Ray Gun Revival magazine, Issue 50

January 2009Issue 50

Pg. 2

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 50, January 2009

Overlords (Founders / Editors) Johne Cook, L. S. King, Paul Christian Glenn

Venerable StaffA.M. Stickel - Managing Copyeditor Matthew Winslow - Book Reviews EditorShannon McNear - Lord High Advisor, grammar consultant, listeningear/sanity saver for Overlord LeePaul Christian Glenn - PR, Film Reviews Editor, Executive TiebreakerL. S. King - Lord High Editor, proofreader, beloved nag, muse, webmistress Johne Cook - art wrangler, desktop publishing, chief cook and bottle washer

Slushmasters (Submissions Editors)John M. WhalenAlice M. RoelkeJenn SilvaMartin TurtonDavid Wilhelms

Serial AuthorsM KeatonKeanan BrandL. S. KingJohn M. Whalen

Cover Art “Cold Fire” by Inga Nielsen, Germany

Without Whom... Bill Snodgrass, site host, Web-Net Solutions, admin, webmaster, database admin, mentor, confidante, liaison – Double-edged Publishing

Special ThanksRay Gun Revival logo design by Hatchbox Creative

Ray Gun Revival Table of Contents

Visit us online at http://raygunrevival.com

All content copyright 2009 by Double-edged Publishing, a Memphis, Tennessee-based non-profit publisher.

Rev: 200901B

2 Table of Contents3 Overlords’ Lair 3 Science Fiction - The Perfect Gift4 The Silver Dollar Saucer by Lou Antonelli12 Susie Earthshine, Space Substitute by Jeff Schnaufer17 Terror Ride to Work by Robert Evans23 No Remorse by George S. Walker31 The Taming of the Shill A Dean the Space Rogue story by Andy Heizeler37 RGR Reviews - Book Reviews Matthew Winslow, Reviews Editor41 Featured Artist - Inga Nielsen46 Calamity’s Child Chapter Six, Rites of Passage Dante’s Fourth, by Gaslight, Part One by M. Keaton56 Thieves’ Honor Episode Five: The Game - Shooter by Keanan Brand66 Deuces Wild, Season Two Chapter 7: Suicide Run, Part Two by L. S. King72 This Raygun for Hire The Great Author Affair by John M. Whalen81 The RGR Time Capsule December 2008

http://www.hatchbox.com/

Merry Christmas, 2008 Pg. 3


This is our 50th issue of Ray Gun Revival magazine. Thank you for being a part of this grand experiment to revitalize a venerable genre for a new generation of readers! On with the editorial!

January can be a brutal month. Post-Christmas, post-New Year, it is a time when

the day-to-day life resumes after a delightful period of other-activity. However, it is also a time when the we have a new year to put our own unique imprint upon, and ours has been shaped by things that happened at Christmas.For me and mine, it was our best Christmas ever. We restricted ourselves to one gift each, and made them count. I’ve said for years that I don’t want to be asked what I’d like for a gift. I prefer people to want to know me well enough to know what I’d like even if I hadn’t asked for something specifically. If I want something specific, I’ll likely get it myself. But the real magic comes when somebody cares enough about you to dig into your interests and surprise you with something that you’d totally love without having asked for it. For us this year, the special things involved author Cory Doctorow and his book Little Brother. It was the first book I’d felt compelled to read through from cover-to-cover in one sitting in years. I tried to interest my fourteen year old son in the book without any progress, but then something happened that changed

everything and made for a memorable year for all of us.Cory Doctorow embarked on a world-wide tour in support of the book, and I had occasion to go see him at a reading at Harry W. Schwartz, a charming bookstore in the Milwaukee area. Cory read a section of his book, engaged in a lively Q and A, and then autographed books. I had a brainstorm and asked Cory to autograph the book to my son’s gaming handle. While I was there, Cory was gracious enough to pose with me for a picture.At least two cool things came out of that experience—my son eventually picked up the book autographed to him, and it opened his eyes to the wide world of science fiction. And I got this great picture of the occasion, which I happily showed to, well, everyone. My wife, a very crafty woman, blew the picture up and made a custom matte for it and framed it. The matte contains hundreds of thinly-cut brightly-colored pieces of construction paper. The end result looks like a stained glass window, hand-crafted with love, very cool. It’s exactly the kind of thoughtful gesture that I never would have thought to ask for, and yet so perfectly matched my interests. The whole thing cost her about ten bucks and maybe twenty hours of painstaking activity. But it was the thought more than anything that touched me. My wife, who is

not interested in reading or science fiction, knew this was a meaningful experience for me, and acted accordingly. It was amazing!I’ve been working on introducing the pleasure and utility of reading to my son since he was in the first grade in school. It has just now paid off, but has paid off big. Since Christmas, he’s been reading science fiction on his own for pleasure, pounding through five books in two weeks. I couldn’t be prouder of him.2009 is looking like a difficult year. I already know that changes around here are likely. However, the language of science fiction is the language of discovery, hard work, and (if you’ll permit me a slightly corny word) fellowship. I think we need this release of fiction now more than ever, and Ray Gun Revival is committed to do whatever it takes to continue bringing you the best space opera and golden age sci-fi that we can. This is a language in which we are fluent, and it is our great honor and joy to continue to share works that may help introduce the pleasure of reading to others.Bring it on!

Johne Cook Overlord

Breezeway, WI USA January, 2009

Overlords’ Lair Science Fiction - The Perfect Gift

The Silver Dollar Saucer by Lou Antonelli Pg. 4


Chance McMurphy and Cisco McAtee would have been hanged from the nearest tree—if

there had been one between Sanderson and the Mexican border.

They had robbed the Fort Davis stage just outside the West Texas town. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but there was an undercover Pinkerton man on board who decided to act like a hero.

They had originally planned to head to Laredo after the robbery—where they had accomplices who would help them dispose of their saddlebags full of Double Eagles.

After leaving the detective dead in the dust, their plans changed. They made straight for Mexico. “Things are fixin’ to get real hot real fast,” said Chance as they spurred their horses due south.

“Let’s get to the damn border first,” he added, “and worry about where we’re going later.”

Cisco just nodded.

By nightfall, they made it to some rocks on the edge of the desert, halfway to the border in the foothills of the Davis Mountains

They bedded down with no campfire, in case they were followed. For dinner they chewed on some jerky.

The pink quartz outcropping cooled quickly after sunset, and they slept fitfully in the cold.

Cisco sat up when he saw the glow on the horizon.

“Thank God,” he muttered. The sun was coming up and they’d get some warmth.

Chance opened his eyes and then jumped up. “Jesus, that glow’s in the south!”

Cisco scrambled out of his sleeping kit. Chance was right.

They both scrambled to the highest part of the rocks. Sure enough, just over a rise in the desert, there was a yellow glow.

Now the pair had both worked as scouts during the Indian Wars, and—in a decision they were later to supremely regret—they decided to see what was making that glow. It might be the campfire of a posse on their trail.

Chance let Cisco take the lead as the smaller and more nimble of the pair. After skulking, and then crouching, and then crawling, Cisco pulled himself up to a clump of buffalo grass and propped himself up on his elbows. He looked over the sand dune.

Chance heard Cisco suck in his breath like he had been punched in the gut.

Cisco flopped over and then rolled a few times before scrambling to his feet and heading in the opposite direction in a spray of sand.

Chance had been prone ten feet behind him. He jumped up and chased his colleague,

but couldn’t catch him until he stumbled over a rock.

“What the hell’s got into you?” he hissed.

“Demons, demons.” Cisco almost sobbed. “There’s demons down there.”

Chance would have thought Cisco had gone loco, but he could see the terror in his eyes.

Both men then noticed the glow behind them was growing brighter. Chance turned to look without letting go of Cisco’s collar.

The glow went from yellowish to bright white, and then in the glare they saw some kind of craft come up out of the hollow and swoop over the dune towards them.

Chance let go of Cisco and pulled out both his six guns. He began to shoot at whatever was coming at them.

Cisco turned and ran like a rabbit as Chance unloaded. He heard a sound like a rising wind, as whatever it was reached Chance—who let out with a loud grunt followed by a dull thud.

In a moment, whatever it was reached him, and he passed out in a white haze.

#

When he woke up, Chance realized he was in a pungent and dark room. He looked over towards a door. Light was coming from

The Silver Dollar Saucer by Lou Antonelli



beneath a curtain. He sniffed the air a few times and recognized the unmistakable stench of his companion—the ever-present aroma of bacon, tobacco, and sweat.

He saw Cisco asleep on some kind of low platform across the room.

He tried to prop himself up on an elbow, but he ached all over and his muscles were unstrung.

He thoughtfully scratched the yellow stubble on his chin.

“I’m as weak as a kitten,” he murmured to himself.

Cisco grunted.

“Cisco! Hey, Cis!” Chance hissed. “Come to!”

He heard a few moans from his companion, whose eyes began to open.

Chance called out to him again, and Cisco turned his head.

“Are we in Hell?” asked Cisco.

“Not unless Hell’s got fleas and shit,” said Chance, wrinkling his nose. “I think we’ve been shanghaied.”

“Serves us right,” moaned Cisco.

“Anything beats dancing at the end of a rope,” said Chance. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet,” said Cisco. “I don’t think I can move a toe in my boot.”

The curtain in the doorway was pulled back. Chance winced as the sunlight fell on his face.

“I see my new friends are beginning to revive.”

A six-foot tall man who also happened to be six feet wide waddled into the room.

He was carrying a water jug and basin in one hand, and a basket with fruit in the other. Towels were draped over one arm; the other was bare up to the elbow and displayed dark blue tattoos that would have made a cannibal proud.

He shambled over to Chance and placed the basket of fruit on a low wicker table. He placed the basin and jug by Cisco.

“I know my fellow humans are still too weak to arise or eat yet, but you will soon regain your strength,” he said. “I’ll leave these here for now.”

Chance winced at being called a human. It didn’t sound right. The large man continued.

“My name is Tor. I’m outside if you need anything.”

He turned and began to shamble off.

Chance cleared his dry throat.

“Hey, hombre, what are we in for?”

Tor half-turned and knitted his brow as he thought a second before answering.

“You’re in for being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said with a sly smile. He continued out and the curtain flapped behind him.

“Guess so,” said Chance, looking over at Cisco.

#

The light was dim from beneath the curtain in the doorway by the time Chance felt strong enough to swing his legs over the edge of the platform and take a few steps.

Cisco was against the far wall.

“You okay, Chance?” He called out quietly.

“I reckon.” Chance reached down and grabbed a fruit from the basket. It was a red pear-like fruit, and he devoured it in three bites.

“Damn, that’s good!” He went over to where Cisco lay and drank from the pitcher.

Cisco was shifting around, so Chance helped him sit up.

Cisco shook his head to clear the cobwebs. “I wonder what happened to our bags?”

“Whoever bushwhacked us must have took them,” said Chance. “I reckon we need to lay low for a while. We’re lucky to be alive.”

Tor came through the door, an oil lamp in hand. He smiled at the desperadoes.

“Good evening, my friends. Your timing is impeccable. I was just closing up my shop.”

Chance realized—by the baskets and pots and various—that lined the walls of the room—that Tor was some kind of merchant.

“What kind of business are you in, mister?”



Tor smiled widely, showing a disconcerting array of peg-like teeth.

“Oh, I just help outfit some of the traders who pass through.”

Cisco hopped off his platform. “On the way to Nevada?”

Thousands of people had been heading to the Comstock Lode.

Tor chuckled in a way that didn’t reassure either man. He didn’t answer, but held the curtain in the door aside.

The delicious smell of roasting meat began to waft through.

“May I invite you to dinner?”

He gestured, and the two Texans walked outside.

It was obvious there were in some kind of bazaar. Flickering lights and dark shadows were scattered among a myriad of shops and stalls.

Both Chance and Cisco saw meat roasting in a simple clay pit. Tor gestured for them to sit on some rough benches.

He waddled over to the fire and then brought back two wooden skewers with sizzling meat. He held them out with both hands.

Each man grabbed one and began to eat.

“No charge for the meal. These were your animals. I’m sorry they didn’t survive the trip.”

Cisco swallowed hard while Chance stopped chewing and spit out his mouthful.

“These were our horses?”

“Yes, well, the traders wouldn’t waste any care on pack animals. They died during decel-eration at the end of the trip.”

Chance didn’t understand that, but he focused on one thing.

“Trip. Trip to where?”

“To here, of course.” Tor waved a skewer as he pointed skyward. The pair looked up.

Cisco looked up until he fell back and off his bench. Chance just stared, pop-eyed. Ymilas sits much closer to the center of the galaxy than Earth, so its sky that much more full of stars. The spectacular tapestry of lights—along with its trio of irregularly-shaped moons—left the two Texans speechless for some time.

Cisco was still lying on his back when Chance finally spoke up.

“Where are we?” he asked in a voice he hadn’t used since Sunday school twenty years earlier.

Tor laid his hands on his belly in a rather self-satisfied way. “This world is called Ymilas. It’s just another ball in the sky—much like Earth.”

Cisco’s voice came from beneath them.

“We have been shanghaied!”

Tor staggered to his feet and looked down at the supine stage robber.

“Yes, and to another world completely!” he said with a wide grin

Tor sat back down. “Earth is not on the official star charts any more. Terrans once sailed to the stars, but their empire fell after a great war and their society collapsed. Earth is formally off-limits—but there are brigands and traders who stop there for supplies and provi-sions.”

“You call them angels or demons.” He smiled again. “They’re just people from other worlds. You came upon a group of traders extracting silicon from the sand. They needed to repair the shielding of their antimatter drive.”

Chance looked at Tor with a totally puzzled expression.

“They set themselves down in a most desolate place,” continued Tor, “but you still found them.”

“We were on the run ourselves,” said Cisco weakly as he began to pick himself up.

“That was simple enough for the traders to deduce,” said Tor. “Why else would you be so far away from any settlements—and carrying such a large amount of metallic gold?”

Chance began to speak, but Tor held up a chubby hand to stop him.

“They took your gold, of course,” he said. “But they felt it would be unfair to kill you after receiving such a bounty. So they sedated you and tossed both yourselves and your animals into their hold.”

At the mention of the animals, Cisco—who was now back on his bench—looked over woefully towards the fire pit before looking back at Chance, who just shrugged back.



“Very well,” said Chance. “Why are we here, with you?”

“The traders simply dropped you off at their next stop, which happened to be here in Ymilas, and offered you for sale to whoever happened to be interested. I was.”

Both men’s eyes got large. “We’re slaves now?” asked Chance.

“Yes, you are.” Tor rose and tapped Chance on the shoulder as he shambled over to the fire pit. “But I assure you I’m a kindly master. I’m grateful to have some human workers. That’s why I bought you.”

He sat back down and began to gnaw on another skewer of roast horseflesh. “As you can see, I am human. My ancestors were a people called Hebrews. They were slaves, also, but were granted their freedom. They were on their way back to their homeland when—like you—they unfortunately stumbled on some star traders in the desert and were all taken captive.”

“My God, the Lost Tribes of Israel,” sputtered Chance.

“Yes, exactly. It’s nice to know they haven’t been forgotten,” said Tor.

“How do we get back home?” asked Cisco.

“You don’t,” said Tor. “If my people haven’t made it back in over 3,000 years, you two certainly won’t.”

He waved a hand in front of his face to indicate the subject was closed, and he rose.

Chance and Cisco looked at each other

as Tor went back into the shop. Chance gave a little shrug and began to gnaw again on his skewer.

Cisco went over to the fire pit and picked up a fresh skewer. He began to nibble and looked hard at Chance.

Chance nodded. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m thinking.”

#

Tor’s accommodations for the pair were grimy but comfortable. Cisco made Chance laugh when he reminded them of the room they slept in one night over a cantina in Agua Punte.

“This is a whole lot better!” Chance agreed.

It was just after sunrise the next day when Tor showed them their duties at his shop. The Ymilan souk quickly filled with hundreds of traders representing dozens of species.

“Its a vision of hell,” muttered Cisco.

“At least we’re alive,” said Chance.

“When do we bolt?” asked Cisco.

Chance looked at his old friend in amazement. “Bolt? To where?”

Chance nodded towards Tor. “Just do what the fat man says, keep you mouth shut and your bowels open, and we may figger something out—later.”

Cisco looked around meekly. He knew Chance was right.

As it turned out, they quickly made them-selves very handy around Tor’s shop. The work was simple, and Tor was happy to have some human help.

He didn’t have to think twice when he gave them commands. He’d had slaves before of all different species. For example, he said, he once had an assistant that was a member of an insectoid race, the Kammerer. If you asked it to pick up something, it would stand there confused until you indicated whether it was to use a limb, antenna or tail.

Tor gradually opened up with the pair. He explained his girth was a result of growing up on a world twice the size of Earth, with the resulting gravity. He had come to Ymilas as the manager of a caravanserai for a native trade lord—a post that, unfortunately, required he become a eunuch.

When the trade route was attacked and taken over, and his lord killed, he escaped and found his way to the nearest crossroads—which happened to be a Ymilan city called Bardoth.

There, with the small amount of money he had carried with him, he bought the rundown shop.

All the trading in the souk was done in bullion coins. One day, while the trio were eating of midday meal—which consisted of some Terran-style wine washed down with the last of the dried horse meat—Chance noticed a trader walking through the souk shuffling shiny coins in both hands.

“I reckon,” Chance said to Tor and Cisco as he looked towards the trader, “the fellow’s that got our gold made quite a killing.”



“Not quite as good as you would imagine,” said Tor, who took a swig of the strong red wine before he continued. “Gold is certainly valuable, but it’s not our most precious metal.”

Cisco looked at Chance. He knew he was up to something.

Tor grunted and nodded. “There are some Earth metals that are quite valuable here. Tin is one. And Argentum is very, very valuable.”

“Argentum?” asked Chance, scratching behind an ear.

“Yes, though I think where you come from, they call it silver.”

Tor rose and went over to grab another piece of horse jerky from a basket on the rough wooden table. “It’s an excellent conductor of electricity, plus it’s very malleable.”

He took a bite as he looked at Chance. “The native Ymilans also find any metal that takes a high shine very desirable. One of their religions is to worship their sun, and they feel any metal that reflects sunlight so well will bring great luck and prosperity to the bearer.”

Tor smacked his hands loose of the crumbs of meat. It was time to get back to work.

That night Cisco tossed a loud “pssst!” in Chance’s direction.

“Cis? What you want?” he answered in the dark.

“What was all that talk today about valuable metals?”

“When you got here, did you have any

money in your trousers?”

“Heck no, I was wearing denims with no pockets. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I had a pocketful of change—a buck and seventy-five cents. I still have it.”

“What are you planning to do with a buck seventy-five?”

“I think I got more than a buck seventy-five. Remember, Tor said silver is the most valuable metal on this world. I have three silver pieces—a silver dollar, half dollar and quarter dollar.

He heard Cisco grunt. “Still, what could you buy with that?”

Chance rolled over. “We’ll see.”

#

As he had said at first, Tor was a kindly master. He often gave the pair time to explore Bardoth.

Humans weren’t uncommon on Ymilas—a number of traders and shopkeepers were descendants of Lost Hebrews and Atlantean space colonists.

One day, when they had some extra time off, Chance took them in a direction they had never been before.

Cisco didn’t even ask where they were going, but just followed Chance through the jostling crowd.

After a while the crowds thinned. They were on the outskirts of the city. Both the stall

and the goods grew larger.

Chance stopped in front of a lot with a crude metal fence. Inside were a half dozen metal contraptions of all different designs and sizes.

A trader came forward, and Chance pointed to a shiny machine that was perhaps fifty feet wide. It looked like a plump discus.

Cisco looked at the machine. He had seen many strange things in the time they had been on Ymilas, but he had never seen anything like that.

Cisco saw Chance make the universally recognized gesture that said he wanted to bargain.

The Ymilan began to shout and wave his hands. Cisco could see the Ymilan wave four of his six fingers.

Chance went after it in good form—he’d picked up a lot of the Ymilan trading lingo in a half year. He held up a single digit.

Cisco smiled because it was the middle finger he was waving—a meaningless gesture on Ymilas.

After maybe five minutes of shouting and waving, the Ymilan was waving three digits. Chance was still shouting but eventually went up to two fingers.

The shouting went on for a while longer, and then suddenly the Ymilan spat in his palm and rushed over to Chance, who struck the palm with his fist.

Chance gave the Ymilan the silver dollar.



The Ymilan made a gesture of thanks.

Chance then handed over the half dollar. The Ymilan gave thanks again.

Chance waved at Cisco, who been hanging back watching the proceedings.

“That the hell is going on?” he asked.

“We just got us a ride home,” said Chance.

“Huh?”

Chance walked over to the saucer-shaped craft and pushed on a panel. A door flipped upwards.

Chance stuck his head inside, and a moment later Cisco crowded next to him.

“This here’s a kind of lifeboat, and it happens to come from Earth,” said Chance. “It’s left over from the great Atlantis.”

“I’ve been snooping around, and I found out about this thing.” he continued. “It was in storage and still runs, but it’s only good for a one-way trip back to Earth—I guess because it’s a rescue boat.”

“You bought this with the money you had?”

“Hell ya, silver’s so valuable here. And there’s not many people interested in a one-way trip back to a Earth.”

He smiled as he looked around the interior. “Except us.”

“What about Tor?”

“Tor will never know. We’re leaving now.”

“Huh?”

“Is there anything you need to take with you?”

Cisco ran his fingers through his curly dark hair. “Guess not.”

There was a braying sound, and the pair looked to see an eight-legged draft animal advancing to the craft. A dwarf tied a rope to the saucer and began to tow it away.

“The fellow who sold me the ship is towing it to where we can launch it.”

“Wait, how do we run the thing?”

“It’s a rescue ship, its clockwork is designed to take you back to Earth on its own, once you set the gears spinning.”

The pair trudged along. “I bought the ship with the dollar,” said Chance. “And the half dollar paid for the fuel—whatever kind of coal it burns.”

Once the ship was in the middle of an empty field, the dwarf untied the rope, and walked around to the opposite side of the craft, where he punched a matter/antimatter pod into a tube.

He gave a human “okay” sign to the pair and left riding the eight-legged beast.

“Ready to go, pardner?”

“Chance, old bud, I’m more than ready.”

Chance had scouted the saucer before-hand, so he was familiar with interior and basic controls.

The pair reclined as they snapped on all the buckles and clamps. Chance pulled a lever that closed the hatch and then showed Cisco a plunger that activated the homing device.

Once the hatch was closed, the interior smelled musty. “I hope this wagon holds together,” muttered Cisco as he looked around. “If it came from Atlantis, it’s pretty old.”

“Cis, I don’t want to grow old and die here. I want to go home—or die trying. What about you?”

Cisco thought real hard, and nodded.

“Ready?”

Cisco nodded again.

Chance pushed the red plunger.

Outside, the anti-grav buffer hummed into action and the saucer rose one hundred feet above the field before the atmospheric jets kicked in and it shot upwards at a sharp angle.

Tor was just taking a bracing swig of some late afternoon red wine, as he looked up to see the jet plume over Bardoth.

A street urchin who earned his living as a spy and informant ran and quickly told him what had transpired. Tor kicked a bench and cursed as he reached into a pouch and tossed a small coin into the bastard’s dirty paw.

Chance and Cisco were clutching the armrests, unaccustomed as they were to the G’s, as they rose through the atmosphere. As the FTL drive kicked on, the suspended animation system activated. Both men fell asleep as beta waves filled the cabin.



#

“Chance? Chance?”

Cisco was looking across to his companion.

“I’m okay.” He rubbed his forehead. “I guess we’ve been out for a while.”

After the saucer’s FTL drive kicked off, a gas had entered the interior to revive them.

Chance looked over at Cisco. “I guess we’re still alive. You smell horrible.”

Cisco chuckled. “You don’t smell like French perfume yourself.”

“I hope that this thing’s clockwork has been running while we were asleep,” said Chance.

“Let’s get a look.”

He undid his straps and clamps. He was startled as he drifted up towards the low ceiling.

“Air must be pretty thin,” he said. “I’m just floating around.”

He grabbed the wall and dragged himself over to a small window.

“Cis, come over and look at this!”

Cisco undid himself and pulled himself over to the window.

Down below, a large hazy ball hung on a black background.

Cisco was stunned. “Oh, God, that must what the Earth looks like from the heavens!”

“Yes, and it’s getting bigger, so we must be

heading towards it,” said Chance. “This damn thing worked.”

Neither man knew that because of the time dilation effect, it was thirty years later on the world beneath them than it had been when they left. Most of the people they had known were dead.

As the bright blue ball grew larger, they could see the continents passing below.

“I reckon if this thing can sail us in, we’ll be on the ground soon,” said Chance.

Cisco pointed. “Look! Down there! There’s home!”

They could see the Gulf of Mexico and Texas below them.

Suddenly a loud warning sound began coming through a speaker, and a message in a language neither man could read flashed on a panel.

If they could have read it, they would have seen it said: “Automatic Reentry System Failure. Assume manual controls.”

After nearly 10,000 years, something was bound to have broken down.

Cisco looked at Chance, who pushed himself back and floated to the control panel. Rows of red and blue lights were flashing.

“Dammit, this can’t be good,” he snarled.

Cisco’s eyes grew large as flames begin to shoot around the edges of the window. They looked at each other as the interior quickly began to heat up.

“Pardner, this may be the end of the trail,” said Chance.

Cisco kept his eyes on the window and looked at the turning globe below. Texas disap-peared in the distance as the saucer continued its trajectory.

“At least we made it home,” he said quietly as the growing flames obscured the window.

“We made it home.”

#

Vasily Vasilyev was sucking some bitter tea through a sugar cube and waiting for his latkes to warm on the cast iron stove.

The sky was bright and blue this Siberian morning. His wife Nadia had stepped outside to hang a few small rugs to air.

He was looking at her through the small panes of the kitchen window when he saw her point upwards.

He went to the window and saw a large fireball descending from the sky. There was an enormous flash, and the fireball exploded.

Nadia ran back quickly to the cabin. Vasily grabbed her and pulled her towards the front room. The cabin shook as the concussion hit and the windows blew out.

They were thrown to the floor. After a moment, Vasily raised his head. He then stood up, brushing off his clothes.

He went over to the front door, which was still banging on its hinges. He walked into the front yard and saw plumes of smoke flying



upwards in the distance.

Nadia joined him on the steps. “My God, Vasilyevich, what happened?”

“It looks like a meteor struck Tunguska.”

They both heard a sound like a pebble hitting their cabin. Vasily turned and listened, as whatever had struck the cabin rolled down the steep tin roof.

He went over to where something shiny lay under the eaves. He poked at it a moment, and then blew on it as he picked it up.

He fingered it gingerly as he walked back to his wife.

“What is it?”

He squinted at the shiny piece of metal and then looked back to the smoke on the horizon.

“It’s a silver American twenty-five cent piece,” he said. “I wonder how to God it got here?”

Lou Antonelli

Lou Antonelli is a professional journalist who began writing s-f and fantasy when he was 45. He has been published in the U.S., U.K., Canada and Australia.

Susie Earthshine, Space Substitute by Jeff Schnaufer Pg. 12


Venomous darts spurted at her from a tubular alien tongue. A clubbed tail swung

menacingly towards her head. Fangs dripped drool inches from her feet.

And she hadn’t even started teaching yet.

Susie Earthshine, space sub-stitute, looked over the third graders in the classroom from behind the force field surround-ing her desk. Forty-one eyes from thirty-two students bussed in from across the galaxy peered back at her. The students sat, squirmed, and bubbled in their

“seats”—miniature mobile and permeable replicas of their own scorching, submerged, or soaring habitats on their native planets. Each “seat” was outfitted with a species-centric translator and touch-screen info-monitors to research their lessons.

“Rak flar bukka sii!” shouted one of the students, who looked like blue spaghetti on a stick.

Roughly translated by her earpiece, the Rigellian was calling her a coward, challenging her to lower her force field.

It was Susie’s first assignment at the Betelgeuse School for Troubled Life Forms, where the teacher-student ratio was 1 to 100

tentacles, and rising fast. The regular teacher for this class had taken a poison dart on the first day of school. The last substitute had been squeezed into a lunch box.

“Bukka sii! Bukka sii!” the other students chanted the insult as a hail of venomous darts from the Arcturan students—who resembled grass-covered snails—clattered against the force field.

Susie fingered the blaster beneath her

white, daisy-covered dress. The gun’s coolness in the holster against her leg was reassuring.

And tempting.

But it was too soon.

The principal had asked her just to try and make it through the day without injury. That wasn’t enough for Susie. She was a belle from the South, U.S. of A., on Earth. Where she was taught to take pride in her work, not just orders. No matter how low the job was on the cosmic career ladder, she knew she was one of the lucky earthlings to land one. And like all good Southern Belles, Susie knew first impressions were important. In any solar system.

“I’ll just have to teach these ill-mannered little critters a thing or two,” Susie thought to herself.

And there was only one way to do that.

Her slender fingers touched the force field controls.

The classroom suddenly quieted in antici-pation.

“You darlin’s want me to turn off this itty bitty field?” Susie cooed, her fingers teasing

Susie Earthshine, Space Substitute by Jeff Schnaufer



the controls. Then she released a boisterous laugh that made her petite body shake. One of the Arcturan’s even wet itself (which was still embarrassing in any corner of the galaxy).

“Mercy. Pardon me. But I just do not think any of you are smart enough to make me, is all,” she said, her challenge immediately translated for all the students to hear.

Forty one eyes in the classroom glanced at each other. Then at their teacher. And once again, a hail of darts, clubbed tails, fangs—and this time, acid from one of the feathered Ori-onids—struck the force field.

Susie’s fingers withdrew from the controls and touched her pouting, ruby lips. “Well, isn’t that clever? You know how to throw things. But do you know how to use your brains? Why, I’m not even sure some of you have brains in those little things you call heads. And some of you poor little darlin’s don’t even have those.”

The insult took the children by surprise. Sure, they had been sent to Betelgeuse because they were the worst of the worst from the Core, that unified district of thirty-eight solar systems. And sure, they had been trying to maim Miss Earthshine since she walked in the door. But that was no excuse for her to be rude.

