Pharaoh and the twins.

Sheltering behind the overturned jeep, Ivan gathered himself for a fi-nal rush, holstering the .45. Red Dog paused, letting the laser’s muzzle cool to a dull red. “Go!” the Cillian roared, opening up again. Ivan sprint-ed to the second jeep, diving into the back. He stood, grabbing the trig-gers, unleashing a hornet’s swarm of brass, raking the area where Casey’s men had taken cover, cutting down those who did not flee.

#Foxx realized the strategic advan-

tage of the creek bed as soon as the ambush exploded around him. Grab-bing the two nearest men, he fell back, away from the obvious target of the vehicles, and began the slow crawl to the gully, a task made easier by the sheer chaos behind them. One by one, they rolled over the bank, into the depression, and made their way cautiously downstream, Foxx in the rear.

The sounds of fighting grew loud-er, gunfire deafeningly close. The point man lifted a hand, bringing the trio to a halt. Foxx unlimbered his pis-tol as the other two men inched for-ward, guns at the ready. He realized what he had at first taken for a patch of sunlight was blonde hair.

The girl and the men saw each oth-er at the same time. Even as he threw

pulled herself up in time to see men scrambling for cover, crawling and running away as the Cillian’s explo-sives burst around the vehicles. One jeep lay on its side, wheels spinning. In the back of the other, the ma-chine gunner slumped across his un-fired weapon. A man leapt from the ground, sprinting to the gun, knock-ing the body aside and clenching the butterfly triggers. A burst of shells raked the berm before Ivan shot him.

“Red, I’m going for the jeep,” he said, sliding back down the bank to reload. “Cover me. Kylee, work your way up the ravine, give us a wider crossfire.”

The Cillian lobbed the bomb he was holding and changed weapons. The backpack power plant of a porta-ble military grade laser rifle was too heavy for a human to carry long, but it was not a problem Red Dog shared. After his experience with the plas-ma blaster, the laser seemed light. “Ready,” he clattered as the laser whined to life. Kylee raised a pistol in agreement, starting down the gully.

Ivan threw himself over the bank, scrambled to his feet, head down and running hard. Behind him Red Dog undulated forward, rifle held level with all three arms. Ivan crossed out of his field of fire and the alien triggered the laser, playing the sav-age heat beam steadily across the grassland like a hose, not aiming, laying a constant sweep, forcing the men who hid there to stay down or

pair of jeeps that looked like escapees from an automotive barbeque sped toward their position. Men packed the vehicles, almost obscuring the pintle-mounted machine guns in the back. “How do you want to do this?”

“High road, low road?”“I suppose you want the high

road.”Pharaoh smiled in amusement.

“Of course. James, John, you’re with me.” He sprinted for the berm at the shuttle ditch’s edge.

Ivan drew his .45. “I’ll take point, Kylee in the middle, Red brings up the rear,” he told them. “There’s a creek bed over there we can work up from.”

The stream was shallower, and the foliage green instead of red, but Kylee was struck by the similarities to stalking Pharaoh on Selous. She dropped into the gully, moving for-ward in a crouch behind Ivan until the sound of jeep engines was audible. Ivan motioned them down, putting his back against the near edge of the dirt bank. Kylee followed suit while Red Dog flattened himself against the ground. She held her breath as the jeeps rumbled past.

A single rifle shot cracked the air, followed a heartbeat later by a can-nonade of return fire. Ivan surged to his feet, bracing his arms against the lip of the bank, firing rapidly. Red Dog hurled stick bombs through the air with abandon.

Kylee grabbed a fistful of grass and

ISSUE 57


“We can do it.”House nodded to himself. “The

Orion’s not helpless, just roughed up.”

“We’re essentially a carrier with-out her fighter cover,” Max inter-jected. “That’s a little more than ‘roughed up’.”

“Still got two partial squadrons,” Carl said, joining the conversation from the flight deck.

“What about the Ghost Rider?” Rainmaker asked.

“She emptied her rack against the Artemis. GR2’s a bomber with no more bombs and we can’t reload her,” House explained.

“Not necessarily,” Carl said. “The bombers are too big to bring inside the bay but we can reload externally. It’s no more dangerous than transfer-ring cargo between two ships.”

“Which is pretty dangerous,” Max grumbled.

“It’s also the only game in town. Do it,” House instructed. “Rain, get the Nemesis; we’ll handle the dock.”

“On our way. Hecate out.”#

Rainmaker severed the connection with the Orion and sighed deeply. “Helm, set us on an intercept course for the Nemesis, maximum speed.”

“You know we’re breeched in two compartments?” Solomon asked rhetorically.

“Yep.” He did not look at his XO, gaze fixed forward.

“An’ dat we used up all our decoys

listed both of the ships as missing in his files.”

“I don’t care if it’s got a name or not,” Rainmaker growled. “What I wanna know is, why ain’t they al-ready jumped on us while we’re down an’ what’re we gonna do about it?”

“He’s trying to run,” House whis-pered then, louder, “Follow me on this. Casey knows we’re coming, or figures it’s likely at any rate. He’s got two stealth ships and a pretty hefty space force besides. He figures he can beat us but if he can’t, one cruis-er’s not going to make that much difference either way. So he tells the Nemesis to stay out of the fight-ing or maybe he called it home and it just now got here. Either way. He can’t know that the Hecate’s sensor suite is far enough ahead to pick up the Nemesis so he thinks he’s got one last card to play. He can do the same thing we did with the Hecate. The Nemesis can coast in, drop a shuttle to pick him up, and cut out of the sys-tem before we can stop it.”

“He’d be pretty close to right, at that,” Rainmaker said. “I’m looking at the data Max is feeding over now and it ain’t pretty. The Hecate’s the only thing in a position to intercept it and if we do that, the Orion’s up against the dock with no support.”

“Doesn’t matter. If Casey gets away, all of this has been for noth-ing. The question is, can the Hecate do it?”

at Casey’s orbital dock. “What did you have in mind?”“Give me enough power for at least

one broadside. Ignore the thrusters.”GR2 closed on the Artemis, fight-

ers flaring out behind like a cloak in the wind. Missiles fired hammer and tong, alternating between the bomber’s two launch tubes as it charged forward, the hilt on a sword of fire. Emptying its racks at last, the bomber broke off, veering away from the cruiser’s short-range fire. When it did, its wake of fighters launched their own projectiles. Each fighter could carry only one of the larger, capital-class munitions, but togeth-er they were more than enough to overwhelm the cruiser’s defensive systems. If they had not been, the salvo lancing in from the Hecate was more than enough to finish the job.

“Rain says we’ve got problems!”House looked toward Max, the

pale blue light of the plot reflect-ing spectrally off his features. “Now what?”

Max patched the Hecate’s feed into the communications network. It felt as if he had set aside the comm slot for the other ship days ago in-stead of merely hours.

Rainmaker’s voice filled the bridge. “We’re reading another one of those partially cloaked signals again. It looks like, ‘stead of one invisible friend, we got two. Our newest friend just came home and is sidling up to the planet.”

“Nemesis,” Max provided. “Priest

firing back in the direction of the flechettes, grinning from ear to ear.

#Ghost Rider Two’s dance with the

Artemis was a prolonged stalemate. The bomber was faster, able to keep the cruiser at arm’s length and threat-en it with its heavy missile load. Un-fortunately, without support, that missile load could do little more than threaten. The Artemis’ deadly banks of energy weapons kept GR2 from risking a direct attack.

That was about to change. With the remains of Harpy and Outrider squadrons forming at his rear and the Hecate steaming in to cut off any further retreat by the cruiser, it was time to put some ordnance on target. “What’s the status on our primary drives?” House asked, distracted by the holographic plot showing the bomber begin its attack run.

“Engineering’s still working on it.” Max’s reply was testy, the words of a man answering the same question numerous times. “Definitely not in time to help with the Artemis.”

