ISSUE.52

THE FORGOTTENby Martin Turton

THINKING LONG TERMby Darrell B. Nelson

THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE MONKEYby Andy Heizeler

PLUSThrilling New Serial Fiction fromLee S. King, Justin MacumberM. Keaton, and Keanan Brand

RGR REVIEWSGRADISIL by Adam RobertsCONQUISTADOR by S.M. StirlingCYBERABAD DAYS by Ian McDonald

AND MUCH MORE!WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

ISSUE 52

Page 1

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

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

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

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

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

Serial Authors M Keaton, Keanan Brand. L. S. King, John M. Whalen

Cover Art“Cor” by Gabriel Gajdoš (Prešov, Slovakia)

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

2 Overlord’s Lair: A Personal Note About What’s Happened Here by Paul Christian Glenn

2 The Good, the Bad, and the Monkey by Andy Heizeler Dean the Space Rogue and the crew of the Tachyon Valkyriemustfightmythicheroesandaruthlessbounty hunter to save a...monkey.

7 DEUCES WILD: Threshold of Escape by L. S. King With his friends held hostage, Tristan must try to pilot a strangeshipsafelythroughanentireConfederationfleet.

10 TALES OF THE BREAKING DAWN Part One: The Ties That Bind by Justin Macumber The crew of the star-freighter Breaking Dawn struggles to survive pirates and poverty—and desperate calls from old friends.

14 RGR Reviews by Matthew Scott Winslow and Donald Jacob Uitvlugt

17 THIEVES’ HONOR: Chapter 7—The Game: Leaping the Circle by Keanan Brand EnemiesconvergeonKristoffandcrew,Finneyfailsanescape attempt, and Zoltana closes in on her prey.

25 Bop Bop by Jodi MacArthur Daddybringshomeanaliendoll,orisitmorethanthat?

27 Featured Artist: Gabriel Gajdoš

28 The Forgotten by Martin Turton Acoldbloodedkillerseeksoutthehumanityinhisvictims, butwillhediscoverhisownbeforetheend?

33 Thinking Long Term: Don’t Let the End of the Galaxy Spoiler Your Plans by Darrell B. Nelson Theeventualendofthegalaxyisn’taproblem,onlyan opportunity.

35 CALAMITY’S CHILD: ROP: Rodeo Bull Ballet, Part One by M. Keaton RedDogunfairlyoutnumbersEarth’s455-memberSenateas hetestifiesbeforetheirinvestigatorycommittee,butthereal actionskulksbehindthescenes.

RayGunRevivalIssue52©2009byDouble-edgedPublishing,aMemphis,Tennssee-basednon-profitpublisher.

TABLE OF CONTENTSv52d

ISSUE 52

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Overlord’s Lair:A Personal Note About What’s Happened Here

by Paul Christian Glenn

Already, I can hear you, crying out in confusion and disbelief: What in the name of Blast Flanagan has hap-pened to Ray Gun Revival? This isn’t our beloved ‘zine! Someone must be held responsible!

Funny story...Many of you don’t know me, but as

a founding Overlord, I’ve always been here, lurking just behind the curtain, whispering vile nothings into the ears of Johne and Lee, your more visible Overlords.

I was there when the spark that would become RGR spontaneously ignited in Johne’s labyrinthine mind. I was there when Lee joined the col-lective and got her very first planet-vaporizing button. (It was adorable! No planet was too puny for her to obliterate in those days!) I was there, holding umbrellas in the brainstorm as torrents of inspiration rained down upon us, pooling into big, sploshy puddles of rippling creativity. Ah, those were heady days, indeed!

And then, I was gone.Okay, I was never completely gone.

I continued to serve as Executive Tie-breaker, sometime serial author, and human sounding board. I remember this one time, I even read a few sub-missions. But as a virtual presence around the office, I went notably missing.

Meanwhile, Johne and Lee were busy building a ‘zine, and a commu-nity around it. With no experience, limited funds, and persistent space-monkey infestations, they managed to create a haven for the finest fiction on the web, and to attract you fine folks as readers. It’s already a legacy of which we can all be proud.

As our forum members’ already know, Johne has taken a hiatus from writing The Sky Pirate so he can fo-cus on creating a new chapter in Real Life(TM), and while I have no desire to prolong his absence, I felt like it was time to step up and do my part for RGR. I volunteered to take over the desktop publishing for a while.

It should have been very simple. After all, he’d already done the hard work of designing and fine-tuning a gorgeous ‘zine that our readers loved. All I had to do was ... well, I can’t leave well enough alone, I guess. What can I say? I’m a fiddler.

We’re looking for feedback on the new design, folks! Love it? Hate it? Take to the forums and let us know! Next month’s issue may be tweaked slightly, or it may be completely rede-signed again. It’s as much yours as it is ours.

This office, though — this is mine now. I might just do a little redecorat-ing, too. Nothing major, of course...

“Drop the monkey and nobody gets hurt,” said the young man with the tin star on his brown shirt. His firm grip kept the barrel of his laser pistol neatly aimed at Dean’s heart.

The winds whistled down through the valley on Arca-Delphia. High above, a hawk variant screeched.

“What about the monkey? That’s a long fall for such a little guy if we just drop him,” said Cloey, keeping her stunner aimed at the closest man.

“That’s not what I meant. Set the primate on the ground and slowly back away,” said the lawman.

Dean struggled to hold onto the glow-in-the dark squirrel monkey while keeping his own laser pistol pointed at the brown shirts. Three of them, two of us—bad odds even without a squirming animal under one arm, thought Dean. The grassy valley offered little cover or conceal-ment. If it turned into a shoot out, things would get ugly. Overhead the binary suns of the backwater planet shined brightly.

“We’re saving this animal from be-coming some lord’s evening entrée. Don’t you have a heart?” asked Dean. It was always a long shot to appeal to someone’s better nature, but it might buy time.

The monkey bit Dean’s thumb and scrambled onto his shoulder. Dean

cursed like a solar sailor, the monkey made a laughing screech.

“Dean! Not in front of the mon-key,” admonished Cloey. The monkey smiled at her.

“Look, it’s not my concern what happens afterwards. It’s my job to uphold United Galactic Law, and right now you’re on the wrong side of it,” said the lawman. His face had seri-ous written all over it, complete with square jaw and steely eyes.

Dean struggled to keep his mouth shut. United Galactic Law? With at least five competing governments, no such thing as United Galactic law existed, which meant the men before him were either delusional or highly drugged. Either way, the crazies had the drop on him, which meant play-ing along would probably be the best option. Before he could cater to their fantasy, the lead lawman’s laser pistol started to glow an interesting shade of red.

Sparks flew and the lawman dropped the melting gun with a yelp.

“Drop your weapons! We’ve got you surrounded,” yelled Captain Se-dona from the hill above the valley. Dean thought his heart might burst in joy. Cloey let out a “Woo hoo!”

The young man scowled in deep rage but motioned for his men to drop their guns.

The Good, The Bad, and The Monkeyby Andy Heizeler

ISSUE 52

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“They won’t be chasing anyone with-out this,” said Arc, holding up an an-gular chunk of metal with wires pok-ing out of it.

“You weren’t able to get Mad Mike’s electro-pulse weapon I see,” said Captain Sedona, joining them at a trot.

“His whole ship was rigged with ex-plosives, and he wasn’t about to tell us how to disarm them,” said Dean as he walked up the ramp.

“Don’t worry boss, we murdered his engine, Mad Mike’s not going anywhere either,” said Cloey, making kiss-kiss noises at the monkey.

“Good. Everyone load up. Arc, take us out of here,” ordered the Captain, making him leave the hat.

The monkey screeched and show-ered Dean’s back in warm excitement as the ramp closed behind them in the cargo bay.

It’s going to be a long trip, thought Dean, forcing himself not to strangle the monkey.

Cloey lifted it off his shoulder and gave Dean a warning glance. “He was just upset by the noise,” she said de-fensively.

“Well, tell little skull face there if he does it again he rides on the outside of the ship,” said Dean.

“Don’t call him skull face, and he’s coming to engineering to bless the engines with me,” she said, making an angry, squinty face at Dean be-fore heading off. The monkey made a squinty face too.

“Kick those over here if you don’t mind. Well, not the hot one, that looks pretty useless now,” said Dean.

“You haven’t seen the last of us, space pirates,” growled the lawman. His partners, both wide in the shoul-ders and not too bright looking, glared as they kicked over their turbo rifles.