“At least we can defend ourselves,” blurted the Rigellian through his translator, obviously a little hurt. “Not like Earthlings. You got no claws. No poison. No spikes. Even your fur is gone. Just hair left. What good is that? You can’t even swing it at your enemies. You have to hide behind a force field.”

Some of the students laughed. A few gave each other high fives (one of the few Earth

customs the Core had adopted). In the excite-ment, a Kirellian—who looked like a weiner dog balloon—even tried to high five a Frackoid—who looked like an orange cactus.

It took a few minutes for the robotic janitor to sweep up the pieces of the Kirellian and take them to the nurse’s office. But then all eyes in the classroom—this time only thirty-eight—were once again on Susie. She still stood behind the force field, her fingers at the controls.

“Let’s hope that our inflatable little friend will be back with us by lunchtime,” she said cheerily. “Though I do declare I will still be behind this force field, even then. Unless one of you can make me lower it.”

Then she looked straight at the Rigellian. “Because, honeychild, those natural defenses yore so plum proud of,” she said, tossing her curly blonde hair, “will not always do the job. Sometimes you have to use your brains.”

“Use our brains?” one Arcturan whined. “But we don’t learn telepathy until fifth grade!”

“All you have to do,” Susie smiled, her white teeth glinting off the force field, “is answer one question correctly.”

“Then you’ll switch off the shield?” the Arcturan asked.

“On my honor as a lady. Now who wants to go first?”

Instantly, a forest of hands, wings and flippers rose above the eager students.

“Pick me! Pick me!” pleaded a chorus of translated alien tongues through Susie’s earpiece.

She settled on the lone Capellan student. It’s fluffy exterior and tubular torso reminded her of her favorite breakfast, pigs in a blanket. Susie’s stomach growled involuntarily, causing her freckled face to briefly flush with embar-rassment.

“Let’s start with you,” she said to the Capellan, careful not to sound like she was choosing from a menu.

“Ask me anything,” the Capellan crowed. “I’ll get it right. When the field goes down, we’ll eat your brains. Then we’ll see how smart you are!”

The student’s vengeful boast piqued Susie’s anger for just a moment, long enough for an image to flash in her mind of the student covered in maple syrup. She quickly pushed the thought from her mind. Eating students—even unruly ones—was bad manners. It was also cause for suspension.

And she needed this job to support her mother. Jobs for humans were rare in the Core. Most of Earth’s population was on universal health-and-wealth-care. Even Earth’s intelli-gentsia—the Nobel-prize winning poets, politi-cians, scientists and artists—had been forced into the unemployment line when the planet was absorbed into the Core’s culture of more advanced alien races. Only Earth’s lowly substi-tute teacher was in intergalactic demand—in the most demanding job in the Universe, no less.

“Well?”

Susie was yanked from her reverie by the impatient voice of the Capellan. She quickly gained her composure as her mother had



taught her, by smoothing her dress, tossing back her hair and clicking her heels, twice.

“Well, indeedy. First question to you, dumplin’.”

Throughout the classroom, darts and clubs and stingers were aimed at the force field in anticipation.

“What is the name of the first leader of the Core?”

“Who cares?” the child blurted out.

“Incorrect.”

“Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww,” the other students groaned in unison, followed by shouts of “Way to go, dummy!” and “Quit sitting on your brain!” The Capellan’s natural instinct kicked in and he turned invisible in his seat, embarrassed.

“My turn!” called the blue spaghetti-head-ed Rigellian.

“Very well,” Susie said. “Who was the first Warlord of Ziglund Six?”

“How should I know?” the Rigellian whined. “I don’t live on that worthless hunk of rock.”

“Hey!” huffed the class’s lone Ziglunder—who, incidentally, looked like a hunk of rock.

“Next?” Susie asked.

“Me!” gurgled a wriggly Vormox in his liquid amber “seat.”

“Who is the President of Earth?”

“Wait, wait, I know this one,” the Vormox

gurgled as it swum around his tank. “That white human. The Pope!”

“Incorrect.”

“Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwww,” the other students moaned again.

Question after question was tossed at the students, each one having the impact of a water balloon—leaving most of them surprised and more than a little embarrassed. After a while, the students began searching their monitors, sometimes in curiosity, other times in the hopes of guessing what the next question would be.

By the time school ended, Susie had asked 127 questions about the Core’s leaders—past and present—without a single correct answer.

The students floated, slithered, and poured out of the classroom with mumbled curses on their lips, beaks and funnels. Vows of “We’ll get her tomorrow” were traded between them.

“Y’all have a wonderful day, now,” Susie called after them cheerfully.

The next day, Susie noticed that a few of the students had arrived early and were studying vid-discs of worlds history on their info-monitors. One of them was the Rigellian, who quickly switched off his info-monitor when Susie entered behind the force field.

“Y’all ready to continue our little game?” said Susie, wearing a foofy, pink, petticoat skirt and a white argyle sweater embroidered with a yellow smiley face.

She caressed the force field controls in anticipation.

The Orionid asked to go first. Susie complied.

“What’s the tallest volcano in the Core?”

The students looked at each other, dumb-founded.

“Volcano?” the Rigellian chittered. “What happened to all the questions about the presi-dents, the leaders, the warlords?”

“That was yesterday,” Susie said with a smile. “New day, new questions.”

“Freetle’s gizz,” cursed one of the students, a Pupbel—who looked like a potted fern with blue eyes.

“Mind your manners,” Susie warned. “Or no more questions.”

“Sorry,” the fern replied.

The next question was about the deepest canyon in the Core. Followed by a question about the hardest rock—which caused a debate between the granite-like Ziglunder and the marble-faced Litracor. The rest of the day was filled with other questions—and no correct answers—about geologic figures and facts. This time, there was less grumbling and more research on the info-monitors. When class ended, Susie even had to threaten one of the Arcturans with her blaster to turn off the info-monitor in time to catch the interstellar bus.

The next day began with even more students studying their monitors when Susie arrived in class. But again, the topic was, as Susie said, “as fresh as the dew on a Savannah sunflower”—filled with questions on animated



life forms—or animals. The fastest, the tallest, the smallest and the most dangerous—which prompted even more debate among the students, some of whom claimed that right in their ancestry. A Torgoth and a Kl’lmjot—he-reditary enemies on Sirius B—were even ready to prove it. The debate was ended by a warning shot from Susie’s blaster. And quickly followed by Susie’s homemade molasses cookies, which she tossed through the force field to eager tentacles, claws and beaks.

On the fourth day, Susie asked the Pupbel what the fastest growing plant was on Sagitta.

“Me,” the fern replied.

“Correct.”

The room went silent.

“The Mirigu species is the fastest growing plant form on the planet Sagitta,” Susie said.

“And,” she smiled at the fern, “quite intelli-gent.”

The fern student turned a slight shade of pink. Susie wasn’t sure if that was embarrass-ment or whether she had just caused it to bloom. Perhaps with pride.

This was confirmed when the other students started to respond. Shouts of “Way to go, Mirigu!” and “Nice job!” poured its way, deepening the pink to a bright red. It reminded Susie of her mother’s rose garden back home.

“Alllll riiiiiiight!” squealed the Capellan student, rising out of his “seat” towards the force field. His tubular torso made a sickly sucking sound. “We won! Drop the field! It’s brain-chewing time!”

Susie tossed her hair back, smoothed her dress and stamped her heels on the floor, twice.

“A lady’s word,” she said, fingering the force field controls, “is her bond.”

And she switched off the field.

The Capellan’s tube stretched up from its torso, like a snake shedding its skin, towards her face. The top of the tube opened wide, enough for Susie to see a whirring circular row of teeth. She thought of the story that would appear in the society page of her newspaper back in Atlanta. Being eaten by a pig in a blanket would not reflect well on the family name. She feared that her mother might never be able to attend Sunday brunch at the DewDrop Country Club, ever again.

Poo, she thought.

Susie gripped the blaster under her pastel pink chiffon dress, wondering if she could get away with a just a warning shot or whether she would, indeed, have to roast the little weenie alive.

That meant a lot of paperwork.

Poo, she thought.

Just as she had decided to try a warning shot, the Capellan lunged at her.

And exploded.

The classroom was filled with shrieks, tatters of floating pancake-like bits and more than a little confusion on Susie’s part.

Did I pull the trigger? she asked herself.

The answer came from behind the exploded torso of the Capellan. The Rigellian, the same one who had challenged her from the start of her first day, stood in front of her—a long stalk topped with blue spaghetti-like tendrils. The tendrils parted, like hair, and revealed a large, pulsating grey mass behind a transpar-ent skull.

The Rigellian’s brain.

“I don’t think I’m ready for the game to end,” Susie heard the Rigellian’s voice. Then she realized the alien had no mouth, nor eyes. It was speaking to her telepathically. It’s tele-pathic powers must be immense, she realized. That’s what caused the Capellan to explode. The Rigellian used brainpower.

“You could have done that to me at any time,” Susie thought.

“I was having fun,” the Rigellian said. “Learning.”

“Why didn’t you just read my mind for the answers?” she thought.

“No fun in that,” the Rigellian replied.

With that, the creature turned on its stalk and returned to it’s “seat.” The robotic janitor arrived to sweep up the pieces of the Capellan. It left a small stack of paperwork on Susie’s desk—instructions on how to write a note for the Capellan’s parents.

“Let’s keep playing this game,” the Rigellian declared for all to hear. Then he turned towards Susie and asked: “Best two out of three?”

Susie smiled.



“Best two out of three.”

There were no objections. Susie wasn’t sure if that was because her little plan to win over the students had worked. Or because the Rigellian had used his telepathy to “convince” the rest of his classmates to continue, too.

It didn’t really matter to Susie. She would, after all, only be here until the original teacher recovered from her wounds at the hands of her students. That came much sooner than expected or, Susie realized, hoped for. The original teacher returned to school a week later. With Susie’s help, the students were now ready to accept their old teacher. The teacher still wore armor to the first day of class, just in case.

Susie felt a sense of satisfaction as she left the Betelgeuse school for Troubled Life Forms and headed to her next assignment. She was ready for her next challenge. And, as she read over her assignment on the interstellar shuttle, she knew it would be the most daunting of her life. Her mother even called on the in-flight phone and begged her to reconsider.

“But dumplin’,” her mother said. “It’s New York City. They’re the damn Yankees. They’ll eat you alive.”

Susie just fingered the blaster beneath her dress and smiled.

Jeff Schnaufer

SOLANA’S BIO

Artwork by Solana Mejia-Schnaufer —handpainted in watercolors with artist markers.

Abandoned as a child at a nunnery in the south of France, Solana Mejia-Schnaufer charmed her way into the hearts of her fellow sisters with her childlike innocence and tendency to frequently replace everyday conversation with highly the-atrical outbursts of song. When at last her yearning to see the world overcame her intense fear of indoor plumbing, she abandoned her safe but small world to pursue her dreams of becoming a profes-sional ventriloquist. Three years and ten puppets later, disillusioned by the dark cutthroat nature of the business and her inability to say “B” words without moving her lips, Solana pawned her last dummy

“Pickles” for a ticket back to France **the exchange rate on puppets was higher in those days**. After years of sulking, Solana was suddenly struck by a bolt of inspiration once again while working late one night at a 24-hour crepery. As she prepared a batch of strawberry filling for the following morning, she happened to catch a French-dubbed episode of

“Designing Women” on the small black-and-white television set in the parlor.

Transfixed by the characters’ apparent success and big hair, Solana resolved to pursue a career in the arts. Although her extreme distaste of wood ultmately led her away from interior design, she found herself in creature design and illustration, and has been doing that ever since. To see more of her art, you can check out her sassy page: http://xburrito-dream-sx.deviantart.com/

JEFF’S BIO

As a writer, Jeff Schnaufer has recounted true tales for the Los Angeles Times and People Magazine and written for Star Trek Voyager and Bewildering Stories. He has chased tornadoes, braved firestorms and survived earthquakes. But he thinks the bravest people on earth are substi-tute teachers like his mom, Marilyn. This story is for her and all the other substitute teachers who face out of this world chal-lenges each day. If you like this story, feel free to contact Jeff by email at [email protected]. (A special thanks to my daughter, Solana, for finding her way home after we accidentally left her in a nunnery while in France for a Jerry Lewis film festival. She picked up some nifty art skills along the way home.)

http://xburrito-dreamsx.deviantart.com/

http://xburrito-dreamsx.deviantart.com/

[email protected]

[email protected]

Terror Ride to Work by Robert Evans Pg. 17


My XTS was chugging along the speeder corridor as I cut across the sky. Most

people looking up at this miserable time of the morning saw a lone streak through the night sky heading east, but in a few hours this par-ticular section of the heavens would be filled with white trails of other XTs speeding along their commute to low-earth orbit and beyond.

“Control, this is Hawthorn XTS One-Six-Nin-er-Niner, requesting permission to dock with Asteroid Express Two-Zero-Four. Over.”

My earphone beeped three times before the control operator spoke. “Hawthorn XTS One-Six-Niner-Niner, continue with current approach. No adjustments needed. Prepare to be grappled.”

The government-subsidized ferries were always less friendly than their corporate cousins, but they were the only ones operating at the time I needed. Government systems always filled the void corporate entities failed to secure.

Three long, metal appendages snaked out from the ferry and magnetically attached to my XTS. I rocked from side to side gently as the grapples attached, slowly retracted, and pulled me toward the ferry.

I took my hands off the controls, pushed the button next to my armrest and let the seat slide back. I punched the button next to the video screen. The news feed came into view, and a UGPT advertisement immediately

flashed to fill the screen. The commentator spoke in a pleasingly benevolent voice. “Join the United Guild of Professional Terrorists, and enjoy the financial security your family deserves.” The scene was of a young family smiling happily as they played with their two young kids. I punched the button hard to turn off the display.

With travel mirror and razor in hand, I clicked the device on and started shaving the stubble off my face. Looking in the mirror, I saw tired, green eyes looking back, and more gray hair in what use to be a full head of dark brown. God, I feel old. The scar on my head that used to be well above my hairline and concealed was now on the wispy edge of naked skin. I joked with my wife that I was going to tattoo a line on my head with a date to remember where my hair used to be. I figured in a few years there would be lines going back over the top. I hadn’t expected to lose my hair so early, but I knew I would go gray; premature grayness ran in my family, yet I had been lucky enough to hold out until my early thirties. I scratched the scar on my right cheek, the exit wound of an electrical discharge. My wife said it gave me character, but then she didn’t have to feel the constant itch just below the skin. I finished shaving and reclined the seat so I could stretch out.

The speaker in the cabin rang out with an odd jumble of drums, bells, and synthesized music. I pushed the button to bring the screen to life. “Hi, wife.”

Cilia came into hazy focus on the monitor, since she kept the light low to keep from waking the baby. Disheveled, light-brown hair framed puffy blue eyes as she smiled.

“Hi, husband,” she said quietly with husband being drawn out in a long yawn.

“Have you made it to the ferry yet?”

“Being grappled as we speak.”

“Good. Glad you made it safe. I just wanted to call you before the ferry went into commu-nication blackout.”

“Thanks for calling, babe. Is Dain still sleeping?”

“Yes, he is. He’s so cute when he sleeps. Check on housing when you get to work.”

“I will, but I’m sure nothing has changed. Our chances of getting a place in the asteroid belt are unlikely right now.”

“I know, but still check, keep us on their minds. Somebody there has to be able to get us a place to live. I hate you being away from us for so long at a time. It’s getting bad around here. I’m scared. New California was supposed to be a bastion of peace in a chaotic world, but instead it’s the home base for the UGPT. I looked at the news just before calling you and there were five terrorist attacks last night and two in San Francisco, that’s only an hour away from us by rocket rail, and the news said to expect more.”

Terror Ride to Work by Robert Evans



Hearing my wife voice the current state of affairs put a knot of anxiety in my stomach, reminding me just how dangerous the Earth had become. “I hate to hear that too, and it scares me to be away from you for these two weeks and only home for a few days. I’m doing everything I can to get us moved to Ceres or one of the other asteroids near Henry Harkins power project. But nothing is available.”

“I know you’re doing everything you can, I’m just frustrated. We had no way of knowing that we wouldn’t be able to buy a place when you first took the job.”

The video started to cut out.

“I’ll check on housing when I get there. Looks like we’re losing the signal. I love you.”

“I love you too. Call me when you get to Ceres.”

As I said my goodbye, the screen went blank, so I switched to the ferry’s news link. A Global News Network story was in progress.

“...a press conference, the president announced that she was creating a committee to investigate the legality of private companies acquiring housing and housing projects in the asteroid belt. According the Rojas-Mora Act of 2110, it is illegal for private companies to own housing that is used as a primary residence for employees near their place of work. Addition-ally, the Act gives increased power to the UEC to regulate the housing industry and to operate housing complexes in the best interest of the public. The committee would investigate if the law applied to companies in the asteroid belt. The president promised...”

I pushed the button to switch the video off and lay back with a heavy sigh. Once again, it looked as if the president was trying to lay her hands on independent companies, but this time she had her sights set on companies in the asteroid belt. The government hadn’t stopped trying to take over companies and control individual industries ever since they took over the financial market. I shut my eyes, determined to put politics out of my mind for a few moments.

A short time later, my earpiece beeped to life. “Passenger. Your craft is secure, and all other outside hatches for this section are locked. Please make your way to primary thrust cabin. Initial thrust in twenty minutes.”

The computer had gone idle, so I leaned close for it to scan my retina. Then I typed my password to open the hatch. Behind me and to my right, the hatch of my XTS lifted up and slid back. I floated out, grabbed a handrail, and stuffed my flexo-paper in a pocket before punching my password on the side keypad. The hatch closed tight with a sucking hiss, buttoned up until I returned for the remainder of the two day trip, holed up its cramped confines.

The majority of the dock was empty, but I recognized five of the six other XT’s docked, and the commuter shuttle for those that had to hitch a ride to space.

A pretty young lady passed me on her way along the tube I hadn’t seen before. Every once in a while a new face popped up, but I didn’t think I would be striking up a conversa-tion with her anytime soon; she looked cold as a comet. People always looked grumpy at this time of the morning, but she wore an excep-

tional don’t-talk-to-me look. She was in her mid twenties, straight black hair pulled back tightly and rolled up into a bun at the back of her head, green eyes, and a mouth held unyieldingly rigid. She was dressed in business clothes: close-fitting light-blue jumpsuit with a starburst of orange and purple on the right side.

After getting my things together and checking that my XTS was secure, I started moving down the tube. A young man crawled awkwardly along, fighting to maintain his grip and control his legs instead of just letting them dangle free. His backpack of tools didn’t help, and he was constantly trying to keep them centered while he went from hand hold to hand hold. It was obviously his first flight. He was dressed in new work clothes, freshly cut hair, with a complexion, eyes, and hair making it impossible to tell what region of Earth he came from.

I followed in behind him, easily maneuver-ing my body in the zero gravity.

“Are you doing okay?”

The guy awkwardly turned to look at me. I caught his ankle before he started tumbling out of control within the tube.

“I don’t have the hang of this zero gravity crap. I took a couple training classes but so far everything I learned hasn’t helped much.”

“You’ll get the hang of it, just keep your eyes focused on a point ahead of you and forget about your feet. What’s your name?”

“Bulut. What’s yours?”



“Jason. You’re doing better. Just keep your mind on something else.”

“Thanks for your help.”

“No worries. Is this your first time out?”

“Yes. I just got a job in the asteroids.”

“What type of work will you be doing?”

“I’m a robotic tech. I graduated from tech school a week ago. Do you know if it’s true that robo-techs spend most of their time in enviro-suits on the surface or deep underground?”

“Yes, it is. I don’t envy you guys, it’s tough work. But you are surely needed. For what you all do, you don’t get paid nearly enough.”

“The pay is more than me and my family was getting from the government for doing nothing. I took it upon myself to go to school and get a job, which is something no one in my family has done in generations.”

“Glad to hear you are doing more with yourself than most.”

“I’m not afraid to tell you I’m nervous about this— my family has long been members of the Technocrats.”

“Don’t worry about that, you will be working far away from Earth and its politics. Concen-trate on your job. That will give you enough to worry about. Hey, it looks like you made it to the primary thrust cabin. Good Job, Bulut.”

I helped Bulut to a seat near the front of the cabin and got him buckled in. He sat holding his tool backpack as if it were his most prized possession, happy and content to be sitting

secure in zero gravity.

The primary thrust cabin was almost empty, only about twenty people belting into their seats, and at least another hundred seats available. As I made my way to my place, I unconsciously scanned the room seeing the familiar faces of commuters that always sat in the same seats, and went through their same ritual. An old guy with grey hair and goatee occupied with reading his flexo-paper. A mid-dle-aged lady with long, blond hair, always impeccably dressed, typed on her computer console; she had a nervous look about her as if space flight didn’t agree with her. Another fellow commuter, Game Boy as I referred to him, was a young man always slouched in his seat with a virtual visor covering his eyes, neurally tied into a game; he sat on the far side of the cabin, unconscious of what went on around him. Some people took space flight way too casually.

My earpiece beeped. “Passenger Hawthorn. Initial thrust will begin in two minutes. Be seated and strapped in at this time.” The ferries’ computer system showed that I was still unbuckled, and was prompted to warn me. It was a cost-saving measure; government-sub-sidized ferries weren’t required to have safety personnel in the cabin with passengers. If this had been a commercial ferry, there would have been one safety personnel in the cabin for every seven passengers.

Initial thrust was still the most dangerous time of space flight, but with the commer-cialization of space it had become less so. My grandfather told stories about how he went through two weeks of training in everything from space survival to piloting before he

was qualified to just ride as a passenger on a commuter transit to the asteroid belt. Back then it was a different world, when everyone was eager to know everything there was to know about space flight. Today, people didn’t want to know the basics of space flight, let alone the more in-depth aspects that could save their lives. I was lucky—I had spent a tour in the Naval Space Marines, and most of basic training consisted of being drilled on all aspects of space flight.

My earpiece let out a long beep. “Passen-gers! Initial thrust in Ten-Nine-Eight-Seven-Six-Five”—I unconsciously checked my straps and stowed my flexo-paper. I could hear the woman typing furiously on her console—”Four-Three”—I took a deep breath and shut my eyes—”Two-One.”

The MPD engines kicked in. I was pushed back into my seat, not uncomfortably so, but the weight pressing down on my chest suddenly made it hard to breath, I could still move, but it was like trying to wade through water, I could even get out of my seat if I wanted, the accel-eration was slow and constant. The engines that powered the ferry could create enough impulse to make the trip to the asteroid belt in two days, and after the acceleration period it was smooth cruising, we could get up and move about the cabin until deceleration.

A klaxon broke through the enveloping hum of the engines followed by a tense voice over the loudspeaker. “All passengers refrain from the use of all electronic devices at this time, repeat, discontinue the use of all electronic devices.”

The initial thrust phase was never inter-



rupted, and an uncomfortable murmur filled the cabin as we passengers started to look around to determine what the problem was.

The pretty, don’t-talk-to-me young lady suddenly filled the view screen in front of the cabin; she held a device for us all to see. The strange device was flashing different colors with a strip of machine language texting across. It was an ominous refusal to the order given by the ship that she had not powered down her electronic device.

“I am Katrina Khartimaji,” she said in an unfeeling voice that echoed through the cabin speakers. “I have taken control of this ship. As a member of the United Guild of Professional Terrorists, I commit this act for the betterment, equality, and status of people everywhere. All of you that give your lives here today can be...”

I thought quickly—she was too far away, and with the acceleration, I couldn’t move fast enough to catch her by surprise.

Solutions went through my head as I unbuckled my harness, when a young man in work clothes, sitting behind her and to the right, freed himself from his seat. Fighting the mounting force, he pulled himself over the seat and moved close to the terrorist, encircling her with his arms. The loud zap, flash, and scream were instantaneous—only the smell of burning flesh lingered in the cabin. A woman shrieked. A man cried. I could hear others as they retched from the sight and smell. The young man was now a charred corpse, pieces of which were falling away as the ferry continued its accelera-tion, the remainder of his body rested in the seat next to the terrorist.

I hadn’t seen a personal shield device since

my time in the NSM, and fortunately until now, I had not seen its full affect on a human being. These devices were illegal outside the military and extremely hard to find.

All of which didn’t help my situation in the least; I was about to die, and I had a wife and baby to take care of that I desperately wanted see at the end of my shift. Although I had a premium life insurance policy, the one thing no insurance policy in all of Earth would cover was death caused by terrorist action. Terrorist acts had become too prevalent.

The terrorist was already showing signs of the intense electrical and magnetic fields that surrounded her body, protecting her from attacks. Her skin was drying out and getting red, soon blisters would start forming and running pus. Once she switched on the shield, she was a dead woman. The micro-magnetometers created a magnetic field that protected her from the high-energy discharge of the capacitor banks, the capacitor banks protected her from the idiots like the poor fool that made the heroic grab; he had completed a six hundred thousand watt circuit, the capacitors fired, and he became a corpse. Having that much energy buzzing around you wasn’t good, and it showed, as the first signs of blisters formed on what used to be a smooth, youthful face.

The loudspeaker crackled to life with a computer voice warning. “Asteroid Express Two-Zero-Four is off course, all passengers and crew evacuate immediately. Ferry will enter Earth gravity well in fifteen minutes.”

The terrorist could last another half hour before she could no longer function. We didn’t have that long; after entering the gravity well,

no matter how powerful the engines, we couldn’t pull away without tearing the ferry apart and scattering debris all around the globe.

The terrorist obviously had control of the computer system with the remote device she held in her hand. Our only hope was getting ahold of that device in time to correct the current course. Otherwise, she would have never worn the protective shield, and she would have just pushed the button and smiled all the way to oblivion.

I unbuckled my harness and started making my way over the seats, moving toward the front of the cabin. My muscles felt like jelly, I felt like I weighed a ton. But at least I could still move.

The unblinking face of the terrorist stared at me from the view screen, her face looking as if it had aged fifty years in the last minute. Her countenance was a tribute to the plethora of drugs she had taken before embarking on her self-destructive course. Painkillers were a wonderful thing, especially when every molecule in your body was being ripped apart and burned; once the shield device was activated nothing was spared its devastating effects—not the nerves or even the bones. I just hoped I didn’t look up at the screen when her eyes burst.

Another discharge of the field would give me a few seconds to grab the device that had hijacked the computer system. No matter how efficient the protective shield was, it still took anywhere from a few seconds to a few minutes to charge up the cap banks. My guess was this was one of the more efficient types that only took seconds. I was going to gamble that they



hadn’t improved much since my training in the NSM.

Bulut was sitting with a frightened look, staring at the hideous form deteriorating on the view screen. I crawled as fast as I could toward him.

“Where are your tools?”

He looked at me eyes bulging with fear, and his face a pasty grey.

“Where are your tools?” I repeated.

He still looked as if he didn’t understand or couldn’t even grasp the fact I was talking to him. But before I had to repeat myself again he moved his hand slightly pointing under the seat beside him.

I pulled the bag out and looked through it as fast as I could. Reaching in, I tried to pull out a metal bar but it was worse than trying to separate a pile of heavy magnets, everything was stuck together in the bottom of the bag, the thrust was creating enough Gs to make it impossible for me to get my fingers between the tools.

I closed the bag, put it on my back as best I could, and continued my way toward the terrorist.

I was three seats to the side of her when she looked my way. Her face was a hideous mask of peeling skin and runny blisters. Her clothes were wet with the seepage from the blisters that covered her body. A curious smile etched her mouth, and then she looked straight ahead once more.

I crawled in front of the terrorist, propping

my feet onto a lip and keeping myself from bulleting toward her, I was only a few feet in front of her, but due to her weakened state, she couldn’t hope to fight against the Gs and reach me. She maintained a curious, confident smile as she watched me. I pulled the backpack around to my front and opened it; there at the bottom were the contents of the bag all stuck together. I took a deep breath as I went over in my mind what I meant to do. Then I turned the open end of the backpack toward the terrorist.

The contents flew forward, like a bunch of crazy bullets, and hit with a loud crash, followed immediately by an electrical crackle and bright flash of light. Globs of melted metal hurtled behind and away from the terrorist. When the smoke cleared she was a bleeding mess since some of the tools hit her after the shield discharged, but she was still alive. I quickly located the device that had control of the ship still clutched in her hand, and let my feet fall off the lip. I reached out and grabbed the device, as I crashed by the terrorist. I tucked the device in close, tumbling the rest of the way toward the back of the cabin, bouncing over seats and away from her.

I came to rest at the back of the primary thrust cabin, lying across several seats. I looked at the view screen in time to see the terrorist unbuckle from her seat and start to push herself over the back. From where she sat and where I was, she would hurtle toward me like a missile.

She flew over the back of her chair and hit the seat behind her without the shield device discharging. She hit another seat. No discharge. The next seat lit up the room with a bright flash,

as well as the fresh scent of burnt flesh. As I looked at the crazed demon crawling/falling toward me I saw that her chest was badly burned. Her shield device was malfunctioning, and she was almost on me.

Using all my strength I crawled like an upside-down crab out of her path, before she came to rest on the wall beside me. All she needed to do was touch me, and I was dead. I scrambled like a crazed spider on the side of the wall to get away from her. I heard a slap behind me as she tried to hit my foot with a grotesque, pus-running, skin-peeling hand, but she missed.

I had enough space between us, so I took the device in hand and quickly looked it over. I had no idea how it operated, and all I could tell was that it was heavily protected from overloading. I could start pushing buttons from now until the ferry started to burn up, and not push the right sequence. All I could think of was to destroy the thing, so I started slamming it against the wall with all my strength. A weird, gurgling sound forced me to look up. The terrorist had her arm held out with a horrified look on her face. I must have been doing something right, so I kept pounding the device. The lights started fading, and the case cracked. I kept beating the device against the wall. The case cracked in two.

“No!” screamed the terrorist.

The ferry moved, and I was thrown across the room, tumbling along the wall like a spider dislodged from its web.

The terrorist slammed into a seat with a loud crack and a bright flash as the shield dis-charged.



The loudspeaker crackled to life with a computer voice. “Asteroid Express Two-Zero-Four has resumed standard course.”

#

My XTS was as uncomfortable as always, but at least we were on course toward the asteroid belt. The ferry security removed the remains of the terrorist, and the unfortunate hero, shortly after I smashed the device that had taken control of the ferries’ computer system.