“I was thinking of the dock,” House said mildly. “Even with our defenses operative, I’d rather not sit here and let it lob missiles at us until it runs out, especially with the range dropping. And I definitely don’t want it getting those last two gunships operational.” Lacking the ability to maneuver, the Orion’s inertia had continued to carry it along the line it had been following before the cruiser’s attack—straight

ISSUE 57


volunteered.“What about more smoke gre-

nades?” Ivan asked.“Yes.” The Cillian managed to

sound disappointed.Ivan rubbed his chin, staring to-

ward the mansion. “All right. We make the trees. James acts as our spotter and makes sure everyone inside has to keep their head down. From there, I guess we rush ‘em. Red can lay down a smoke screen then circle around to cover the back. It’s not great, but it’s the best idea I’ve got.”

“The faster we start, the faster we finish,” Pharaoh said by way of agree-ment, leading the way through the sage grass with loping strides. The others followed, close at first, then drawing apart as they approached the copse of wood. Nearing it, James sprinted ahead in, stooped over as he ran, dropping to his stomach alongside the trunk of the nearest tree. Once Pharaoh and John joined him, he stood, slinging his sniper ri-fle across his back and scurrying up the trunk. The others waited until he found a branch heavy enough to support him as he crawled onto it, prone, facing the building. Secure in his blind, he swept his sights across the front of the mansion, picking tar-gets, noting their positions and se-quencing them in his mind.

“Ready when you are,” he whis-pered down.

Pharaoh swapped his long rifle

He was still wondering when James’ rifle slug shattered his breast-bone, pitching him backward into the grass.

“Fast is good,” a distant voice was telling him as the sky grew dark. “Family’s better.”

#They met at the burnt-out jeeps,

Kylee giving James a knowing smile and nod of thanks, receiving a wink in return.

“Do I want to know?” Ivan asked, looking between the two.

“I doubt it,” Pharaoh answered. “The mansion next?”

“Yeah.” He gestured toward the still-functional jeep. “Want to take it? Machine gun’s empty.”

“If we cannot use the gun, I say no. It is a loud target and not very useful.” Pharaoh paused, looking to James as if expecting an objection. When none came, he continued, “On the other hand, we shall be very ex-posed. Perhaps we should take the jeep and use it for cover.”

John chimed in. “It’s not much cover. I’d just as soon take a slow ap-proach.”

“Or use the trees,” James added, gesturing with the barrel of his rifle toward one of the small groves that dotted the grassland. “I think we can reach that clump nearest the house without too much trouble. If I can get set up there, I can cover the entire front of the building.”

“Red Dog has bombs,” the alien

shots at the mansion from here.”“Stay with me. I’ve got a bit of ti-

dying up to do.” She ignored Ivan’s protests disguised as warnings. Jam-ming both guns into her sash, she set off at a run. Without the need to stay under cover, she angled across the rolling field, cutting the distance to where she guessed Foxx to be. Near-ing, she shouted, “Hey, smart mouth, you still feel like talking?”

Knowing he was caught, Foxx stood. Seeing Kylee, he grinned, shov-ing his pistol into its holster, holding his hands out from his body to show they were empty. “For a looker like you?” he called back, walking to-ward her. “I’ll always feel like it.” He stopped several yards in front of her, filling his eyes. “I’m guessing you’re part of the reason Oden and May didn’t come home.”

She ignored the question, holding her own hands loose at her sides. “You like fast?”

“I only play with the best.” He was focused on her face now, watching for a telltale twitch that might warn him she was ready to draw. She was calm, almost too calm, as if he was not real, the entire episode a game rather than a matter of life and death. It was the kind of indifference he saw only in the very best, and he wondered fleetingly if maybe she re-ally was faster. Impossible, he knew, especially since the cross-draw was a serious handicap. She had to know that, too. So why so confident?

and counter missiles coverin’ the shuttle?”

“Yep.”“An’ dat we shot up the last of our

offensive missiles on the Art’mis?”“Yep.” His voice did not vary from a

calm monotone.“Ho-kay den,” Solomon relented.

“Jest checkin’.”The Hecate’s captain glanced at

his XO from the corner of his eye. “What’s the matter, bon ami? Do you want to live forever?” he teased.

“Yep.”#

Kylee waited to insure that no one else was creeping down the stream bed then pushed free of the hang-ing roots that veiled her. After his initial sprint, Foxx had slowed, mov-ing back the way he had come as the gully curled toward the mansion then away again. Reaching the bend, Kylee watched intently as Foxx climbed the bank and began to crawl through the waist-high grass.

Pulling herself up out of the gully, she stood cautiously. “Creek bed’s clean,” she told the microphone that hovered at the edge of her lips.

“Field looks clean too,” Ivan re-plied. “If there are any left alive, they’ve hared back to the mansion. Come back over.”

“Not yet,” she said. “James?”“Got you covered.”“What’s your range?”“If I can see it, I can hit it,” he re-

plied. “Seriously, I could take pot

ISSUE 57


board laser array pulsed to life, lances of energy so focused that they only dropped into the visible spec-trum after they struck. Seconds after the first broadside, the Hecate rolled, bringing the opposite side array into play, unleashing a second wave of de-struction.

The Nemesis was hurt but not out; even as the second broadside boiled away tons of its hull, defensive sys-tems came to life and the hobbled cruiser began returning fire. A wave of missiles pounded into the Hec-ate, gashing the once smooth tear-drop hull. System failures cascaded through the ship; warning lights flooded the Hecate’s bridge with crimson strobes.

“Helm?” Rainmaker demanded.“Still responsive.”“Take us in again.”“Laser arrays are dead!” protested

the weapons officer. “We have no weapons!”

“We got one,” Solomon said, dis-lodging the man from his seat and taking over the controls.

“It’s a risk we’ve got to take,” Rain-maker agreed. “Bring that thing on-line.”

The Hecate circled like a matador stalking a bull, working for a short-range shot from the untried forward pod without opening itself to the Nemesis’ remaining weaponry. Rain-maker watched the displays in frus-tration as more missiles pumped into his ship.

through the headsets.“Not yet,” Ivan replied. “Red Dog

shouldn’t take long.”#

“How close you reckon we gets be-fore dey kin pick us up on sensors?” Solomon asked softly.

“Don’t have to whisper. They defi-nitely can’t hear us,” Rainmaker an-swered in a voice barely louder than his XO’s. “And I don’t expect they can detect us until we open fire.”

“Knife fight.”“Yep.” He did not bother to add

that, after the initial stab of energy weapons, the Nemesis could follow up with the bat of its heavy missiles and the Hecate could not do a thing about it.

“We’re inside their envelope now.” The tension on the bridge was pal-pable, but the sensors officer’s voice was steady.

“Weapons?” Rainmaker asked.“Targeting laid in. Closer we get,

the more its gonna hurt her.”“On my mark. Sensors, tell me

when we’re in visual detection range. Helm?”

“Oh yeah, we’ll line up an’ give ‘er the full broadside...sir.” Rainmaker smiled at the belated attempt at pro-tocol. Formal discipline had never been the Gators’ strong suit; some things did not change with age.

“Range!”“Mark!”The space between the two cruis-

ers iridesced as the Hecate’s star-

Beside her, Pharaoh went down as if pole-axed, legs cut from under him. She shouted, sliding to her knees, scrambling backward to where he lay in time to find John kneeling across from her.

“I’m okay,” Pharaoh growled, teeth clenched. “Go on.”

John’s medical kit was already open, his hands busy inside. “I’ll take care of him!” he shouted at Kylee. “James can cover us! Go! We’ll catch up!”

She stood, hands shaking, tears welling in her eyes. Feet braced apart she drew a deep shuddering breath. “No more,” she said, softly but firm-ly. Louder, “This ends. I’m not losing anyone else!” Drawing her pistols, she sprinted the final few yards out of the smoke and onto the concrete paving of the mansion’s entrance.