Up until these jokers, the mission had been going well. Dean and his as-sociates had recovered the monkey from Mad Mike the Bounty Hunter whom they had stranded here by melting his Bohm Drive. Mike had sto-len the monkey from the Eco-Fascists of Planet Hannah, who in turn had res-cued it from the Exotic Foods Corpo-ration, who had abducted it from the rainforests on Planet Hannah to begin with. All this because Lord Spence of the Pure Human Coalition thought it would be amusing to eat an endan-gered glow-in-the-dark monkey. If Planet Hannah had been anything but an independent world, the act would have sparked a war with the Pure Hu-man Coalition.

Despite knowing he would regret it, Dean had to ask. “Just who are you guys anyway?”

“I’m Wesley Wichita, Galactic Ranger and these are my Deputies, Dave and Duke,” said Wesley with rehearsed grace. Dave and Duke nod-ded and touched their cowboy hats.

Dean shook his head, mystified. “You do realize the Galactic Rangers are fictional right?” said Dean careful-ly. With crazy people, it wasn’t always

“That guy back there looked just like Ranger Dodge,” said Captain Se-dona wonderingly as she holstered her pistol. The floor plates vibrated causing Dean to grab a strut out of self defense. The Tachyon Valkyrie’s powerful engines roared to life, hurl-ing the old cruiser skyward.

“The question is, why?” asked Dean.

“He obviously just wants us to be-lieve he’s a crazy fan,” said Arc, pilot-ing the ship from his hand held tele-pad.

“What could he possibly have to gain by that?” asked Captain Sedona.

“Anything,” said Arc ominously, heading for the couch in the mess lounge.

Dean decided a shower and change of clothes took precedence over a pointless mystery involving stranded madmen.

#

Between jumps, deep into inter-stellar space, the engines died. Every-thing went dark, somewhere a mon-key screamed in terror.

“Nuts! What now?” asked Dean from the cockpit.

“Total power failure, it had to have been an electro-pulse weapon,” said Captain Sedona. As their eyes adjust-ed to the dim starlight, a dark shape hovering in the blackness beyond the viewport resolved in their vision. It suspiciously resembled the Steel Mer-cury.

The auxiliaries came on-line a few

a good idea to tip over their tea party too violently. Sam Dodge, Galactic Ranger was a Holo-Hero, played by Hugh Wilson in the twenty-nine thir-ties.

“The Rangers are real enough to us, son. Mark my words, the arm of the law may be long, but the spiral arm of United Galactic Law is even lon-ger,” said Wesley—or Ranger Wichi-ta, depending on your belief system, thought Dean.

“Get to the ship, we don’t need any more distractions,” shouted Captain Sedona. Dean nominally secured the monkey again, while Cloey gathered up the rifles. They left the valley at a jog.

Once to the field where the Tachy-on Valkyrie waited with the loading ramp down, Dean saw the spaceship of the Rangers right next to it. As he had suspected, it was a replica of the one Ranger Dodge had used in The Turbo-Rifle Man. It had the curves of a sleek blue strato-jet complete with unnecessary wings and a big silver star painted on the side over the lettering Ranger Patrol Ship: Steel Mercury.

In front of it, Creon guarded two more tied and gagged rangers. The big ex-mercenary wore an expres-sion of sympathy and a bit of guilt. Between Creon and Captain Sedona, they owned every Galactic Ranger Holo known to man.

Arc strolled out of the patrol ship with a piece of their engine. On his head sat one of the Ranger’s hats.

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seconds later, bathing the crew in red emergency lighting. The primaries re-quired thirty seconds to reset and the Bohm Drive needed another twenty-three to cycle up for a jump. Before that could happen, the comms panel lit up.

“Low band message coming in,” re-ported Dean. At the Captain’s nod, he flipped the switch.

“Don’t even think of starting your Bohm Drive, pirates. We’ve got you scanned three ways to Sunday and we’ll know if you try. Resist, and our laser cannon will introduce you to the long cold hell. Prepare to be boarded,” said the voice of Wesley Wichita.

“I can’t believe it,” said Dean.“He said long cold hell, just like

Sam Dodge,” said Captain Sedona, obviously amused.

“Should I see if we can get his au-tograph?” asked Dean with mounting anger. These guys just didn’t know when to give up, he thought. Typical Holo hero behavior, it was worse than he had imagined.

“Very funny, Dean. Don’t wor-ry, we’ll get them once they come aboard,” said Captain Sedona, patting the grip of her laser pistol.

“So much for your job on their en-gines Arc,” said Dean into the inter-com.

“How was I supposed to know they’d have a spare starter?”

“Don’t worry about that,” said the Captain, hitting the intercom switch. “Everybody arm up. The Ga-

lactic Rangers are about to board us. I’ll have them come through the top lock. We’ll set up the ambush in the corridor,” she ordered.

Dean glared at the spaceship point-ing at them. “They’ve got one lousy laser cannon on that thing. When you decided to become space pirates, didn’t you think it might be a good idea to arm your spaceship?”

“It was either weapons or life sup-port. Which would you rather have?” asked the Captain.

“Right now?”“You have ten seconds to respond,

outlaws. And don’t even think about an ambush because I’m doing this High Orbital Planes Drifter style,” said Wesley over the low band.

“He says don’t even think a lot,” commented Dean. The Captain had not yet subjected him to High Or-bital Planes Drifter on Holo night, so he looked to her for help. As he had guessed, she’d watched it enough times to know exactly what the uber-fan out there was talking about.

“When Sam Dodge faced off against the notorious Black Hole Pirate Zip, he entered the pirate ship himself with orders for Deputy Doug to fire the main cannon if he was ambushed. Sam Dodge died in that one, even though he came back for the sequels. If we don’t give up that monkey, we’re all dead,” said Captain Sedona with an expression of admiration.

Everything fell together in Dean’s mind. He hit the intercom. “Arc, did

you see an electro-pulse weapon on the Steel Mercury?”

“Nope. It’s obviously a conspiracy,” said Arc.

Dean ignored the paranoia and turned to Captain Sedona. “Captain, does the Valkyrie have a tow cable?”

“Yes, but the winch is manual crank.” She cocked her head. “Why?”

“If we ignored safety, could we get back to that planet before they pass it on the way to Coalition space?”

“It would be insanely risky but we could do it if we skipped every other jump,” she said, “What are you get-ting at?”

“I know exactly how to solve this situation and still save the monkey for the Eco-Fascists,” said Dean boldly.

Captain Sedona arched a question-ing eyebrow.

“We give them what they want,” said Dean happily.

#

Several minutes later, Dean, Creon, Cloey, Captain Sedona and the mon-key waited at the top airlock in the cramped corridor. Arc had stayed on the couch.

Cloey harbored an untrusting look as she held the monkey close. The monkey managed to look concerned as well.

Wesley lowered himself into the corridor and took off his helmet with the trademark Ranger spin flip before it ended up under his arm. His hand rested on the heel of his laser pis-tol, which now sported a somewhat

burnt look. “The monkey or your lives. Your

choice outlaws,” he said, holding his chin high.

“Have it your way, lawman. We give up,” quoted Dean from The Outlaws of Asteroid Valley. Wesley looked im-pressed.

“You be nice to him, space weirdo,” said Cloey, reluctantly handing over the monkey.

“I’m always kind to animals, ma’am,” he said, carefully putting the primate into a pressure bag. The monkey made a forlorn squeak.

Cloey glared at the man with seeth-ing anger. Captain Sedona stepped forward. “I’m sorry for melting your laser pistol. My name’s Valerie, I’m kind of a fan,” she whispered breath-lessly.

Wesley narrowed his eyes. “Re-ally? Then what did Sam Dodge say to Anna when he left her to go face off with Brains McGee?”

“I love you Anna, but I just can’t get Brains off my mind,” answered Creon and Captain Sedona at the same time.

Everyone laughed, despite the fact that Dean and Cloey were lost.

“I don’t understand it. You guys don’t seem all that bad, what made you get into piracy?” asked Wesley after a bit more reminiscing.

“When laws are outlawed, even the lawful are outlaws,” said Dean. Everyone stared, so he explained. “We’re in a sector of space where

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none of the star nations has any dominance. This is lawless territory, the wild spiral, neutral space. That means a man with a laser gun is a law unto himself. That bounty hunter we took the monkey from, stole it from the people we’re returning it to. The monkey is innocent, the bounty hunt-er just wanted to get paid, same as us only for different results, so who’s the outlaw?” challenged Dean.

In the clear cut, perfectly polar world of Sam Dodge, such questions were never asked.

“I say the law is the man with the badge,” said Wesley, clearly upset. He retreated up into the airlock and slammed it behind him with a loud clang.

“Oscar Wilde put it best. If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they’ll kill you,” quoted Creon.