The passengers in the primary thrust cabin were extremely happy and congratulatory for what I had done. The crew was a different story, they didn’t see the events unfold, and didn’t realize exactly how close they had come to being a fiery ball plunging to Earth. The crew was so indifferent to the event, they didn’t even put me up in a berth for the rest of the trip. This was the attitude of the Earth I was hoping to escape, where no one was entitled to anything more than another, where actions of an individual didn’t matter. I wanted a place where my son could grow up to be rewarded for his actions and his accomplishments, and not relegated to sleep in the cramped confines of a commuter craft.

Robert EvansRobert lives in the foothills of California with his Wife, Son and two cats; Talisker and Skye. He has worked in various fields; drilled oil wells in Alaska, a stockbroker, an electric utility energy trader, and a full time soldier who served in Iraq. His firm belief is that writing Science Fiction and Fantasy is the shortest distance to reality. For more information check out his blog

at SciFiWriter.blogspot.com

www.SciFiWriter.blogspot.com

No Remorse by George S. Walker Pg. 23


They never found the body of the man we accidentally killed on Rigel III. Would anyone

find ours on this backwater planet?

Iron Mermaid, storm-secured except for extended titanium hydrofoils, skimmed the waves of the tidal crest at nearly a hundred knots. Up and down with sea-sickening rhythm. A few volcanic peaks near the Edge towered above the waves, but the coastline was freshly drowned deep beneath the boat. Our external mikes picked up only the howl of wind and sea spray.

“Between the saddle peaks,” said the Andromedan, mandibles out of sync with its words. The tentacled ghost-image writhed in the air beside me, watching my every move. Through it, I could see the other three hovering around the control room. The real Androm-edans were safe in orbit, cozy aboard the FTL starship that had brought us across the galaxy.

I frowned and nodded. Jasmine and I were the Terrans who would pilot this boat, but not until the last minute, when the Andromedans relinquished control. It would make their vir-tuality recording more marketable. Especially if we didn’t survive. I tried not to think about trillions of aliens watching us die, in blood-spattered slow motion.

“I wish I could see better,” said Jasmine, peering through the windows. It was nearly local midnight, with only the light of alien con-stellations and two huge moons. Soon to be one, when the eclipse became complete.

“It will be worse near the falls,” I said. “Lucky to see past the bow.”

“Thanks, Ali.” She gave me a sour look. “That helps.”

“Facts, ma’am. You want ‘em, I got ‘em.”

“Bring the native forward,” ordered another Andromedan, the blue. They didn’t use names. We could only tell them apart by their hologhost tints. Their projectors were designed for a non-human spectrum; looking at the ghosts gave me a headache.

Jasmine put on her breathing mask and walked aft to fetch the Khotohian from the cargo hold, the only compartment with native air. Like us, the guide had come aboard less than an hour ago. But so far, he’d spent the entire time in the hold. Alone.

I checked that our boat was still on course. The satellite map provided by the Androm-edans only showed one approach path to the Edge. I’d wanted to choose my own route, pref-erably an easy one, for our run over the Edge. But the Andromedans were the sponsors of this cursed expedition.

Iron Mermaid was Andromedan-built to replicate a mid-twenty-first century Niagara runner from Earth. Fifty feet long, she had drive jets powered by archaic hydrogen turbines, not matter converters. It was a single-hull design with retractable hydrofoils. Museum quality, from the duralumin alloy hull to the

teak deck and brass fittings. If I could get her to the bottom of the Edge without killing us, the boat was mine. That was part of the payment: the bigger part had been getting Jasmine and me released from prison on Rigel III, a Terran colony so distant its star wasn’t even visible in the night sky here.

Barely a month ago, I’d sat in the warden’s office as the offer was explained to me. The warden hated my guts, and the feeling was mutual. There’d been no Andromedan remotes there, just the warden. A take it or leave it offer with no chance to consult with Jasmine, and I knew it was illegal. The Andromedans had bought the warden and the local justice system.

If it had just been me, I might have said no. I was sure I’d survive prison, and I wasn’t sure about the Edge. But I’d seen what the Remorse treatments were doing to Jasmine, taking her down notch by notch every day. She’d be a hollow shell after a year. The mind treatments had little effect on me; my business com-petitors claimed I didn’t have a conscience to begin with.

Now we had a deal with the Andromedans. Though how do you shake on a deal with something that has tentacles? I didn’t trust them.

After a few minutes, the boat’s aft bulkhead hatch opened, and the native Khotohian, Rha’nik, squeezed his thick body through the opening. Not accustomed to the

No Remorse by George S. Walker



heat of our cabin, he wheezed through his bulky mask. Yellow tusks protruded from the bottom of it, curling upward. His hooded green eyes flickered up at mine for only an instant, then sought out the Andromedans. He stank, and not a stitch of clothing covered his matted black fur.

An Andromedan drifted toward him: yellow. Its hologhost projection mechanism hummed as it floated through the air, and one of the creature’s tentacles appeared to pass through my chest.

Hovering in front of Rha’nik, it said a few words in the local language. I recognized one word: Edge, but not a word of Rha’nik’s reply. Only Jasmine had become reasonably fluent from the language cubes. The Khotohian stared up through the pressure glass in the bow as the deck rolled.

Jasmine put her hand on my shoulder.

“Ali, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Talk away.”

“Why don’t we get something to drink?” She frowned at the Andromedan and squeezed my shoulder—her nails dug in.

Privacy was an illusion. The Andromedans were recording everything: sights, sounds, smells, and senses we didn’t even know about. But I followed her into Iron Mermaid’s cramped galley. There were no bottles to be found, just an antique brass coffee maker. I needed a drink, and coffee wasn’t it.

“I found out our ‘guide’ thinks he’s a God-toy,” said Jasmine. “A puppet balanced

on the Edge, to be pushed off and sacrificed on Judgment Day.” She shook her head, and the prison barcode tattooed on her forehead peeked through her black hair.

“So? You know he’s just local color for the Andromedans’ virtuality drama. The natives are little more than animals.”

Jasmine shot me a look that probably spoke volumes, but I’m tone deaf to looks.

“Did you ask why he came?” I asked.

“Because of the offer the Andromedans made to the elders of his village. Though when your village is hovels on an ice floe, how much can it take?”

“Did you tell Rha’nik he’s going to live?”

“What, you think he trusts me? He called me Obedient to Ghosts. I honestly think he’s going to be the first to die. I’m so sorry he got dragged into this. I’ve asked myself why the Andromedans chose us, and I think I’ve figured it out. Out of all their choices, they picked two Terrans who underwent Remorse treatments. I think they want to record how Rha’nik’s death affects us.”

I shrugged as the deck rocked. “Ours is the perfect boat for this kind of run, Jasmine. We’ll make it.”

“Forget your damn boat, Ali. When it was just the two of us, it was okay. If we die, we die—better than rotting in prison. But I’m not letting an innocent die. Once was enough.”

“What’s our choice, Jasmine? They’re Andromedans, and we’re the God-toys. All we can do is our best.”

Her eyes burned into mine, an echo of Remorse. But I didn’t blink, and she turned away.

We rejoined the Andromedans in the control room. Ahead, moonlight reflected off pale green clouds rising from the Rift Sea, beyond the Edge. The inner orbit moon, with its water oceans and reddish vegetation, made Terra’s moon look like a golf ball. It nearly obscured the more distant moon, swelling the tide closer to maximum. Land between the two peaks just ahead was no longer visible above the waves. Above the horizon floated two gas whales, converting swarms of flying taikas into hydrogen gas.

“How many minutes till we reach the falls?” Jasmine asked.

I looked at the strip map. “T minus five, ma’am. Got an opening on your calendar?”

Something rope-like and phosphorescent broke the surface ahead, and the boat barely missed snapping a foil.

“What was that?” asked Jasmine.

I looked at the sonar, but the thing was behind us.

“Nybrak!” growled Rha’nik.

I recognized the word: a creature hunted nearly to extinction by Khotohian harpoon boats.

“Perhaps the guide wishes to be on the outer deck,” said the red Andromedan.

“Nobody goes outside till we reach the Rift Sea,” I growled. “First surge wave, and he’d be



gone.” If the Andromedans wanted Rha’nik’s early death, they’d only get it by shooting me first.

I wasn’t sure how far they’d allow me the illusion I was in command. I’d run adventure expeditions for six years, until the accident on Rigel III. Never before for Andromedan scum, and never again, if I survived.

I drew Jasmine’s attention to the map screen; it was 2D, part of the boat’s dated technology. “Here’s the main channel down the mountain: We know from the erosion.” There was no water at all in the satellite strip image, because it had been recorded earlier, before the monster tide. “Sheer rock walls here and here, and where it dips farther down, a current will try to smash us into this ridge. After we pass the last crest we’ll be in free fall for about 150 feet, then we’ve got a deep dive bay below it. Try explaining that to your native friend.”

She tried in her halting Khotohian. He didn’t seem to care about the details of his impending doom. Frustrated, she led him to the starboard seats and motioned him to sit. The rocky peaks of the saddle ridge rose thousands of feet above both sides of the boat now, and the falls roared from the cabin speakers. Rha’nik closed his eyes, rocking in counter-rhythm to the waves. A sacrifice, accepting his fate.

“We shall pull the foils now,” said the red Andromedan.

My heart sped up. “About time.”

The foils retracted, and Iron Mermaid rocked as her hull plowed into the water, slowing fast. The pitch of the jets dropped, and at the next swell, dark water engulfed the windows. When

they cleared, the ocean’s horizon was less than a hundred yards away: Edge of the world. Clouds roiled in the moonlight, hiding any view of the Rift beyond. I felt an adrenaline high, just like the old days.

“Prepare to assume control,” said the Andromedan. The jets powered down to idle.

I’d been prepared for a long time. “This’ll be a helluva ride.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Jasmine trying to belt the Khotohian in. He didn’t like the web-style harness—probably thought nets were for prey.

“Depth beneath the hull?” asked Jasmine, sitting down beside me and belting herself in.

“250,” I said. “Decreasing fast. 225... 200.”

“You have control,” said an Andromedan. The boat was drifting dangerously.

Lights and readouts came alive on the controls in front of me. I accelerated to catch the next swell, maneuvering to stay on top of it. The boat was more sluggish than I’d expected. Ancient underpowered Terran technology, a museum curator’s dream. Mist pelted the pressure glass. I switched on the fog lights, but their yellow glow only pierced the clouds for a short distance.

“75,” I said. “50... 40... Drop off ahead!”

There was no more ocean before us, just howling mist. Iron Mermaid’s needle-sharp bow tipped down, and Rha’nik chanted something I couldn’t understand. The bottom fell out of my stomach as our boat slid down the falls.

I hung onto the wheel, white-knuckled. Water cascaded against the windows to blur the view below, but there was nothing to see, only white water. A tiny moving dot on the map showed Iron Mermaid’s descent off the Edge. Currents buffeted her, and I fought to keep her in the main channel. For a moment I was back on Rigel III, watching a man fall, a tiny dot. I shook it off.

The boat shuddered and went under as she landed keel-down in a catch-pool. Rha’nik had figured out how to unfasten his webbing and rolled against the safety rail. The Andromedans hovered in place, unaffected, hoping to record our pain. Through the hull pounded the roar of the falls. I slapped off the speaker switch.

In Khotohian, Jasmine shouted to ask Rha’nik if he was all right. No answer.

A wall of water shoved Iron Mermaid over the lip of the pool. The drop was steeper this time, and despite my efforts, the boat slewed sideways as she fell.

I cursed. The jets screamed up and down, dipping in and out of water. I straightened the boat out, barely avoiding a side wall as the erosion channel turned.

One of the Andromedans spoke in Khotohian, then laughed, also a Khotohian sound. If I had a blaster, the Andromedan wouldn’t be laughing. In Khotohian legend, this was truly the end of the world, with a watery Hell below. The eclipse meant Judgment Day, and Rha’nik was on his way down, condemned along with us.

In a straight channel now, the current picked up speed. Up ahead, somewhere in the



mist, was a ridge the current must smash into, according to the dry-view map. Turn too soon, and Iron Mermaid would strike the channel wall; too late, and the current would slam her into the ridge.

I judged the moment and turned the wheel. The boat continued straight. I punched the jets. Iron Mermaid spun too fast, and I counter-steered. She hit the wave reflecting from the ridge and tilted, deck almost vertical. The fog lights lit up rock beneath the water. Close enough to touch. The keel scraped, then the boat righted herself in the main channel.

“That was some turn,” gasped Jasmine.

“Testing my boat,” I growled.

The channel leveled out and widened. Iron Mermaid wasn’t getting pummeled here, and I glanced around. The Andromedans floated through the cabin, recording. The Khotohian stared straight ahead through the windows.

“Coming up on the main falls,” I said. “Prepare for dive.”

Jasmine was already up, struggling to belt Rha’nik in again. She was determined not to have another death on her conscience.

Iron Mermaid was designed to dive. Not like a submarine, since she had no ballast tanks to fill, but for a smooth bow-first penetration.

Mist swirled in the fog lights, hiding the final waterfall. On the map, our bright dot approached the cliff overlooking the Rift Sea. Below, eons of tidal stress had torn a hundred-mile gap in the planet’s crust. No normal rivers fed this sea, only the tides when the planet’s

rotation sync’ed with the eclipse.

For a moment, the lights showed the boundary between water and mist, then the boat toppled over the falls. I stood ready to use the jets, but the curtain of water hugged our hull like a bear, keeping the needle bow straight down. Falling: the Khotohians’ worst nightmare. Remorse took me to Rigel III again, helpless. The dot slid down the cliff on the map, gaining speed. Eerily, there was no roar from the hull; the boat and the water fell as one. The wheezing of the Khotohian guide filled the room.

Iron Mermaid pierced dark water. The dive pushed her deep beneath the sea, and the harness compressed my chest. I felt my cheeks and eyes bulge. On the hull pressure gauge, numbers climbed furiously. Bubbles exploded past the windows, left far behind as we plunged deeper and darker.

I strained to adjust the diving planes, and the hull groaned as I forced the boat into her upward arc. I turned on the jets to kick us away from the whirlpools beneath the falls. Outside the glass, the lights showed only dark water. Inside, the Andromedans prowled.

“I think you won your boat, Ali,” Jasmine gasped.

A minute later, Iron Mermaid broached the surface of the Rift Sea. The hull boomed as she slapped down.

I swung the boat to face the Edge falls. Obsidian cliffs climbed out of the mist, and high above them, moonlit clouds swirled like a lid trapping us in the Rift. A volcano rumbled in the distance.

“Hold position here and open the outer doors,” said the blue Andromedan, gesturing with a tentacle. “We shall record outside while waiting for the lifter ship.”

Were they disappointed we were still alive? They floated out of the main cabin. Rha’nik said something sharp—maybe a curse. He didn’t know we were safe.

“Jasmine, ask him if he wants a closer look at Hell before the Andromedans return him to his village.” I set the autopilot to hold the boat’s position and went aft to open doors for the Andromedan remotes.

Outside the cargo hold, I pulled on a breathing mask. The hologhost mechanisms of the four Andromedans hummed as they waited in mid-air. They could operate the boat’s crude transistor electronics, but not physical devices like manual locks. When I opened the hatch, they floated through ahead of me. Scattered around the compartment lay Rha’nik’s few possessions, where the ride down the falls had tossed them: an amulet, a leather bag, a dozen or so carved icons. Protection? Luck beetles the size of Jasmine’s fists squirmed inside a fishnet bag. I closed the hatch, and the clang echoed. Just like my old prison cell.

Following the Andromedans, I pressed the switch to open the big cargo doors on the starboard hull. My feet felt the vibration of heavy gears in motion.

“Is the lifter ship on its way?” I asked.

“The Edge tide will last a short while longer. We shall record as it recedes.”

The big doors slid open along their tracks,



and the four hologhosts departed, floating effortlessly above the churning sea. The wind howled. It was dark outside, but lava from an erupting volcano glowed orange in the distance. The Andromedans became squirming wraiths as they dissolved into the mist. I shivered in the icy wind, hoping they’d find something to record. What they’d wanted—our deaths—hadn’t happened.

The cargo room’s inner hatch opened, and Jasmine and the Khotohian entered. Jasmine, her face hidden by her mask, gestured to Rha’nik that it was safe to remove his. I stepped onto the narrow hull walkway below the doors. Rha’nik’s matted fur brushed me as he stepped beside me. We stared down at the waves beating against the hull. Iron Mermaid rocked to their rhythm.

“Bottom,” said Rha’nik in Khotohian. Steam came from his breathing holes.

I knew that word. It probably meant something else to him: Hell.

Rha’nik bent his thick neck to peer upward. The pounding of the falls carried through the night air, but the mist hid the sight of the Edge high above. To our left, there was a bright yellow flare. A gas whale, hit by cinders from the volcano, spiraled in flames toward the sea.

“Ghosts gone,” said Rha’nik.

“They’ll be back,” said Jasmine through her breathing mask. She stayed in the cargo hold, hugging her arms to her chest for warmth.

“The ghosts’ ship will take us back to the top.” Jasmine spoke slowly, and even I understood the native words.

“If it wasn’t for that,” I said, “these doors would be shut by now, and I’d be putting miles between them and us.” I tried to see down into the water. “A lot of native wrecks below us, I suppose. I wonder if anybody’s recorded the locations?”

“You starting a salvage business, Ali?”

“Maybe. I’ve got a boat and no clientele for an expedition agency: just one tiny Terran outpost on a barren island.”

“Can’t be much left down there besides bones. The Khotohians use hardly any metal.”

I shrugged. “Gold doesn’t corrode. Maybe they sent over offering rafts.”

“Crude unmanned remotes.” She shivered. “Like Rigel III.”

When I’d started my agency on Rigel III, Jasmine or I had personally accompanied every client into the Canyon of Winds. But when the young man had fallen screaming to his death, his only companion had been a remote. Jasmine had been plugged into the interface, but it wasn’t the same as being there, riding a sky-sail. There was nothing we could’ve done, but the colonial court ruled otherwise.

A large splash sounded in the distance, off where the Andromedans had disappeared.

“Don’t tell me they’re going for a swim,” said Jasmine.

“Too loud for a hologhost device.” I looked upward. “Don’t think it’s anything from the falls, either. We’re too far away.”

A hologhost emerged from the mist,

glowing faint red. The other three appeared behind it. There was another huge splash close behind them. Something blue glowed beneath the water.

“What is it?” I yelled.

A monstrous head lunged from the water toward the last hologhost, which soared upward.

Jaws filled with thousands of teeth snapped on empty air.

“Nybrak!” roared Rha’nik. His empty forepaws opened and closed futilely.

Water streamed from the nybrak’s phos-phorescent blue scales, and for an instant the creature looked straight at me before submerg-ing with a splash.

“Back inside!” I ordered.

“It’s huge!” said Jasmine.

Rha’nik turned and leapt into the cargo hold.

“The nybraks lack predators in the Rift Sea,” said the red Andromedan as it reached the boat: emotionless as an audio guidebook. “This one has reached maturity.”

Taking their time, the Andromedan remotes flew through the doorway. Then, before I could close the doors, Rha’nik pulled a boat hook from the bulkhead of the cargo hold. I tried to block him, and he shoved me to the floor.

“No!” Jasmine screamed in Khotohian.

The damn fool strode onto the walkway



just as the nybrak’s head re-emerged from the sea, and hurled the boat hook like a harpoon. It bounced off the monster’s head into the water. The nybrak hissed, it’s eel-like head nearly filling the doorway. A huge eye with a vertical black pupil twitched, locating Rha’nik. He stepped back and tripped on the sill, tumbling backwards into the room.

I was on my feet now, and hit the switch to close the doors. They began sliding together as the nybrak’s head lunged at Rha’nik. The head hit a door, and the beast thrashed, jarring the mechanism. With a screech of metal, the left door halted. The beast hissed in fury. I swore.

Jasmine was at Rha’nik’s side, trying to help him up, when the boat suddenly tilted. The nybrak, hooking its head in the doorway, was trying to pull its meal underwater. A wave of numbingly cold water crashed over the sill into the cargo hold. I was braced against the bulkhead, but the wave toppled Jasmine. And Rha’nik, lunging forward, knocked loose her breathing mask.

He picked up a supply container and hurled it into the nybrak’s mouth. The creature jerked free its head, and the boat rocked back, sending the wave crashing back across the floor. It pushed Jasmine to her knees this time. A sea spider big as a dinner plate struggled to get away from her.

I waded forward and grabbed her, propel-ling her toward the inner hatch. She coughed and gagged, and I half carried her.

“Everybody back inside!” I shouted through my mask.

In the corridor, I propped Jasmine against

the wall, where she gasped for air. I grabbed the big breathing mask from the floor and tossed it to Rha’nik as he came through, following the hologhosts.

The nybrak reappeared and snaked its head through the jammed outer doors, tilting the boat. I slammed the inner hatch shut and locked it. The bulkhead boomed as the creature butted against it. I turned to help Jasmine.

“I’m okay,” she wheezed, barely audible. She was shivering, and the fabric of her drenched jumpsuit clung to her skin. “Move the boat!” She pushed me away.

Iron Mermaid rocked violently from side to side. The bulkhead boomed again and again.

I ran through the slanting corridor and reached the controls, disengaging the autopilot.

When I opened the jets to maximum, the boat lurched forward briefly. The jets still screamed, but the boat made no headway. She began listing sharply to starboard, and I heard the rumble of tons of water pouring into the cargo hold. Alarms shrieked.

Still gasping for breath, Jasmine dragged herself into the seat beside me. Outside, the coils of the nybrak writhed among the waves. Their phosphorescent glow revealed its body nearly ten feet in diameter, with thick fins running along it. Iron Mermaid continued sinking to starboard, and the pressure glass on that side of the boat slowly submerged.

“You okay, Jasmine?” I slapped her wet shoulder.

She grimaced and nodded, shivering.

The deck tilted past 45 degrees, and Rha’nik slid down against the starboard windows. His luck beetles were surely drowned by now, and maybe our luck with them.

“When’s the lifter get here?” I shouted, turning to the Andromedans.

“It has not yet left orbit,” said the blue Andromedan.

“Get it down here! Now!”

The cargo hold must have filled with water, for Iron Mermaid was slipping beneath the Rift Sea. Even with her hold filled, the boat should have been buoyant, but the nybrak was pulling us under. Dark water obscured all the windows now. Glowing coils thrashed beneath the sea. The fins along the beast’s body rippled, driving it downward.

I glanced at the sonar display. The bottom of the trench was beyond the sonar limit, and only the nybrak showed.

“What’s our crush depth?” croaked Jasmine.

“The Niagaras were spec’d for a hundred feet. Not with the damn doors open,” I added.

Rha’nik said something I couldn’t interpret. He stared at the nybrak.

“What’d he say?”

“It takes him to the cave of demons,” said Jasmine. “Final Judgment. I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” She shook her head, still shivering.



A hiss came from the corridor, and I jerked my head around. A spray of high-pressure water spurted from the edges of the cargo hatch.

I pulsed the jets, trying to break free.

In the cabin, one of the hologhosts flickered. All four began pixelating, like primitive computer animations. The sea water overhead interfered with the signals from orbit.

Then there was a clunk from the roof, and the console showed the tethered communi-cations pod floating toward the surface. The Andromedans were still meddling.

“Maybe that will distract it,” said Jasmine.

The nybrak’s body slammed against the windows. Rha’nik made a warding gesture.

Then there was a jerk, and Iron Mermaid righted herself. She began rising, propelled by the jets. The hologhosts returned to their normal colors.

“I think we’re safe,” Jasmine said in Khotohian.

Rha’nik looked at her, and at that instant the boat jerked to a stop. Tilting slowly, but to port this time. When I checked the sonar, there was no trace of the nybrak hugging the keel. The boat began sinking, despite the jets.

The answer dawned on me. “It’s wrapped around the tether!”

“Detach it!” said Jasmine.

“You may not disconnect our communica-tions tether,” said an Andromedan. “We are still recording.”

“You’re recording the nybrak”—Jasmine coughed and gasped for air—”which you lured to the boat!”

“The tide is not finished,” it said. “We have a contract.”

Jasmine turned to me. “Ali! Do something!”

“If you detach the tether,” warned the Andromedan, “you will be off the datanet, and there can be no lifter ship rescue.”

“If we go deeper, there won’t even be pieces for the lifter ship to find.” Jasmine’s eyes burned into mine. “We’re dead either way, Ali, but we can save Rha’nik.”

The hull groaned. Did I even care about Rha’nik? I decided maybe I did. I scrolled through control codes.

“Forbidden by contract!” said the red Andromedan, and I wished I’d left them all outside the hatch, the hatch they couldn’t open. As the Andromedan floated toward me, I threw a right jab. My fist hit home on its hologhost projector. Red tentacles went flying. It bounced off the far wall like a football.

Jasmine lunged to intercept it. The red ballooned in size, tentacles whipping through the cabin. As she caught it, the other three Andromedans converged on her. Rha’nik batted one of the mechanisms away and spread his arms, warding off the others.

Jasmine had a firm grip on the red’s mechanism. She pounded it repeatedly against the floor. Red tentacles began pixelating.

“I will not,” she panted, “be sorry! Again!”

With a crackle and a smell of ozone, the red vanished.

I found the code to blow the cable mounting and punched it.

A bang sounded through the hull. The remaining three hologhosts winked out, their mechanisms clattering to the deck. Iron Mermaid tilted and began rising on her jets.

Rha’nik spoke. “Disobedient to ghosts.”

“Yes,” said Jasmine vehemently. “No more innocents.”

True enough. But the Andromedan defeat was ours, too. Our fuel and air wouldn’t last long enough for anyone from the Terran outpost to find us.

Ahead through the pressure glass there was only water, but it was getting brighter. In moments I saw the foam of a wave above us. Iron Mermaid broke the surface, listing to starboard. I started emergency pumps to clear water from her cargo hold.

I steered the boat toward land, back by the falls. Beside them, the tops of a grove of carnivorous trees writhed in the surf. Once the tide receded, Rha’nik could hike up out of the Rift. With any luck, a harpoon boat would spot him before he starved to death. Air wasn’t a problem for him.

He said something to Jasmine.

“He wants to know if we’ll sail upstream now,” she said.

I glanced at the falls and laughed bitterly. “Tell him this isn’t a damn elevator. He’ll have



to take the stairs.”

“Ali, he has a point. There must be other places where the tide spills into the Rift.” She spoke to Rha’nik.

I caught a few phrases. “Slow water” was one. Rha’nik squatted, scratching with a claw on the teak deck: a map.

“The tide sends many rivers into Hell,” Jasmine translated. “There’s one a quarter mile wide, with no falls. Think we can give him a ride?”

I turned the boat away from shore, away from trees that were already biting at the boat. With luck, we’d make it to the Terran outpost. “Tell Rha’nik we ran him into Hell, and we’ll run him back out.” I looked at Jasmine. “Sorry you came?”

She smiled and shook her head no.

George S. Walker

George’s stories have appeared in Helix, Science Fiction Age, Tomorrow SF, Midnight Zoo, and other SF magazines. “Zorroid”, a tale of androids south of the border, is in the December 2008 issue at www.ideomancer.com, and his older stories can be found at http://george.s.walker.googlepages.com/.

www.ideomancer.com

www.ideomancer.com

http://george.s.walker.googlepages.com/

The Taming of the Shill, A Dean the Space Rogue story by Andy Heizeler Pg. 31


“Please, you’ve got to help me!” cried the skinny man grabbing at Dean’s sack of

potatoes. His story about being stranded here after coming to visit his sick grandmother had not impressed Dean as very compelling. The delivery, however, had been superb. Were he a much younger soul, Dean might have even felt sorry for the guy. He took a step back, looked the man up and down, and shrugged.

“All right, I’ll put in a good word with the captain, but not for free. You can start by hauling these potatoes to that crate over there,” said Dean masterfully, lobbing the sack onto the other man’s shoulder. The surprised look on they skinny fellow’s face was classic, in Dean’s opinion.

Dean brushed off his black T-shirt, which bore the neon white words “Black Holes Suck.” It looked a bit out of place on the frontier, but Dean didn’t mind. On his hip he wore a nicked-up laser pistol, which he had purchased from a pawn shop a few planets back. He didn’t intend on using it, but its presence tended to dissuade forceful arguments.

Captain Sedona came wading through the bustle of the open-air farm market set up near the resting hulk of the Tachyon Valkyrie. Instead of her tight, test-pilot skin-suit, she wore blue jean coveralls with a white work shirt. Dean found them charming on her, which made the day just that much better.

The farm tools and medicine had fetched a very respectable bounty in fresh goods. With

a transit route that consisted of three fifteen-hour sub-implicate order jumps, they could reach the Greater Star Republic mining colony in the dead system Darkville in just two days. Real, soil grown food would bring hefty profits in raw petroleum, which could be turned into Universal Credits in a matter of weeks on the black market. Never mind that the transaction was illegal, the price was certainly right.

“I just traded the last of the neomycin for ten bushels of carrots,” said Captain Sedona proudly, holding up two sticks of bright orange produce and offering one to Dean.

“Why thank you, Captain. Oh, by the way we may be having a guest on board,” he said casually and nodded towards the man putting sacks of potatoes into one of the lifter crates.

Captain Sedona leaned over Dean’s shoulder to peer at him. “He’s got a goatee. He must be evil. Did he say what he can pay?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Oh, he’s good for ‘solid credits’ once we get him to a Galactic Standard Bank on a civilized world,” said Dean with a grin.

“I’m sure of it, any luggage?” she asked.

“Just his backpack. Large enough for some clothes and a hygiene kit or a quantum trans-mitter with a power adaptor,” said Dean, nibbling his carrot.

Captain Sedona’s expression darkened with sinister glee.

“Excellent. This may be a better run than I expected,” she said pleasantly, taking a vicious bite out of her carrot before heading off towards her potential passenger. Dean followed, keeping his face purposefully neutral.

“I hear you’re looking for a ride,” said Captain Sedona, placing her hands on her hips in a way that always made Dean think of angry actresses.

The man looked up with genuine surprise at the shocking beauty of the captain. He might have been a bit thrown off by her garb, as well, thought Dean.