The building was fronted by a high, columned porch leading to a recessed double doorway, giving the men within plenty of cover. Ivan stood behind a column on the near side of the indentation, blood trick-ling down his cheek from a pressure cut. Gunshots echoed as the man-sion’s defenders fired sporadically at imagined targets.

“It’s a wicked crossfire, but we’ve got them pinned,” Ivan said as she approached in a brisk walk. “Hold up here until Red’s ready on the other side.”

“Want me to move over? Get a better line on them?” James asked

for one of the two mini-submachine guns James produced from one of Red Dog’s saddlebags. Checking the gun, he flashed Ivan a thumbs-up; James mimicked the gesture.

Ivan looked to Kylee then Red Dog. “Call the dance, big guy.”

The Cillian balanced a smoke gre-nade at the end of each arm. “Kiss Red Dog!” he roared, charging for-ward at full speed, a velocity no hu-man could hope to match unaided.

The world became a whirlwind of sound and motion. James’ rifle snapped the air like a rhythmic heart-beat of thunder, shattering glass in distant windows. Men screamed in pain while their companions shouted in confusion, a tumult only exacer-bated by the sudden arrival of billow-ing clouds of white smoke cloaking a two-ton death machine in its midst. The Cillian’s knives whistled through the air, creating swirling currents of red in the mist.

Kylee ran, barely able to make out Ivan’s back in front of her. She stumbled; Pharaoh’s firm hand set her back on her feet and they were running again. Fire flashed and explo-sions slapped the air as Red Dog sent stick bombs spinning into the house to clear those who thought to hide inside. Bullets whined as Casey’s men returned fire blindly. She lost sight of Ivan in the smoke, the harsh bark of his .45 a comfort to her in the storm.

“Red Dog goes to cover back.”“Go.”

ISSUE 57


pipe from the grass.Red Dog shrugged off his laser and

its power pack, sliding his knives free of their sheaths.

Stet nodded in satisfaction, fish-ing a hard case from within his cloth-ing. He removed a trio of hypoder-mic needles, pressing each in turn against his neck. “Bring your best, cockroach,” he said, finishing the in-jections.

The Cillian charged, all three blades arcing downward as he closed. Stet blocked, holding the pipe in both hands like a staff, sparks flying from the iron as it clashed with the knives, the impact driving the cyborg to one knee. He twisted the pipe vertical and sprang back. He jabbed at the alien with one end then spun the iron, cracking the other end against Red Dog’s torso just below his miss-ing arm.

Red Dog scythed his blades, forc-ing Stet to give ground again, block-ing another thrust of the pipe off a hilt. Stet let his right hand slide down the pipe, gripping it like an over-sized bat, and swung it with all his strength. To his surprise, Red Dog stepped into the blow, accepting a hit that sent the Cillian staggering to his front pair of knees and shattered the chitin of his torso like an eggshell. The alien roared in pain, mandibles snapping inches from Stet’s nose. The twin blades of his right arms sliced across the human’s chest and stomach, rolling flesh back as they

chair, mood darkening by the sec-ond. Engineering had not been able to give him either thrust or lasers. In the end, the Orion coasted forward with no more value than an asteroid. Closing in the shadow of the massive liner-turned-warship, GR2 and the remaining fighters delivered their payload of capital missiles with rela-tive ease, tearing the power and con-trol centers from the dock.

Leaving the Orion to drift through the steel latticework of the dock’s scaffolding like a bull through tinsel.

“Gonna cost me a fortune to fix all this,” House grumbled. The rest of the CIC wisely pretended not to hear.

#The tranquility of the veranda was

deceptive, implying the entirety of the universe shared its peace. Stet sat with his boots propped on the rail, leaning his chair on the back two legs, lemonade in hand, guns in their holsters.

He smiled contentedly as Red Dog rounded the corner of the building. “I was hoping it would be you,” he said. The Cillian watched him curiously as he stood. He walked to the edge, stepping down from the flagstone to the ground. “I really could care less about Casey, but I am glad you and I have this chance to settle unfinished business.” He drained the last of the lemonade, tossing the glass into the flowerbed ringing the veranda. A mo-ment later, his gun belt joined it. He bent to lift a ten-foot length of iron

crowed, hunching over the control panel. “Oh. No, maybe not.” Rain-maker guessed the reason before he was told. The surge of energy neces-sary to power the weapon had liter-ally melted, not only the conduits that fed the pod, but the hull sur-rounding them.

He laughed in spite of himself, struck by the ludicrous nature of the situation. The Hecate had no weap-ons left to use while the Nemesis, her entire aft quarter destroyed, lay motionless in space before them. Eventually, he sobered, wiping the tears from his eyes and facing the concerned stares of his crew.

“Well ain’t this a fine kettle of fish,” he said. “Solomon, what did you tell your pappy you’d do when de gator bit off your other arm?”

“Ah tol’ him, I’d jest bite down real ‘ard an’ roll till de gator, he done give up.”

Rainmaker grinned. “Never thought I’d be sayin’ this at my age but, prepare the magnetic grapples and stand by for boarding actions.”

“Aaiieeeeee!” Solomon whooped, grinning back at him. “If I’da known we’d be doin’ dat, I’da brung my good teeth.”

Confronted with the sudden ap-pearance of a swarm of heavily armed Acadians in the passageways of their ship, the crew of the Nemesis could not surrender fast enough.

#House slumped in his command

“Target,” Solomon announced.“Shoot already,” his captain

snapped.The bridge went dark as the pod

sucked power directly from the Hec-ate’s reactors, an eerie silence set-tling over the crew as even the re-circulating fans of the life-support systems went dead. “Dat don’ seem good,” Solomon said in the stillness.

The wait was little more than a second, but it seemed an eternity before the ship returned to life. The main screen glitched through a series of scrambled images before resolv-ing into a live feed. The aft hull of the Nemesis looked like a smolder-ing piece of paper, a dull line of red crawling slowly forward, leaving only ruin in its wake.

Solomon gave a low whistle as the ring of secondary nuclear reaction fire burned itself out. “Dat’s some ray gun.”

“Quantum weaponry,” Rainmaker echoed, studying the scroll of sensor information displayed alongside the main view. Hyper-accelerated alpha particles had torn the fabric of the other ship apart at a subatomic level. Destroying the section of the ship the ray hit, they forced the atomic nuclei outward, into their own elec-tron shell and unleashing the energy of nuclear repulsion, converting the material of the target itself into fuel for uncontained, secondary nuclear reactions.

“Let’s shoot ‘er again,” Solomon

ISSUE 57


squelch the thunder when I speak!”A three-round burst struck her

across the chest like a lightning bolt, slapping her to the ground. She stood, regaining her feet with a cool, unhurried surety that bordered on disgust, the spent slugs piping the front of the langer shell vest like rhinestones. “Stand back and give me room according to my strength!” She trained a pistol on the man who shot her, squeezing the trigger and holding it down, letting the gun fire on full automatic. His body jerked as if in convulsions before falling life-less. “Blood’s my natural drink and the wails of the dying is music to my ear.” She drew her foot up, lashed out, smashing open the door. “Cast your eyes on me, gentlemen,” she growled, stepping into the mansion’s ballroom. “For I’m ‘bout to turn my-self loose.” She paused to survey the remaining handful of survivors with mad eyes. “Bow your head, for the Pet Child of Calamity’s a-coming!”

She shot them in the back as they ran.

#Ivan stood frozen, watching Calam-

ity’s Child through the open doors as she stood, panting for breath. James leaned against the doorjamb, looking deliberately distracted, moving away as Ivan walked to stand beside the girl. “You all right?” he asked, after several moments passed in silence.