“Let’s hope he forgets the killing part and just takes the monkey and runs,” said Dean, earning an eye roll from the Captain.

“They’re leaving, Captain.” said Arc over the intercom.

“Cloey, set the Bohm drive for skip jumps, override the safeties and say a prayer over the nav computer,” or-dered the Captain.

“Whatever you say, boss. Fifinella be with us,” said Cloey, running off to the engine room.

Dean winked at the Captain. “Now for the fun part.”

#

Metal wreckage and black scorch marks vandalized the cliff walls as heavy smoke drifted up from the deep canyon. Captain Sedona lay panting on the rim, her face smudged with soot. She held the emergency trans-mitter from the Tachyon Valkyrie in her hand as if holding onto life itself.

“If anyone can hear this, please re-spond. I’m stranded on Arca-Delphia, my ship crashed. All hands lost. Please help,” she cried into the low band.

It was only a matter of moments before she caught a glint of blue rap-idly descending through the clouds. She struggled to her feet and limped into the grassy field before her.

Fifty meters away, the Steel Mercu-ry touched down gently as its jets cut out. The door cycled open to extend a ramp, which folded into stairs.

Wesley dashed out first, racing to-wards the Captain. Dave, Duke, Dar-win and Dick fanned out behind him; eyes open for an ambush but with only one broken and burnt laser pistol between them. Mad Mike sauntered down the steps last, his sniper pulser resting comfortably on his right shoul-der, the monkey on his left. He looked smug that no one had found his hold out while searching his ship.

“Valerie? What happened?” asked Wesley, slowing down. Captain Se-dona embraced him, dropping the transmitter. “Oh it was horrible! Dean had this crazy, stupid idea. He wanted to race back here. I shouldn’t have listened to him,” she looked into the

canyon with a sob for her lost Valky-rie.

“We were skipping jumps, our regulator blew. The pilot never saw it coming, my engineer was killed instantly. I couldn’t save the ship. They’re all dead,” she cried, holding on to him for support.

Wesley patted her back and waved one of his men to go look at the wreckage. Dave jogged over to the rim and peered down.

“There’s nothing left, Ranger Wich-ita. Just exploded bits of metal and a lot of fire down at the bottom,” he said forlornly.

“I pushed out the bundle of cred-sticks as we were passing over the grassy valley, just before I jumped,” Captain Sedona whispered into Wes-ley’s ear. She gave a meaningful and distrusting nod towards the bounty hunter.

“Not to worry, little lady. We’ll take care of that. Can you walk?” asked Wesley.

Captain Sedona kept quiet about being three inches taller than the man calling her little lady. Instead, she nodded with tears in her eyes.

“Dave, Duke, you’re with me. Dar-win and Dick you stay with Mad Mike and the monkey. We’ll be back,” said Wesley confidently.

Valerie’s limp slowed them a great deal, but they managed to make it to the valley just as the binary suns started slipping towards the hori-zon. The bag of cred-sticks rested

just where she had indicated, on the same spot where Captain Sedona had ambushed them the first time.

“Who would have thought things would turn out like this?” asked Wes-ley, seeing a bright future for himself, once his number one fan recovered from the trauma anyway. Just as he reached down for the bag, Captain Sedona took a few steps back.

“Drop your laser pistol and reach for the sky, Ranger!” shouted a voice from the ridge. Wesley’s jaw dropped. Dave and Duke just shook their heads in defeat.

Wesley carefully drew his pistol and dropped it to the ground. He looked to Valerie with betrayed hurt.

“But how? Your ship was destroyed, I don’t understand.”

“Not my ship, Mad Mike’s. We knew he came with you as soon as you hit us with his electro-pulse weapon. We melted the engine of his old ship, but she had plenty of explosives left in-side to make a pretty convincing dis-play when we dropped her into that canyon,” said Captain Sedona with an apologetic look.

“You tricked us! You people don’t really like the Galactic Rangers at all, do you?” he raged accusingly.

“On the contrary, Ranger Wichita. We think you guys are great, if pre-dictable,” said Dean, coming down the slope now with Creon in tow.

“So what now? Are you going to kill us?” said Ranger Wichita bravely. Dave and Duke looked interested in

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the answer.“Nope. I’ve got a better idea,” said

Dean, handing Captain Sedona her laser pistol. Creon handed the turbo-rifles over to Dave and Duke.

“What’s this, you want a shoot out?” asked Ranger Wichita hopeful-ly. It was how On The Lagrange had ended after all.

“Certainly not. Not with us at least. Tell me this, how do you pay for your activities?” asked Dean.

“Well, we pooled all our money after a Ranger Dodge convention on Planet Moore to buy the ship and ev-erything. Since then we’ve been kind of going on donations when we an-swer distress calls,” said Wesley guilt-ily.

“So when you answered Mad Mike’s distress call, did he offer you a donation too?” asked Dean.

“A small one,” said Wesley. “How would you guys like to get

paid to wear those tin stars, and have the legal authority to back them up?” asked Dean enticingly.

“What do you mean?” asked Dave, checking the breech of the turbo-rifle.

“I mean, you guys could really start the Galactic Rangers, and have a whole government standing be-hind you,” said Dean, grinning. He ex-plained his plan in detail. By the time he finished, Ranger Wichita shook his hand. Dean handed over his pawn-shop bargain laser pistol.

“What’s this?”

“That’s going to become the fa-mous laser pistol of Wesley Wichi-ta, first Galactic Ranger,” said Dean charmingly.

#

The Galactic Rangers and the crew of the Tachyon Valkyrie had Mad Mike surrounded. The vicious glare of the bounty hunter encompassed all of his betrayers.

Captain Sedona had a clear bead on Mad Mike’s forehead. If he so much as twitched that sniper rifle on his shoulder, she’d burn a hole straight through his brain. After informing him of that fact, he surrendered.

Cloey ran forward and claimed the monkey, hoisting it to safety on her shoulder. The monkey screeched in joy as she gave it a hug.

Deputy Duke discreetly dabbed at a tear.

#

The crew had moved the couch and chairs down from the mess lounge and arranged them along the starboard bulkhead in the cargo bay. Above and around them the Holo played. They watched as Ranger Dodge saddled up on his cybernetic horse variant, Silver-Oxide.

Captain Sedona had her arms flung around Dean and Cloey on the couch. Creon sat on the floor and shared popcorn with Arc who relaxed in the lounge chair.

“That was a pretty nice thing you did back there, Dean,” whispered

Captain Sedona. Dean shrugged. “All I cared about

was the finder’s fee we collected for those Rangers, in addition to the monkey money of course.”

“Being good and heroic had noth-ing to do with it then?” she asked teasingly.

Dean knew she loved heroes, of all things. He hated to disappoint her. “Well, at least now the Eco-Fascists have someone to protect their ani-mals. I still feel a little bad about Mad Mike, though.”

Captain Sedona thought about the agony of having to take a tour guide job after being a bounty hunter for so long. She shuddered.

“Rough turn. I just hope Wesley’s happy,” she said.

Dean glanced at her with mild amusement. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said. “I think he’ll be just fine.”

They watched as Ranger Dodge waved back, sitting high upon his mount. Turning away from the holo-cameras, he faced the future and new adventures as he rode off into the binary sunset.

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 shrink-ing rainforests. Off and on he continued

writing in spurts, submitting randomly but mostly pursuing the art of daily liv-ing (as opposed to the art of daily starv-ing.)

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 be-ing published.

The pen name Andy Heizeler was cre-ated 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 ap-peared in the anthology “Star Step-ping” 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 as-sures his small but untimid fan base that ultimately, more Dean will come!

The Good, The Bad, and The Monkey © 2009 by Andy Heizeler.

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Granger pulled the collar of a heavy jacket up around his face, his breath steaming in the cold. “Stand up slow-ly, and hand over the weapons.”

Slap turned as he rose, two PBRs trained on him.

“I see you wasted no time,” Tristan said. “The canisters?”

“Astute, as usual.” Granger smiled, his eyes glittering with victory. “This is only a precaution, you understand. We’re here to rescue you, you know. But considering our previous misun-derstandings, I feel this is prudent. Now—your weapons, please.”

One of the men marched past Slap to get Carter’s weapon, and anoth-er to Tristan. That left one for Slap, along with Granger. He didn’t think he’d need to even let Tristan know he would try something, but would Carter react fast enough?

Slap gingerly lifted his PBG out of its holster. He handed the weapon, along with a glower, to the nearest guard. The man nodded toward the fire, where Slap’s blade rested, stuck into a piece of wood. “Your knife.”