“Yes ma’am,” he said nervously. Dean noticed that the fingers of his right hand twitched unconsciously near his belt. At one point this fellow had walked around armed. Not a good trait to display if going for the innocent traveler look.

“Load the rest of the supplies on the ship. She’s an automated hauler, with Dean and myself the only crew. Don’t get in our way and don’t snoop. If you fail to come up with the credits when we hit civilized dirt, you’ll be lucky if I turn you in to the authorities,” said Captain Sedona tersely, before nodding to Dean.

“Make sure he has a place to sleep,” she said, heading for the loading ramp of her spaceship.

The Taming of the Shill A Dean the Space Rogue story by Andy Heizeler



Dean followed moments later, making sure to pause for a few deep breaths of the frontier planet’s dairy air. With a glance around from atop the ramp, he couldn’t help but think the whole place reminded him of Montana, which was appropriate considering the planet’s name.

As the twin suns of the binary system were setting on Big Sky, the Tachyon Valkyrie fired her powerful thrusters, lifting gently off the surface. The long, sleek shape of her half military hull gleamed in the twilight as she left an orange and blue trail of fire across the winking first stars of a summer’s eve. Despite her advanced age and heavy modifications, the old Light Cruiser could still put on an impressive show as she glided past the radar screens of the orbiting Greater Star Republic Destroyer on anti-piracy patrol. The children below waved as the sonic boom reached them from on high.

A lone man huddled in his rented room in the big farmhouse just south of the landing area. He had enough energy stored in the cells of his transmitter to send one, simple message to the men who had threatened him and his family with death if he did not comply.

Unscrambled it read, “The prize is moving.”

#

“So we got chickens, and the krauts got ciga-rettes! The headquarters in both trenches were none the wiser. It just goes to show, when two supply sergeants get together, even if they’re enemies, nothing is impossible!” finished Dean, tipping back another glass of champagne.

The goatee-sporting passenger, who had given the name of Dick Everton, nodded with a mystified expression. The two men relaxed on the broken down old couch in the mess lounge of the Tachyon Valkyrie. Arc would have normally been there, but today he was piloting the ship from his bunk, via his ever present telepad. Not to mention Dick had no idea that he, Creon, or Cloey was aboard.

“So, what’s a cigarette again?” asked Dick.

“Never mind,” said Dean, standing up and stretching with a yawn. The ships chrono marked it as late afternoon, but Dean found his internal clock still ran on Big Sky time, where it was heading towards midnight.

“I’m going to turn in, Dick. Kill the lights before you head to your quarters, will you?” said Dean nonchalantly, rinsing out his glass and placing it carefully in the storage case.

“No problem. See you tomorrow,” said Dick pleasantly. Dean smiled and ducked under the hatch rim, heading sternward.

He ran into Captain Sedona in junction B, just above the down hatch to engineering. She had her black test pilot suit on again, and her long black hair spilled in endless curls down her back. Dean found himself smitten, as always.

“We translate out of the sub-implicate order in three hours. We should both be ‘asleep’ by then,” whispered Captain Sedona.

“A good opportunity for us to have some alone time then?” said Dean with a roguish grin.

The captain rolled her eyes. “No, Dean. If

he’s going to transmit, the twenty four seconds we’re in normal space between jumps on this first leg is when he will,” she said pointedly.

“Ah, of course. This doesn’t mean we can’t have alone time, mind you,” said Dean, hoping for sheer blind luck to favor him. The captain walked past him with a sigh of frustration. So much for that, Dean thought grumpily and continued towards the engine room. Her resis-tance to his charms had the legendary quality of force armor.

The engine room once again smelled of incense and scented candles. The darkened, thrumming chamber, with its impossibly confusing array of conduits and mechanical devices that fed the Bohm Drive had never appealed to Dean. He preferred things that didn’t require a deep understanding of quantum physics to operate, like his laser pistol.

He wouldn’t have come down here at all, but according to the plan he was supposed to check on Cloey and Creon to make sure their needs were attended to while in hiding. Halfway through thinking about how he should check on Arc right after this, his world exploded into sheer terror.

There are moments, Dean reflected later, that must certainly shorten a man’s life by several years. The instant the orange and black ball of pure rage and madness hit his head with a death shriek from the pits of the Void, was certainly one of them.

It didn’t help that the attack was over as soon as it began, with the little furry monster bounding off his face and into the waiting arms of the chief engineer.



Cloey caught the kitten and smiled, cradling the now docile creature against her pink coveralls.

“What in the name of all that is holy are you doing with that thing aboard this ship?” demanded Dean, trying very hard to keep his voice down, despite the fact that it couldn’t really carry past the sound proofed chamber. His hands instinctively began checking for blood on his skull.

Cloey made a pouting face, which suited her youthful appearance well. Her long, blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail today, and her plasma-blue eyes sparkled with anger. “It’s not a thing, she’s an innocent little kitten!” said Cloey defensively.

“I keep that in mind at its trial! Does the captain know she’s aboard?” asked Dean, knowing full well that she did not. Cloey shook her head.

“We’re in the middle of an operation, it wouldn’t be prudent to add additional stress to the captain at a time like this,” said Cloey levelly.

Dean took a deep breath. Most times, he enjoyed life a great deal. At this point, finding the mental certainty and lightheartedness that had carried him through years of turmoil seemed particularly distant. The beast glared at him with its menacing little eyes.

“Oh it’s just a kitten, Dean, lighten up!” said Creon from behind him. The seven-foot-tall ex-mercenary wore an expression of bemusement that was entirely unfitting on his scar-lined face.

“Et tu, Creon?” asked Dean as the big man squeezed past him to pet the little creature. Its purring could be heard even over the drive generators.

“A spaceship is a natural place for her, Dean. I believe Jules Champfleury put it best ‘There is no more intrepid explorer than a kitten,’” quoted Creon, letting the tiny animal gnaw on his thick index finger.

“Don’t forget the one you told me from Dickens,” said Cloey helpfully.

Dean shook his head. “Fine, just make sure it stays out from underfoot, will you?” he said, knowing that calling the kitten “it” again would only earn him another reprimand, which it did.

“She has a name you know! She’s our own little Amelia, after Amelia Earhart, not that you’d know who she was,” said Cloey with the glowing pride of a mother, while simultane-ously reprimanding Dean for not knowing what should have been ancient history for him. He had never really, truly understood the enigma that was Cloey. One of these days he would have to sit down and have a long talk with her.

“Just make sure little Amelia doesn’t get lost then,” said Dean with the beginnings of a smile. Cloey and Amelia both gave him angry glares.

“That’s not really funny, Dean,” said Cleoy, clearly upset. You’d think she knew the woman, thought Dean, taken aback by her sensitivity to the issue.

“Do you two need anything, besides a mental examination that is,” asked Dean finding no evidence of the attack on his scalp.

“We’re quite comfy down here, everything is set,” said Creon, patting a large cylindrical device. Unlike the rest of the equipment down here, it wasn’t hooked into anything at the moment.

“Amelia is doing fine, thank you very much for asking. We’re using one of your old shirts to line her bed,” said Cloey with obvious delight.

“Lovely,” said Dean, less aggravated with the realization that if having his shirt stolen to be used as a bed for the next coming of the Dark One was the only thing that went wrong with this mission, they’d be doing quite well. This was by far the riskiest plan they had attempted yet, and Dean wasn’t all that sure it would work, despite the confidence he had projected while proposing it to the captain in the first place.

#

Dick worked quickly in the low light of the abandoned cockpit. It didn’t take long to obtain the jump route the Valkyrie had plotted in her primitive computers. He marveled at how easily they were accessed, compared to prior jobs on more modern merchant ships.

Not that he always worked with top of the line equipment, himself, he conceded. His quantum transmitter would have been consid-ered crude by even the lowest standards, but the fact that it did the job was all that really mattered. The adaptor now firmly plugged into their power circuit, the device emitted a soft orange glow from its screen.

The wave of disorientation and stomach flipping of passing from the sub-implicate to normal space washed over him. He now had



twenty-four seconds in which to send while the astrogation computer fixed their location for the next jump and the Bohm Drive’s hyper capacitor recharged.

Dick keyed his message carefully in the space above the transmitter while its spatial recognizers watched his fingers.

“Merchie, automated, two person crew, no weapons, 24 sec. Bohm recycle, Captain and Assist armed with std L-Pistols. One oppor-tunity only along route. Navigation plot file attached. Easy money.”

Dick’s pinky tapped the air where send would have appeared on a normal holo-key-board. The device printed “Message Sent And Received,” across its archaic screen.

Dick grinned. Another fat prize for the taking. He congratulated himself once again on his own genius. The pirate trade had been largely a long shot fishing trip in a galaxy-sized ocean since governments stopped requiring detailed navigation plans of their merchants. Plans which could be bought for a heavy per-centage of the sale price on the captured goods, of course.

When Dick first proposed his idea to Captain Ataki, the old man had bet him a thousand credits it wouldn’t work. Now, after four suc-cessful raids having gone off without a hitch in the deep black of interstellar space where no patrols could touch them, Dick had been elevated to the rank of First Mate from mere Deckhand.

Dick let a warm smile of satisfaction grace his features as he packed up the transmitter and headed for his bunk. These idiots wouldn’t

know what hit them. In fifteen hours when they translated back out into normal space, the pirate ship Tormenter would be waiting with her electro-pulse cannons ready.

#

For several, terrifying seconds, the interior of the Tachyon Valkyrie plunged into total darkness. The emergency lighting kicked on, revealing Dean and Dick in the cockpit, with confused looks on their faces that were entirely faked.

“Our primary power grid’s been shut down by an electro-pulse weapon. Low power scanners indicate a ship out there!” exclaimed Dean.

“Pirates?” asked Dick, sounding appropri-ately concerned.

“It has to be,” said Dean, allowing his face to show the mortification that would be natural under such circumstances. A million and one things could still go wrong, so the mortification wasn’t all that hard to emulate.

“Looks like they’re transmitting a low band message,” said Dick, pointing to the flashing light on the archaic com-panel.

Dean nodded grimly and flipped the switch.

“We’ve got you deadlocked with missiles and heavy lasers. If you try to run, we’ll turn that barge of yours into scrap metal. We’re coming to relative speed zero and will dock at your port side cargo bay,” said a rough sort of voice through the static of the Valkyrie’s ancient speakers.

Dean looked at Dick with an expression of pure terror. “We’re doomed!” he said, looking as if to faint.

“They might just take the cargo and let us go,” said Dick soothingly.

Dean shook his head. “I very much doubt that, Dick,” he said earnestly while hitting the intercom switch. “Captain, we’ve just been attacked by pirates and they’re coming in to board us at the cargo bay. They’ve got a lock on us with their weapons,” he said forlornly.

“Do as they say, Dean. There’s not much choice,” said the captain in a perfectly strained, resigned voice.

Dean looked at Dick and noticed the little smile starting the corner of his mouth. A deep, sinister part of Dean decided to wipe that smile off his face.

“To the Void with that!” said Dean, making sure the intercom was turned off. He started plotting a high speed intercept course.

Dick shot him a panicked glance. “What are you doing? You said yourself that your ship doesn’t have any weapons! They’ll blow us apart!” His worry wasn’t at all faked now, Dean noted with pleasure.

“No we don’t, but those are pirates out there. The pirates along these lanes have a reputation for doing terrible things to the crews they find before spacing the left over bodies. I’m not going to stand for it, no matter what the captain says. We may not have primary systems, but I’ve still got the conventional thrusters! When they get just a little bit closer I’m going to ram right into them and send us both to oblivion!”



said Dean with a snarl of defiance. Inwardly he chuckled at Dick’s expression as the man searched for a reasonable argument.

The scanner plot showed the pirate ship moving into ramming range according to Dean’s programmed course. The activate thrusters switch blinked in readiness.

“Wait! Wait, don’t be hasty here! You have no chance of survival if you do that! If you cooperate, they may very well let you live!” said Dick passionately, the sweat on his forehead brought a smile to Dean’s face.

“Come with me, brother! Stare into the face of the reaper! Let’s show these dogs they can’t get away with murder without paying the ultimate price!” shouted Dean, leaping to his feet and grabbing Dick by the collar. He made sure to slobber a bit with his snarling oath.

“Listen to reason, man! Your own captain wishes to cooperate! This is madness!” cried Dick in absolute skittering fear.

Dean stared at him for several seconds, making sure to keep the suicidal gleam in his eyes. Dick hadn’t wet himself yet, but he had come close enough, Dean supposed.

“Fine. Have it your way, coward! We could have gone down in glory!” said Dean with mock disappointment, heading towards the cargo bay.

Dick followed on shaky knees. He hadn’t had a close call like that in quite some time. If nothing else, the man who called himself Dean was a maniac, and Dick found himself glad that the man wasn’t in charge of a pirate ship of his own.

#

Ten pirates strutted confidently into the cargo bay of the Tachyon Valkyrie, bearing pulsers and turbo-rifles. The Tormenter was now hard-locked onto her prey.

The man at the forefront of the grisly band bore a wicked scar across his face and had strapped an ancient cutlass to his side as a mark of eccentricity. His leering grin at Captain Sedona filled Dean with a sense of rage and indignation.

Dean stood with his hands in the air next to Captain Sedona and Dick, who held similar poses.

“You can drop the act now, Dick,” said Captain Ataki. Dean and Captain Sedona both refused to show surprise as Dick walked over to join his crew.

“Oh, not impressed are you?” asked Captain Ataki sneeringly.

“Not particularly,” said Captain Sedona, twitching her right forefinger in a silent signal to Arc, watching the vid pick-ups from his telepad. By now, Cloey had hooked in the spare hyper-capacitor.

The nauseous wave of passing into sub-im-plicate space washed over the pirates, bringing looks of stark disbelief.

“That’s not possible! We drained your capacitors when we hit you with the pulse!” said Captain Ataki. No matter what they did now, both ships were headed through a sub-path towards whatever destination had been in the Bohm drive’s computer when it

activated. No way short of explosion and death existed of getting out of it. Dean had once had it described to him as being the equivalent of throwing a pencil into a tub of water. The angle and force with which it went in determined where it would come up.

“We had an extra one in reserve. In roughly six hours we’ll be right in the middle of three waiting Republic Heavy Cruisers. You’ve been out witted, Captain,” said Dean smugly, grinning at Dick the entire time.

“We could still kill every last one of you,” snarled Captain Ataki.

“Not really. Our sniper has a bead on your forehead as we speak,” said Captain Sedona. The storage spaces, crawl areas, and mainte-nance shafts in the Izar-class light cruiser were legendary, and the Valkyrie had been heavily modified beyond her original design.

“I don’t believe you, kill the—” Ataki’s order never finished, as a tiny smoking hole appeared in his head. Captain Sedona had signaled Creon with another finger twitch.

The body dropped to the deck, causing the rest of the pirates to quickly place their weapons down.

“What are you people?” asked Dick, shivering with rage and indignation. “Republic SS?”

“Nope. Space rogues, actually,” said Dean proudly.

“We don’t take kindly to butchers giving the rest of us a bad name,” said Captain Sedona, sniffing.



“You never let on that you were on to me. How did you know?” asked Dick with growing amazement, despite his rage.

Dean took a bow and drew his laser pistol. “Well, your crew hit merchants docking at Big Sky enough times for the Greater Star Republic to take notice. They couldn’t figure out how you were doing it, so they hired us. It didn’t take me long to not only determine your game, but to think up a counter to it,” said Dean mas-terfully.

“I’ll be more careful, next time,” said Dick with a glare of pure hatred in his eyes.

Dean shrugged. “If the Republic doesn’t hang you, or put you into a perma-cell somewhere, I’m sure you will, Dick,” said Dean patting the man on the shoulder.

#

Heavy with barrels of mined and semi-refined petroleum, the Tachyon Valkyrie lifted off the sunless surface of Darkville. Once upon a time she had been a vibrant planet with multiple life forms. When her star died, the only thing left behind were the carbon fuels and minerals in her crust.

The miners who watched the ship lift happily set to making fresh sandwiches for the first time in several months.

“Well, despite the potential for complete disaster, I’d say that went rather smoothly,” said Dean, flopping onto the couch in the mess lounge.

Cloey nodded happily as she flung an arm around him companionably. The captain held

little Amelia in her arms with an expression of pure joy on her face while Creon looked on like a proud father.

“It’s just too bad the miners wouldn’t take her in trade for a deck of cards,” said Dean, knowing full well what would happen.

Cloey was on top of him and tickling him in seconds while Amelia leaped over to join in the fun. Captain Sedona followed while Creon and Arc sat back and laughed.

As Dean tried to defend himself through the flurry of fur and tickles, he realized he couldn’t have been happier.

Andy Heizeler

David Bridgette started writing at the age of ten in 1985 on a Tandy TRS-80 computer. By 1995, he had enough rejection slips to account for the shrinking rainforests. Off and on he continued writing in spurts, submitting randomly but mostly pursuing the art of daily living (as opposed to the art of daily starving.)

He joined the Army in 2001 after the terroist attacks of 9/11 and has deployed to Iraq a total of three times. During his third deployment, at the age of 32, he decided after a near miss (which is just as safe as a far miss, only more personal) by a mortar round that it was time to achieve his dream of being published.

The pen name Andy Heizeler was created as a conglomeration of the initials of his favorite authors, under which he created a series of stories about Dean the Space Rogue. The first Dean the Space Rogue story to be accepted appeared in the anthology

“Star Stepping” by Wild Child Press. The second, but first chronologically, “Dean the Space Rogue,” appeared in Ray Gun Revival #40, with another “Galactic Saviors,” that appeared in Newmyths.com magazine. A separate story will be appearing in issue 42 of the print magazine Cosmos, titled “The Broken Hourglass.”

David and his wife Kit have recently moved to the northern artic regions of WI where they will be rediscovering the joys of deep snow and cars that need to be thawed before starting. Since he is now a U.S. Army Recruiter, he won’t have as much time for writing, but assures his small but untimid fan base that ultimately, more Dean will come!

RGR Reviews - Book Reviews Pg. 37


January 2008Saturn’s Children by Charles Stross Ace, 2008, 336 pages

Reviewed by Steve Davidson

I’ve just finished Saturn’s Child, Charlie Stross’ homage/send-up of the works of Robert A.

Heinlein and I’m very tempted to restrict my review to a single word: whew!

What a ride. This is an extremely complex work that twists together an enormous number of elements and themes—far too many to examine in any kind of detail in the space afforded here.

I’ll attempt a summary, just to give everyone some small idea of what they’re in for, because reading Freya’s tale is a must:

A straight re-telling of Heinlein’s • Friday, examining the various Heinleinesque social contentions and offering alter-native viewpoints.

An exploration of every single work • Heinlein ever wrote, more often than not from a humorous perspective.

A compilation of contemporary social • issues (global warming, for example) and science fiction tropes (singular-ity, for example), mixed together and yielding a variety of viewpoints on those issues.

A presentation of and commentary on • the SF genre as a whole.

An action-adventure tale that spans • the solar system.

A mystery/spy thriller story.•

A possible commentary on Spider • Robinson’s completion of Heinlein’s Variable Star (although I’ve not had time to examine this contention in detail).

Most definitely several other themes • I’ve either missed or failed to list.

For those of you embarking on a doctorate in literature, Saturn’s Children is the kind of text that would provide more than enough meat for several dissertations: I’ll suggest that someone could make a very nice career out of charting the references, both overt and subtle, to various works by Heinlein.

That’s not to say that Saturn’s Children is some kind of dry, academic polemic. Far from it. In fact, the single most appropriate word to use to describe this novel is “juicy,” and I use that with every single possible sexual con-notation deliberately in mind.

Be forewarned: if sex in science fiction is a problem for you, don’t read Heinlein’s Friday and stay far away from Saturn’s Children. If fetish sex—particularly of the S&M variety—is something you believe should remain hidden behind brown paper wrappers, well then,

Stross’ novel ought to be in brown paper wrappers, behind the counter, inside several layers of asbestos-impregnated plastic bags and under lock-and-key.

I found this aspect of the story to be perhaps the most intriguing (if saying so isn’t revealing too many of my own peccadilloes). Heinlein got progressively sexier as time went by, culminating in the time-travelling enabled, incest-laden confusion of To Sail Beyond The Sunset: there isn’t a single form of human sexuality he didn’t cover, with the exception of bondage/sado-masochism, and Stross focuses on this omission like the tip of a bullwhip in the hands of a master (that’s like saying “with a laser beam” for those of you not familiar with some of the more extreme tools of the S&M trade).

His use of such imagery is deliberate, not for its erotic content, but because it informs the overriding theme of the novel, which is that all of Heinlein’s social commentary was dreck, borne out of some misguided belief that mankind’s sole motivator is love. Saturn’s Children amply demonstrates that love can twist us just as easily as it can save us, and that it has resulted in the former far more fre-quently than the latter.

The story is a somewhat complicated one: Freya—the Friday stand-in—is a humaniform robot created to serve as a sex toy. Unfortu-nately, the human race has gone extinct and Freya has no one to ‘imprint’ on. Her type of robot is programmed to fall in love, deeply,

RGR ReviewsBook Reviews Matthew Winslow, Reviews Editor



totally and submissively in love, with the human owner who purchases them.

Stross examines what this kind of pro-grammed love means throughout the story and it serves as an analogy for “true” human love. Are humans deeply in love still beings of free will? Are they capable of making rational decisions? Are their motivations to be trusted?

Freya, on the verge of personal bankruptcy, falls in with a courier service that is really a secret espionage/assassination organization and gets embroiled in a war between various factions of robots, some of whom are bent on resurrecting the human race and others just as desperately trying to prevent this.

Along the way she travels to virtually every planet in the solar system (in a sequence that I believe has some relationship to Heinlein’s novels, although I’ve not yet broken the code), and while doing so, Stross manages to squeeze in a mention of, so far as I can tell, every single story Heinlein ever wrote. Without working at it I found imagery reminiscent of Glory Road, Stranger in a Strange Land, Time Enough For Love, Farmer in the Sky, Universe, Space Cadet, and on and on. In every single instance, Stross offers a different, if not always contradictory, take on Heinlein’s points of view.

Stross also deals in contrarian fashion with the singularity concept, dismissing it out of hand by having the human race simply fading away and going extinct. Humanity’s works, unfinished, have been left behind, abandoned (like a thrown-over lover I shouldn’t have to point out) to go their own confused way.

Stross also manages to throw a few

other contemporary issues in, such as global warming and the growing fight between the “new atheists” and fundamentalists and his take on these is just as refreshingly humorous as everything else in the novel.

Saturn’s Children is highly recommended for everyone; Heinlein fans are particularly encouraged to give it a read: you may not like everything you see, but you will most assuredly recognize Heinlein’s style of presentation and pacing, and if nothing else, it will have you running to the stacks to make comparisons. I’m sure I’ll be re-reading this one multiple times, and I’ll be finding something else that will intrigue and amuse me every single time I do.

Steve DavidsonSteve Davidson has been an SF fan since watching his first episode of Fireball XL5. He is currently the ‘crotchety’ behind the Crotchety Old Fan blog and is the curator of The Classic Science Fiction Channel, a website devoted to classic science fiction film, television, radio and print. He can be found at www.rimworlds.com/thecrotchetyoldfan

Crossover by Joel Shepherd Pyr, 2006. 459 pages

Breakaway by Joel Shepherd Pyr, 2007. 427 pages

Killswitch by Joel Shepherd Pyr, 2007. 451 pages

Reviewed by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt

Artificial humans abound in science fiction, from Karel Capek’s R.U.R. and Fritz Lang’s

Metropolis to the present day. Robots and androids and their ilk have become a trope in SF. Originality in such a situation lies not in coming up with something completely new, but in how one uses traditional SF elements.

Thus it may be helpful to say what Austra-lian author Joel Shepherd’s Cassandra Kresnov series is not. Although there are occasional philosophical discussions in the books, they are not a meditation on the meaning of humanity as in Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Although the series has its

“android-on-the-run” moments, its world is not the brooding dystopia of Blade Runner. Although intrigue and cyberspace both play a role in Shepherd’s novels, they are not an exercise in paranoia such as anime’s Ghost in the Shell.

Instead, the Cassandra Kresnov series is military SF, “space opera” in the action-ad-venture sense of the term. Shepherd’s future is a bright and happy place, at least on the planet Callay where the novels are set. There are, of course, dark forces that threaten this happiness, both from within and without, but the main character and her allies are able to rise to the occasion to defend the planet from each new threat.

The first novel, Crossover, introduces us to Captain Cassandra Kresnov, Sandy as she is known to her friends. She is a GI, an artificial person created by the population-deficient but technologically superior League to fight in its war with the more conservative Federation. When the war comes to a close, Sandy defects to the Federation and is looking for employ-



ment under a false name in the Callay capital city of Tanusha. But the old guards of both the League and the Federation have reasons to want Sandy, both for the secrets in her head and the technological advances she embodies.

When she thwarts an assassination attempt on the Callayan president, Sandy finds herself embroiled not only in her own struggle from freedom and survival, but in politics on an interplanetary level. She also finds friends in the leader of one of Tanusha’s few SWAT teams, Lt. Vanessa Rice, and in the head of the Callayan Security Authority, Shan Ibrahim. With President Katia Neiland, these remain Sandy’s strongest allies throughout the series.

The second novel, Breakaway, set three months after the events in Crossover, sees Sandy finding her way in Tanushan society. She has legal status and a place on Vanessa’s SWAT team. But the political forces her presence set in motion have led to a referendum on Callay breaking away from the Federation. Sandy’s personal life again intersects with interplanetary politics as she attempts to keep terrorists and outside interests from interfering in Callayan politics. To further complicate matters, a del-egation from the League has recently arrived in Tanusha. Do they truly represent a change in League policies, or are they merely attempting to lure Sandy back into the League’s fold?

The third novel, Killswitch, is set two years after Breakaway. Callay has stayed in the Fed-eration, but on the condition that the Federa-tion capital be moved from Earth to Callay. This has understandably caused friction. A faction of Fleet captains threaten to blockade the planet. All Callay has to oppose the Fleet is the nascent Callayan Defense Force, whose second-in-

command is our own Cassandra Kresnov. But when Sandy’s lover, Special Agent Ari Ruben, discovers a plot to kill her using a killswitch the League built into her brainstem, she is forced to go underground just to stay alive.

Mr. Shepherd masterfully interweaves Sandy’s personal story with the presentation of a richly detailed future galaxy. In the course of the series, we get tantalizing glimpses of a future that is (refreshingly) not Eurocentric. The Federation has a strong Indian influence, with strong Arabic and African subcultures. Indeed, one of the points of Callayan politics seems to be finding a way for all cultures to have a voice. The technocratic League has a strongly Chinese cast, to grossly oversimplify.

For me, it was hard not to read at least parts of the politics of the story as a Southern Hemisphere commentary on 21st-century glo-balization, with the Federation as a stand-in for the U.S., the League for China, and Callay for Australia. Such a reading may just be inter-polation on my part, but it points to how well developed and plausible Shepherd’s future history is.

More importantly, the politics never get in the way of the action.

I find the Cassandra Kresnov series to be well written, in the highest sense of the term: the author’s prose is completely transparent to the story. Shepherd’s training in film tells to good effect. He makes complicated action sequences very “watchable,” and I know I’m not the only one who would love to see a Cassandra Kresnov movie. I did on occasion have some difficulty visualizing his presenta-tion of cyberspace. But that could well be a

fault of my own imagination.

Crossover and Breakaway were first published in Shepherd’s native Australia, where they were short-listed in 1998 and 1999 for the George Turner Prize. I’m not sure why the U.S. edition was picked up by a smaller house like Pyr (the Australian editions are by Harp-erCollins, Australia’s imprint, Voyager), but it seems to have done very well by the company. My copy of Crossover indicates it is in at least its third printing, and starting in 2009, Pyr is issuing mass-market paperbacks of the series. This marks Pyr’s first foray into this format.

For fans of military SF and action-adventure SF with strong female characters, the Cassandra Kresnov series is not to be missed. I hope there will be many more volumes to come.

#

Off Armageddon Reef by David Weber Tor, 2007, 789 pages

By Schism Rent Asunder by David Weber Tor, 2008, 511 pages

Four centuries in the future, mankind has spread to the stars, forming the Terran Federation. However, mankind is soon faced with its greatest challenge in the form of the alien Gbaba who are intent on wiping out all mankind with no remorse at all. It is not long before the Gbaba focus in on Earth itself, the last planet left of the Terran Federation. The Terrans know they cannot stand up to the might of the Gbaba, as they’ve watched one planet after another destroyed and utterly annihilated by the Gbaba’s strength. With their death imminent, the humans of Earth devise



one last attempt to save mankind. A fleet of Terran ships takes off from Earth on the eve of Earth’s destruction. Part of that fleet is a decoy to distract the Gbaba from the rest of the fleet whose objective is to escape unnoticed and establish a colony elsewhere, far from the Gbaba’s notice.

This desperate act to save the human race works and a planet is soon found for the eight million colonists who are in hiberna-tion. However, since it was technology that attracted the Gbaba to the Terran Federation, the founders of the colony determine that they must wipe the minds of all the colonists and set up the new world in such a way that technology will never rise above the level of Renaissance-era Earth. However, there is soon a division between the founders with the winning group setting itself up as godlike ‘archangels’ and establishing a religion that will not only restrict the technology but also hamper the growth of the colony in many ways.

Fast forward nearly a millennium. The colony of Safehold has prospered well since its founding, but the Church of God Awaiting has exerted a stranglehold on the people of Safehold, subjecting the people to its will. Little do they know, though, that the losing division in the war of the founders had a backup plan. Under a mountain lies a bunker that contains an android avatar that holds the personal-ity of Nimue Alba, one of the last humans to die at the hands of the Gbaba. Nimue’s avatar runs on such low power that the Gbaba would never discover it. Nimue is shocked by what she finds and using her nearly superhuman powers, she sets out to help the humans beat off the yoke of the oppressive church and work toward freedom. She modifies her avatar to

become Merlin Anthrawes, a seijin of Safe-holdian legend, a combination of holy warrior and superman.

As Merlin, Nimue works her way into the confidence of the king of the Safeholdian kingdom of Charis, Haarahld Ahrmahk. Merlin soon shows the Charisians a few ways to improve the rudimentary technology of their weapons in order to give them the technologi-cal edge over their neighbors. The Charisians don’t have any intentions of world domina-tion; they just want to have freedom from the oppressive religious leaders and their Inquisi-tion. However, the Church will have none of that and begins a war against Charis, the results of which will have long lasting ramifications for all of Safehold.