“We’re not done yet.” She re-placed the partially spent clips with

fists, each hand moving to fire on separate targets. “Look at me! I am the woman they call Sudden Death and General Destruction!”

Ivan raced toward her only to be intercepted by James. The younger man wrestled the two of them out of the line of fire.

“She’s going to get killed!” Ivan screamed at him.

“Queen in frenzy is invulnerable,” buzzed Red Dog through the head-sets. “Plus brilliant Kylee has remov-able exoskeleton.”

The bounty hunter jerked away, his face a study in frustration. “Don’t stand there!” he barked at James. “Give her some cover fire!”

She was almost at the door, advanc-ing steadily. “Sired by a hurricane.” A shot up, through a second-story window into a man who thought he was hidden. “Dam’d by an earth-quake.” Two silver darts through the door panel into a woman lining up her shot. “Half-sister to the cholera, nearly related to the smallpox on the mother’s side! Look at me!” She triggered the releases for both pis-tols simultaneously, the empty clips dropping to the ground like metal tears. “I take alligators and whisky for breakfast; rattlesnakes and a dead body when I’m ailing.” Two new clips slammed home. Behind her, James and Ivan moved forward, searching desperately for an open shot at any-one threatening her. “I split the ev-erlasting rocks with my glance and I

muscle he had carved from Stet’s chest, shoved there when the alien relinquished his grip on the pipe.

“Priest says hello.”#

“Back’s clear,” Red Dog broadcast.“Already on my way.” James’ voice

was punctuated with static as he ran.John made a growling noise in his

throat, then said, “Go without me. I’ve got to sew this back up and I don’t want to leave him.”

Kylee watched Ivan’s frown deep-en. “You hit bad, Pharaoh?”

“Just a scratch.” The hunter’s voice was strained.

“Dammit, Pop! A shattered femur is not fine!” John barked.

Ivan started to reply, stopped when he saw Kylee’s face. Her eyes were closed, tears streaking her cheeks, jaw clenched. He thought she was going to faint, but then she opened her eyes. He recognized the fire that burned there; he had seen it in the mirror for years.

“Kylee!” he shouted, reaching for her. She was already moving toward the doors.

“Bow your head!” she screeched, sending a hail of flechettes through the shattered glass to the left of the door. “Bow your heads and pray!” A slug whistled past her. It was the man’s only chance before she blew him away. “I am the old original iron-jawed, brass-mounted, copper-bellied corpse-maker from the wilds of Arkansas!” Death spat from both

carved through the meat, deflecting from the subdermal plates implanted beneath the cyborg’s skin. The left knife swept higher, drawing a thick line of crimson from his chin as Stet jerked his head back to avoid being decapitated.

Stet fought to get the iron pipe be-tween them, shoving the Cillian back with adrenaline-fueled desperation. A pair of knives fell to the ground and the alien grabbed the pipe him-self, jerking back. Stet held on, find-ing himself lifted from his feet and slammed through the stone balus-trade of the veranda. He kept his grip and somehow wrestled the pipe from Red Dog, rolling across the flagstone, trying to put some kind of distance between himself and the alien. Feel-ing the opposite railing behind his back, he forced himself up, over the rail. He landed clumsily, almost losing the pipe, hands slick with blood.

Standing, he saw Red Dog begin to circle the outside of the veran-da, moving slowly, motions stilted. Hands trembling, he felt the drugs take hold, numbing the pain, energy returning to his limbs, as the Cillian approached. The alien was mak-ing some kind of trembling, twitch-ing motion that produced a kind of grinding chirp where his segments pressed together.

Stunned, Stet realized the Cillian was laughing. Red Dog gestured with the tip of his knife toward the stick bomb wedged in the flap of skin and

ISSUE 57


“The end result’s the same any-way,” he said. “He’ll hang for mur-der.”

Casey scoffed, emboldened. “Hardly. I don’t know who screwed up and let you get a warrant, but there’s no way it’s for murder.”

“Maybe,” Ivan said. “But we’ve got a witness who saw you pulling the trigger.”

“That’s impossible!”“A slo-po. Between NevRio and

FarGone,” Ivan told him.Kylee smiled, a predatory grin that

showed her teeth. “I was there.”“You?” Casey mocked. “As if a

court would listen to some Frontier brat.

“That would be a Frontier brat with Earth citizenship.” She watched the color drain back out of his face. “But I am curious. Why? You’ve got enough people willing to kill for you, why expose yourself?”

“Hazel,” he muttered. “She was going soft, needed to be reminded of the stakes. She had a grandson on that transport.” He shrugged. “Some things you’ve got to do in person.” He shook himself, slowly regaining some of his bravado. “No matter. Even if you do make it stick, the worst I’m looking at is a few years in prison. Hell, I own enough judges, I’m safer in court than I am out here. I can drag things out so I don’t even go on trial for years and by then—I’ve got people in places you lowlifes only dream of. I’d sleep with one eye open

Kylee drew the green handled flechette pistol, holding it out, turn-ing it from side to side in her hand. “This gun belonged to a friend of mine,” she said, looking down at the gun then up, through her eyebrows, at Casey. “A very good friend.” She smiled wistfully. “She didn’t get a trial.”

“Don’t,” Ivan cautioned. “He’s not worth it.”

“Rose is,” she countered matter-of-factly.

“I know, and I’m sorry,” he replied. “But not like this. Is that really a face you want to see at night when you meet your ghosts? Don’t hurt your-self anymore.”

She stood, stone-faced, staring down at the gun. She glanced again at Casey then back quickly to the gun, her thumb stroking the engraving on the langer shell of the grip. At last, she returned the pistol to her sash.

Casey’s emerging sneer van-ished at the sound of a .45’s ham-mer cocking. “I, on the other hand, have nothing but ghosts,” Ivan said. “One more’s not going to make a difference.” The blood drained from Casey’s face, leaving him paler than the papers scattered at his feet. He lifted his hands as if they could shield him against a bullet.

Kylee laid a hand on Ivan’s wrist. “You’ve got family,” she said, press-ing down gently. With one final glare at Casey, he eased the hammer down with his thumb.

plate cracked vertically; the fourth converted the crack into a spider web of shattered bone. The revolver’s fi-nal slug sent the alien crashing to the floor with a sound like a deflating child’s balloon. Its body slid to rest at her feet.

“What was that?” James asked, rushing into the room.

Kylee shrugged. “Not Red Dog.”#

The four checked the house cau-tiously, Red Dog with his torso swaddled in masticated remnants of Casey’s drawing room sofa. Except for a pair of maids cowering, locked in a bedroom, the mansion was cleared. They found Casey in his office on the top level. He sat at his desk, papers littering the floor, staring contempla-tively at the sky where the roof had been. He turned slowly, swiveling to face them, elbows resting on chair arms, hands up, a bemused smile playing at his lips. Seeing no danger, James stepped back diplomatically to watch down the hallway.

“Red Dog thought devil would be taller.”

“I grew up,” Kylee said. “Edgar Casey, in accordance with the Stone Hunting Act—”

“I surrender,” Casey interrupted. Ivan snorted in disgust and Casey quirked an eyebrow at him before continuing. “By all means, take me into custody and guarantee my safe conduct to the nearest Hegemony court of law.”

fresh ones.“No, we’re not.” There did not

seem anything else to say.She turned toward him, surpris-

ing him with a sad smile. “You un-derstand, don’t you?” Her voice was suddenly childlike, small and wistful.

“I do.” He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “I do in-deed.” He released her to reload his own gun. “You ready?”

Kylee nodded. “Let’s get back to work.” She froze, cocking her head to one side. “Hold on a minute,” she muttered, walking forward into the ballroom, listening intently.

Impossible. A human could not hear an Adolphus’ sonic screen. The creature watched in fascination as the human female moved toward its position, moving her head as if trian-gulating. Impossible or not, when she reached to pull a slug-thrower from her shoulder holster, it knew that its ambush was ruined. Best to salvage what surprise it could from the situ-ation and hope to overwhelm them with speed and brute force.