As Slap bent over, the man added, “And don’t try anything funny.”

“If I were gonna try anything, be-lieve me, it wouldn’t be funny.” Slap flipped the knife and held it, hilt out. The man met his eyes with a sneer.

“Don’t.” Tristan’s voice was low and commanding—and stopped Slap right before he lunged.

“He is well trained, this backwa-ter lacquey of yours,” Granger mur-mured.

Slap scowled, and the fancy-dressed slime smirked, as if daring him. He glared back. Just wait, you smarmy lizard.

Granger’s eyes wandered past Slap and narrowed. “So, this is the one who turned the tables earlier. The ace up your sleeve. What is your name, young lady?”

“My name’s Addie, and I’m not a young lady.” The wildcat’s voice was as willful as ever. Slap wasn’t sure if that was good or not, but Granger’s eyebrows lifted, an amused smile crossing his face.

With slight bow and a sweep of his arm, Granger asked, “Shall we go to my yacht?”

“Why should we go anywhere with you?” Addie lifted her chin.

Slap stifled a groan.Granger chuckled. “Perhaps you

should examine the fact my men have particle beam rifles aimed at each of you.”

“You wouldn’t be so brave if it were just you and Tristan. He’d have no trouble walloping you!”

The dandy frowned, then he looked enlightened and stared at Tristan. “So you’re using ‘Tristan’ now. How tell-ing. But”—he adjusted his collar—”shall we continue our conversations where it is more comfortable? I have three cabins prepared.” He bowed to Addie. “I shall instruct a fourth be made ready.” He held out his arm in-dicating they should begin walking. “Gentlemen. Lady.”

Addie opened her mouth, but be-fore she could say anything, Slap grabbed her ear and hauled her along—much as his father had done to him years ago—heedless of her yelping, “Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!”

“Gonna get yourself killed,” he hissed, “and us too. Now, hush, girl!”

The snow crunched under their feet as they all followed the one guard holding a light. The other two guards brought up the rear. Granger sauntered along slightly to one side, and Slap swore he’d find a way to knock the self-satisfied expression off the man’s face.

They appeared to be heading east, if they were indeed going in a straight line since leaving the camp. Slap re-membered seeing a dark line in the distance, but hadn’t been sure if it had been more trees or mountains. He wondered why they’d landed so far away. They trudged on.

Addie finally broke the silence by sniffling. “I can’t feel my feet,” she whispered.

“It’s not far now,” Granger said. “We had to hide the ship under a cliff, since we are now as wanted as your dear ‘Tristan.’ Fortunately, the rocks there have a high mineral content, and thick evergreens also help cover us from visually being spotted. The ship’s transponder is, of course, cur-rently disabled.”

As they drew close, Slap saw the lines of the yacht gleaming in the moonlight; much larger than Bertha, long and clean—Jaguar class. Grang-er’s boss, the mysterious Dray, must be loaded. He stopped gawking as a guard shoved a rifle in his back. He sure hoped Tristan had some sort of plan...

#

Each of Tristan’s companions had been shown to a cabin aboard Reg-gie’s yacht and locked in. Tristan, however, was brought to the bridge—which was a true, albeit tiny, bridge with a semi-circle layout, not merely a functional cockpit as Giselle’s had been.

His old friend sat in the captain’s chair, and the crewmembers at the left and right stations had their eyes riveted to Tristan. Reggie gestured toward the empty center station: the pilot’s seat. “Would you like the hon-ors?”

Too many competing questions flitted through Tristan’s brain, but he kept his response to: “Why?”

“You are the best pilot I know. And,

Dueces Wild: Threshold of Escapeby L.S. King

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due to your genius, my standing with the Confederation has been left in some doubt. Leaving the planet will prove to be tricky, and since your life is in as much jeopardy as ours, I be-lieve I can trust you to get us safely away.”

“Staying here would be safest,” Tristan responded untruthfully, just to see what reaction he’d provoke.

“For how long? The fleet won’t leave orbit until they have secured the planet. And since you so very spectacularly destroyed their base, I have no doubt finding you is their top priority.”

“Then you were foolish to bring me aboard.”

Reggie’s sneer turned cold. “Don’t give me that. My life is on the line as much as yours now. I never remem-bered you having a death wish, so as long as our asses are in a sling togeth-er, I know mine is safe. Now—” Reg-gie paused and leaned forward, his hazel eyes flinty. “Fly us out of here.”

“I’ll need time to see what she’s got.”

“You have until they find us. And although this rock face has kept us from being discovered, I doubt we have very long. I’ll leave it to your dis-cretion how much time you need.”

Tristan sat and began examining the controls. Familiar design, similar to his previous yacht. “Alcubierre en-gine,” he commented without look-ing up.

“Designed for it,” Reggie said with pride.

Of course. Dray would only get the best, not some inferior ship with an after-market drive having one-tenth the speed because that’s all the struc-ture could handle. And Carter had al-ready ascertained the vessel had fire-power on par with Giselle. This yacht was as deadly as she was beautiful.

“She’s fast then, 100c or near that, probably on par with the Confedera-tion patrol ships,” Tristan murmured. “Jump drive?”

“Military.”Good. The capacitor would charge

in one-fifth of the time compared to a civilian drive. Not much chance that he’d get lucky twice, but: “Twin ca-pacitor?”

“Are you out of your mind? Where in the world would one get a twin ca-pacitor?” Reggie asked. “Why would anyone even want one?”

Alas. That old freighter spoiled him. But Reggie was right; a twin-capacitor jump drive was rare—between cost and the fact even the paranoid Con-federation military found little use for them. Had Lyssel stumbled upon a derelict with a twin-capacitor or paid some exorbitant amount for one? Most likely the former; Tristan doubt-ed the dead gangster had possessed the money or means to search for and buy one.

Reggie had already stated the Inter-stellar Registry Transponder was de-

activated—probably with a program similar to the one Giselle used. What was the old saying? Locked doors only keep honest people honest. Registry Transponders only worked well in po-licing honest people.

“I assume you have sensor damp-eners or scatterers?”

“A three-tier ECM. They should not be able to detect us once we’re in space.”

Tristan whirled in the chair to face Reggie with a cold stare, recalling a time when Reggie had almost gotten them both killed with a similar pre-sumption. “’Should not.’”

Reggie paused, then accepted the correction—and memory—by tipping his head with a slight shrug, almost apologetic. “For a while, anyway. Long enough.”

“That’s subjective.”A smile spread. “Don’t be pedan-

tic.”An old in-joke. Hilarious when they

were still cock-sure boys in men’s bodies, bitter now, so many years af-ter the betrayal. Tristan’s lips thinned, and he turned back to the console. “The Confeds most certainly sent out probes to look for us. The second we lift off, they’ll find us, despite your three-tier system.”

Propulsion had been set to hot standby—the ship was powered down, so it could not be detected, but could be in the air in as little as thirty seconds. Excellent. Not so ex-

cellent was their amount of fuel—to have enough for the jump drive, he couldn’t use the Alcubierre for a sus-tained amount of time. That wasn’t his biggest worry though.

“Because of the probes,” Tristan continued, “our most dangerous mo-ments will be when we’re using the standard engines to get through the ionosphere to the threshold point so I can activate the Alcubierre, not in the five to ten seconds after cutting the drive and waiting for the distortion field to dissipate so we can jump.”

Tristan studied the readings on the fleet dispersal in orbit. “I need to talk to Carter.”

“Who?” Reggie sounded honestly confused.

“Donegal.”“Whatever for?”Tristan turned to face Reggie. “He

can tell me what the Confederation procedures are. I can guess, but I’d rather deal with facts.”

Reggie sighed, and inclined his head at the crewman at Ops/Com-munications. “Very well.”

The man returned the nod, and Reggie lifted a hand in permission. Tristan hoped he kept his icy façade intact despite seething inside at Reg-gie’s imperious posturing. He kept his gaze on Reggie as he asked, “Cart-er?”

“Sir?” “They’re letting me pilot us out of

here, and we’re getting ready to take

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off. The moment we do, the probes will locate us. Tell me what to ex-pect.”

“The probes must have already found the canisters, just as our cap-tors did—”

“Rescuers,” Reggie corrected in a sing-song voice.

“—which means patrol ships are loitering above atmo. As soon as the engines fire up full the probes will detect us. The patrols will be able to zero in and project our course, then plan an intercept for when we pass through the ionosphere. They’ll lock on to the yacht and start firing to crip-ple the engines.”

“That’s about what I suspected.”“Also, patrol ships have the capabil-

ity to cut through interference from their own Alcubierre drive to detect the distortion from another ship’s drive. We’ll likely have several ships on our tail, so be careful.”