The second book of the series, By Schism Rent Asunder, picks up almost immediately after the ending of Off Armageddon Reef. Haarahld’s son Cayleb is now on the throne of Charis. Charis may have won the great battle at the end of the previous book, but that is just the beginning of the problems that Charis faces as it finds itself against the rest of the world of Safehold. However, the other Safeholdian kingdoms and nations have seen a tiny bit of the freedom that Charis is fighting for and they also begin to see just how manipulative the Church has become, controlling the wills of its people. Soon there is a division between those who will follow the Church and those who want to fight for personal freedom and autonomy. Sides are drawn up and allegiances struck. The novel ends very much in media res as Cayleb and his forces are about to head out to war against the Church.

The concept of this series is a very clever

one, allowing Weber to play with the best fantasy tropes in an SFnal world. One of the complaints that some readers have with fantasy is its penchant for medieval worlds (a result of the ur-fantasy novel Lord of the Rings being set in such a world). Weber cleverly constructs a world wherein there is a reason for this level of technology while still having an SFnal back-ground to the series. It is an almost perfect blend of science fiction and fantasy.

This is a story told on an epic scale—in the back of the second volume there is a ten-page character list—but Weber has the skill to create realistic characters in just a few pages. Oddly enough, the least developed character is his main character, Merlin/Nimue, who keeps himself/herself aloof from the characters and thus we learn about her only mostly through interior monologues. Still, there are enough other characters of depth to keep the reader busy keeping track of everyone.

I have no idea how long this series is projected to go. Weber could take it all the way to a final battle with the Gbaba, or he could end it sooner, but either way, I’m anxious to see how it ends up. Weber has given us what could be a quite memorable series that has the epic scale of George R.R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire without the relentless, depressing plot that marks that series.

Donald Jacob Uitvlugt

Donald Jacob Uitvlugt grew up in western Michigan and now lives in Arkansas with his wife and dog. He can be contacted via www.myspace.com/DonaldJacobUitvlugt

www.myspace.com/DonaldJacobUitvlugt

Featured Artist: Inga Nielsen Pg. 41


Name: Inga Nielsen

Age: 25

Country of residence: Germany

Hobbies: digital art, writing novels, photography, painting, sewing, everything creative

Favorite Book / Author: Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Favorite Artist: My mother.

When did you start creating art? As a child in kindergarten, painting my first images, but digital art in 2000.

What media do you work in? I paint images by using a graphics tablet, I use Photoshop CS3, and every now and then a little Terragen as well.

Where your work has been featured? Astronomy Picture Of The Day (NASA), Advanced Photoshop, to name two.

Where should someone go if they wanted to view / buy some of your works? My homepage: www.gatetonowhere.de and posters, mugs, cards and calendars at www.zazzle.com/inganielsen

Featured Artist Inga Nielsen

www.gatetonowhere.de

www.zazzle.com/inganielsen



How did you become an artist? I looked for wallpapers for my computer on the web and found several fantastic wallpaper sites where I collected hundreds of images. But then one day I found a website where I could download a free scenery program called Terragen, and I tried it. I still work with Terragen sometimes, but mainly with Photoshop.

What were your early influences? What are your current influences? The beauty of nature.

What inspired the art for the cover? I wanted to paint something cold, and I like how light shines through ice. So I tried to catch it in Photoshop. Moreover “Cold Fire” is meant to be some kind of counterpart to my image “Reign of Fire.”

How would you describe your work? It is my attempt to “travel” to worlds I

will probably never get to see in reality. My images show alien worlds and surreal worlds and also some fantasy scenes.

Where do you get your inspiration / what inspires you? Looking up to the stars and thinking of what may be possible out there. I’ve traveled a lot in my life and nature can do amazing things. Like rain forests at Bali or hot springs in Iceland or the tropical storms of Florida. Everything has a beauty which is unique.



Have you had any notable failures, and how has failure affected your work? No.

What have been your greatest successes? How has success impacted you / your work? My greatest success was my first success because it made my artwork become famous. One of my images, “Hideaway,” got stolen and sent around via email. The one who sent the mail called it a photograph of a “Sunset at the North Pole.” It went around the world, and I found it everywhere. It was, and still is, something I cannot stop, but it also is some kind of viral marketing (just do a quick search in image search of Google for “sunset at the north pole” and you will know what I mean by “cannot stop”). One day an astronomer from NASA emailed me, he wanted to feature the image as Astronomy Picture of the Day. This was my first big success with my artwork.

What are your favorite tools / equipment for producing your art? My graphics tablet and sometimes my mouse.

What tool / equipment do you wish you had? A computer with more speed. I still work in Photoshop with 1GB of RAM which is not much.





Calamity’s Child Chapter Six, Rites of Passage - Dante’s Fourth, by Gaslight, Part One by M. Keaton Pg. 46


The quality of the station-to-ground shuttle surprised him. Ivan had assumed, even

within the outer Hedge, the equipment would be crisp and new on a level that would make the Frontier look like the primitive place the Hedge’s inhabitants insisted it was. Instead, the shuttle reminded him of an old pair of boots, functional but not much more. Worse, really; old boots were comfortable. The upholstery was threadbare, the padding below showing through in places, and several armrests were broken completely off. The entire passenger compartment rattled like it was minutes away from vibrating apart. Most telling, the seats were darkened by stains and the floor was sticky. If this was ‘civilization,’ he was not impressed. The worst ferry House employed to fetch his customers was a palace by compari-son.

The rattling became louder as it entered atmosphere. Ivan hid his discomfort by glancing at the other passengers. Despite its cramped feeling, the shuttle was mostly empty. A mother struggled to quiet a pair of crying children at the front of the compartment; a cluster of elaborately dressed fops monopolized the back, breathing through scented handkerchiefs and talking in high-pitched nasal voices. The rest of the shuttle was scattered with bored commuters and sleeping laborers. Ivan caught a familiar face, looked again, recognized the man—one of the potlatch players from Selous. He might not have remembered him had it not been for the van dyke and pale blue suit.

Noticing Ivan, the man stood and moved to the seat across the aisle. “First trip to Toulouse?” Blue Boy asked conversationally.

“If that’s where we are.”

Blue Boy laughed, a condescending chuckle. “You’re here for the Salle des Armes then? I rather thought so. You don’t seem the type for sightseeing.”

Ivan snorted. “If the rest of the place is like this shuttle, there’s not much to see.”

“It does have a certain ambiance, doesn’t it?” Blue Boy grinned. “This is a commercial shuttle. Most of the Fancy come in on private charters. Some on their own yachts.”

“The Fancy?”

“A colloquialism. The lesser nobility of the Outer Hedge. The Salle’s patrons, as it were.” He sniffed. “I suppose I might be considered to fall within that description.”

Ivan nodded. Theoretically, the entire Hegemony was democratic but, the farther removed a world was from the core, the farther it moved away from the official feder-alism. That was the main difference between the Inner and Outer Hedge, the autonomy of the planets and their people. The Outer Hedge was founded by private corporations and spe-cialized personal interests. Generations later, a clear economic aristocracy remained. Even

in free elections, old money and familial con-nections retained control in the form of the “nobles” of the Outer Hedge, many of whom had more money than sense.

“I find commercial transport refreshing,” Blue Boy continued. “A reminder of less pros-perous days.”

Ivan was in no mood to hear the man’s life story. “What about them?” he asked, tilting his head toward the fops in the back.

“Slumming,” Blue Boy said contemptuously. He studied Ivan closely. “You’re left handed?” Ivan glanced down at the inflatable cast still sheathing the upper half of his right arm, shook his head. “Then you’re not participating?”

“I’m a second,” Ivan replied. “Whatever that is.”

Blue Boy laughed again. “I find the honesty of you frontiersmen delightful. In the Hedge, everyone thinks they have to know everything. To admit ignorance is a sign of weakness. Foolish, I say.” He folded his hands and leaned back in the seat. “Truly, the position of a second is largely symbolic, a historic hold-over from the early days of dueling. Traditionally, the second would take over if the main combatant couldn’t fulfill their duties. But in the Salle, a fighter will simply withdraw. Today, the second is more of a coach, moral support more than anything.” He turned to face across the aisle again. “Who are you the second for?”

Calamity’s Child Chapter Six, Rites of Passage - Dante’s Fourth, by Gaslight, Part One by M. Keaton



“Quicksilver Rose.”

Blue Boy clapped his hands together. “Wonderful woman. I’ve employed her on several occasions for personal protection. She’s one of the favorites to take the cup. She’s done it four or five times now. She may have trouble with Aswan, though. He’s the other favorite, a real firebrand. The odds-makers are split, giving three-to-two on them both. I’ve a few coins riding on each. That’s what I go for, the gambling. Not as exciting as potlatch, mind you, but it promises to be quite the exciting pair of weeks.” A buzzer sounded and a warning light flashed at the front of the compartment. “Well, back to my seat then. Good luck and welcome to Toulouse.”

The shuttle landed as smoothly as it flew. Ivan waited until the other passengers were squeezing down the exit ramp before prying his fingers loose from the armrest. He pulled his duffle from beneath the seat and made for the door.

Stepping into the diffused sunlight of Toulouse, Blue Boy’s reference to private charters and yachts took on a new perspec-tive. The shuttle rested a good half-mile from the terminal. The fops were met by an electric shuttle tram; everyone else walked, except for Blue Boy who stood chatting with the shuttle’s crew. By the end of his walk, Ivan had ample opportunity to observe the dozens of high-price luxury transports privileged with closer docking slots and a much clearer understanding of the economic disparity of the Outer Hedge. It was not very different from the Frontier.

The terminal was a swirling maelstrom of bodies and voices. Ivan stepped onto a chair

and scanned the area; how hard could it be to find a woman with silver eyes and bright pink hair?

Someone tugged at his pant leg and he looked down at a pale skull speckled with liver spots and tufts of coarse hair at the edges. The man was thick, short and wide, not strong. He looked up at Ivan with black-bean eyes through heavy lids. “Mister Steponovich?” Ivan lip-read as much as heard the man.

He stepped off the chair, found himself still head and shoulders above the older man. “You are?”

“Fagan, sir. I’m a friend of Rose. She asked me to meet you.” Ivan raised an eyebrow. “She’s been delayed. She’s still having her guns checked in. We’ll have to get you over there, too, but since you’re a second it shouldn’t take near as long.”

Ivan nodded and followed the man toward the exit.

“You have luggage?” Fagan shouted over his shoulder.

“Just this.” Ivan shrugged the duffle on his shoulder.

Fagan’s back hunched and his head bobbed as if he were laughing. “Your kind travels light. They give you any trouble about traveling with your guns? They’re a little touchier here than on the Frontier.” Ivan did not answer. Whoever ‘they’ were, they had not been present. If the shuttle had security regulations, he had not noticed.

Outside the terminal, the cry of barkers

sang down the sides of the street. Most were selling tickets of a dozen styles and durations—full event, daily, single match, by the seat, by arena, by duelist—the list seemed endless, and needlessly complicated.

“Ignore them,” Fagan said as they passed. “You’re part of the Salle itself. You can go anywhere anytime. The tickets are largely to fleece the Fancy. Ah, there’s our ride.” He stopped, pointing to a black carriage clattering behind a four-horse team.

“Horse and buggy?” Ivan asked.

Fagan shrugged. “It’s an affectation. The Salle des Armes is more than just a competition; it’s an event. Part of that involved cultivating the illusion of old-world gentility. It makes the nobles happy. And happy nobles spend.”

The driver swung from the coach, set a stepstool on the ground, held open the carriage door. Once they were inside, he replaced the stool on the coach and closed the door, leaving them alone, facing each other. Ivan twisted to the side to gain room to extend his legs.

“So how’s this all work?” he asked.

“The Salle des Armes began sixty years ago—give or take a bit—as a means to diffuse tensions between the professional dueling houses.” Fagan’s tone was pedantic, almost bored, delivering a lecture he had memorized and delivered until he heard it in his sleep. “Private quarrels between duelists and the desire of aspirants to prove themselves against seasoned pros were interfering with the proper scheduling of duels and resulting in too many needless deaths. Which is a fancy way of saying personalities were getting in the way of



profits. The Salle was instituted to resolve it by staging all of the personal conflicts at one time under a controllable setting. It only took a few years until it was converted into a tournament form—single elimination, obviously. Over its history, the Salle has become increasingly safer and, now, also serves as a kind of tradeshow for duelists. Clients can examine the merchan-dise firsthand and the duelists showcase their talents. It also helps managers and bookers compare fighters and arrange more equitable duels and set fairer odds.”

Ivan kept his opinions to himself. Instead, he asked, “How are gunfights ‘safer’?”

“Rose has probably already told you, the Salle aspires to be a bloodless duel. Origi-nally, fighters could choose between injury or death. If they disagreed, the more violent form prevailed.”

“If one wants death and one doesn’t, too bad,” Ivan said, leaning to peer through the slatted windows of the coach.

“Sadly, yes.” Fagan followed Ivan’s gaze. “Don’t let the appearances fool you, Mister Steponovich. Toulouse is an advanced world. They put a lot of work into hiding it, but it’s still an illusion. The best medical care is available, the food is excellent, and the standard of living for even the poorest is better than the average on the Frontier. Even the matches are broadcast across much of the Hedge and the recordings packaged and sold. The Salle itself is only held once a year, but from those earnings the people of Toulouse live quite well.”

Ivan gave a noncommittal grunt, uncon-vinced. “Even with good doctors, still doesn’t sound very safe.”

“I hadn’t finished,” Fagan said. “Injury and death were the original options. There are three options now. The original two remain as a matter of tradition, although injury has been changed to live fire. In its case, it’s not necessary to actually wound an opponent, merely demonstrate superiority. If a duelist is fast enough, they don’t actually have to pull the trigger.” Fagan steepled his fingers in front of his face. “The real method now is light tagging.”

“Lasers?”

“Very low power with electronic scoring. With the rare exception, the other two options aren’t used. Oh, a personal grudge match here and there, maybe the occasional kid who thinks he can attract more attention using live fire, but it’s considered poor form and strongly discouraged.”

Ivan turned back from the window. “I’m not impressed,” he said flatly.

“With the Salle des Armes?”

“With civilization,” Ivan replied with a humorless smile. “The illusion’s stretched a bit thin in places. Unless all the people on the streets are actors.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fagan said stiffly.

“I’m sure you don’t.” He stared at Fagan. The other man met his gaze coolly. “And you?” Ivan asked. “What’s your role in all this?”

“Just a friend of Rose, Mister Stepon-ovich.”

“Does she know you’re picking me up?”

Fagan smiled tightly. “She knows you’re being picked up.”

“What do you want, Fagan?” Ivan returned the smile.

“I wanted to see what kind of man you were, Mister Steponovich.”

“Seen enough?”

Fagan looked amused. “Enough, I think.”

Ivan nodded and looked back out the window.

#

“Fool humans get out!” Red Dog bellowed. He carried a heavy wooden staff in both sets of arms and pounded them against the Orion’s deck to drive home his point. Like any ship of its size, the Orion had its share of drifters, drunks, hard cases and hard-luck stories. An already upset Red Dog had drawn the short straw and been sent to clear the squatters.

“Says who?” a voice roared back as a fistful of toughs stood from their craps game.

“Says Red Dog!” The alien snapped a staff forward and down, cracking into the nearest man’s knees. He screamed and fell, grabbing his broken leg. “With stick!”

The others boiled at him, swinging a motley of broken bottles, chains, knives, and fists. Red Dog met them halfway, happy to give vent to his own anger. The staves were thick as a man’s leg and seven feet long. Driven with two tons of alien muscle, they tore through the squatters like battering rams. It was a satisfying effect.



When the last two broke and ran, he let them go.

“Clean up, deck thirty-two,” he buzzed over the moaning that filled the passageway.

“I believe,” Dell’s voice said through the overhead speaker, “that House’s purpose in forbidding you to use guns was to reduce casu-alties.”

“Red Dog is not hurt.”

“I’m dispatching medical response teams to tend to the wounded.”

Red Dog waved his upper cilia in what passed for a shrug. “Where is next batch?”

“House has a different project for you. Something has come up,” replied the speaker. “He needs you to go to Earth.”

Red Dog’s exoskeleton clattered as it rippled. “Dell means second-rate replacement planet fool humans call Earth now?”

“I believe House’s intent is clear.”

“Why not send Ivan?” Red Dog already knew the answer.

“Ivan is away. That’s why House has asked for your services.”

The Cillian tilted the wedge of his head to one side, gnawed the end of a staff with his mandibles. “Fine. Red Dog goes.”

“Your ship leaves in an hour,” Dell said, adding, “House suggests you get a good lawyer.”

#

Fagan pointed Ivan toward a line stretch-ing out of a broad pavilion, then left with the coach. Weapon registration was all the crowd and noise of the shuttle terminal without the confusion. The hillside where he stood had no permanent buildings; tents and pavilions of varying sizes and color like an invasion of giant mushrooms. A light breeze snapped canvas and muslin against metal poles and gave the entire site a shimmer like heat haze. People stood in lines, milled in clumps, and ran between tents, all with no apparent reason or logic, a controlled chaos. He took his place in line and waited, distinctly uncomfortable.

“Ivan!” He heard the voice a moment before she wrapped her arms around him. The world smelled of strawberries and his broken arm throbbed in her grasp. It was almost healed, the cast now functioning as a precaution against re-injury while the bones and muscles regained their strength.

“Hello, Rose,” he said, disentangling himself with a smile. “You look happy.”

“I am.” Silver eyes blinked in the sun. “Sorry about the arm.”

“Didn’t feel a thing,” he lied. “Looks like I’m going to be in line for a while.”

“Why?” She pushed hair away from her face as she surveyed the line. “This is for weapon registration. You’re a silent second. You don’t even have to show up for my matches if you don’t want to.”

“Silent second?”

“Non-shooting. If I get hurt and can’t compete, we’ll withdraw. Since you won’t have to duel, you don’t have to reg your gun. Who told you you did?”

“Nobody important. You’re all set, then?”

She held up a clip with a gold seal stuck across the top. “Good to go. Come on.” She hooked his good arm in hers. “Let’s get out of this madhouse.”

“Thought you used lasers.” He allowed himself to be led through the crowd.

“We do. But we use our own guns—throws your draw off if you don’t—so they modify the ammo instead. That’s what takes so long.”

“Didn’t know it could be done at all.”

“I don’t think they can with anything high-powered.” Rose shouldered her way through a conversation, pulling Ivan behind her. “You hungry?”

“I could eat. Need to get a room and drop off my stuff, though.”

“Okay.” She released him long enough to hop into the street and wave at one of the passing carriages. “You’re with me at the Victoria. It’s a bed and breakfast.” She looked back over her shoulder long enough to flash him a mocking grin. “Only the best for us gunners.”

“Separate rooms, I hope.”

Rose laughed and pulled him toward a coach.

The Victoria was almost a mile outside of town, a four-story Georgian mansion rising



above manicured gardens behind a wall of cedars. The coach stopped on raked gravel opposite a reflecting pool.

“This has got to cost a fortune,” Ivan muttered, stepping to the ground.

“Free for me,” Rose countered, took a deep breath of evergreen air. “All past champions and their guests stay for free during the Salle.”

“And you want to leave all this?”

Her face clouded. “You know why.” She rebounded quickly, pushing her thoughts away. “But the fringe benefits are sweet.” An elderly man in purple livery met them. Rose passed Ivan’s duffle to him. “Mister Steponovich’s room.” She spun back to Ivan, the server forgotten. “Now, to the dining room. We’re early for tea, but there’s always something.”

Ivan opened his mouth to speak to the servant, but the man stopped him with a stiff bow and left, backing up a step before turning away. Ivan lifted his jaw and followed Rose. “You seem to know your way around.”

“This is the best part of being a duelist. Once a year I get to be something other than a killer, and I’m good at it. Of course I know my way around. I’d live here if I could.” She breezed past the man holding open the door as if he were a statue. Ivan nodded to him awkwardly and followed. “Parts of dueling I’ll miss. Just not many parts.”

“Not too late to change your mind.”

Rose snorted, heels clattering on the parquet floor of the dining room. Ivan’s boots boomed hollowly behind her. “Ivan,” she said

softly, arriving at a sideboard laden with a buffet that rivaled the Orion’s best, “I have never wanted anything as much as I want this. Even if House wasn’t waiting with an open door, even if it meant losing everything.”

“I know,” Ivan replied, reaching past her for a plate. “So why don’t you tell me what I’m really doing here.” Rose ignored him, piling a plate with fruit and cubed cheese while Ivan cobbled together a passable sandwich from slivers of real food. “As near as I can tell, a stump could be your second for all the work involved,” he continued, following her to sit at the end of a long table. “And why do you need a second? If House is buying your marker, why fight in the Salle at all?”

She sighed leaning her elbows on the table. “Because I’m scared, all right?”

“Of?”

“I don’t know. Of something.” She waved her hands as she spoke, emphasizing her frus-tration. “This is like the biggest change in my adult life; everything’s riding on it. I kind of wanted somebody in my corner that I could count on.”

“Thank you.”

Rose shrugged, popped a piece of cheese into her mouth. “You don’t know enough people to have an agenda.”

Ivan choked a laugh around a mouthful of bread, coughed until he caught his breath. “Explain to me why you have to do this Salle thing at all. House didn’t tell me.”

“Honestly, part of it is I want to show off.

I mean, this is the last time I get to stay in a place like this and be a big shot. I wanted to enjoy it one more time and go out on top. And to share it with you.”

“And the other part?”

“Fagan said that if I won, he’d sell my marker to House. I owe him that much.”

Ivan kept his tone light. “Fagan?”

“My manager, owner really. He’s a real sweetheart; you’d like him.”

“Maybe.” Ivan hid his frown behind his sandwich. “And if you lose?”

She shook her head dismissively. “He’ll sell it anyway. He just wants me to do my best. It’s important for his business, so it doesn’t look like I’m bailing because of some kind of inside information.”

Ivan remained silent. Given the difficulty and cost of buying a neurologically enhanced duelist’s marker, the explanation did not make sense to him. “You’re sure he’d still sell?” he asked at last.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” A bit of fear leaked past silver eyes. “He will—I’m sure. Doesn’t matter. I’m going to win.”

“I know.” He turned to watch as another pair of guests entered the room.

Neither man was small—the first stood an easy six-five, the other only marginally shorter. From the curved brim of a bowler hat to heavy black boots with a well-oiled greatcoat in between, the first was dressed completely in black. Curling black muttonchops and looming



eyebrows framed a wide face with an equally wide nose. A short ebony cane swung in his hand, held at the middle. The gun on his hip was the flat black of an anvil and almost as big.

His companion was narrower, a thin frame layered with muscle, and carried his hat in his hand—the beige felt of the cowboy hat had seen better days. Like the sleeveless leather vest and the red bandana around the man’s neck, the hat had been scored by years of wind-blown dust and bleached by the light of a dozen suns. The man’s face fared only slightly better than his clothes, burned red and set in a permanent squint. A white beard peaked sharply from his jutting chin and his mustache was waxed into a broad handlebar, coiled at the ends like rope.

Rose touched Ivan’s hand to get his attention. “The one in black is called Rounder,” she said quietly. “I don’t know the other.”

“Kingfisher.”

“You know him?”

Ivan shook his head. “I know of him.” A legend on the Frontier, Kingfisher was a throwback to the days when there was no law and even the bounty system was a hopeful dream.

Rounder looked toward them, and Rose lifted a hand in greeting.

“Rose, my culley. What a delight to find you here.” Rounder crossed the room to greet her, pecked her smartly on the cheeks.

Kingfisher followed, managing to be with

him and yet politely distant at the same time. Ivan motioned toward the open seats while introductions were made all around.

“Didn’t think this would be your kind of thing,” Ivan said mildly as Kingfisher dropped into the chair beside him. Their companions were busily discussing other duelists and their chances.

The older man smiled, his lips curling to match his mustache. “You mean a bunch of nancys playing gunfighter?” He chuckled. “No, don’t reckon it’s my kind of thing. From the looks of you, you neither.”

Ivan shook his head. “Just here as a favor to a friend.”

Kingfisher leaned his chair back, swung his boot onto the table. “I’m recruiting. Got another batch of greenhorns shot out from under me and have to build up a new crew. Damned annoying. But, I can spot potential and this as good a place to scout ‘em out as any. They never do very well in this sugar waltz. I’ll be gone in a couple of days. Any of ‘em hold their water an’ do any good at this,” he nodded across the table, “I’ll have Rounder bring ‘em later. Looks like he’s the closest thing I’ve got to a partner now.”

“What about the Kentuckian?” Ivan asked, recalling the other half of the fabled duo.

“Dead.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be.” Kingfisher twisted his mustache between his fingers. “He was damned hard to get along with. ‘Sides, if a bullet hadn’t got

him, his liver would’ve. Better he went in his boots.” He gave Ivan a speculative look. “Don’t suppose you’re looking for a job, are you?”

Ivan grimaced. “I’ve got a full plate right now.”

Kingfisher laughed, a hearty, full throated sound that filled the room. “That you do.” He looked deliberately at Ivan’s mangled sandwich, swung his boots to the floor with a thud. “Come on, Rounder. Leave the people to eat in peace.” He stood, inclined his head to Rose. “’Scuse us, ma’am.” Without waiting for a response, he turned for the door. Rounder looked heavenward for patience and hurried to follow.

“Interesting,” Ivan said when the two men were out of sight.

“What?” Rose’s voice was muffled by a mouthful of food.

“Why’d they come in here then just leave?”

Rose lifted her shoulders. “Looking for somebody?”

“You?”

“Doubt it.” She swallowed, hesitated between bites. “Did you notice that Kingfish-er pronounces his name like it’s a title? King Fisher, two words.”

“He’s earned it,” Ivan said, returning his attention to the jumbled sandwich and an empty stomach.



#

Beta Max pulled himself along the passage to the Hecate’s bridge, Rainmaker’s bony form floating in front of him. He did not know why the ship’s artificial gravity was off—Rain had mumbled something about systems testing when he came aboard—but he did know that zero gee made him nauseous and his lurking claustrophobia did nothing to ease his nerves. The Hecate was a large ship, but its chambers and passages were cramped and oppressive. Worse yet, Rainmaker’s crew seemed to prefer the ambient blue of instrument panels and ruby lined corridors to the bright white light that filled the ship when it was in drydock.

The ship’s captain waved for Max to hurry up and pushed through the entry to the bridge. Max ignored the Creole and continued his steady pace; the last thing his stomach needed was for him to lose his grip and spin in freefall.

“So, me pappy, he say to me, ‘Boa!’” The speaker’s voice was rough, but with a singsong cadence that lent it a mesmerizing roll. Max smiled as he reached the bridge; Rainmak-er’s people made English seem like a foreign language.

“’Boa,’ he say to me, ‘what chew gone do when dat gata’ dun bit off you otha arm?’ And I sez—”

“We’ve heard this story a million times, bon ami,” Rainmaker said. “Max, this is my XO, Solomon. Solomon, Beta Max.”

If Rain’s interruption bothered Solomon, he did not show it, simply kicked free of his

workstation and drifted to shake Max’s hand. It was like watching smoke, a curled wisp of gray wafting through the gloom. Solomon was taller than Rain and probably weighed less; his skin was the faded milky black that nature reserved for the truly ancient. His body seemed to lean to one side, his right shoulder higher than his left. Grasping Max’s hand, the old man grinned broadly showing both remaining teeth—one on top, one on bottom—and crinkling the skin around his yellow eyes. Max shook his hand gently; it was like holding crepe paper.

“Mistah Maxwell, I’s happy to see you,” he said. “We has an enigma.” He tapped a foot on the deck and floated backward toward his station.

“What we have is one more gun that we’re supposed to have,” Rain clarified.

“How can I help? I’m no ship’s tech.” Max managed to reach the back of a chair and pulled himself forward.

“Ship techs I got,” Rainmaker said, taking pity and placing a hand in the small of Max’s back to steady him. “What I need is someone to crack the software. For that, I think of you.”

Max found a station with an active keyboard, strapped himself into the seat. “Okay, tell me what you know.”

“Bonus gun, sez I,” Solomon quipped from his own station.

“Maybe.” Rainmaker put a hand on his executive officer’s shoulder. “We’ve been checking the systems and we came up with extra parts. We’ve got a forward mounted weapons pod that’s powered directly off of the

ship’s engines.”

“Aren’t they all?” Max asked.

“Not with their own dedicated feed. This gun, if that’s what it is, can pull every drop of power the ship generates. Near as we can tell, it doesn’t have any overrides or cut-offs, nothing piggybacks off its feed—just a straight pipeline of juice. Solomon traced the controls and, near as he can tell, it’s controlled through the weapons comp.”

“Looks laik weapon, fires laik weapon. Why so hard, eh? Ees weapon.”

“That’s what I need you to check,” Rain continued, ignoring Solomon. “If it is a gun, what kind and why the dickens does it need so much power? I’ve known you long enough to know that them computers can hide a lot of stuff.”

Max shrugged, secure in his seat. “I’ll see what I can dig out of the software, but no promises.”

“Anything will help,” Rainmaker said, pushing off the seatback, toward the exit. “Solomon and Tomas will be here if you need help. I have to get down to engineering.”

Two hours later, Max had as many new questions as he had answers. If it was not a weapon, it operated like one. That had been the easy part; the rest was, as Solomon said, an enigma. Not only did the pod pull its power directly from the engine but the ship’s pro-gramming gave it absolute priority to that power. It would shut down the life support systems before it would refuse a call for power from the weapons pod.



Computing power followed the same order; simply maintaining the pod in a passive state used as much of the ship’s electron-ics suite as its stealth systems. Most of the digital pampering went for what the internal coding called “proper deformation of parabolic quantum wells” and “cooling and stabilization of gallium arsenide semiconductors .”

He beckoned Solomon over, expecting the man to be just as stymied. He was, but in a different way.

“Now why we be needin’ a gun what shoots ‘lectrons an’ alpha particles? ‘At’s a jumble.”