Nine feet of muscle and wide bone plate seemed to coalesce out of thin air, bearing down on Kylee with in-credible speed. She squared her feet, bracing the Colt with both hands as the alien surged toward her.

The gun spoke with a steady rhythm as she placed her shots with care, walking them up the center of the skull-like shield of bone. By the third slug, the Adolphus’ frontal

ISSUE 57


bad guys are all dead. We lived.” They started down the stairs. “I’m gonna get me a sammich and take a nap!”

M. Keaton

Growing up in a family with a his-tory of military service, M. Keaton cut his linguistic and philosophical teeth on the bones of his elders through games of strategy and debates at the dinner table. He began his writing career over 20 years ago as a news-paper rat in Springdale, Arkansas, U.S.A. before pursuing formal studies in chemistry, mathematics, and me-dieval literature at John Brown Uni-versity. A student of politics, military history, forteana, and game design, his renaissance education inspired the short television series: These Teeth Are Real (TTAR).

His literary “mentors” are as di-verse as his experiences. Most pow-erfully, the author has been affected by the works and writers of the “an-cient” world, including the Bible, Socrates, and (more modern) Ma-chiavelli, Tsun Tsu, Tacitus, and Von Clauswitz. (This horribly long list only scratches the surface; M. Keaton reads at a rate of over two books per week in addition to his writing.)

send James down and we’ll bring Pop into the house, he’ll be a lot more comfortable in a bed.”

“On my way.” His brother tossed them a mock salute as he ducked out the door.

Kylee hooked the crook of Red Dog’s left arm through her right, linked elbows with Ivan on her left, pulling them toward the door. Ivan paused, looking back, wondering if he should do something with the body, if he should empty the desk or collect the swirling papers. He turned away. It was over. Let the weather have them. Let sun and wind do their work. Let the storms come, the whole house crumble, and the grass return.

“Hurry up,” Kylee demanded. They left, walking in comfortable silence, stopping when they reached the top of the sweeping staircase.

“Red Dog has decided killing same human twice is more trouble than worth,” the Cillian proclaimed to no one in particular.

Kylee snorted. “What now?” she asked, looking down at the bullet-pocked ballroom.

Ivan shrugged. “John said it would be a while before they can get a shut-tle down for Pharaoh. That means even longer before the rest of us get picked up.” He paused. “There’s a pretty big kitchen in this place. And plenty of bedrooms.”

He looked from his daughter to his partner with a lopsided smile. “The

“It’s over, baby girl,” he said, crush-er her to his chest. “It’s finally over.”

For a moment, she was silent, lift-ing her face to meet his eyes. “Not for me,” she replied. “Not while there are still men like him out there.” There was no bitterness in her words, only weariness and a touch of sor-row. Ivan looked at her, forehead to forehead, at the determined set of her jaw. There was a future in her eyes; a future driven, not by law, but by justice. In Kylee’s case, might could make right, and with the ability came the duty.

“Okay,” he said, voice raw. “But let’s go home for a while first.” She grinned; they would both be all right. He cupped her face in his hand, brushing away tears with his thumb. “I love you, Calamity.”

“Who wouldn’t?” They dissolved into laughter again.

“So much drama,” Red Dog com-plained to James. “Warrant says ‘dead or alive.’ Not hard to under-stand. Partners are hard to under-stand.” James chuckled, stepping to help pull them up.

Ivan clapped James on the shoul-der and called his brother. “John,” he said, fatigue finally laying in its claws. “How’s Pharaoh?’

“Stable. I commed the Orion. They’re sending down an emergency response shuttle but it’ll take a while. Sounds like they had some battle damage,” the man replied through the headset. “If you can spare him,

if I were you.” He dropped his hands to the arms of his chair and began to stand.

The short range shotgun blast was deafening.

“Feel free to appeal,” Red Dog buzzed happily, clattering forward to inspect his handiwork. “Dead,” he pronounced, as if at that range there could be any doubt.

Ivan stared at the alien. “What—” He sputtered to a halt, unable to find words.

“Trying to escape?” Red Dog sug-gested.

So much worry, so much tension and grief across so many years—brushed aside by the Cillian’s sheer, unrelenting, ridiculous consistency.

His eyes fixed on the still-spinning wheel of Casey’s overturned chair and he began to laugh. He had not believed it would end, not really; never allowed himself to hope. Ex-haustion, relief, frustration, happi-ness, grief—it all rushed out as if a damn had burst.

He turned and Kylee was in his arms. He stumbled as she threw herself on him and they fell to their knees, tangled together. They were both crying and laughing at the same time. Whatever the future held, this, now, was certain: Edgar Casey was gone. Ivan Steponovich entered a new world he had never allowed himself to contemplate—one in which they were all finally free of the man and the shadow of his actions.

ISSUE 57

Thieves’ Honor Episode 12: The Rescuers, Part 3 by Keanan Brand

“What’d the instructor do?”“Let us finish the formation then

ordered Tanner to return Fletch’s belt—how she saw Tanner steal it, I don’t know, not at that distance—and then she made Fletch turn around. She looked at his backside for a sec-ond or two then complimented his dedication to physical training.”

“She didn’t.”The storyteller nodded. “Said it

was the best uniform malfunction in ten years.”

I’ll see your uniform malfunction—Mars pulled at his cloaking suit—and raise you one pain in the posterior.

The fabric didn’t make a sound, but his movement created a breeze strong enough to dislodge a stray wisp of hair along the cadet’s collar. She scrunched her shoulder then brushed the back of her neck, frown-ing. “Did you feel that?”

Her companion looked up at the vent. “Probably just the air recycling. But I could swear there was someone breathing behind me.”

“Oooh!” The storyteller waggled her fingers. “The Haunted Elevator!” Laughing, the other woman slapped her hand away.

When the door slid open at three deck, they stepped out, still laughing, and only when the door closed again did Mars release his breath in a loud gust.

“Yeah, uh, forgot to mention that, sir.” Ensign Gaines sent the lift down toward the cargo deck. “Breathing

the cloaking suit, and he stored the duffle inside, cinched the bag closed, then settled it on his back.

“The straps have the power con-tacts.” Gaines hitched up one side of his own rucksack by adjusting the buckle. “Once you activate your suit, sir, the pack will be invisible, too.”

“But I’ll still be able to see, right?” Mars couldn’t quite squelch the hint of panic in his voice.

“Aye, sir. As long as we’re both wearing the hoods—and they’re in full contact with our suits—we’ll see our surroundings and each other, but no one will see us.”

Mars looked at the bug-eyed hood, expelled a long breath, then pulled the wire-laced fabric over his head and smoothed the neck down over the suit’s high collar. The world blinked then came into focus again, the colors just off enough to give the impression of an alternate universe.

Gaines hit the kick-lock with the toe of his boot, and the wall panel popped open. For the second time in five minutes, Mars stepped into the lift.

The door hissed open.The green wings of cadets on the

right shoulders of their uniform tu-nics, two female sailors laughed as they entered, and one continued a story about a fellow cadet who had, apparently, lost his pants while on parade. “Fletcher didn’t even blink. He just stepped out of them and kept marching.”

“What are rebels, then?”“Good citizens?” He shrugged. “

Some fight for justice or for freedom. Some want the government to honor broken promises. Some of us—peace makes us nervous.”

“Which one are you?”

And now, on Thieves’ Honor:The thin but tough fabric of the

cloaking suit molded itself to his body with disconcerting precision. He tugged at it, adjusted it, pulled it here or there, but the suit remained overly familiar. Clingier than his third girlfriend—what was her name? He swung his arms, trying to stretch the material into a more comfortable fit, but it was tough and held its shape. Much like the captain, who never backed down from anyone. Except, maybe, a certain pirate.