“Anything else?”“Not really, Sir. You know what

you’re doing and don’t need any en-gine room kibitzing.”

Tristan snorted and swung back around to the console. That’s a first. He entered his flight plan into nav and held his breath as he switched the en-gines from standby to full power. The resultant thrum through the ship ran through him as well, invigorating him despite the situation. He waited the forever it seemed to take for all sys-tems to show green.

“How far do you want me to push the engines to cut our time in atmo?” Tristan asked over his shoulder as the yacht lifted off.

“I want my ship intact—through both your piloting and from the Con-feds. I leave it to your discretion.”

Tristan reserved his wonder as to what Reggie was up to in entrust-ing him with this—his pilot certainly could handle the situation, if not, he or she wouldn’t be working for Dray. He could theorize later, if he got them out of here safely. The ship rose, and he pushed the engines until they red-lined, screaming.

“It’s too much!” Reggie shouted. “Pull back!”

“My discretion,” Tristan retorted, inwardly pleased that he managed to provoke Reggie into raising his cul-tured voice in such a gauche manner. “I want to beat their patrol ships’ in-terception—if possible.”

Patrollers were built for speed—and if Carter was right, they were already zeroing in, waiting. He had to hit the Alcubierre drive as soon as physically possible, before the patrols could take out their engines.

He watched the display, the count-down until he could safely engage the Alcubierre...

Blips appeared, triangulating, clos-ing in. Their intersection coincided almost to the second when Tristan would have the yacht high enough to activate the drive. He looked at the

waving red lines, indicating engine stress and overload and then at the Alcubierre engagement threshold.

This was going to be close...He entered the course for the drive,

and waited. Just as the patrol ships came within range, he set the yacht into a corkscrew, hoping to gain a few extra moments before their targeting computers could lock on.

A shudder ran through the ship. “Hostiles firing, Captain,” the wom-

an at Tactical announced.“Return fire,” Reggie ordered.“Belay that!” spat Tristan. Thresh-

old! He hit the Alcubierre; the world bulged.

The two crewmembers let out an audible sigh. Tristan let his breath out slowly in satisfaction, but stayed alert. One more spot of danger lay before them. Lack of fuel, short Alcubierre run; Tristan dare not use it for more than a minute, maybe two. Patrollers would likely be clinging to their hull as soon as they dropped into regular space.

Tristan deactivated the Alcubierre, the field began to dissipate, and—as predicted, his fears formed into five patrol ships materializing alongside.

“They’re creating a localized Alcu-bierre bubble around us to try to stop us,” Tactical called out.

A warp lock would be a worry if Tristan wanted to engage the Alcubi-erre again, but he had different plans. He activated the jump engine. True,

the negative energy of the bubble cut down the range of the wormhole, but it still took them beyond the reach of the patrol ships. They couldn’t arrive where the yacht was before the ca-pacitor was ready for the next jump, even if they could extrapolate where the wormhole exited.

They were safe from the Confed-eration. Tristan spun to face Reggie. Now the true danger loomed.

L. S. King is a science fiction and fantasy writer with one book, several published short stories, a column on writing, and an ongoing monthly se-rial 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 gar-dening, 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.

Deuces Wild: Threshold of Escape © 2009 by L.S. King.

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For several long and agonizing sec-onds, Jessica Quimbly, captain of the star-freighter Breaking Dawn, felt like her insides were being pulled in multiple directions at once. Her head throbbed in pain. The space around her ship was a swirling abstract of darkness and kaleidoscopic light. And then, as quickly as it began, it ended. The universe reverted to its normal dimensions, and her body sagged into her pilot’s seat.

Suddenly, red lights flared inside every corridor and room of the ship, and a sharp bleet erupted from over-head speakers. Flashes of light lit up the hull, followed quickly by flacks of metal debris that racked across the windows surrounding the pilot’s sta-tion.

“Cam!” she shouted. “Would the weapons specialist like to tell me what the hell is going on?”

Behind her, standing at a worksta-tion that was a rat’s nest of monitors and wires, Cam was an island of calm in a sea of chaos. Considering that he was an android, such a disposition was only to be expected. Dangling network cables terminated at plugs near the base of his hairless skull, and his hands danced quickly across mul-

tiple keyboards. “Though I risk stating the obvious,

Captain,” he replied, his too-smooth face composed, “it appears we are under attack. IFF isn’t picking up any transmissions though. I have our drone fighters cycling up now, and they’ll launch in thirty seconds. Point defense systems are activated.”

Jessica tightened her grip on the control sticks and glanced at the radar screen near her left knee. There she saw five red symbols buzzing around her ship like angry hornets. What few weapons the Dawn had were firing in a near constant barrage. The red dots danced through the fusillade nimbly and fired back in return. The ship shook with each blast.

Drifting into the distance behind them was the reason for her recent discomfort, the Coven Gate Sisters Weirding. Nearly identical to every gate Jessica had encountered in her travels, it was circular in shape and had a diameter of just over a kilo-meter. Large though it was, its most notable features were the four mas-sive coolant fins that sprang from its outer edge like the petals of a flower and radiated heat generated by the gate’s immense power core safely

into space.The aft bridge door slid open.

Through it rushed Boo, Jessica’s sec-ond in command and the Dawn’s usual pilot.

“Jessie!” he yelled, two of his four long arms reaching out to grasp handrails so that he wouldn’t fall as the ship bucked beneath his broad feet. “Please tell me we aren’t under attack.”

“They came at us right after cross-ing through the gate,” she replied as she spun the ship into a sharp angle.

Never taking his mechanical eyes from the monitors before him, Cam said, “The markings on the fighters indicate that they are from Captain Harkens’ ship.”

“What?” Boo said. “I thought those pirates stuck to the other side of the spin!”

“They usually do,” Cam replied.A dull series of thumps reverberat-

ed through the body of the freighter.“Drone flights Alpha and Gamma

have launched,” Cam said. “Hull in-tegrity is at ninety-six percent.”

Pushing the engine throttle for-ward, Jessica spun the Dawn away from the pursuing fighters as grace-fully as the lumbering vessel would allow. On her radar screen she saw ten small green blips burn away from them and race toward their attack-ers.

“Have you spotted the Bloodpack yet, Cam?” she asked. “Harkens has got to be out here somewhere.”

“Negative.”Boo brought up a display panel that

sat on an articulated arm and called up Navigation. He already knew where they were—the Loomis’kka System—but he wanted to know exactly how far they were from Loomis’kka Prime, their destination.

The freighter shuddered as the pirate fightercraft unleashed their particle guns. Cam fended them off with their drones and cannons, both working in harmony as his cybernetic mind tied their efforts together, but against such agile ships there was little he could do.

Jessica glanced at a status display and saw her ship’s hull weakened slowly but surely. Her options limited, she hit her afterburners and forced the freighter to fly in ways its makers had never intended. Sweat poured down her back.

After several nerve-racking min-utes the pirates began to fall back, and the hits became less and less frequent. She wasn’t sure if that was because of her fancy flying or Cam’s remarkable tactical skills, but either way she was grateful. Her ship was designed for transporting cargo, not heavy combat.

“Captain,” Cam said, “our attackers

Tales of the Breaking Dawn

Part One: The Ties That Bindby Justin R. Macumber

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have ceased pursuing us.”She grunted and twisted her lips.

“Not that I’m looking a gift horse in the mouth, but wasn’t that a bit easy?”

“Were I to theorize,” Cam replied, “I’d say their primary mission was to keep the gate secure.”

“Perhaps, but don’t recall the drones just yet. No use tempting them to come back for more.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”The Dawn blazed its way further

into the system, and the pirates faded into the distance. As seconds turned into minutes, their minds began to ease. Jessica was almost ready to is-sue a Stand-Down order for the ship when a large red blip appeared on her radar.

“Captain, we are picking up a ves-sel inbound from the direction of Loomis’kka Prime,” Cam said. “Again, there is no IFF, but by its size and hull design I would say it was the Blood-pack.”

Jessica tugged at her left earlobe. “Any indication they’ve spotted us?”

“Unless they actively ping us or transmit a hail, there is no way to know for sure.”

“All right then, let’s play this safe.” Her steady hands guided the

freighter into a shallow turn to angle her vector well clear of the approach-ing vessel, and she pushed the engine

throttles to their safety stops. To her relief, the Bloodpack didn’t change its heading. Once both ships had their engines to each other, she brought the ship back to its original course.

“Captain, it would seem we are clear of danger,” Cam said.