“No idea. I didn’t even get that far.” Max squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. “That’s about all I can pry out of the system. Whoever designed it assumed the operator would already know what it was.”

“No worries, mon ami. I’s tell Rainmaker that we jest leave wells enough alone. We only fire dis gun if everthin’ else go to ‘ell.”

#

They shared adjoining rooms tucked away in the mansion’s eastern wing on the fourth floor. Rose took great delight in pointing out that the door separating their rooms locked on Ivan’s side “in case he got scared.” Despite her teasing, he did lock it as he showered, shaved, and changed. Two days spent shuffling from transport to transport to reach Toulouse left him more than happy for hot water and clean clothing.

Rose was waiting when he reopened the door, cleaning her gun. Seven of the gold

seals stood as silent sentinels as she worked. “Six rounds and a spare,” she explained. Ivan nodded; he had seen Dell open too many fresh decks of cards not to recognized the signifi-cance of the seal.

“Assuming no one uses live fire,” Rose continued. “In that case, I go back to my own ammo. I’ll probably have to do that at least once; Rounder’ll probably make the quarterfi-nals at least.”

“He always use live rounds?”

“It’s part of his motif.” She swabbed the pistol’s barrel, looked down it skeptically. “He thinks it gives him an advantage, especially against less experienced duelists.”

“Sounds like a lot of needless killing to me.”

Rose shook her head. “He usually puts a round just over their head or between their feet; serves the same purpose. If they’re really getting on his nerves, maybe hit them in the arm or leg. I’ve only seen him have to kill an opponent twice. He’s a nice guy, really.”

Ivan harrumphed skeptically.

“You’re jealous!” She cackled happily. “That’s hilarious!”

“I’m cautious,” he countered. “He doesn’t look augmented either. I thought all duelists had some kind of neural upgrades.”

“Nah, only the good ones.” She pursed her lips, thinking. “About one in ten, I think. That’s part of why they’re so easy for me to kill; I usually don’t come up against anything resembling a fair fight. Except for during the

Salle, of course.”

“Brought you something,” he said, changing the subject. He slid an envelope onto the table. He felt foolish for it here on a world with formal gardens and cedar trees but it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Rose tore it open an pulled out the fistful of grass from the Orion’s hydroponics sealed in a small plastic bag. With a grin, she opened the seal on the bag, buried her nose in it, breathing deep. Quick fingers shredded the grass and she inhaled the air of the bag again. She resealed it with a contented sigh. “Wonderful, simply wonderful.” She looked calmer than Ivan had seen her since he arrived.

“I’m glad you approve.”

“Ready for dinner?”

He snorted. “We just ate.”

“Just a snack.”

Ivan shook his head. “I’m exhausted, Rose. I’ve been on the road for days. I’ve had a sandwich and a shower, now all I want is a nap. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She dismissed his concerns with a shake of her head. “I should have realized. Go, sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The bed was hard and cluttered with more pillows than any human could possibly need. Ivan could not have cared less; he lay down and was asleep before Rose finished reassem-bling her gun.

The click of a door latch awakened him. Probably Rose returning from dinner, he



thought groggily. Heavy footsteps, too heavy to be Rose’s, brought him fully awake. He rolled off the bed, lifting his custom .45 from the nightstand. The sun had set, casting the rooms into muted twilight. He crossed the room on bare feet.

Rose had not closed the connecting door; a foot wide sliver of the other room was visible beyond. Ivan shifted his gun to his left hand, his good hand, and nudged the door the rest of the way open with his foot. He announced his presence by pulling back the hammer on the .45, the crack shockingly loud in the silence.

The figure bending over Rose’s bags lifted its hands and stood slowly, a wide silhouette in the gloom. “Let’s not do anything rash,” Rounder said turning to face him. “I’m just doing a favor for Rose.” When Ivan did not respond, he added, “She needed something from her luggage.”

“Ammunition?” There was no need for quiet. The building was solidly built, the rooms soundproofed.

Rounder looked up at the gold-sealed clip he held in his upraised hand. “It does seem implausible, doesn’t it?” He opened his hand, let the clip fall to the floor, dove forward when Ivan’s eyes flicked toward it momentarily.

He came in low, knocking the .45 aside with a forearm, slammed Ivan back into the wall with his full weight. The gun barked and plaster sprayed from the ceiling. The thick walls smothered the echoes.

“Some favor,” Ivan gasped, slamming the butt of his gun into the side of Rounder’s head. Skin split and blood ran from a pressure cut but

otherwise the man was unfazed. He wrapped Ivan’s chest and right arm in a tight bear hug and thrust him against the wall again.

“You’ve no idea.” Rounder surged, lifting Ivan off his feet. Ivan jerked up a knee, felt Rounder block it with his thigh, hit him again with the gun. The pain in his broken arm was incredible; starbursts flickered across his field of vision. He pounded the gun frantically against Rounder’s skull, each blow weaker than the preceding.

Rounder dropped him, grasping for the gun. Blood ran freely down the side of his face and the muscles of his jaw stood out like ropes. He grabbed Ivan’s wrist and twisted, digging his fingernails into the skin. Ivan dropped the .45, jerked his head forward. His forehead caught Rounder across the bridge of the nose, mashed it into a smear of blood. Rounder staggered back, hands rising to his face. As he did, Ivan palmed Rose’s fletchette pistol from the table, leveled it at Rounder’s gut.

“Who sent you?”

Rounder grinned through a veil of blood. “Who says anyone sent me?”

Ivan cocked the gun. “King or Fagan? Or are there more I should know about?”

“I’m a professional doing a job here. Blind drops and all that; I never know the client.”

“You’ve got guesses.”

“Kingfisher does his own dirty work.” Rounder panted heavily, breathing through his mouth. “It’s a simple cross, culley. If she’s dis-qualified, she doesn’t get hurt.”

Ivan motioned him back with the gun muzzle, ignoring the pain in his arm as he held Rose’s gun. He crouched and retrieved the .45 with his left. “Give me a reason I shouldn’t pull this trigger.”

“I can give you two. One, a dead man in her room will cause Rose trouble. Two, I’m a professional duelist. Just because you’ve got the drop on me doesn’t mean I can’t draw fast enough to hole you.”

“The first I can deal with. The second is a risk I’m willing to take.”

Rounder turned his head to the side, spit blood onto the floor. Ivan knew the type, men who could not back down no matter what the odds. Too much pride to do anything but die rather than lose face.

“Get out,” Ivan growled. “You owe me.”

Rounder coughed a laugh. “I can live with that.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket with two fingers, pressed it to the side of his face. “It would have been better this way,” he said, regaining his swagger. “G’night gov’ner.” He strode into the hall without looking back. Ivan watched him go then pushed the door closed, locked it.

Laying Rose’s pistol back on the table, he rummaged through Rose’s bathroom until he found painkillers. He choked the pills down dry and sagged into a chair, .45 in his lap.

Rose found him there hours later, startling him out of a restless sleep when she entered. “What happened?” she gasped. “Are you okay?”



“Just a misunderstanding,” he replied wearily. “I’m going back to bed.”

M Keaton

Growing up in a family with a history of military service, M. Keaton cut his lin-guistic 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 newspaper rat in Springdale, Arkansas, U.S.A. before pursuing formal studies in chemistry, mathematics, and medieval 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 diverse as his experiences. Most powerfully, the author has been affected by the works and writers of the “ancient” world, including the Bible, Socrates, and (more modern) Machiavelli, 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.)

Thieves’ Honor, Episode Five: The Game - Shooter by Keanan Brand Pg. 56


Previously, on Thieves’ Honor:

“Aye, captain?”

His tongue felt thick. “Anybody ‘round?”

“Just got rid of the female passenger. You can speak freely, captain.”

Yeah, if he could just push the words past his teeth. “Zoltana said. New estrac—new extrashen team.”

Hum-ditty-hum. The ceiling looked all swimmy and bright.

“When did she tell you? Did she say where they were?”

Ooh. Look at that.

“Captain? What about the extraction team?” Finney’s voice sounded too tense. She should come down here and look at the lights. She’d feel better. “Do they know where I am?”

He muttered something into his radio then realized his hand was empty. The radio lay on the sheet. Funny.

“Captain? Captain!”

Sight blurring, Kristoff hummed to the music of the dancing ceiling dots.

#

“Where’s this game we’re sneaking off to

see?”

“Behind Jay Milligan’s.” Dramatic pause then the dull clinking of marbles rolling against one another in a mesh bag. “Big Bryson Fry is playing.”

“Why didn’t you say so sooner?” Kristoff waved a hand. “Hurry up. Gotta redeem my good name.”

Sahir’s fat chuckle shuddered through the frame of the wheelchair. “And I want my money back.”

#

Finney stopped in front of a shop window, taking advantage of the reflection to take a look around. Nobody seemed interested in her.

She looked beyond the reflection to the display behind it. Nice.

A man stepped into view, smiled, and gestured at the display, a question in his eyes.

Finney looked again at the wares. Elegant. Probably felt as good as they looked—but there was no reason to buy one. Too expensive, anyway. She lifted a hand, shook her head, and strolled to where a circle of torches lit an outdoor stage filled with dancers and musicians, rhythms filling the night and begging Finney’s feet to dance.

“Why, there you are, darlin’!” Muscular arms wrapped around her, trapping her arms

at her sides. “Missed you at dinner. All better now?”

The sharp prick of a needle, and the flicker-ing torches faded to black.

#

A door scraped open, and Finney breathed fresh air. Light glowed beyond the blindfold.

She turned her head toward it.

She had wakened, wrists bound, in a wooden chair in a cold, vast room that echoed back her shouted questions. Her head hurt, her muscles ached, and her tongue felt fuzzy. The skin around the needle prick itched and burned.

Footfalls, and the light disappeared. Many boots. Breathing. The stiff rustle of metal-wo-ven cloth, light body armor posing as everyday clothing.

A kick jarred the chair. “Get up.”

She stood, and knocked the chair backward.

A man laughed close to her ear. “No time for that.”

I have all the time in the universe.

She rammed her elbow against him, and heard the satisfying whffff as air left his lungs.

“Hey!” Hands grabbed at her.

Thieves’ Honor Episode Five: The Game - Shooter by Keanan Brand



Finney twisted out of their grasp, crouched then pushed upward. Her shoulder contacted with a belt buckle. Ouch. She tilted her other shoulder into another victim’s midsection. He grunted.

Another jab—with her elbow—and from the high-pitched, weepy wheeze when he hit the ground, that guy wouldn’t be feeling amorous for a few days.

The mouth of a gun barrel kissed her forehead. “Settle down, missy.”

She paused—she was as reasonable as the next person—but then she slumped as if falling, ducked her head, and mowed down the guy with the gun. A shot reverberated, and the bullet impacted somewhere in the echoing vastness beyond.

Arms clamped around her—one at her throat, another at her waist—and flipped her onto her stomach, then someone grabbed her ankles and pressed her legs to the floor. A rope slid over her head and tightened around her neck.

“All right then”—the speaker was breath-less; gruff, like the guy with the gun—”we’re gonna walk out of here, and you’ll come along nice, or we’ll deliver damaged goods to our client.” Hot breath blasted her ear. The noose tugged her head back, cutting off her air. “But I don’t care how pretty or how bloody you are, so long as we get paid.”

The noose pulling her forward like a leash guiding a dog, Finney stumbled toward the light.

#

A body could tell at a glance he was a pro-fessional. He wore a green visor to protect his eyes, leather chaps to protect his trousers, leather sleeve garters to protect his pristine white shirt, and a special pair of soft leather shoes he donned just for games. Slick-shaven, close-cropped, he was clean as a fresh bar of soap.

A man of average height and build, Big Bryson Fry was not named for his stature but for the large velvet-lined box carried by the massive bodyguard a couple steps behind him. Inside the box, marbles nestled in rows of velvet hollows. Trays and trays of them.

At least a dozen of those marbles had once belonged to Kristoff.

Big Bryson Fry played for keeps.

“Hang back, Sahir. Wheel me over to that table.” Kristoff would rather be arriving under his own power, but common sense pushed aside idiocy. “And get me a glass of water.”

“Water?” Sahir sounded horrified.

“Water.”

Across the smoke-hazed room, Big Bryson Fry was letting himself be seen. Pompous so-and-so. He ordered the most expensive bot-tle—anything with the Imperium label was a signal the drinker felt no threat to his wallet—and he told the bodyguard to set the large box in the center of a table. Instead of being put off by his display or his reputation, men and a few women approached the table, showed their money, and added their names to a list.

“Look at those fools.” Wyatt sat beside Kristoff. “Queuing for a chance to lose their shirts.” Then, in exaggerated realization, he looked at Kristoff with wide eyes. “Sorry, captain. You here to play a game?”

Kristoff shot him a look. The ship’s steward grinned.

Sahir plunked a thick-rimmed glass of water on the table and muttered something Kristoff probably didn’t want to hear. The water sloshed up the sides, and sent a straw swirling.

A straw. Only an invalid used a straw.

Corrigan, Ezra, and Holmes squeezed around the table, forcing Sahir to scoot his chair aside and make room.

“Saw Fry in the street, and followed him,” said Corrigan. “Figured we’d get in on the fun.”

“Play, or bet?” asked Sahir.

Corrigan slapped the table. “Bet, of course!”

The mechanic looked down at Kristoff’s bandaged left side then straight into his eyes in a wordless disapproval so sharp he must have taken lessons from the doctor.

Kristoff tossed aside the straw, grabbed the glass of water, raised it to his mouth in a slow arc, drank it dry, and set it down again. He raised his brows.

Corrigan frowned, shook his head, and turned to look around the room. He couldn’t be seeing much in the dim light, except for more star sailors, and wooden tables and



chairs, most repaired with wire and metal patches after being broken in the many brawls that gave Jay Milligan’s its reputation as a place to bleed off excess fuel after long voyages.

Or after a near-fatal gunshot to the chest. Kristoff gritted his teeth and tried not to look sick from the pain. “So, Sahir,” after his jaw unclenched enough to let him speak, “did you get my name on the list?”

“Aye, captain. I tell him you play first.” The cook drained his beer then smacked his lips. “I bet.”

“A lot?”

“Two hundred.”

So. No pressure. “Thanks for the confi-dence.”

Sahir shrugged one thick shoulder. “I tell him you are wounded.” He smiled, his eyes almost disappearing in his round face. “He forgets you are Kristoff.”

“Yeah, sometimes I forget, too. Especially when I try to do something smart.” One palm flat on the table, Kristoff pushed himself up out of the wheelchair. “This is not one of those times.”

He swayed. Ezra propped him up. “Why are you doing this, captain? It’s just a game.”

“Yeah, Ez”—Kristoff put his right arm around the kid’s shoulders, leaning on him as they shuffled toward the back door of the bar—”but think about the stories we can tell later: ‘Remember that time I finally beat Big Bryson Fry?’ or you can say, ‘I was there when the captain made history at Jay Milligan’s.’ Tell

a story like that, folks might buy you drinks.”

“I’ll remember that, sir.”

“No need for sarcasm.”

#

The courtyard echoed with the crisp rhythm of marching feet, though there was a hitch in someone’s stride. Finney laughed, and the rope tightened.

A shove sent her to her knees, and small stones pressed against the worn but tough leather trousers, digging into her skin.

The marching continued as the extraction team arrayed themselves behind and beside her, then the rhythm ceased, replaced by the shuffle and whisper of soft-soled shoes a few yards in front of her. A rich fragrance breathed into the open space—the favorite perfume of the family matriarch, grandmother of the man Finney killed.

“This is she?”

From behind Finney, “Yes, Excellency.”

“You are certain?” A pause—adequate time for the old woman to bore her penetrat-ing gaze into the eyes of the bounty hunters. “The last team was lazy. Arrogant. They have been—retired.”

Hesitation. “Here are her papers, Excellen-cy. We found them in the bungalow she rented. She also carried the weapons you described.”

“And she appears to match the physical description and the images you sent, Excel-

lency.” Another voice, cocky, young, behind Finney’s starboard shoulder.

A long silence. Shuffled boots scuffing the stones. Murmured consultation among the assembled family.

“Stand her on her feet.”

Finney was jerked upright by the noose’s rough embrace.

“Similar height. Hair color. Garments masculine and unfashionable as ever.” A sigh. “What did he see in her?”

#

He swaggers like a character in an old Earth movie, and smiles wide enough to flutter a girl’s heart, but Finney hasn’t been a girl for years, and her heart—well, there is some debate whether or not it still exists.

Finney meets his gaze in the mirror behind the bar, suppresses a yawn, and stands, dropping a bill beside her empty glass.

“Seen the new Tattersall’s rifle?” He leans an elbow on the bar, canting his body so she’ll have to walk around him.

She looks at him, her gaze unblinking.

He lifts a hand, and moves out of her way. “I ask because I see you favor their sidearm.” He follows her to the door.

She pushes it open with the toe of her boot and steps into the noonday heat. Squinting, Finney looks down the dirt street. Cooperstown is a boomtown, a miner’s paradise, and the



rich here are very rich. They can afford private runners, and are not forced to contend with mundane things like dusty or muddy or rutted streets.

There’s a flash of light—the sun on a fragment of mirror twitching back and forth near the awning of a gambling establishment. A successful job. Time to stroll back to the ship, casual as you please, but without wasting any time. Rule Number Something-or-Other of the Martina Vega: Never draw unnecessary attention to ship or crew.

“Probably pretty good with that, huh? Looks like it’s seen some action.” Finney whirls. The mouth of her pistol presses against the third button of her admirer’s shirt.

Men surround her, weapons drawn.

He does not look pleased. “Thought I sent you boys home.”

“You know that isn’t possible, sir.” The guard’s voice is muffled by his helmet.

The admirer—as tall as Finney—looks into her eyes. “She’s not going to shoot me.”

“Finn? Finn!” Kristoff on the radio. “You don’t respond in two seconds, I’m sending out the cavalry.”

She unclips the radio from her belt. “Sorry for the delay, captain. Casanova’s ugly cousin wants a date.”

A chuckle. “Well, let him down gentle. Leave him one good leg to limp home on, and one good eye to see the way.”

“Can I shoot him?”

“Waste of bullets.”

“Very well, sir. I’m on my way.” Finney secures the radio, lowers her gun, turns, and knocks aside the rifle aimed at the back of her head. She looks into the dark screen of the helmet, in the approximate location of the guard’s eyes. He backs up a step and lets her pass.

She holsters her gun and strides down the street toward the docks.

“I’ll be at Governor’s Hall tonight,” calls her admirer.

She keeps walking.

“So, see you later, then?”

#

See you later. And he had.

Her face was the last he saw.

#

Wyatt, Corrigan, Sahir, Ezra, and Holmes sat around a table in the back corner, where they had an excellent view out the door to the game being played in the broad patch of dirt behind the bar.

The captain knelt on one knee, his left arm strapped close to his chest, and aimed a tiger-stripe at the steely on the edge of the circle.

Torches had been lit and set high around the perimeter of the yard. The crowd was quiet, men lounging on stacked crates or squatting around the circle, watching in intense silence,

signaling the bookmaker with nods or upheld fingers, changing their bets, some of them each time Kristoff or Fry finished a play.

Ezra nursed his root beer, tried not to care how well the captain played, and listened to the low-voiced, intermittent conversation of his crewmates.

After a long lull: “So,” Ezra said to Holmes, who was drinking his own root beer with a straw since his first glass slipped from his bandaged hands and shattered on the hardwood floor, “you know where Rebeka went? Not wise, us letting her leave the ship. She might try something again.”

Holmes shook his head. “Your pilot—what’s her name? Finney?—convinced her to let it go. Bek’s no spy. She’s probably sold a few trinkets and rented a room in a fancy hotel.” The young man’s voice still held a trace of bitterness, and his mouth twisted at one corner. “I give her a day to charm some poor sap into thinking she’s the girl of his dreams.” Then he looked at Ezra. “She got to you, too.”

Ezra took a drink and didn’t answer.

A woman, lipsticked and low-bloused, sidled up to Corrigan, trailed a fingertip down his bicep, and smiled at that ugly mug. If that wasn’t astonishing enough, she said, “C’mon, handsome. You’re sitting with me.”

Choking on his root beer, Ezra looked at Wyatt who glanced over at Sahir who shook his head.

“Maybe,” said Holmes, “they hire blind girls. Or simpletons.”



“She’s probably a pickpocket,” said Ezra. “Better watch your wallet.”

“You don’t think she’s crazy, do you?” asked Holmes. “There’s an asylum down the way—”

The woman bent her head toward Corrigan.

“Did she just kis—”

Sahir clamped a hand over Ezra’s eyes.

#

The long tail of the noose trailed down Finney’s back and brushed against her bound hands.

“Remove the blindfold.”

Ripped from her head, the coarse cloth scraped her skin and pulled her hair. Finney blinked, her eyes stinging.

Arrayed under an awning before a colonnade, their backs to a row of torches, stood perhaps a dozen people, their garments pale and of light texture, catching wind and light, and at their center sat a black-clad old woman, a dark spider in their airy web.

Finney raised her chin, squared her shoulders, and looked straight into the old woman’s eyes.

“I would have thought you would be regret-ting your arrogance by now.” Pushing herself up from the ornate chair, thin arms shaking with the effort, the old woman stood. “I, too, am proud.”

#

“So, Devlin, is this the Amazon you rhapso-dized to the doorman this afternoon?” A regal gray-haired woman in a black gown shot with cobalt blue seems to float across the marble floor. People turn their heads as she passes. She does not pay them any heed, but Finney is not fooled: The governor is a dramatic sight, and she knows it.

“Grandmother, may I present Miss Fiona Grace? Miss Grace, Governor Tarquin.”

Devlin reaches for Finney, but she steps aside— casually, as if she does not see his hand—and inclines her head to the governor. “Excellency.”

The old woman raises her brows. “Devlin, did you inform your young lady this is a formal occasion?”

“This is a formal as she gets.”

The governor’s gaze travels from the toes of Finney’s scuffed boots to her fresh-scrubbed face.

Finney clenches her teeth and struggles to keep the fake smile. What she wouldn’t do for a gun right now, but security confiscated hers at the door.

Governor Tarquin smiles—a small, tight obligation of a smile—and moves on to her other guests.

Devlin tilts his chin. “C’mon. Bar’s this way.”

But high-class alcohol is not why Finney

has come to Governor’s Hall. The only reason she bothered to walk through the fancy gates outside is the unfortunate fact that one of the Martina Vega’s best customers requested a particular item be delivered in person.

A pricey little item, too. Captain should have brought it himself—after all, he’s the one with the society manners and the right kind of clothes—but he wasn’t invited. And, unlike Kristoff’s, Finney’s face isn’t plastered all over the constabulary nexus.

Lucky me.

She takes a glass of something amber, clinks the rim against Devlin’s, and downs the contents. He sips his, watching her with a smile. If he’s waiting for her to choke on the conflagration burning down her throat, he’ll be an old man before she lets him see her sweat. She turns, surveying the room, and blinks back involuntary tears.

“You know,” Devlin murmurs in her ear, “we don’t have to stay here.”

Finney hands him her empty glass. “I think I know that guy.”

She crosses the room, smiles at a stranger, nods to a curious onlooker, and strolls behind a group of men dressed in sober colors. Never looking away from his fellows, one of them rests a hand behind his back; Finney slips a rectan-gular data chip into his fingers and continues toward the door.

There are too many people in the way. She can’t breathe.

In this room is the person she hates most



in the universe. The only person she hates. And she has no gun.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. Please, get me out of here.

“Now, now, Miss Grace.” Devlin snakes an arm around her waist. “Not yet.”

#

A commotion at the front of the bar—shouted curses, a couple of thuds, a grunt—and Ezra looked over his shoulder. A young man staggered through the open doorway and slammed against the nearest table. “Hey!” He lifted a near-empty bottle in the Vega crew’s direction. “You following me?”

Holmes cursed, and Corrigan growled. He thrust aside the bar tramp, and she shot him a mouthful of unfriendliness. He clamped a hand over her mouth, shoved her backward, and she dropped, wide-eyed and silent, into a chair.

“Turner was close to broke,” Corrigan rumbled. “Said something about doing a little stevedore work for the fare home, maybe even sticking around in Port Henry for awhile, but there weren’t any ships docking but the Vega.”

Ezra nodded. “So where’d he get the money to get drunk?”

“Maybe he just used what he had. Lost restraint.” Holmes slurped up the last of his root beer through the straw. “Known to happen. Bars and stuff.”

Wyatt sighed, pushed back from the table, stood, hitched up his belt, and walked over to

Turner.

The younger man grinned and opened his arms wide. “Hey, old man. Let me buy you a drink.”

Wyatt kicked a chair toward him. “Siddown.”

“Think I’ll”—Jink Turner wobbled, caught himself on the table again—”stand. C’mon! I got enough to buy everyone on the Vega—ev-eryone in this bar—enough drinks to make ‘em actually be glad they’re on the central rock, so close to government interference.”

Wyatt crossed his arms. “Where’d you get the cash?”

Turner patted his pants pockets, shirt pockets, back pockets. Pulled out a wad of folded bills.

The crew of the Martina Vega set down their drinks and rose from their seats.

Turner’s usual sarcasm mixed with drunken gloating. “’Nough for everybody.”

“So you said.” Ezra’s fist itched to reach out and tap Turner’s chin. “Where’d you get it?”

“Didn’t I tell you? Fellas in brown metal-weave shirts asked me a few questions, paid me for the answers.”

Corrigan sucked his teeth. “Questions?”

“Yeah. ‘Bout the ship. ‘Bout the pilot—what’s ‘er name?”

The men of the Vega looked at one another, faces grim. Ezra stepped forward, but Wyatt

put a hand on his shoulder. Corrigan smiled, and looked all the scarier. “Finney. What about her?”

“Which way she went. What she looked like.” Turner shrugged, squinted, lowered himself carefully into the chair. “Sh-somethin’s wrong with the gyro.”

Corrigan palmed the back of Turner’s head and bounced his forehead off the scarred wooden table. “Room’ll stop spinnin’ after you’ve had a little nap.”

“Dang it, Cor!” Wyatt plucked the cash from Turner’s slack hand. “Now we’re gonna have to find Finney the hard way.”

With a guilty look, Corrigan curled his hand into a fist, then opened it and let it fall to his side.

A gaggle of officers in the dark blue uniforms of the sky constabulary force, and with a merchant insignia on their sleeves, clogged the doorway then rushed to the bar, laughing and talking. The Orpheus crew, slumming it on shore leave.

Ezra frowned at Wyatt—When did they wharf?—but the steward shrugged. The gov-ernment dock was on the far side of Port Henry, near the admiralty and Parliament.

Another round of silent communication as the crew glanced at one another, heads averted so the Orpheus crew wouldn’t take too much notice. Wyatt raised his brows, Sahir smiled, and Corrigan loosened his shoulders and popped his neck.

Ezra nodded. “Let’s do it.”



Wyatt tossed a couple of bills at their table then led the way to the game outside.

Pale, his face glistening with sweat, Captain Kristoff didn’t look up at the crew. There were ten marbles on the ground beside him; there were twelve beside Big Bryson Fry. Only a red aggie, a tiger-stripe, and a couple of cat’s-eyes remained inside the circle. Hand shaking, Kristoff took aim.

He shot. The marble leapt across the space and knocked one of the cat’s-eyes out of the circle, and the shooter rolled to a stop just outside the white powdered-chalk outline. The captain reached for the two marbles but pulled back his hand and hunched over, grimacing.

Grinning, Big Bryson Fry knelt in a shooting position and sighted across the circle.

Now.

Ezra jostled Holmes’ elbow. Holmes frowned at Ezra and pushed him in the chest. Ezra shoved him hard enough to knock him into Corrigan, who shoved him back toward Ezra, toppling the two young men into Wyatt.

On the ground, Wyatt grabbed a bystand-er’s leg and pulled him down. Ezra curled himself into a ball, arms over his head, as the man fell across him, cursing. Ezra scrambled free of the tangle and leapt up in time to see Sahir belly-bump Fry’s bodyguard—then, with a war whoop, sit on him.

The shiny box broke open, scattering marbles across the dirt, tripping bystand-ers and combatants. Fry crouched beside the circle, arms and hands outspread like a mother bird sheltering its young. He looked more like

a stunned child.

A man lunged at Corrigan, and the mechanic slammed one meaty fist into his shoulder. The crack of breaking bone set Ezra’s teeth on edge. Then Corrigan stepped past his moaning victim, lifted the captain, and carried him beyond the melee.

“Ez!” Sahir lifted a drawstring bag over his head. Fry’s bodyguard writhed and kicked and flailed, but Sahir just wriggled his butt as if settling into a comfy chair, and further condensed the bodyguard’s chest.

Dodging punches and falling bodies, Ezra reached the cook’s side, grabbed the bag, ducked under an arm but was still knocked sideways by a glancing blow, regained his footing, and plowed through to the alley. Corrigan ran past on the street, the captain slung over one shoulder and Turner over the other.

Ezra pounded down the alley, Holmes at his heels.

Behind them, shouts and shrill whistles signaled the port constables had arrived.

Ezra ran up the street, veered into another alley, and crawled through an obstacle course of barrels and crates, arriving on the docks just as Corrigan came into view, the captain pro-testing “the invalid treatment.”

The mechanic put him down, and Kristoff collapsed into a heap like a stringless puppet.

“Now, see, cap? That’s what I was trying to avoid.” Corrigan stepped over him and put out a hand, continuing forward until his palm

pressed against the security field around the Vega. Light outlined his fingers then his body. The cargo doors slid open, and the gangplank descended. He dropped the still-unconscious Turner, hoisted the captain over his shoulder again, and carried him aboard ship.

Breathing hard, Holmes bent at the waist and rested his bandaged hands on his knees. In the distance, the keening of constable whistles drew closer.

Ezra slapped Holmes on the shoulder—”C’mon”—then grabbed Turner by the heels and dragged him up the gangplank. After a moment, Holmes followed, his steps stumbling. The shallow rise and oblique angle made for easy movement of freight, but it was steep when one was already exhausted.

At the top, Ezra looked back. Grizzle-haired Wyatt and Sahir, his belly jiggling up and down, puffed as they ran along the dock—well, moved more at a fast slog than a run—and both paused at the bottom of the gangway. Wheezing, Sahir gripped Wyatt’s shoulder; the steward listed to port under the weight of the cook’s hand.