Giving up—but only in a tempo-rary retreat—Mars lifted his naval uniform from its hook then folded and packed it among the other neatly arranged items in his duffle. He hadn’t had a chance to visit his quarters since boarding the ship af-ter leave, but all his belongings were here; if it wasn’t in the bag, it wasn’t necessary.

Gaines tossed him a large ruck-sack made of the same material as

Previously, on Thieves’ Honor:

“Captain Zoltana is in the brig, I un-derstand. Innocent, of course, we all know that”—Tarquin waved a hand at the air—”but it’s her digging into your background, captain, that has upset my friends.”

“This isn’t about your cronies or a wayward captain.” Anger soured Kristoff’s words. “This is about you and me and my missing pilot.”

“Neither of you nor Miss Fiona Grace have suffered enough.” Tar-quin shuffled forward.

That’s right. Kristoff pressed a hand to his wound, slid thumb and forefinger through the V opening of his shirt, and loosened the knife hid-den in the folds of his bandage. Just a few more steps.

#“Admiral Cunningham was one of

our heroes,” Leo said in a quiet voice.So. Finney lifted her brows. You

know who I am. He waited for her to speak; she

looked at him and said nothing.“When Willa sent the first mes-

sage, right after your capture, our leader—Daniel—started planning your rescue.” Leo’s gaze sharpened. “We don’t usually meddle with crimi-nals.”

Thieves’ HonorEpisode 12: The Rescuers, Part 3

by Keanan Brand

ISSUE 57


since.” No. He stared at the girl. No.Willa touched his arm, drew a

breath as if she would speak, then looked down. After a moment, she withdrew her hand and stepped past him. “Ezra?”

The boy limped up the short steps to the portico and offered Willa his good arm. The other was in a sling fashioned from his belt and the re-mains of his shirt. The kid’s back and chest was covered in bruises and cuts, and one side of his jaw was pur-ple-black. Nevertheless, Ezra stood straight, waiting. Willa wrapped her free hand around his arm, and he es-corted her to the stair.

Blank, Kristoff looked around the courtyard.

Kneeling beside a colonial soldier, Mercedes pressed the heel of her hand against the man’s chest while Corrigan tugged at a broken blade lodged in the wound. “Grab that gauze, Al”—Mercedes waved toward her medical bag—”this one’s gonna be messy.”

“Why we patchin’ these boys up, Doc?” grumbled Corrigan. “They’d leave us to bleed.”

“Ezra’s book.” Sahir locked a shack-le then heaved himself to his feet. “Is hard. Tells me love my enemies.”

Corrigan grinned. “Doc don’t love nobody.”

Alerio cleared his throat.“Well, you, maybe, Lord knows

why.”

“Just holding cells below, sir, and stores. Only way out is the front gate.” He nodded at Kristoff and walked away.

Willa approached, her garments torn, their pristine white now streaked with blood and gun powder. “Captain Kristoff.”

He scooped up the bomb-laced collars piled at his feet. “Here. You and Ezra turn on the sonic barrier then toss these off the roof. The height will add distance to your throw, and the farther out in the des-ert, the better. The explosions’ll kick up a little sand, but no harm done.”

She took the collars from Kristoff and slid them like lethal jewelry onto her arm.

“Now,” he slapped his hands to-gether, “point me toward whatever room Finney’s locked in.” He grinned. “Hope they took away her guns. She’ll probably shoot me sooner’n say thank y— “

“She isn’t here.”Kristoff straightened. “Say again?”“She’s gone.”Gone, as in she took an evening

stroll? Or gone, as in her soul now sang among the stars?

“Finney broke away, and it looked like she would escape.”

He heard the words, but—“She was shot.” No.“And then the rebels engaged, and

the colonial troops were called out. I haven’t been able to contact anyone

“Didn’t do it for you.” Kristoff threw the key. It arced upward in the torch-light, chain trailing like a glittering comet tail, and landed somewhere beyond the parapet on the roof. “Did it for Martina. Name another ge-nius who could keep a battered old freighter in the sky and not be above a little piracy.”

Alerio shrugged. “Everyone needs a hobby.”

Across the courtyard, the crew and the late Tarquin’s servants dragged unconscious or wounded guards and soldiers to the center and locked them together in chains. As for the dead, they were few, and laid in a neat row. But one wounded man, so bloody and slack that he appeared dead, was lifted and set apart from the rest of the defeated.

Kristoff lifted his chin, signaling a passing servant, then nodded toward the mercenary. “Who is he?”

“Bosko, sir. Mercenary. Governor Tarquin was going to pretend he was your pilot, and trade him for your crewman.”

Surprise, surprise. She’d been planning to cheat. But why play that game, when she already had what she wanted? Not that it mattered now.

Kristoff stuck out a hand. “Captain Helmer Kristoff.”

“I know, sir.” The man shook his hand. “Reed.”

“Any secret way out of here, Reed? Tunnels, maybe?”

and noises and such aren’t masked by the suit. Sorry.”

“No, I should have thought of it. Common sense. What’s the captain’s favorite route?”

“I don’t know, sir. It’s never the same.”

Mars plucked at his cloaking suit. “How many times has she left the ship this way?”

Gaines smiled. “Every time Com-mander Wilkes comes aboard.”

“Except this time.”The ensign’s expression sobered.After a couple seconds, the door

opened onto the hold. A gaggle of grease-covered mechanics surged to-ward the lift, but Mars and Gaines slid out and around the group, dodging feet and elbows and one ugly-look-ing wrench. Mars tugged at his suit again then mentally cursed as Gaines quietly chuckled, but Mars took the lead, setting his feet with care, the cushioned soles of the boots absorb-ing the sound of his steps.

All they had to do was reach the cargo hatch. Easy enough. Plenty of room to give all the visible crewmen a wide berth.

“Sergeant at arms!” Admiralty po-lice approached the security desk near the hatch. “Sergeant at arms, lock this deck down. Immediately.”

#Kristoff stepped over a body and

unlocked the collar around Alerio’s neck. Free of the bomb, the engineer rubbed his throat. “Thanks, cap.”

ISSUE 57


Kristoff let the gun barrel tip down, but only a notch. “I’ve had just about as much shootin’ as my good nature can stand.”

“If this is you good-natured—”“That you, Claudius?”“Who’s asking?”“The only cadet who spent more

time in the commandant’s office than you did.”

“Helmer Kristoff?”“You say that like it’s a question.”A deep laugh rolled out across the

courtyard, and a command was car-ried by other voices until it echoed back through the unseen troops—”Stand down!”—then a man in body armor stepped into the open, his arms stretched out from his sides, gun pointed at the sky.

Kristoff lowered the Ginchon to rest across his knees. “Hey, Claudius.”

“Hey, Kris.”“So.” He let out a long breath. “We

still friends?”#

Resting her weight on the crutches but keeping her back to the concrete wall, Finney stood near the rear door of the war room. In the center stood a long table, its black top inlaid with the tri-planet symbol of the colonial government, and the gleaming sur-face cast back shadowed reflections of the lights overhead, as if they were stars in the expanse of space.

But this was an underground bun-ker, and she was a pilot. She needed real space. Real stars.

anything other than bullets. Easier to handle. Anybody too scared to fire, load the guns. “

There was more shouting outside the walls. The servants drew closer together.

Civilians. Kristoff gave them his sternest glare. “Move!”

They scrambled into action and, stumbling over themselves or fum-bling weapons, managed to conceal themselves around the courtyard.

Kristoff was the only one still ex-posed. He settled the gun to his right shoulder, ignored the weakness in his left arm—he had no time for it—and looked down the sight.

“You on the stairs,” called a voice from the dark, “I got no quarrel with you. Just gonna send in a couple medics to check the wounded.”

“Got my own medic.”“I know you’re not alone in there.