With a grateful sigh, she pulled back on the throttle and locked her con-trols down. After that she removed her headset and jumped up from the pilot’s seat. When she was clear of the lowered enclosure, she gestured to it with a sweep of her arm and said, “Boo, she’s all yours!”

The Kleeetan chuckled and lowered himself to the seat. “Aye, Skipper.”

“Cam, how much longer until we hit Loomis’kka Prime’s orbit?”

The android paused for a moment as he interfaced with the ship’s sys-tems, and then said, “Six hours.”

“That can’t be right,” she replied.“No, that’s accurate,” Boo said. “I

saw it on the nav screen while you were busy keeping us from getting shot out of the sky. The Sisters Weird-ing gate is now only half as far from Loomis’kka Prime as it was when our navigation charts were last updated.”

A line formed between Jessica’s eyes as her brow furrowed. “How? And better yet, why?”

“I think they knew.”“Knew what?”“That Harkens was going to try and

use their gate as a way of setting up a presence in the system.”

Thinking his words over, she nod-ded. “Could be. But, how would they have known far enough ahead of time to move it? That couldn’t have been quick, or easy.”

The Kleeetan thought for a mo-ment and then said, “Maybe they had a premonition.”

As Boo’s words entered the air, Cam stopped typing, and the absence of the ever-present clicking noise caused Jessica to turn.

“Captain,” the android said, his tone flatter than usual, “I am aware that most of the galaxy believes the Coven to be some sort of mystics or seers, but that is, and I mean no offense, organic superstitious non-sense. It is more than likely that contacts the Coven have within the criminal community alerted them to Harkens’ plan. They could not refuse him passage through the gate with-out risking a pirate war, so instead they moved it closer to the safety of Loomis’kka Prime and its military forces. It doesn’t take voodoo or psy-chic powers to see that.”

Jessica wanted to laugh at Cam’s all-too proper tone, but she decided it would be better to just nod and smile.

“Very good,” she said. “Makes per-fect sense.”

Cam nodded. “Of course it does.”“Oh, and go ahead and stable

those drones now that the excite-ment is over.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” Cam working quickly and quietly. Beneath the low hum of his servos, she just barely heard him whisper, “Supernatural powers. Really.”

Smirking, she exited the bridge. Coming down the short corridor from the opposite direction was Duka, the ship’s engineer. His usually dark and hairy face was pale.

“You should warn me when we’re going to get into a tussle, Jessie,” he said with a laugh like rocks being ground over each other. “That way I can prep the engines properly.”

She returned his laugh. “The funny thing with pirates is that they don’t like to give much in the way of a warn-ing. Besides, I never fear the Dawn’s engines giving out. You’re a marvel of your profession.”

Duka reached out and patted her on the shoulder with a hand that held too many fingers with too many knuckles. “You flatter as well as you fly, and I thank you.”

The alien engineer lapsed into si-lence, and Jessica was content to stand quietly next to him. She’d known him all of her life, and his presence was a comfort. Her father, Patrick Quimbly, had purchased the ship just before

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she was born, and the first crewmem-ber he’d hired had been the E’Loean engineer. In the years since Patrick’s death, the engineer had become a mentor and something of a surrogate parent to her.

Finally breaking the stillness he said, “Perhaps it’s just me, but that last gate crossing was especially pain-ful.”

A pensive expression crossed her eyes and mouth. “I’d have thought by now you’d be used to it.”

“I’ll never get used to it,” he grum-bled. “Your father never used the Co-ven.”

Despite herself, Jessica grew hot where she stood. “Well I’m not my fa-ther. I know the rest of you don’t like the Coven, and to tell you the truth I don’t either, but they’re willing to let us use their gates, and sometimes that can shave days from our travel times. Advantages are too few and far between out here to not use them.”

“But at what cost?”She shifted around in her chair and

fluttered her hands in the air. “Cost? Yeah, the Covens charge a steep fee, but it all works out.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”“Oh, what, are we going to go into

that again?” she asked. “Are we re-ally?”

Duka opened his mouth, but then he closed it and shook his bushy head.

“No. You know how we feel about the Coven, but you’re the captain.”

Biting back the retort that had sprung to her lips, Jessica sighed. “You should have Zen give you something for the nausea.”

“No. I’ll be okay. Just a small glass of Refflik Tea, and then I’ll hit the tube. Sleeping makes it better, except for the nightmares.”

“You don’t always have them,” she said, her tone hopeful.

“No, I don’t. As you humans say, knock on wood.” He raised his right hand and rapped it against the top of his large head.

Jessica smiled. “That’s more like stone than wood.”

“So it is. Call me if you need me.”The E’Loean engineer patted her

shoulder one last time and then am-bled away to the galley in his odd but endearing three-legged gate.

Jessica watched him go, sad that her choices caused those close to her pain, and angry at the universe for forcing her to make those choices in the first place. But, she knew noth-ing could be done to change things, so she turned to her cabin door. She needed to get all the rest she could before they arrived at Vimm’skka Sta-tion. Once all of their cargo was un-loaded, the task of finding another job would begin.

#

The trip from the Coven gate to Loomis’kka Prime was brief, but the wait to dock with Vimm’skka Sta-tion felt like an eternity. Hundreds of ships flew in orbit around the planet, all of them waiting for clearance to land, clearance which was often long in coming. But, as soon as the Dawn was docked, unloading its cargo fell to their cargo chief, Ferron Cth.

“Will you tell that bucket of rust to get the hell out of my way?” he shout-ed at a nearby dock robot. The droid wasn’t perturbed by the fierceness of Ferron’s voice, but the Dunadon wouldn’t have cared even if it had.

Gray skinned and nearly hairless, Dunadons are a large and incredibly strong species. Like most Dunadon males, Ferron sported a single small horn above his nostril ridge, which he’d had capped with a brass tip, and formidable tusks descending past the sides of his grim mouth.

“They will be moving in just one moment,” the dock robot replied, one metal hand extended toward a hovering pallet practically overflow-ing with bags of grain. “Please wait until I give you permission before you begin unloading your cargo.”

Ferron snorted thickly. “I’ve got time sensitive stuff here!”

Its hands still moving in precise motions, the droid gave a negative beep in reply. “Not according to the

manifest you have supplied us with. If this manifest is not complete, I will need to have you submit a new one, and it will then have to be personally inspected by an import official.”

“Now, now. No need for all that. I just meant that our employer re-quested this cargo to be delivered as quickly as possible. Our manifest is most certainly complete.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but it was said with enough conviction that few would challenge it. Ferron had been inspected only once in his en-tire career, luckily during a shipment that actually had been above-board, so his record was clean. He intended to keep it that way.

“Then perhaps you should have ar-rived sooner,” the robot replied flatly. Rolling forward, the droid extended one of its many arms and handed him a slim computer pad. “Please keep this on you at all times while working in the dockyard. From our records I see that you have been here once be-fore and are qualified for dock han-dling by the Dol’mire’s Conglomerate Board Of Commerce and Transporta-tion. As such I will expect your work here to be efficient and problem free. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Ferron replied.“Yes or no, please.”Grumbling, the Dunadon rubbed

his lips against his long tusks and said,

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“Yes, we’re clear.” “Very well. Your loading area is

now ready, so you may begin moving your cargo at this time. Is there any-thing else I can assist you with?”

Ferron tucked the pad into a pock-et on his dungarees and turned back toward his ship. “Nope, I’m good, tin head. Off you go.”

Not insulted in the least, the droid spun around and wheeled off toward the next ship on its list.

“Everything okay?” Jessica asked as she walked down the cargo ramp from her ship.

“Aye, Skipper. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to clear everything out.”

“Everything?”“Yes, Ma’am. Everything. No prob-

lems at all.”She hadn’t expected anything less,

but it always came as a comfort when unlisted cargo wasn’t searched or sniffed out.

“Very good. Sar Donn’hha will be most pleased.”

“I do what I can, Skipper.”Patting his thickly muscled left arm,

Jessica smiled. “And you do it well. If you need me or Boo, we’ll be in the Stargazer seeing what jobs are avail-able.”

Ferron nodded his gray head. “Will do.”

“Oh, and before I go, make sure

to call Zen as soon as our provisions get here. She’s been breathing down my neck all week to get the kitchen stocked again, plus she has some medical supplies coming in for sick bay.”

“It’ll be good to have new grub aboard,” Ferron told her, patting his belly. “Pickings have been slim.”

“Too slim, I know. We’ll get that fixed.”

Around the back of the Dawn ap-peared Boo, his shaggy face showing how happy he was to be on the sta-tion and able to stretch his legs.

“You ready to make some money?” Jessica shouted to him over the din of the docking bay.