“Hey, boys, want me to toss you a rope?”

Wyatt glared up at Ezra, made a rude gesture. Then, supporting one another, the two oldest crewmembers hauled themselves up the ramp.

#

Curses and threats following her down the corridor, Captain Iona Zoltana waved her dogtags across the security scan, the brig doors slid open, and she and her crew stepped into



the holding zone between the cells and the entry. The metal-reinforced glass doors closed with a hiss as the air pressure changed. In the Port Henry brig, prisoners were given less oxygen—just under normal levels—than free citizens. Marty and his pirates could whinge at the top of their lungs all the planetary day long, but they’d just wear themselves down.

“Don’t they ever shut up?” Ensign Gaines scowled back down the corridor.

“A sleepy prisoner is a happy prisoner.”

“Ma’am?”

Zoltana smiled slightly—”Mind the gap”—and gripped the handrail.

The holding zone shot sideways, and Gaines tottered into the wall and dropped his rifle. It skittered across the floor. The rest of the escort squad grinned as Gaines righted himself, red-faced and scowling, and grabbed the rail.

At the guard station, a man in a standard dark blue uniform saluted. The ensign of the government fleet marked his right sleeve: the gold interlocking rings of three planets. “Captain Zoltana.”

She returned the salute.

“I’m Liaison Officer Krieger. I’ve been sent to escort you to the admiralty, captain. Your detail is free to accompany us.”

“Officer Krieger.” Zoltana strode toward the exit. “Anything you can tell me on the way?”

“I don’t have the details, captain.”

“Then give me the scuttlebutt.”

Krieger waved his ID at the scanner, and the exterior door opened. “There’s been some chatter about Governor Bat’Alon’s daughter being aboard the freighter Martina Vega. Possible kidnapping.”

He looked puzzled when Zoltana laughed.

#

Kristoff pressed a clean wad of gauze over the wound while Ezra applied a fresh bandage. “Any word from Alerio or Mercedes?”

Ezra shook his head. “Big Bryson Fry’s outside with the constables, though, freaking out and demanding you return his money and his marbles.”

“Return his marbles? That’s a mite personal.”

Three staticky blips on their radios.

“The back door.” Kristoff reached for his shirt, saw the bright bloom of red on the front, and left it on the cot. He grabbed Ezra’s shoulder and stood. “Let’s go.”

At the rear hatch, Corrigan prodded the shoulder of a uniformed official. “Here’s a present for you, cap. By the way, Zoltana’s here. The Orpheus landed before our little dustup.”

A bruise marked the harbormaster’s forehead, and blood trickled from his nose.

Kristoff crossed his arms. “So, I figure the extraction team paid you for information and then paid you a little extra to keep your mouth

shut. Figure it’s not the first time you came to that arrangement. Figure that’s why you’re not looking so good right now—Corrigan had to do a little convincing.”

The harbormaster glared.

“Lock him in the cage with Turner,” said Kristoff. “I’ll question them there.”

Three radio blips, and a fist pounded on the exterior door of the airlock. Corrigan hit the release button, the door slid open, and Alerio and Mercedes rushed inside, almost stumbling over themselves.

“What’s with the welcoming committee out front, captain?” Then Alerio looked at Corrigan, eyebrows raised. “And what’s with the lipstick?”

Ears and throat bright red, Corrigan scrubbed at the smear on the corner of his mouth.

Kristoff addressed the harbormaster. “I have one question. If it’s answered to my sat-isfaction, I’ll ask you another one, and so on. When I’m done, we let you go. If you don’t comply or you lie, you ride in our cage for a while until I decide whether or not to tie you to the nose of my ship or feed you to the exhaust. Agreed?”

After a couple seconds, the harbormaster nodded.

“The extraction team—did they come by merchant, freighter, yacht?”

“Runner.”

“Runner.”



“Y-yes, sir. A catamaran, big enough to hold maybe ten men.”

“Second question, same rules: name or numbers?”

“Desert camouflage, no decals.”

“Anyone on the team address anyone else by name?”

The official shook his head.

“Gear?”

“Brown uniforms, like desert troops wear. Metal-weave. Guns look like government issue.”

Government issue. That meant more fire power than anything the Vega crew carried. Excellent. Stinkin’ excellent. “Corrigan, toss this man out. Alerio, get these engines juiced. Mercedes, there’s a man in the cage needs your attention. Ezra, help me up to the wheel-house.”

“The wheelhouse?” Mercedes crossed her arms and didn’t move. “Captain, when did quenya bugs consume your brain?”

“Hey, sweet mind like mine would make pretty good eatin’.”

Doc did not look amused.

Kristoff tapped Ezra’s shoulder, and the two of them continued toward the companionway.

“What’s the plan, captain?”

“Fry’s small fry”—Kristoff’s mouth tipped at the corner—”but with the Port Henry con-stabulary and Orpheus crew out there, and an

extraction team on the prowl, we need to get airborne quick. We can set down somewhere outside the city, and figure out a plan.”

Ezra frowned. “But what about Finney, captain? Or Rebeka? We can’t leave them!”

“Miss Bat’Alon isn’t part of my crew, and she’s a spy. Don’t care how much she loves her daddy, if she comes near this ship again, I just might shoot her. As for Finney—” Finney. Kristoff cleared his throat. “Sometimes, Ez, you have to circle back around.”

#

Two young men stepped forward to support the old woman, and she shuffled across the courtyard toward Finney. “Strong, are they not? They could snap me, crumble my bones as one crumbles a cracker, but they know there are many kinds of power.” Her gaze was cold as black space.

The corner of Finney’s mouth lifted in a half smile. “Obsession. That’s a kind of power.”

One of the men strode forward and slapped her with the back of his hand. Her head snapped sideways, and she staggered.

#

Devlin staggers against a vase taller than he is, and its crash silences the ballroom. People turn and stare. Governor Tarquin narrows her eyes and glares at Finney, who wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She’s enjoyed her share of recreation, but this isn’t fun, mutual, or on the agenda.

Finney works her fingers, red from their impact with Devlin’s face. I miss my gun. She heads for the door but is blocked by guards in black helmets. They stand with rifles across their chests, ready but not yet in kill mode.

“My apologies, Grandmother.” Devlin touches the corner of his mouth, dabbing at the blood. “Should have seen that coming.”

“Indeed. When one invites the common element.” The governor waves a hand. “Escort this—person—to the door.”

The guards surround Finney.

Now, or she’ll always regret not trying.

She grabs the rifle from the guard to her right, knocks him down, turns, and ploughs down the men behind her by throwing herself against them. She rolls across the floor, rises on one knee—aims at the governor.

#

Finney righted herself, tasted the blood inside her mouth. “Still don’t do anything yourself. Means you get to keep your hands clean—claim innocence. Is that how Parliament thought of you when you ordered Andronicus Settlement burned?”

Anger blazed in the old woman’s eyes. “It was a known refuge for rebels—”

“My grandfather didn’t know the name of the rebel leader! He was a retired admiral and a law officer—a faithful servant to his govern-ment—and he died at the orders of a harbor governor with delusions of power.”



The young man drew back his fist to hit her again, but Finney looked at him, dared him. He lowered his hand.

#

Finney ignores the blur of movement out of the corner of her eye—it’s probably only one of the guards making a run at her—and squeezes the trigger.

Open-mouthed, Devlin staggers, staring at her in confused surprise.

#

“Admiral Cunningham sheltered the rebels who stole my goods, and you work for a captain who supplies stolen goods to the rebels.” The old woman walked forward a few steps on her own power. “You killed my grandchild. I will kill Cunningham’s.” She laughed, and the sound was harsh, dry, triumphant. “Justice truly is poetic.”

The other young man tossed a drawstring bag to the bounty hunters behind Finney.

The old woman slumped but her protectors held her upright. Breathless, as if her moment of victory exhausted her, “Twice that, Gregor, when you bring me the crew of the Martina Vega.”

#

“Strap in, Ezra.”

“No disrespect, captain, but where are we going?”

Kristoff moved awkwardly, and pain punched him in the chest. Gritting his teeth, he clenched the arm of the pilot’s chair. Exhaled slowly. “The desert. Even a catamaran can’t penetrate the atmosphere by itself, so the extraction team has to be somewhere on-planet.”

“Unless they just flew that runner back to a larger ship docked somewhere else.”

That was a distinct possibility.

Over the radio, “Engines ready, captain.”

“On your mark, Alerio.”

But as the Vega rose from her slip, she lurched to port and ceased ascent.

“Alerio, report.”

“All systems on line, captain.”

Ezra unbuckled the harness, rose from his seat, and stood before the broad forward port that spanned the front of the wheelhouse. “Captain”—his voice sounded funny—”it’s out there.” Kristoff fumbled his hand over the keypad, entering the telescreen codes. An exterior image appeared. A grappling line shot past the bow. The ship jerked to starboard. The engines whined, their upward thrust pulling against the anchors.

Kristoff unsnapped the radio above the pilot’s console and pressed the talk button. “Attention, all hands. Kill the engines. Check all weapons. Prepare to be boarded.”

Keanan Brand

Keanan Brand used to play marbles with his brother and some of the neighbor-hood kids in rural Oregon, and became a fair hand at the game, carrying around his own mesh bag with a population that fluctuated depending on the results of the game. Anybody else remember steelies? Cat’s eyes? Tiger stripes?

FYI: No references to other science fiction or to Veggie Tales this time, but there’s a one-word nod to The Lord of the Rings in this episode. Hint: It’s near the end.

Keep up with Keanan on his website at http://adventuresinfiction.blogspot.com/

http://adventuresinfiction.blogspot.com/

Deuces Wild, Season Two, Chapter 7: Suicide Run, Part Two by L. S. King Pg. 66


When we last left our heroes, they had taken the job of breaking the blockade to deliver supplies to a colony on Regesh III. En route, Slap discovered Addie had stowed away and warned her to keep out of sight. Slap, Tristan, and Carter managed to get to the surface of the blockaded planet without incident but as they unloaded the last of the cargo, Confed-eration soldiers and mercenaries surrounded them, rifles drawn, under direction of one of Tristan’s old familiars, Reggie Granger.

#

Slap took in the scene, looking for a way of escape—or a chance to fight. Except for the

three soldiers charged with guarding Carter, the Confeds and Granger’s men stood at the edge of the clearing, weapons trained on Slap and his friends, an impressive and deadly half circle. Carter sat in the gravlift, at the end of the ramp, looking sick.

Tristan, standing near Slap, didn’t move—he had locked his gaze with Granger’s, unintimi-dated by the man’s smarmy, superior attitude, his eyes smoldering like black coals. Granger’s men stepped forward, closing the distance to the ship.

“Out of the ‘lift, Donegal,” one of the Confeds said.

Carter slowly climbed down, face pale.

The commander gestured a second time, and several Confed soldiers crossed the

clearing. This time their rifles were aimed at Slap. One of Granger’s men stepped forward possessively, PBR raised. “Mr. Granger?”

Granger turned, and he frowned, his eyes narrowing. “He comes with me.”

The commander strode forward, shaking his head. “My superiors want this one.”

Slap tried not to hunch—what would either of them want with him?

“Our deal, Commander Baldwin,” Granger said, in a tone one would use to correct an errant child, “was to help you get your AWOL mad scientist back. This boorish bumpkin is of no concern to you.”

“Our deal, Mr. Granger,” the commander replied tersely, “was to help you capture that pirate—and only because he was in our way as much as yours. This Separatist is necessary for our war efforts against the Eridani.”

Uh oh! I ain’t goin’ back to that place! Slap looked around at all the weapons pointed at him. He couldn’t fight, not all of them; but he wasn’t going back. If he had to make them kill him, he wasn’t going back!

Granger laughed—low and soft, and a shiver whipped up Slap’s spine. The man’s silky voice, fancy Dapper Dan clothes, and manner masked...what? Something...something horrible. Evil. Sure, Tristan could be smooth and high-falutin’—yet dangerous underneath, but not without...without a soul.

“Oh, come now. How can one uneducated hick make or break your war with Eridani?”

Baldwin drew his PBG. “He’s ours.”

Granger barely lifted one eyebrow, but his men all swung their rifles to point at the commander. “I think...” His lip curled slightly in a smile. “...not.”

Baldwin cursed at Granger, fingering his weapon, as he carefully lowered it. The colorful imagery of the profanity drew Slap’s attention—none of it was possible, anatomi-cally, but it was highly imaginative—even as he glanced at Tristan for direction; certainly his friend would find a way to put this hitch in their captors’ plans to good use.

A loud whine rose behind Slap, and he turned to stare at Bertha’s engines, his surprise turning to shock as he saw them pivoting up. Is she taking off? What—?

Someone slammed into Slap, knocking him face first into the grass, his breath jarred from his lungs. Hot dirt peppered his skin. The wash from the engines let up, and Tristan’s voice in his ear hissed, “Let’s go!”

Slap bounded up and ran for the ship. Everyone had either hit the ground or been rolled away by the wash, and only a few were struggling to their feet. Carter had been closer; he was already up the ramp and standing by the controls.

Tristan’s game leg slowed his pace, and he

Deuces Wild, Season TwoChapter 7: Suicide Run, Part Two by L. S. King



fell behind—Slap whipped around, grabbing Tristan around the waist, and continued on, half-carrying his friend.

He expected to be fried by a particle beam or hit by some other weapon any second—nearby sizzles and pings told of near misses by the chasing men. He dove for the rising ramp, Tristan beside him. They barely made it; the ramp tumbled them the rest of the way inside as it shut.

The engines’ whine rose again. Tristan leapt to his feet and tore for the nearest ladder as fast as his limp allowed. He didn’t even ask who could have started the engines—did he know about Addie? How did the girl know how to start engines anyway? Slap followed, half out of curiosity, half to intervene before Tristan could kill her for stowing away.

Partway up the ladder, the ship tilted, and he hung on until Bertha straightened up again. That addle-brained gal ain’t trying to fly the ship, is she?

Slap got to the bridge seconds behind Tristan, just in time to hear him snarl, “Out of the way!” and snatch Addie out of the pilot’s chair by her arm.

“You could at least say thank you,” she spluttered.

“Hush, Little Girl! Don’t distract him. Let him get us outta here.”

Addie actually shut up. Slap shoved her into the co-pilot’s seat as the ship rose through the air.

“Fighters incoming,” Tristan murmured.

Slap reached past Addie and brought up a display. Sure enough, lots of red blips were headed their way.

“Time for one pass. Hold on.”

The ship twisted like a corkscrew and headed back around, with all four plasma cannons firing—each targeting a different troop shuttle. Slap’s stomach flipped, not from any feeling of the motion, since the inertial dampers were doing their job, but from the visual of flying upside-down.

“What are you doing?” Addie shouted.

“The top turrets can’t hit targets on the ground unless the ship is belly-up,” Carter said from over the comm.

Slap switched to monitor for a moment to show the grounded ships aflame. Bertha finished her pass and lifted through the clouds. He brought the first display back up and dug his fingers into the back of Addie’s seat. “The fighters are almost on us!”

“Are we the green thingie?” Addie asked, pointing.

“Yes, and the other ships are red,” Slap whispered. “Now, shh!”

Bertha climbed higher but then rocked and shuddered—Addie gave a frightened cry. Slap could feel a change; he had to hold on to the chair tightly now to just keep his balance. Tristan swore one earthy word, flicking the comm open. “Carter?”

“Fore upper deck inertial dampers and grav are compromised.”

Tristan’s jaw muscles jumped. “How long to fix them?”

“Not sure, Sir. Working on it.”

“We’re easy targets in the air or on the ground—make it fast!”

“Understood, Sir.”

“What are you gonna do?” Slap asked.

“Flying is dangerous—we can be smeared into jelly as I try to avoid them. But landing would make us an easy target.”

Slap nodded. “Yeah, like shooting ducks in a barrel.”

Bertha shook again, and Addie squealed.

“Strap in,” Slap said to her.

The ship rocked, and Addie scrambled to secure herself. Slap was only saved from being flung into the bulkhead by his grip on the chair.

“What’s going to happen?” Addie whispered, her eyes wide.

“Carter...” Tristan growled.

“Doing my best, Sir. I’m activating the emergency cross-links on the waveguide conduits from the other three generators into the failed generator’s waveguides...” Carter’s voice faded out and back, “I’m boosting the power output of the other three generators. There! That should be enough to last use until I can properly fix it.”

Whatever Carter said he was doing must have worked; Slap found he could stand without



feeling like he was going to slam sideways.

Tristan banked the ship to begin assault on the Confed ships firing on them. With Bertha’s weaponry and Tristan’s piloting, the fight wasn’t that long, but it seemed like it to Slap as he watched the red blips glow yellow and blink out. Tristan’s face was intent, but he had a gleam in his eye—was it the piloting, the fight, or merely the challenge that energized him?

Just as the last fighter disappeared from the display, Carter’s voice cut in: “Uh, Captain, we have a problem.”

“What?”

“A battle fleet just arrived.”

Tristan muttered under his breath. “Are you sure it’s a full fleet?”

“Yes, Sir. I’m reading three battleships, a command carrier, two assault carriers, six—”

“I don’t need a run down.” Tristan dove Bertha down toward the planet again, plunging under the clouds.

“All those ships just for us?” Slap asked.

“They were probably on stand-by as rein-forcements for the blockade,” Carter said. “And either when we took off or when we blew their troop shuttles, they responded.”

“It seems overkill,” Slap muttered. “Why all that for one out-of-the-way planet?”

“Carter, is our signal still masked?”

“Yes, Sir, and I’ve already disabled the warhead transponder we’d used upon entry.”

“So, we’re sight-only?”

“Yes, Sir. Unless they launch directed scanner probes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I can try to fly this thing past an armada—or hide. Any suggestions for a third alternative?”

“Well...” Carter drew out that one word in a way that made Slap wince.

“Sane alternatives,” Tristan quickly amended.

Bertha was so low now, she almost skipped over the tops of the snow-covered mountains. Slap’s stomach complained at the swoops and turns as Tristan wove around cliffs and craggy, icy tors. Addie let out one alarmed squawk, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

“They’ll launch the probes,” Tristan muttered. “We need to mask ourselves. Carter, can you use the multi-spectral analyzer? Look for concentrated metal deposits?”

“Already doing that, Sir.”

Time seemed to race faster than both ol’ Bertha and Slap’s heart rate, but when Carter finally spoke, it wasn’t reassuring. “We have an interesting development, Captain. I think Slap hit on it earlier. Why would the Confederation take such an interest in this planet?”

“I don’t want questions—I want answers,” Tristan hissed. “We’re running out of time.”

“I know, Sir, and this complicates things. There’s a base north of us. I’m giving you the coordinates now. Not that I think we should get

too close, but we might want to take a peek. From the size, I’d guess it’s a ground hub for forward operations.”

Slap’s mouth dropped open. “They want to foray into the Cygnus Hegemony when they’re already at war with Eridani? Are they crazy?”

Carter’s answering snort said it all.

“The Eridani war was not expected to last this long,” Tristan put in. “They thought it would be an easy win. Their expansion here was probably put on hold, and they’ve been blockading this world as a way to hide this base—and their plans.”

“But the blockade itself shows everyone they want to expand in this direction.” Slap scratched his head, his curly hair tangling in his fingers. “I don’t get it.”

“There’s a difference between staking a claim to pioneer a planet that’s in an ambiguous section of space, and building a base to use as a hub for your fleet so you can begin an incursion.” Tristan’s fingers pulled up a second display for a few moments, then it disappeared. “Base noted, but I’m not getting any closer to get any further information. Give me coordinates that help us, Carter. We have to hide now.”

“This mountain range has lots of canyons, caves, mines—”

“Pick one.”

“Yes, Sir. This looks good.”

Tristan’s eyes flicked at his read-outs. “Copy that. Let’s get out of sight.”



Bertha shivered—the gravity wavered, Addie screamed as the klaxon blared, the lights blinked out leaving only the emergency lights in the bulkheads. Slap’s stomach wobbled up and down, making him clench his jaw and swallow repeatedly.

Tristan flicked his hand to a switch. The warning alarm silenced, but Addie didn’t. Carter was saying something but Slap couldn’t hear for the caterwauling.

“Shut her up.” Tristan ordered.

The lights came up, and down stayed firmly down. Addie stopped and gulped back a sob, her knuckles white as she clutched the arm rests. Slap let his breath out, relieved his breakfast wasn’t about to become bulkhead decorations. He patted the girl’s shoulder, as much to calm himself as her, and murmured, “Hush, gal, hush, now. Don’t distract Tristan.”

Face pale, Addie nodded, leaning back in the chair as if it could protect her.

“We’ve got company, Captain,” Carter said. “Not Confederation. It’s your friend.”

“Turn about is fair play,” Tristan muttered as he pulled Bertha up and looped—flying upside-down. Slap leaned forward again and changed the display once again.

Tristan attacked Granger’s ship—or tried to. Granger’s pilot did some sort of roll and came around, trying to get on Tristan’s tail, just like Tristan was trying to do to theirs.

“Captain,”—Carter’s voice was edgy—”they have weaponry on par with ours. This could get messy.”

A new voice filtered through. “Don’t be stupid, Gaston. Our ship can annihilate yours. The Confederation fleet will blast you without a thought. I’ll take you out of here—and your friends, since they seem to mean so much to you.”

Tristan’s lip curled in a slight sneer, then it converted to...something unreadable. He hit several switches on the comm. “What guarantee can you give me, Reggie? How do I know you won’t just space my friends, or strand them here, or give them to the Confeds?”

“You used to trust me implicitly.” The tone dripped with insincere hurt.

“Used to.”

“This does present a problem, doesn’t it, then. I tell you what, we will start by ceasing our attack on you. Reciprocate?”

The yacht pulled back, weapons no longer firing. The two ships flew in loose tandem. Slap was pleased he could read the display enough to see Tristan kept a lock on their ship.

“My finger remains poised.”

A dark chuckle. “The Confederation would rather kill you all than let their mad genius get away again. However, they are my—albeit temporary—allies. They’ll let me leave without question. I can get you away from this planet. All of you.” A pause. “You don’t really have much choice.”

Tristan lips pursed, his fingers moving over the console in easy, practiced motions, and second display popped up showing little blue dots far above the planet. “I do want to get my

engineer friend away from here unharmed. He has some new ideas the Confeds would love to get their hands on, however I don’t trust you, and that’s not likely to change.” He tapped the console. “Carter, get ready to blow that blockade carrier with one of your MITEs when the time is right.”

“Uh...yes, Sir.”

Another tap. “Give me a sign of good faith that you’ll help us and not your Confederation allies.”

“Any suggestions?” Granger responded. “We don’t have much time, you know. A fleet has arrived.”

“Think about it for a minute. You’re creative.” Tristan paused, his eyes crinkling slightly, lips pursed in what Slap now recog-nized as his attempt to not smile.

The silence grew; Slap tried not to fidget. He thought he knew what Tristan was up to, but he couldn’t be sure.

One of the dots blipped to yellow, and in a few seconds, Granger’s voice broke the quiet with maddened invectives. Tristan cut him off: “Good show, Reggie! I do think trying to destroy one of their carriers will definitely hurt your shaky alliance.”

“You! You did that! How would I have the means to attempt an assault on one of their ships?”

“You think we did that?” Tristan’s voice was all astonishment. “When were we even near their craft? I would wager you’ve been aboard their ships, and I wouldn’t doubt Dray has his



spies in the Confederation, like Jacek Polk in the Cirque.”

Granger’s reply was physical—his ship began firing on Bertha again, but Tristan was already diving, evading.

Slap couldn’t resist. “What are you up to, Tristan?”

“Confusion to the enemy.”

“Which enemy?”

“Exactly.” Tristan switched out the planetary display for another, still trading shots with Granger’s ship.

“Could you chew it fine?” Slap grumbled.

“He had the channel open when talking to Reggie,” Carter said. “The Confeds heard the whole thing. So they now have doubts about how trustworthy he is.”

“Not to mention, my desire of keeping Carter’s ‘new ideas’ from them, giving them pause in shooting first. They want Carter back badly.”

“Not sure that’s a plus, Captain. They might try harder for me now.”

“What’s so special about Carter?” Addie asked, wrinkling her nose.

Slap scowled. “I’m more interested in the ship shootin’ at us.”

“You’ve even got me a bit concerned over that, Captain. This dogfight can’t last much longer.”

“It won’t.”

Tristan pulled some whirled-up, corkscrew-ish thing and ended up heading straight for Granger’s ship—firing everything they had, it looked like. Granger’s red target dot turned yellow. It broke away, trailing smoke.

Slap whooped, and Addie cheered, clapping her hands.

“Now to hide before probes can find us,” Tristan muttered. Again, mountains loomed below as they dropped under the clouds. Bertha slipped and dipped in spaces so narrow that Slap gulped and clutched the seat’s back. Rock face seemed to almost scrape the ship, and the light dimmed as mountains blocked the sun.

They dove lower, and soon entered a grotto. The cave was huge; Slap hoped it was empty. “Can those probes find us in here?”

“Not likely.” Tristan set Bertha down without a bump.

“Not impossible, either,” Carter added.

Great. “So now what?”

“Carter can work on the inertial dampers and grav.” Tristan unstrapped and glared at Slap. “Keep her away from me. I have too much to do to deal with—”

Addie scrambled up, following Tristan to the door. “Hey, I saved your lives!”

“No, you merely ended an awkward situation, for which I will not dump you here—which is my first inclination.”

“You can’t even say thank you?”

“You never do,” he said over his shoulder, striding away.

Addie stomped a foot, eyes flashing.

“Leave it be. We have trouble crowdin’ around right now. Be glad he’s not overly mad at you for being here.”

“But I did good. You know I did!”

“You did. But you know, sometimes you gotta do the right thing even if no one knows or gives you credit. Think about that, Little Girl.”

Addie stuck her fists on her hips, her head tilted, eyes narrowed. “You sound more like my old aunt than a cowboy, you know that?”

Slap grinned. “Well, as long as I don’t look like your aunt.” He paused, wishing he could make her understand. She wouldn’t, but he found himself saying it anyway: “The world ain’t about you—you want folks to like you, try doing for them, without wanting anything back.” He shook a finger at her. “Now, stay away from Tristan.”

“Yes, Auntie.” She stuck out her tongue and flounced off.

Slap rolled his eyes. He couldn’t do much to help fix the ship or get them off planet, but at least he could make sure they were all fed. He ambled to the galley, trying not to think of the fleet above their heads somewhere, searching for them. How were they ever going to get off the planet now?



To catch up on previous episodes of the adventures of Slap and Tristan, visit: http://loriendil.com/DW.php

Deuces Wild is dedicated to the memory of my best friend; my inspiration for an enduring friendship...http://loriendil.com/Starsky/

L. S. KingL. S. King is a science fiction and fantasy writer with one book, several published short stories, a column on writing, and an ongoing monthly serial story to her cred-it.When on the planet, this mother and grandmother lives in Delaware with her husband Steve, homeschools their young-est child, and also works as a gymnastics coach. In her non-existent spare time she enjoys gardening, soap making, reading, and online gaming. She also likes Looney Tunes, the color purple, and is a Zorro afi-cionado, which might explain her love of swords and cloaks.

http://loriendil.com/DW.php

http://loriendil.com/Starsky/

This Raygun for Hire: The Great Author Affair, by John M. Whalen Pg. 72


“I want you to take me to where the pirates are,” James Joyce Jameson, famous author

and Holovision raconteur said, as he took a dainty sip of aperitif from a crystal goblet. “I’m told you know Esteban Romero personally.”

Frank Carson sat back in his chair and gazed across the table at the small, thin, wiry-looking man sitting across from him. They were in a space port lounge orbiting the planet Tulon. Through the window behind Jameson, Carson could see a giant oil tanker just breaking free from the planet’s gravity as it hauled another shipment of Tulon Crude. People were madly killing each other back on planet Earth, and they needed the oil to keep the machines of war running, so they could go on living and killing.

“Why do you want to meet Romero?” Carson asked. “He’s a dangerous man.”

“Research,” Jameson said. “As you may know, I’ve written several pirate novels. Best sellers. Perhaps you’ve read one of them?”

“Can’t say I have,” Carson said. “I don’t read today’s best sellers. Books aren’t what they used to be. I prefer the old classics.”

“All those words?” Jameson said. “How do you have the time? So bothersome. The new Brain Books are much more convenient.” Jameson polished off his drink and poured another from a decanter. “Publishing has changed a great deal in the last 150 years,” he said. “It started in the early twenty-first century

with e-books. They eventually replaced hard copy, bound books. Of course the transition was made possible by the fact that people really didn’t have time to read. And with the average attention span dwindling to about nine milli-seconds, flash fiction became the rage. Whole stories in 500 words. They eventually got them down to one word. But that only worked because of Brain Fusion technology—the mini, computerized Brain Book Reading Unit.

“For example, most romance novels now contain only one word: LUST. But the reading unit wirelessly transmits an entire tale of lust to the brain in half a nano-second, giving the reader a complete erotic experience. My book, Pirates on the Rim of the Dark World, has only one word: Treachery! But the unit sends a complete tale of treachery on the outer rim in such vivid detail you can taste the ozone in the air.”

“From just one word?”

“It’s the data encrypted into the reading unit as backup that makes the difference. That’s where the real work of an author lies.”

“Fascinating,” Carson said. “What do you mean ‘research’?”

Jameson set his glass down and leaned forward confidentially. “To be frank, Mr. Carson, my books, well written as they are, are only the purest of fiction. When I began them I knew nothing of pirates or space travel. All I knew was that a pirate is a romantic character. A

swashbuckler. A man of derring-do. Everything I knew about pirates came from other books.”

“Is that what you think Romero is? A romantic hero of some kind?”

“He certainly cuts a dashing figure,” Jameson said.

“That’s what the media made of him. The truth as always lies in a different direction. I wouldn’t call Esteban Romero a hero. But he does have a certain code he lives by, and he’s not like most of the others. At least he and his Black Vulture crew attack only League ships. The other space scum who call themselves pirates prey on unarmed ships. They hijack ships, cargo, crew, and hold them for ransom. Space pirates in general are the lowest form of life in the Universe, Mr. Jameson. The ones working around the Tarnesian belt raid villages and kidnap young girls, some twelve and thirteen years old and sell them as sex slaves—that is the ones they haven’t raped or killed themselves. Your romantic notions of piracy couldn’t be further from the truth.”