Surrender now, and everyone lives.”“Sure. You’ve got toys that see

around corners and walk through walls”—Kristoff laughed—”but I have all these rookie shooters, and they’re nervous as sand roaches in sunlight. Who knows what they’ll hit once they let fly?”

The response was taut. “My men are all over this place. Just a matter of time, we’ll have your positions mapped. Won’t need a firefight to take you down.”

The voice was familiar. Nah. Had to be mistaken.Still, didn’t hurt to try.

with a teeth-rattling thud.Not now, blast you. Kristoff pound-

ed on his legs, as if fists could moti-vate recalcitrant muscles. Not now!

The soldiers would use grapnel hooks to climb the walls, and they’d have bigger explosives than those little collars.

A couple corridors away, the front door of the villa gave way with a splintering crash.

Kristoff called to the huddled ser-vants. “So, any of you lot have com-bat experience?”

They looked at one another then back at him, and shook their heads.

He sighed. “All right, then, hand me a weapon. Something big. Lots of bullets.”

Reed walked along the short row of bodies, stopped, and grabbed an am-munition belt, then held it up along with a Ginchon nigh big enough to take down a small planet.

“Yep, that’ll do.”Kristoff loaded the gun in rhythm

with the jogging thud of boots as troops took the villa, room by room. The soldiers were likely scanning, guns ready, performing a leapfrog maneuver through the corridors so that no man was left unprotected or entered a room blind. He’d used the same procedure many times in the military, especially when boarding and securing enemy vessels.

“Everyone grab a weapon and an ammunition belt. Don’t take any-thing that requires charging or shoots

After a short, intense silence, “You’d be surprised,” Mercedes said, “at everyone I love.”

The giant mechanic grunted, pulled the blade free in a welter of blood, and Alerio stuffed a wad of gauze into the wound. Then, careful only to use his good hand, Corrigan held the unconscious soldier upright so Mercedes could wrap a bandage around the man’s arm and upper chest.

“A body’d think this was Earth a thousand years ago,” she grumbled. “Medicine by torchlight.”

Explosions shuddered through the walls in rapid succession—Willa and Ezra following orders.

The servants clustered on the op-posite side of the courtyard. Their clothing was stained with blood, and they looked at the crew with uncer-tainty. A few had taken guns from the dead. None looked as if they knew how to carry a firearm, much less use it.

“Captain!” Ezra leaned over the parapet. “Troops coming!”

The crew scattered, taking up po-sitions behind columns or the large planters filled with palm trees. Krist-off ran to the stairs.

Doc’s fancy medicine had kept him on his feet, but that shotgun slug had punctured his chest only three days ago. Halfway to the roof, he was wheezing like an old man, and his legs refused to obey him. They col-lapsed, landing him on the stone step

ISSUE 57


Claudius nodded, and let the bar-rel of his gun rest in the crook of his arm. “So, I hear you left the service and turned pirate.”

“Freighter.”The commander glanced around

the courtyard then looked back at Kristoff, brows raised.

“Yeah, well”—the captain shrugged—”they started it.”

Claudius gave a short, quiet chuck-le that ended in a throat-clearing harrumph. “Like I said, Kris, I got no quarrel with you. Let us take our wounded and dead back to the fort?”

The captain nodded. Claudius turned aside, tossed a

hand signal, and colonial soldiers entered the courtyard. They carried away the dead, but they couldn’t unlock the shackles on their captive brethren. A key so big it looked like a toy came sailing out of a dark portico and clattered across the stones.

Kneeling beside Ezra on the roof, Willa whispered, “What’s really go-ing on?”

Ezra shook his head. Between the discomfort of his various cuts and bruises and the tension of exhaus-tion versus adrenaline, he almost didn’t notice how her breath brushed across his shoulder when she spoke. But then the hairs raised on the back of his neck.

“Are you cold?”Again, he shook his head, and this

time his neck burned.Down in the courtyard, the captain

Finney’s hands clenched around the crutches, but she schooled her expression as the report continued.

“Troops are still patrolling out that direction, so Seven can’t move close enough to read the name on the ship. One of the colonials got too close, though. Flew up into the air and landed fifty feet away. Hasn’t moved yet.”

Finney fought a grin. Yep. The Mar-tina Vega. If her security field was operational, that meant she hadn’t been shot out of the sky. The old tub must still be flyable. Good girl.

“Carry on,” said Daniel. He pressed his thumb against the radio and the device burbled again then turned off. Daniel folded his hands on the table and glanced around at the assembled rebels.

“Before we begin”—he looked down the table at Finney—”meet Fiona Grace, the last living relative of Admiral Archibald Cunningham, the hero of every colonial rebel and one of the greatest men who ever lived.”

All eyes turned toward her.Uh, Grandfather?Don’t look to me for help, lass. I’m

dead.#

Crouched behind the parapet at the top of the stairs, Ezra peered around the corner. About halfway down, still sitting on the stairs, the captain looked up at the commander of the colonial garrison. “Sorry we had to kill so many of your men.”

upset the natives. Make him think she wasn’t fidgeting on the inside, ready for the first escape that re-vealed itself. Make him think she was actually interested in whatever was going on here. Make him trust her.

Daniel was not a remarkable man—average height, indetermi-nate age, pleasant expression that he wore like a mask—yet he command-ed attention, and his prolonged si-lence tightened the atmosphere. The men and women gathered around the table held their shoulders rigid, their backs straight, as if an invisible puppet master held their strings too taut.

Unlike the often ear-rending skreel of static over the old analog radios used by the Vega crew, a stream ra-dio blipped to life with a soft burble: “Scout report, sir.”

Daniel laid his radio on the table. “Go ahead.”

The disembodied voice continued, “Lot of action at Tarquin’s place, and Five reports the garrison’s cleared out. No overhead surveillance, though. No drones.”

“Horatio is a backside-of-the-uni-verse settlement,” replied Daniel. “Government won’t expend many re-sources here. As long as the garrison’s empty, send a patrol to see if there’s anything worth taking. Willa?”

Hesitation. “She missed her check-in again.”

Daniel’s brows drew together. “Any ID on that old freighter?”

Finney turned her head away, saw her battered face in the glass of the corridor wall, and grimaced.

Aye, lass, said her late grandfa-ther’s imagined voice, ‘tis yer sainted grandmother’s face. I always braced m’self whenever I had to look at ye. Or her. ‘Tis good fortune she was of a traditional mind and wore a veil, or there might never have been a wed-ding. There was affection and irony in that voice. Now, lass, I can tell yer not believin’ me. It was really her cook-ing, ye see, made me love her, and all her father’s money—

She chuckled, and men and wom-en in dust-colored clothes cast her curious glances then looked to Dan-iel, their leader, who sat at the head of the table. He indicated the seat beside him, but Finney shook her head. Her leg wound throbbed, but she was disinclined to yield anything, even a few moments’ respite, to the rebel leader. Despite his promise, he had yet to allow her access to a radio, and now he wanted her to attend—a staff meeting?

If I didn’t wear more bandages than a first aid dummy, Grandfather, I’d break outta here.

Aye, and that’d be poor coin for savin’ yer life. Give the lad a listen.

Across the room, Daniel studied at her.

She leaned back against the wall, easing some of the weight on her arms and one good leg, and sent him a small smile. Never a good thing to

ISSUE 57


snapped Corrigan’s head sideways. The big man staggered then fell, arms spread wide.

As if he saw the captain floor the mechanic on any given day, Wyatt stepped over Corrigan’s legs and slapped Sahir on the back. “I could use somethin’ stronger than water. What about you?”

“Water.” Sahir ran the back of his hand across his forehead. “For bath.”

“Yeah. You are a little ripe.”“If I am ripe, you are rotten.”The crew moved on, and Kristoff

stared down at Corrigan for a couple more seconds before the knees fi-nally collapsed. He landed hard, too exhausted to feel the pain.