“I’m always ready!”Grinning, Jessica nodded to her

cargo chief and then walked off with Boo toward the entrance to the inner sanctums of the station, leaving Fer-ron to his work, which he set to with his usual dogged determination.

#

Looking through the glass entrance doors, Jessica saw that the Stargazer lounge was busier than she’d ever seen it before, and the sight of it de-pressed her. She preferred the bar the way it had been when she was young, before the Conglomerate had become a powerhouse in the galaxy. “Sometimes progress just isn’t worth it,” she said.

Nodding, Boo grumbled, “You read my mind.”

With shared smirks they entered the lounge. Pulsing music nearly hit them like a wall when the doors opened. A few of the lounge’s occu-pants turned to look their way, but after little more than a cursory glance they turned away without looking a second time. Neither Jessica nor Boo rated more interest than that.

“You go and get us some drinks, and I’ll find a table,” Jessica shouted.

“Your usual?” he asked.Jessica nodded and handed him a

credit chip. He declined it with a hurt expression, and then walked toward the crowded bar. She then searched around for an unoccupied table, even-tually finding one near the back. As soon as she was seated she activated the computer screen that sat on the table top and entered her credentials so she could access the Intergalactic Trade and Transportation Network.

After entering her identification, she pulled up the details on her latest job and saw that Sar Donn’hha had marked her contract as completed. He’d also transmitted the remainder of his payment, along with an un-expected bonus. Jessica smiled and tapped a key that marked her accep-tance of the contract closure.

Boo appeared at the table a second later, drinks in two of his large hands.

The one he sat down in front of her was bright red and fizzled furiously, while the one he placed before his own chair was dark and thick.

“The least they could do is put a gun to my head while they’re rob-bing me blind,” he grumbled as he sat down.

“Prices getting that bad?”“Bad? How does twenty Glomers

sound?”“For just two drinks?”“Two drinks, my right eyes! That

was for just your Zoodien Twist! Mine was another fifteen! I suggest you drink it slowly. There won’t be anoth-er one. Not from my meager wages anyway.”

Gently picking up the glass before her, Jessica took a shallow drink, and then carefully put it down to the right of the screen, far from any danger of being accidentally spilled. “Don’t whine just yet,” she said. “Sar Donn’hha threw a bit more in than we contracted for, so we’re all a little richer.”

A twinkle appeared in the pilot’s four eyes. “Zen’s contacts really came through.”

“For a doctor, she sure knows some unscrupulous people,” Jessica said. After taking another sip, she looked back at the monitor and hit a button that brought up a screen of freighter contracts. As they filtered through

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the list, a light started to flash in the lower right corner of the screen, indi-cating an incoming transmission.

“A call?” Boo said. “Who could pos-sibly be calling us?”

Raising her eyebrows, Jessica hit the CONNECT icon with a tentative finger and said, “This is Captain Jes-sica Quimbly.”

A window opened on the monitor. At first it was dark, but then a face suddenly filled the frame, and the man it belonged to huffed air in ner-vous gasps.

“Oh, Jessie!” the man shouted, his head trembling. “Thank the Gods I found you! I need your help, and I re-ally need it fast!”

A victim of the economy, Justin is now a full-time writer of space–far-ingopera and daring-do, working to earn his big break. He’s written sto-ries in almost every genre, but science fiction is where his heart belongs, and it always will. He also created and co-hosts a writing podcast called The Dead Robots’ Society, which you can find at www.deadrobotssociety.com.

And, if you want to learn more about him and read some of his oth-er work, you can go to www.justin-macumber.com.

Tales of the Breaking Dawn: The Ties That Bind © 2009 by Justin Macumber.

Gradisil by Adam RobertsPyr, 2007, 464 pagesReviewed by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt

Adam Roberts’s Gradisil is a com-plicated novel about classic themes. Love. Death. Family. Revenge. Free-dom. Betrayal. The birth of a nation. It is set in the middle of the twenty-first to the middle of the twenty-second century, and humanity now has the means to climb into orbit using the Earth’s electromagnetic field. Gone are the days when government agen-cies and hyper-expensive rockets mo-nopolized space travel. Now space is in the reach of any amateur wealthy enough to retrofit a plane with elem technology and lift a habitat into or-bit. Thus the Uplands are born.

The first of the novel’s three parts is told from the point of view of Klara Gyeroffy, daughter of Uplands pio-neer MiklÛs Gyeroffy. Klara’s father is killed, and the remainder of this first part deals with Klara’s choice be-tween coming to terms with her fa-ther’s death or seeking revenge. Her actions are set against the backdrop of rising tensions between the US and the EU. Tensions that lead to the first war in space in 2081.

The second and largest part of the

novel traces the efforts of Klara’s daughter, Gradisil, to weld the citi-zens of the Uplands into a nation in the face of US belligerency. The events are told from two perspec-tives: that of Lieutenant David Slater, the man responsible for planning the war against the Uplands, and of Paul Caunes, Gradisil’s rich, cuckold-ed husband, who chooses to betray her to the US. (This is not a spoiler, as Paul himself tells us about his be-trayal in the first chapter we meet him.) The third and final part of the novel—also the shortest—deals with Gradisil’s two sons, Hope and Sol, who encounter Paul decades after his betrayal and bring him to justice. At least as Sol understands justice.

The publicity blurbs on Gradisil call the novel a space opera, and compare it to the work of Robert Heinlein. One might see a superficial resemblance to a work like The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress. Both deal with a successful revolution in space, a revolution at great cost. Both Heinlein’s work and Gradisil have an anti-establishment feel, Heinlein in a libertarian direc-tion and Gradisil along the lines of classic anarchy.

But Roberts’s novel is much more complicated than a straight-forward

RGR REVIEWSby Matthew Scott Winslow, Donald Jacob Uitvlugt

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space opera. Indeed, it is much more accurately “anti-space opera” or per-haps “post-space opera.” Gradisil is not the account of the lone individ-ual changing the universe through her heroic struggle; it is about how that struggle affects—but does not change—those around her. How a struggle for freedom locks others into the gravity of fate.

And it is about the war in Iraq. There can be no denying this, espe-cially given the way Roberts portrays the U.S. military of the future han-dling the war with the Uplanders. Roberts posits, with only the slight-est of extrapolation, that wars in the future will be more about PR and perception, and fought more in the courtroom and in the forum of pub-lic opinion than in actual combat. The future of international politics that Roberts presents is all too plausible. Knowing that Roberts is the author of a number of parodies, such as The McAtrix Derided and The Sellamillion, it is not a stretch at all to see Gradisil as parodying the war in Iraq, or at the very least satirizing it. (Swift’s Gulliver is a very visible presence in Gradisil.)

Gradisil is postmodern in style: indirect and often unreliable narra-tors; the fact that we never get into Gradisil’s head; even Roberts’s habit of systematically misspelling words (“wat” for what, leaving out the C in

words like black or pick, dropping the final G from ING-words) has the effect of jarring the reader. We are never al-lowed simply to settle into the world of the story, but are constantly jarred, like driving along the rumble strips on the highway.

This is all intentional. The way Rob-erts writes the novel makes it impos-sible for the reader to disappear into the story. He forces the reader to remember that he is reading a text, with the goal of forcing the reader to interact with the text. To wrestle with the meaning of revenge and tragedy.

The title of the novel, and the name of its largest character, is derived from Yggdrasil, the great world-ash of Norse mythology. But this refer-ence to Norse mythology is a misdi-rection. The three parts of the novel are all tragedies, in the classical mold. Indeed, a very interesting study could be written comparing Gradisil to the Oresteia by Aeschylus. (Roberts’s text itself begs this comparison.) Both deal with characters locked into cycles of violence and revenge. In both there are characters aware of these cycles who desperately want a way out but cannot escape their fates.

Gradisil is meant to raise questions, not answer them. Those who want escapism or gut-level action-adven-ture SF will come away from Roberts’s novel disappointed. Those interested

in more philosophical SF or the use of postmodern narrative techniques in speculative fiction may find Gradisil interesting.

Conquistador by S.M. StirlingRoc 2003, 596 pagesReviewed by Matthew Scott Winslow

S.M. Stirling has made a reputation for himself with a series of alternate-history novels, akin to what Harry Turtledove has been doing for years. Stirling’s novels seem to fall into two broad categories: future histories where he changes something in the past to create a different future, or current histories set in an alternate world where something in the past has changed.