Jameson cupped his hand around the glass goblet on the table. “Nevertheless, Mr. Carson, I have to meet Romero. You see, my editor barely green-lighted my last book. She said there wasn’t enough authentic detail. She can be a bitch when she wants to be. I need to get to where the pirates are. See what they’re like, watch how they operate. Then I’ll be able to feed better data into the reading unit and

This Raygun for Hire The Great Author Affair by John M. Whalen



come out with a better novel.”

“Tell you what, Mr. Jameson,” Carson said. “Why don’t I save you a lot of time and expense. I’ll give you the one word that would be perfect for your next book.”

“What word is that?”

“Garbage.”

Carson started to get up.

“Please, Mr. Carson,” Jameson said. “Don’t leave. Really, I’m in a bind. I have to do this, or my publisher will cancel my contract. Sales of my books have started falling off. They won’t stay with a loser. I understand you’re able to move around Romero and his men unmolest-ed. You saved his life once.”

“That was a long time ago, before he turned renegade.”

“That’s all right. I am prepared, Mr. Carson, to pay you one million Universal Credits to safely take me to Romero and back. I only need a few days with him. A million UC’s for just a few days of your time. What do you say?”

Carson gave the writer a cold look. Almost a look of contempt. The word popinjay popped into Carson’s mind. He thought about the offer. Maybe a dose of reality would do this popinjay some good, he thought. Then he wondered where he got the word popinjay from.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll take you. But two days. That’s all I can spare.”

“Excellent,” Jameson said. He picked up his goblet. “Let’s drink a toast.”

Carson picked up his glass of Synth-Scotch.

“To piracy,” Jameson said.

“To authenticity,” Carson replied.

#

Later the two men climbed aboard Carson’s Gull Wing Strato-Sled, The Corvette, which sat on the spaceport’s landing dock. Jameson carried a small duffle bag, and Carson stowed it behind the seat. He did a quick rundown of the take-off checklist, started the engine, and they lifted off the runway. Once the coor-dinates for their destination were punched into the onboard navigator, he hit the launch sequence button, and, with a flash of blue light, they entered Hyper-Space. Carson let go of the controls and set the autopilot on.

Jameson took a Mini-Comm-Port out of his bag. He held the recording device out closer to Carson.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” he said. “You know, get some background details?”

Carson frowned. “I’m not going to talk into that thing,” he said.

Jameson turned it off. “Very well,” he said with hint of exasperation in his voice. “Then just tell me, how you came to save Romero’s life?”

“You want the whole dog and pony show, eh?” Carson shook his head. “I guess that’s what you’re paying me for.” He shifted in his seat and stared out The Corvette’s windshield

as he began. “We were both pretty young at the time,” Carson said. “I was in a bar one night in Carbonville, down on Tulon. A poker game. I didn’t know Romero. He was just another privateer having a night on the town. He was good at cards. Cleaned everyone at the table out, including me. One of the players didn’t like that much. When Romero picked up his winnings, the fellow pulled a laser knife behind his back. I shot it out of his hand before he could throw it. Romero was grateful. Little did I know that night I saved the life of a man who would be wanted throughout the galaxy for some of the worst crimes ever committed.”

“Are all the charges against him true?” Jameson asked. “I always thought the League just took whatever case they couldn’t solve and blamed it on him.”

“There’s some truth to that,” Carson said. “The League definitely has it in for him. They’re nothing more than a bunch of corrupt politicians. It’s kind of a private war between Romero and The League. But they’ve got all the power.”

Jameson was quiet for moment. Carson sensed something, some inner tension, almost fear, within the writer. Jameson swallowed hard. “Yeah, they’ve got all the power,” he said.

#

Two hours later The Corvette slammed out of Hyper-Drive and Carson saw the purple sphere of the planet Sarna floating in black space ahead. They had journeyed to the back end of the Jerulian Star System,



“This is it?” Jameson said. “This is where he’s been hiding? Of all the places!”

“It’s mostly jungle,” Carson said. “Impene-trable. You can hide anything down there from the League’s Search Beams.”

There was a sudden blinding flash of light, a deafening explosion and The Corvette rocked. Carson cut off the auto pilot and brought the bucking ship under control. Ahead two small Tri-wing fighters seemed to slide into view from nowhere, as they let their Invisi-Shields down.

“Romero’s ships,” Carson said, activating The Corvette’s laser weapons system.

“Stop where you are,” a female voice ordered. Carson hit the intercom.

“We’re friends,” Carson said. “My name is Carson. Where’s Captain Romero? I’ve come to pay your captain a visit.”

There was a brief pause. “Turn your weapons off,” the woman said. “Follow us unless you want to be blasted into vapor where you stand.”

One of the ships began a dive toward Sarna and Carson followed. The second ship waited for The Corvette to pass and followed close on its tail. As they lowered toward the planet, Carson wondered who the woman in the ship was and what had happened to Romero.

#

It was near dusk on Sarna, as Carson followed the pirate ship down to a small clearing cut out of the dense purple jungle that

covered the planet.

“I’ve seen purple plants before, but never a whole purple jungle,” Jameson said, gaping out the window. Giant trees towered in the violet light of twilight, their purple and magenta branches shrouded in a thick blue mist as the last rays of Sarna’s orange sun fell behind the horizon.

“The vegetation is different from what you’re used to. There’s no chlorophyll on Sarna. There’s plenty of rain but not that much sunlight. Enough to make the vegetation grow but not enough for complete photosynthesis. The plants take nourishment more from the water in the soil, which is rich in phosphates. That’s what gives it the purplish color.”

“Interesting.”

Moments later Carson and Jameson stood with their hands up in the clearing where The Corvette had landed, surrounded by a circle of ten scruffy-looking men. An assortment of weapons were aimed at them. A tall, shapely woman with long auburn hair broke through the circle and walked toward them. She wore a black leather outfit that emphasized every curve of her body and she moved with the slinky grace of a jungle cat.

“Throw your weapon down,” she ordered. “Carefully. Kick it over here.”

Carson used two fingers to remove his blaster from the holster Velcroed to his leg and dropped it on the ground. He kicked it toward her with the toe of his boot.

“Where’s Romero?” he asked. “I’m an old friend of his.”

“Silence!” the woman shouted. “I will ask the questions. What are you doing here? Who are you?”

“My name’s Carson. This is James Joyce Jameson. He’s a writer. A famous author.”

The woman’s brow creased in a deep frown. “A writer? What does a writer want here?”

“Research,” Carson said. “Now if you wouldn’t mind telling Romero we’re here—”

The woman stepped closer to Carson, her angry eyes looking him up and down.

“Esteban is not here,” she said. “I am Lee-la. Esteban’s second in command. I am also the woman he loves. When he is not here, I am in charge.”

“Romero left a woman in charge?” Carson asked incredulously.

The woman’s eyes flashed angrily. “And why not?” There was a flash of movement, and Carson felt the point of a dagger just under his chin. “You find this difficult to believe?”

Carson gulped. “No, ma’am,” he said. “Just surprising, that’s all.”

“You had better watch your tongue, if you would not lose it,” Lee-la said. She lowered the blade and turned to Jameson. “And you. What do you write?”

“I write space pirate novels,” Jameson said. “I asked Mr. Carson to bring me to meet with Captain Romero. I want to talk to him. Interview him for research for my next book.”

The woman gaped at him incredulously.



“You came here to make research for a book?” She turned to the men standing around them. “You hear this? This famous author came here to do a book about us. Can you believe anything so foolish? Eh?” She laughed, and the men laughed with her.

“Enough!” Lee-la shouted. Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. She stepped closer to Jameson. “You know what, Mr. Author. I do not believe you, or your friend here. I do not think you came here to write a book about us. No. I think you came here to spy on us. I think you came for the League. I think you wish to betray us to them!”

“No!” Jameson said. “It’s not true.”

“Seize these men,” the woman ordered. “Take them to the stockade. We shall investi-gate this further.”

Six burly men grabbed the prisoners and marched them across the hearing toward a trail that ran deep into the darkening jungle.

#

With torches blazing, the ancient city buried in the jungle seemed as much alive as it must have thousands of years ago when the original inhabitants, a lost race half ape-half human, dwelt there. The stone masonry of the buildings and courtyards bespoke of an intel-ligence, but what had happened to the ancient race that had built the city was now only a mystery.

A small palace, now crumbling but still ser-viceable, stood in the center of the city, sur-rounded by smaller buildings in which pirates

now lived. Now however, most of the present day inhabitants of Sarna’s lost city stood in the vast chamber that served as a meeting hall. Lee-la sat before the throng on a raised dais in what was once a throne carved from stone. Standing at the base of the dais, Carson looked up at the haughty pirate queen and tried to say something. But the shouts of the motley mob behind him drowned him out.

“Quiet!” Lee-la shouted. “The prisoner is trying to speak. Let us hear what he has to say before we execute him.”

“I was just asking where your captain is,” Carson said. “If we could see him, this whole matter could be cleared up in an instant.”

“Captain Romero is not here,” Lee-la said. “I already told you that.”

“Where is he? When will he be back?”

“He’s on a raiding party,” Lee-la said. “He should have been back days ago. We’ve had no word from him. I think he has run into trouble. League trouble.”

She stood up, her eyes fierce. “But why am I telling you something you probably already know? If you are spies for the League you already know what has happened to him.”

Jameson spoke up. “I assure you, madam, we have nothing whatever to do with the League. I am an author, as I told you. I came here to get to know what pirate life is really like.”

Lee-la stared at him, her black eyes almost amused looking. “You are an absurd character,” she said. She turned to Carson. “How is it you

knew how to find us?”

“I’ve been here before,” Carson said. “You weren’t here then. But some of these men must remember me.”

She turned to the crowd. “How about it? Anyone know this man?”

“Aye, Lee-la,” a big, swarthy fellow shouted, stepping forward. “I know him. His name is Carson. He’s a gun for hire. Not much better than a pirate himself.”

The woman looked back at Carson. “Is this true?”

“Part of it,” Carson said. “The gun for hire part.”

She glanced back at the man who had spoken. “Does Captain Romero call him friend?”

“The last time this man was here the captain told him to get out and that if he ever came back, he’d have him executed. I wouldn’t say that sounds very friendly.”

“It was just a misunderstanding,” Carson said. “If he were here, he’d tell you so himself. He’s probably forgotten all about that.”

“What is this?” Jameson said. “I thought you and he—”

“We are. It was just a little argument we had.”

“That’s enough,” Lee-la said. “I will waste no more time with you. We find you guilty of spying. There can be only one sentence for such a crime. Take them to the Pool of Death!”



The mob roared to life, and the two prisoners found themselves pushed and punched to the floor, where they were bound with ropes, hand and foot. Once they were trussed up, Carson and Jameson were lifted up on the men’s shoulders and carried across the throne room floor and out the front door into the street. The shouting throng, sputtering torches in hand and led by Lee-la, marched down the street and out the front gate of the city. Two moons shone in the black sky above and disap-peared as they followed the trail back into the jungle. This they followed, twisting their way through the dense foliage until they came to another small clearing. The men placed their torches in stanchions that had been fashioned out of thick, twisted liana vines all around the periphery of the clearing.

They untied the ropes binding Carson and Jameson’s legs. One of the men picked a fruit growing on one of the trees and tossed it down into the purple floor of the clearing. Carson was astonished when he saw the fruit fall through the clearing floor and water suddenly splashed up. What he had taken for the purple grass common to the planet was actually moss covering what appeared to be a deep pool. Suddenly the water came alive. Half a dozen black, massive, elongated heads jumped up to the surface. Carson stepped back. The pond was full of Croco-saurs. The long-snouted monsters twirled and twisted in the water, angry at being awakened so suddenly.

Carson noticed up ahead a wooden plank stretched out from the floor of the jungle over the pool.

“All right, men,” Lee-la shouted. “These two have been found guilty of spying, and we will now carry out the sentence. Death by the plank!”

Another roar went up into the jungle as the crowd grabbed Carson first and then Jameson. Carson didn’t even try to struggle to free himself. He knew it was futile. His attitude toward death had always been that one day it would come, and when it did, there would be no use fighting the inevitable. Jameson, on the other hand, began screaming, kicking, and biting to get himself free.

In a few moments Carson stood at the edge of the pool, his feet now on the wooden plank that would serve as the path of his last walk.

“Any last words, spy?” Lee-la asked.

“No. Let’s get it over with.”

Jameson erupted in screeches. “Say something, man,” he shouted. “Do something. I hired you to protect me. You were supposed to get me safe passage.”

“You want a refund?”

“Start walking, Carson,” Lee-la ordered. Carson felt something blunt strike him in the back. He turned and saw a man wielding a long pole. He prodded Carson again to move forward. Carson started walking slowly out the length of the plank. It bounced up and down under his weight. He came to the end of the plank and looked down. The vicious reptiles swarmed and made ugly growling, grunting noises, their bloodshot eyes looking up at him hungrily.

Carson could sense the man with the pole ready to make his lunge. In a second it would be all over. Then something loud cracked, a light flashed in the jungle to the right of the pool, and the pole shattered into splinters. The man holding it yelled in surprise.

“Hold it, you scurvy space-dogs,” a voice

shouted, and a man broke through the dense foliage between the trees. He was a tall, well-proportioned man with a thin black mustache and long dark hair. Like Lee-la, he was dressed in black leather. It was Esteban Romero! He had a plasma blaster in his hand, from the muzzle of which ozone vapors now curled.

“What goes, here?” he asked. “Having an execution without me?”

“Esteban!” Lee-la ran to him. “Welcome home!” They embraced and kissed. “We thought you were in some kind of trouble. These two showed up and we suspected them of being spies for the League.”

“Spies?” Romero let go of the woman and walked around the edge of the pool. He looked at Jameson first and then out at the man standing at the end of the plank. His eyes opened wide and a toothy grin split his face.

“Carson! Amigo! What are you doing out there?”

“Esteban! Old buddy. Glad to see you haven’t forgotten me.”

“No,” the pirate said, and then the smile disappeared and he suddenly frowned. “And I haven’t forgotten how we parted.”

“Just a little misunderstanding between friends. That girl—I didn’t know you were that serious about her.”

“Girl!” Lee-la said. “What girl?”

“No girl, Lee-la,” Romero said. “It was a long time ago.” He wasn’t anxious to follow that line of discussion. “Carson! Amigo! Come down off of there.”

He turned to Lee-la. “How could you



execute my friend this way? Lee-la, I’m disap-pointed in you. This man saved my life once. How can I let you kill him now?”

Carson walked back to the edge of the pond, and Romero cut the ropes away from his arms. “My friend, how good it is to see you,” he said, grabbing Carson’s shoulders with his two hands. “It’s been such a long time.”

“I’m glad to see you too,” Carson said, glancing back at the swirling waters of the pool.

“We have a lot of catching up to do,” Romero said. “But tell me what brings you here.”

“I brought somebody,” Carson said. “Captain Esteban Romero I’d like you to meet James Joyce Jameson, a famous author. He writes pirate books, or what passes for books these days.”

“James Joyce Jameson!” Romero beamed. “I love your work. You’re one writer who really seems to understand the pirate mind.” He turned to Lee-la. “Honey, this is a famous man! And you were going to kill him too?”

“I thought he was a damn spy!”

“A spy! You’re not a spy, are you, Mr. Jameson?”

“No, no. Absolutely not.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Carson interrupted. “Research.”

“Research?” Romero was surprised. “You mean you want to know more about pirate life for your books? How interesting. You want to

study Romero and his men to use us in your books? Lee-la, do you hear this? Mr. Jameson is going to make us famous!”

“We already are famous,” the woman said.

“Don’t listen to her,” Romero said. “She’s just angry because I spoiled the execution. Come! Let’s go back to the palace. I want to hear more.”

He put his arm around Carson’s shoulder as they walked back down the jungle trail toward the city. “Hey, amigo,” he said. “Now we’re even. You saved my life that time many years ago. Now I saved yours. The slate is clean.”

Carson felt strange as they walked back to the city, as though, bringing Jameson here had been a huge mistake. But the delight Romero showed as he talked to the author made him shake off the feeling. Still, he thought, the sooner the two days he’d promised Jameson were up the better.

#

The next morning, Carson and Jameson awoke early in the room Romero had given them in the palace. Ancient and crumbling as the city and its edifices were, the pirate had managed to fit the interiors of the rooms with the finest furniture, carpets, and tapestries from all over the world. It had all been taken in plunder over the fifteen years Esteban Romero had plied his trade. A girl brought fresh fruit and told them they were invited to breakfast with the captain.

The palace dining hall was as richly appointed as the other rooms. They sat with

Romero and Lee-la at an immense, ornately-carved table made of solid oak. They ate off gold plates and drank from jeweled goblets.

“Life has treated you well, Esteban,” Carson said, sipping some fresh fruit juice.

“I have treated myself well, my friend,” Romero answered. “Life doesn’t care one way or another. It will treat you cruelly as easily as it will treat you kindly. A man has to take what he wants from life, or he’ll die.”

“Tell me, Captain,” Jameson said. “Can you remember your first adventure?” He had the Mini-Port-Comm on the table in front of him. “Do you remember what happened the day you knew it was your destiny to become a space pirate?”

Romero smiled. “Destiny,” he said, his eyes beaming. “I like that word. I like the way you speak, Mr. Jameson.” He nudged Lee-la with an elbow. “You hear that? Destiny. Only a real writer uses words like that.”

Carson ate some of the scrambled Gorko bird egg Romero’s cook served and drank a hot beverage made of some sort of ground beans, that vaguely resembled Earth coffee. He could see that Romero was clearly infatuated with his visitor. The idea of being immortalized in a book had completely swept Esteban Romero off his feet. The legendary pirate began orating the story of his first act of space piracy some fifteen years ago, and Carson could only chuckle to himself, as the captain spared no detail, no dramatic inflection in the telling of the tale. The space pirate’s ego was swelling beyond even its normally huge proportions.

After breakfast, Romero and Jameson went



off together to the clearing the pirates used as a landing strip. The captain wanted to give Jameson a tour of the Black Vulture, a 200-ton, mega-war ship, equipped with laser cannons, Invisi-shields, and Hyper-Drive that could reach twenty times the speed of light.

While they were gone, Carson spotted Lee-la sitting rather dejectedly in the courtyard outside the palace. She sat on an old canon that once fired cannon balls and now stood in the courtyard more as a decorative ornament than a weapon.

“What’s the matter?” Carson asked. “You look a little fed up.”

“This writer, Jameson,” Lee-la said. “He talks too much. And asks too many questions.”

“Romero doesn’t seem to mind it.”

“He’s in love with him!” Lee-la said. “Now he has no time for Lee-la.”

“Well, we’ll only be here another day,” Carson said. “And then we’ll be gone.”

The girl looked up at him from the corners of her eyes. “Lee-la will be sorry to see you go,” she said.

Carson could sense trouble. “Last night you wanted to kill me.”

“That was last night,” she said. “Lee-la does not feel that way this morning.”

“Sure we’re not really spies?”

The girl frowned and the look in her eye changed. “I don’t know. Maybe not you. But that Jameson. Something about him I do not

like.”

Carson didn’t say anything. He didn’t like the man either. Was it just his superciliousness? He didn’t know. Carson wanted to change the subject. “How do you like the life of a pirate? Must be hard for a woman.”

“Why? I can do anything any man can do.”

“But times are changing. The League is dedicated to wiping out piracy. And in a way the pirates have brought it on themselves. It’s not like the old days. Pirates used to have a sort of code of honor they lived by. Now, the new generation I guess you can call them, they’re not much more than savage animals. The atrocities they’ve committed have made it harder for Romero. Now he’s forced to hide out in this god-forsaken place. Not many places left for him. He may not be as bad as the others, but when they catch him, they’ll execute him just the same.”

“This I know,” Lee-la said. “But what is to be done? It is too late to turn back the clock.”

#

Later that afternoon, Carson returned to his room. A nagging feeling had been bothering him all morning. When Lee-la had voiced her suspicions about Jameson a faint sense of alarm had gone off inside him. And it wasn’t the first time he’d had a bad feeling about the man. What did he know about him after all? He had come to Carson out of the blue asking for his help and he’d rather recklessly agreed without bothering to check him out.

Carson remembered how Jameson reacted

when he’d said back in The Corvette as they approached Sarna that the League has all the power. He had sense an inner turmoil in the man. He’s seemed suddenly afraid. Why?

Carson found the black canvass duffle bag that Jameson had brought with him lying on the floor at the foot of the bed he’d slept in overnight. He didn’t like snooping in other people’s property, but some instinct drove him to open the bag and look inside it. He found a change of clothes, some toiletries, a couple of Jameson’s Brain Books, and underwear. Hold it! Beneath the underwear, something winked red at him. He threw the underwear out on the bed and found a small cloth-covered compartment sewn into the bottom of the bag. Something inside the compartment sent out a steady red blinking light. Carson felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He tore the cloth away and grabbed the square object that lay under it. A galaxial positioning tracker. Damn!

Carson stormed out of the room and strode out of the palace. He ran into Lee-la in the street next to the courtyard. She saw something wrong in Carson’s face. “What is it?”

“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Carson said. “Is Romero still out at the air strip?”

“Yes,” Lee-la said, running to keep up with him. “What’s wrong?”

Both of them ran out of the city and minutes later found Romero, Jameson at his side, the ever present Comm-Corder in his hand. They stood in the clearing before the massive bulk of The Black Vulture. The onyx-colored ship seemed almost a living thing that could lift off the ground and fly off at any moment. It’s size



dwarfed Carson’s gull wing fighter sitting at the other end of the field. He hoped he’d never have to meet The Vulture in combat.

“Romero!” Carson yelled. The pirate turned, a smile on his face.

“Amigo!” he shouted. “Come, I was just telling Mr. Jameson—”

“Don’t tell him anything,” Carson said. “I’ve blundered, my friend. I’m sorry. This man is a spy for the League. I found this in his bag.” Carson held the positioning device out in his hand. “He’s sending your location to the League.”

“You see,” Lee-la shouted. “I was right!”

Carson threw the device to the ground and stomped it with the heel of his boot until the plastic case was smashed and the light stopped blinking. “You and your men have got to get out of here. League ships must be on their way.”

Romero turned on the diminutive Jameson, towering over him like a bear about to attack. “Is this true?”

Jameson turned white. He ran behind Carson. “Stop him, Carson,” he yelled. “He’s going to kill me.”

Carson grabbed Jameson’s shirt and pulled him close. “I ought to kill you myself,” he snarled. “Why, Jameson? Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t have any choice,” the writer cried. “It was either do what they wanted or go to jail. You see the League found out I owed millions in unpaid taxes. It was all my accountant’s fault. I tried to explain. I would never cheat the government. But they wouldn’t believe me.

They made me an offer. They’ve been after Romero for years. They said my career as a writer of pirate stories would be a good cover. They knew you were Romero’s friend. It was a perfect set up. I had no choice!”

“Kill him,” Lee-la shouted.

“Step aside, Carson.” Romero gripped his plasma pistol and stepped forward, his mouth twisted in an angry grimace.

“Stop him, Carson,” Jameson screeched. “I paid you to protect me. You took my money, now do your job.”

Carson let go of him, and Jameson ran around behind him, keeping Carson between Romero and him.

“Hold it, Esteban!” Carson said. “Shouldn’t you be getting out of here?”

“After I shoot him.”

“Can’t let you do that.”

“What? Why not.”

“He’s my client. He paid for my services. Once I take a job, I see it through. You know that. I can’t let you kill him.”

“After what he did? I admire your profes-sional ethics, but he betrayed you too.”

“I know. But I still can’t let you do it. He may be a worthless scumbag, but I’ve been paid to see he doesn’t come to any harm.”

“Don’t make me kill you, Carson, just to get to him.”

The two men stood face to face, eye to

eye. “Don’t make me draw,” Carson said, the palm of his hand hovering over the laser pistol strapped to his leg.

“Drop your weapons,” Jameson shouted. The men turned and saw Jameson with his arm yoked around Lee-la’s neck, her pistol in his hand.

“Shoot him,” Lee-la yelled.

“Drop the pistols on the ground now,” Jameson said.

Carson and Romero let the guns slip from their hands.

Jameson started dragging the woman backward, toward the jungle. Even though he had control of the situation, he was panicked. “Keep your hands up, and don’t follow us.” Lee-la tried to wrest herself free, but Jameson put the pistol to her forehead. “Don’t try it!”

Carson started to move. “Stay where you are,” Jameson yelled. He fired a purple blast of plasma at Carson, who dove on the ground out of the way of the ray. Lee-la raised her leg and brought her foot down on Jameson’s instep. The man yelled and let go of her. He jumped back and fired. The girl yelped and spun around, then fell on the ground. Romero, now heedless of the threat from Jameson’s gun, ran toward him. With a cry of fear Jameson fired a wild blast that missed Romero, then ran into the jungle, following the trail back to the ancient city.

Carson ran behind Romero, who stopped to kneel next to Lee-la. She looked up at him in pain. Her shoulder was burnt black by the ray. “I’m all right,” she said, sitting up with



Romero’s help.

“Get her on The Vulture,” Carson said. He noticed that men had run out of the ship at the sound of the shots and were coming toward them. “Round up all your crew and get out of here. The League will come down on this place with everything they’ve got.”

Romero cradled Lee-la in his arms. “You should have let me kill him,” he said. “But I understand why you didn’t. A man has to have something, some set of rules, or we all just turn into things like those creatures in the Pool of Death.”

“You should kill him,” Lee-la said, nodding at Carson. “He brought all this trouble to you.”

Romero helped the woman to her feet. Romero’s men surrounded them. “In the heat of anger a moment ago I could have killed you,” he told Carson. “With all my men here it would be easy to kill you now. But not this time. Esteban Romero has his rules too. Adios, amigo.”

With a wave of the hand, Romero led Lee-la and his crew back to The Black Vulture.

Carson turned and ran down the trail into the jungle. The path ran a quarter mile to a point where it forked, one way going to the city and the other further into the jungle. Carson stopped to consider which way Jameson might have gone. Then he heard the crack of a tree limb from further back in the jungle. He took off at a run in that direction.

Several hundred yards further he saw a flash of movement through the trees ahead.

“Jameson,” Carson shouted. “Stop. Throw that gun away.”

“No! Romero will kill me.”

“He’s gone,” Carson yelled. “They’re all gone. You can come out.”

A plasma blast singed the leaves of the tree next to Carson’s head. He ducked down.

“I don’t believe you!”

“Come on out,” Carson said. “I’ll take you back. You won’t be harmed.”

“Back where? When the League finds Romero gone, I’ll face twenty years in prison for tax evasion. I’ll take my chanced in the jungle.”

“You’re talking crazy,” Carson shouted. “Come on out.”

“No! Go away!” Another blast broke a tree limb off above where Carson was standing. Carson heard footsteps thumping ahead on the trail. There was a sudden commotion of branches cracking and breaking and then a loud splash. Jameson let out a blood curdling scream that echoed through the trees. Carson heard the growls and grunts and snapping jaws of the Croco-saurs.

He stood up and holstered his pistol. The screaming stopped suddenly and a terrible silence lay across the dank, tangled jungle. Carson turned around and headed back up the trail. There was no need to find out what had happened at the Pool of Death.

#

Carson sat back in the pilot seat of The Corvette, holding an old, beat up looking hard cover book in his lap. The gull wing was on auto pilot, the course set for Tulon. It would be a couple of hours before he got home. He settled back, put his feet up on the dash and opened the worn volume. He began to read:

“Peter Blood, bachelor of medicine, among other things besides, smoked a pipe and tended the geraniums boxed on the sill of his window above Water Lane in the town of Bridgewa-ter...”

Carson shifted his weight, and thought, now that’s writing.

John M. Whalen

John M. Whalen’s stories have appeared in the Flashing Swords E-zine, pulpand-dagger.com, and Universe Pathways magazine. His Jack Brand stories are a staple here at Ray Gun Revival maga-zine.

Contact the author here.

Pg. 81


The RGR Time Capsule December 2008 Sci-Fi news from the Ray Gun Revival forumsRGR Date: December 8, 2008 Star Wars as a silent moviehttp://raygunrevival.com/Forum/viewtopic.php?t=2441

The fan movie Silent Star Wars appeared on YouTube this weekend, and pretty much boils the original movies to their essence... which is to say, the comedy of Stormtroopers and awesomeness of Darth Vader. And the music - potentially John Williams’ best.

RGR Date: December 18, 2008 Ed Lopez one of 12 best artists at DA! http://raygunrevival.com/Forum/viewtopic.php?t=2469

Ed Lopez did the covers for the first and second RGR Anniversary issues, and I love his stuff. I’m not the only one.

Artwork gold mine and community site Devi-ant Art has picked the best artists of the year -- one per month, based on the work submit-ted to the community.

http://news.deviantart.com/article/64886/

Congratulations, Ed!

RGR Date: December 11, 2008 Daily Writing Routines of SF Authors http://raygunrevival.com/Forum/viewtopic.php?t=2451

Asimov preferred to devote the entire day to writing, often work-ing all day, seven days a week, and sometimes writing entire books in a matter of days, a work ethic he reportedly developed in childhood:

His usual routine was to awake at 6 A.M., sit down at the typewriter by 7:30 and work until 10 P.M.

In “In Memory Yet Green,” the first volume of his autobiography, pub-lished in 1979, he explained how he became a compulsive writer. His Russian-born father owned a succes-sion of candy stores in Brooklyn that were open from 6 A.M. to 1 A.M. seven days a week. Young Isaac got up at 6 o’clock every morning to de-liver papers and rushed home from school to help out in the store every afternoon. If he was even a few min-utes late, his father yelled at him for being a folyack, Yiddish for sluggard. Even more than 50 years later, he wrote: “It is a point of pride with me that though I have an alarm clock, I never set it, but get up at 6 A.M. anyway. I am still showing my father I’m not a folyack.”

http://raygunrevival.com/Forum/viewtopic.php?t=1216

http://raygunrevival.com/Forum/viewtopic.php?t=2071

http://edlo.deviantart.com/

http://edlo.deviantart.com/

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Ray Gun Revival magazine, Issue 50