Corrigan grunted, trying to move.Kristoff turned his head on the grit-

ty floor. “Thanks.”After a long silence, Corrigan’s arm

twitched. “Any time.”#

Something hummed above his head, not loud enough to be iden-tifiable, just annoying. He squinted open his eyes then groaned and closed them again. “Somebody turn off the sun.”

A low chuckle sounded nearby.His eyes snapped open, and he

tried to lift his head. He couldn’t see past the blue sheet covering him to the chin.

A blurry face hovered above him, and a red-brown rope hung down beside it. A braid. “Didn’t we do this earlier this week?”

to, uh, say thanks for helping me out earlier today, and—”

An alarm screamed through the concrete corridors, and the room cleared in seconds. Even Daniel, lean-ing on a cane, exited at a hobbling run, his bodyguards appearing from around the corner and surrounding him as fluidly as if they were a hu-man coat.

Alone in the war room, Finney smiled.

On the table lay Daniel’s radio. She swung forward on her crutches and grabbed the narrow device.

Then she frowned. Dagnabbit. Even if the Vega crew had operation-al radios, that tech was too old to re-ceive any signal from this one.

She sank into a chair. Curses, foiled again.

#Once the rebels were convinced

the ragtag rabble at their front door wasn’t hostile, they lowered their guns and ushered them inside.

Kristoff slid down from Corrigan’s shoulder, and his knees almost buck-led, but he managed to stay on his feet, swaying, his eyes struggling to focus.

“Hey, cap, you all right?’He mumbled something.Corrigan leaned down. “What was

that?”Kristoff mumbled more nonsense.Corrigan frowned and leaned clos-

er. Kristoff let fly with a right that

mutiny.“Where—do—we—go?” panted

Sahir.“West, I think,” replied Corrigan.“No. Where?”“Do I look like a soothsayer?”“You look—like captain—hit you—

when set him down.”“Nah. He’s wounded.”“You have—broken hand.”“Well, I’m taller.”Sahir wheezed a laugh. “He is—

crazier.”Yeah, yeah. Kristoff’s chin bumped

Corrigan’s back. Keep talkin’.The moons had risen, casting a

blue-edged glow across the undulat-ing sand. Over a ridge and down into a bowl rimmed with rocky outcrop-pings, a black maw yawned, sand and earth piled around it as if a giant animal had burrowed here. Claudius led them down stone steps to a vast, echoing room as large as a cavern, and activated a torch near the mas-sive door. The light swayed upside down in Kristoff’s vision.

Claudius stepped back from the door. “This is as far as I go.”

#Finney opened her mouth, hoping

the right words would drop in. Give her a gun, she could hit the bull’s-eye ‘most every time. But a speech?

She swallowed. Looked at the wait-ing rebels. She was their hero’s blood kin. They expected brilliance.

Well, good luck with that.“Uh, hello, everybody. Just want

and the commander still faced one another. Kristoff’s shoulders slumped a little. “One of the servants said my pilot was shot. Any of your troops fire on a woman fleeing this place?”

“We didn’t get involved until the rebels opened fire on Tarquin’s men.”

The captain’s voice was flat. “Is she dead?”

“I think you know Governor Tar-quin’s dead.”

“My pilot.”“Couldn’t say—but I know where

the rebels are.” #

Aside from one large, battered, unconscious fellow carried on a makeshift stretcher, only Tarquin’s servants and the crew of the Martina Vega followed Commander Claudius into the desert. Captain, cook, and mechanic brought up the rear, Krist-off slung between Sahir and Corri-gan while his legs decided whether or not they would work. At best, he shuffled along, but mostly the men just dragged him.

Then Corrigan hoisted him with a grunt, and slung him over one shoul-der. Kristoff was too wiped to protest.

A shoulder gouging him in the belly was about as pleasant as a fist to the gut; his head flopping around as if his neck was a noodle—sicken-ing. Kristoff was dizzy inside of four steps, and he almost vomited, but clamped his mouth shut and cursed his body for disobedience. Wounded and exhausted, it still had no right to

ISSUE 57


Double -Edged Publishing, Inc., publi-cation was At the End of Time, When the World Was New, a short piece of speculative fction that appeared in the fnal issue of Dragon, Knights, & Angels. History, mythology, folk-tales, C.S. Lewis, Howard Pyle, J.R.R. Tolkien, William Shakespeare, Rob-ert Louis Stevenson, and the Bible remain great infuences, as do the family tall tales, pioneer stories, and Southern gothic with which Keanan grew up.

cloth-covered shoes advanced along the corridor. Wilkes looked over his shoulder, and frowned.

A cheerful and oddly familiar voice rang out, “Don’t mind me, Commander. Go ahead. As you were threatening?”

Wilkes paled.Whoever approached should al-

ready be within sight. Gripping the cool metal, Zoltana pressed her face to the bars and looked down the pas-sage. It was empty.

Keanan Brand

Writing since age nine, when an English assignment required a short story, Keanan Brand dreamed of writing Westerns or books about his-tory, or recording the crazy stuff of dreams. Late teens and early twen-ties witnessed the imposition of real life and the putting away of dreams. For a time, he dabbled in nonfction and freelance journalism, then a su-pervisor suggested a free writing seminar at the local college, and Ke-anan returned to a greater love: fc-tion, specifically fantasy and science fiction. He started entering contests, winning awards for poetry, essays, and short stories. These successes led to freelance editing for other writers, and for a science fiction small press.

His frst story to be accepted by a

in drink-lengthened notes. Tomor-row, someone would be regretting his good time tonight.

“Captain Iona Zoltana.” Com-mander Wilkes stood outside her cell, hands clasped behind his back, a smug smile on features rounded by too many years behind a desk at the admiralty. He waited, as if expecting a salute. Zoltana buttoned her tunic. Starting at the top. His smile disap-peared.

“Your advocate will be assigned from the court pool—”

“I have my own.”Red climbed Wilkes’ neck. “You

understand the gravity of the charges against you, Captain Zoltana?”

I comprehend the enormity of the stick up your—”Aye. Sir.”

Wilkes cleared his throat, pushed his mouth into an insincere smile, and spoke with forced friendliness. “Anything you need to get off your chest? I can speak to the tribunal, maybe convince them to mitigate the sentence.”

Zoltana straightened the bars on her collar, tugged her tunic into place. “Charges are not synonymous with evidence. Sir.”

“Oh,” Wilkes wagged a finger in the air, “there’s evidence!”

“Then there’s little I could tell you. Sir.”

He glared. “Captain Zoltana, you will regret—”

Heels hit the floor in rapid but muted cadence, as if someone in

“F-Finney?”“One and only.” Her face came into

focus. He frowned, lifted a hand that

wasn’t quite steady, took her chin between thumb and forefinger. “Tar-quin did that?”

“Her goons.”“Yeah, about that.” He lowered his

hand to his chest. “You’re so cagey, how’d they catch you?”

She drew back, cheeks flushed. “Iwaslookingatadress.”

“Say again?”“Iwaslookingatadress.”“Not sure I heard you, Finn.”She moved away, and he turned

his head to the side to watch her. She propped a pair of crutches against the counter and sat on a stool beside the bed. After a few seconds, she looked at him, smiled, shook her head. “Back in Port Henry, I was on my way to find some dinner, and I passed a line of shops.” Finney shrugged. “There was this dress in the window—”

Kristoff looked up at the ceiling and laughed.

#Zoltana unbuttoned her tunic, re-

vealing a once-crisp white shirt now damp with sweat. Someone in atmo-sphere control was having fun. Juve-niles. But she’d served planet-side in the Western Desert before becoming a star mariner. She could handle the heat.

Somewhere in the cellblock, a rather nice tenor slurred a love song

ray gun revival magazine, issue 57 final

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