Conquistador is a bit of an odd duck in the Stirling opus in that it deals with the real world unchanged but also has an alternate world. In this case, World War II veteran John Rolfe in the early post-war years is muck-ing about with a wireless et in his San Francisco house when he mysterious-ly opens up a portal to another earth where, because Alexander the Great never died an early death, the New World was never discovered by Eu-ropeans and is thus almost perfectly unspoiled. An entrepreneur at heart, Rolfe quickly realizes the fortune to

be made bringing the mineral wealth of an unspoiled North America to a resource-depleted twentieth-century Earth.

By the closing years of the twen-tieth century, however, Rolfe’s Com-monwealth of New Virginia has been around long enough to develop a fac-tion that wants to break the rules and bring prohibited items to ‘Firstside’ Earth to make more of a profit, but jeopardize the secrecy of the Com-monwealth. On Firstside, fish and game warden Tom Christiansen dis-covers a new strain of the near extinct California condor during the bust of a smuggling operation. He quickly real-izes something odd is going on. As he digs deeper and deeper, he gradually uncovers the truth about the Com-monwealth and the woman he knows as Adrienne Rolfe.

After discovering too much about the Commonwealth, Tom and his partner Roy are kidnapped over to the Commonwealth’s side of the in-terdimensional gate where they find themselves fighting on the side of their kidnappers to help maintain the secret that they were previously try-ing to expose.

I’ve been reading a bit more military SF recently and I have to admit that Stirling is probably the best militaris-tic writer I’ve discovered so far. Even though he has a penchant for lovingly

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dwelling on weapons details, only oc-casionally does he go overboard and derail his story. In addition to this problem, though, the plotting of the story also stalls midway through as there’s a huge middle portion of the book where the plot basically is put on hold as Stirling goes into intimate detail about the Commonwealth and how it is set up to be a combination of agrarian and industrial economies. Once the plot gets back on track, though, it’s a breakneck adventure told with great pacing and lots of de-tail.

Even though there are problems, this is still a captivating and en-thralling story that is a joy to read. The characters are real enough that you find yourself rooting for them as they face their enemies and sad when some of them don’t make it. The greatest strength, though, has to be Stirling’s ability to write battle scenes on a grand scale. He keeps all the details in the air like a master jug-gler, not dropping a single piece. The cumulative effect leaves you almost breathless. Thankfully, Stirling leaves the ending open enough for sequels without committing himself to such. I hope, though, that he will return to the Commonwealth of New Virginia sometime soon.

Cyberabad Days by Ian McDonaldPyr, 2009, 330 pagesReviewed by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt

A young man who becomes the caretaker of a troop of battle robot pilots. A boy whose father is part of an international peacekeeping force befriends a local boy. A girl who be-comes the heir to a vast corporation when her family is assassinated. A young man looking for love in a coun-try where men outnumber women four to one finds help from an AI. A girl who had been a goddess finds out what life is like when her time as a goddess is over. A classical dancer falls in love with an artificial intelligence. A genetically engineered man comes to terms with the age he lives in.

Ian McDonald’s Cyberabad Days re-turns to the world of his award-win-ning 2004 novel, River of Gods. The setting is the India of the near-future, centering on 2047, the centennial of Indian independence. This future India is a fractured, lively place, the subcontinent divided into a number of smaller nations. It is a land of a bil-lion and a half people, of strange new genders, climate-change induced drought, and a soap opera within a soap opera performed completely by artificial intelligence actors.

The seven stories in the collection are rich, full of vivid language and

striking images. They draw the reader in from the first sentence, like the start of “Kyle Meets the River”—”Kyle was the first to see the exploding cat.” Or of “An Eligible Boy”—”A robot is giv-ing Jasbir the whitest teeth in Delhi.” McDonald’s prose delights, though at times it is experimental, with shifts in tense or in person within a single story.

The rich prose well suits what for most readers is an exotic setting. There is a wildness to the language suitable to the wildness of McDon-ald’s future India. Yet the heart that beats at the center of each story is universal, human. Each story is a coming-of-age tale, about the main character finding his or her place in the world, or failing in that quest.

Not that Cyberabad Days is an exer-cise in clichés. The unique setting and style prevents that. But even more so the vividness of the characters. These people and their stories are totally engaging. It is no surprise that “The Djinn’s Wife” won a Hugo award, or that “The Little Goddess” was nomi-nated. My personal favorite in the collection was “The Dust Assassin.” Readers familiar with River of Gods will find special enjoyment in the no-vella “Vishnu at the Cat Circus,” which presents a kind of Ender’s Shadow to the events of the novel.

Readers already familiar with Mc-

Donald’s India of 2047 will find Cy-berabad Days a welcome addition to their enjoyment of this unique world. Speaking for myself, I enjoyed the stories even more than the novel (though I also enjoyed it). A story col-lection linked in theme and setting al-lows McDonald to focus on individual characters while at the same time gives him the freedom to highlight even more aspects of his multifacet-ed future. However it is by no means necessary to have read River of Gods to enjoy Cyberabad Days. All lovers of human adventure will enjoy this pre-sentation of McDonald’s vision.

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

Matthew Scott Winslow has been a science fiction and fantasy addict since he first discovered Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series on his dad’s shelves at a young age. He can be reached at reviews@raygrunrevival.com.

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Previously, on Thieves’ Honor:

The Martina Vega carries legitimate cargo—she tries to at least appear le-gal—but her crew has caused a ruckus in Port Henry, and the constabulary is seeking the return of a stolen bag of marbles and the winnings of famed gambler, Big Bryson Fry.

The day before, Captain Kristoff was shot in the chest by a fellow pi-rate, but he refuses to follow doctor’s orders and stay in the infirmary.

Finney, the Vega’s pilot, is still in captivity, taken by an extraction team hired by Governor Tarquin, a former port governor with a long memory and a vengeful patience.

In disguise, Captain Iona Zoltana, of the merchant constable Orpheus, has left her docked ship and is travel-ing across Port Henry, a piece of top-secret information in her pocket.

And aboard the Martina Vega is an eclectic group of armed enemies crowding her hold, guns drawn: her crew, a squad of port constables, Governor Bat’Alon and his personal guard, and the extraction team that took Finney.

And now, on Thieves’ Honor:

Kristoff surveyed his crew: Sahir, Corrigan, Wyatt, Alerio, standing solid as the Pillars of Constantine. Where was Mercedes?

He turned his head, met the cold gaze of the leader of the extraction team, and felt a sudden desire to twist the man’s head until it popped off his neck. “What’s your name?”

“Not here to chat.”“Always like to know a man’s name

before I kill him.”A harsh laugh. “Bold words for a

man with empty hands.” The hunter’s glance flicked to the sleeve dangling down Kristoff’s left side. “Hand.”

“S-sirs?” The constable in charge aimed his gun somewhere between the extraction team and the crew. “May we settle this some other way than violence?” His words shook, but he stood straight in his dark blue uni-form, shoulders back, and addressed the bounty hunter with a strong voice.

Kristoff suppressed a smile. Well done.

“We want the crew of the Martina Vega,” said the bounty hunter. “The

rest of you don’t interest me.”“That’s as may be, sir, but I c-can-

not allow you to take these men.”“Stand aside, boy, and I won’t

have to kill you.” Then, with a raised eyebrow at the front of the officer’s tunic-like coat: “Those shiny buttons make mighty tempting target prac-tice.”

Governor Bat’Alon looked around at his guards, caught between the constabulary and the extraction team, then frowned at one of them and made a gesture, jerking his head in a silent command for the man to move forward, start shooting.

Kristoff clenched his jaw. Blasted fool. A ship’s hold full of folk, and the old man wanted bullets ricocheting off the metal walls. Kristoff shuffled forward, and stood between the guard and the bounty hunter. “You and me. Out in the street.”

The hunter’s gun wavered—not much, just enough to tick toward Kristoff’s right eye. “This ain’t an old-fashioned shootout, captain. We get paid for the whole crew. Alive.”

Kristoff stepped closer until the mouth of the barrel blurred. “Then why the guns?”

“Kinda like cattle prods. They get people moving.”

“We’re not going anywhere.” Kristoff clenched his fist. “Where’s my pilot? Where’s Finney?”

“You wanna know? Come with us, quiet and easy—”

“Other than his own life, money’s what an extractor values most, and you don’t get paid unless I’m alive.” Kristoff pressed his forehead against the gun, and the hunter’s eyes wid-ened. “Where’s Finney?”

The hunter’s nostrils flared, and his breath quickened. His trigger finger twitched but didn’t tighten.

Silence claimed the hold. No feet shifted on the grate flooring, no clothing rustled, and the only audi-ble breathing came from the hunter. Sweat welled on his forehead.

Kristoff’s legs felt like unstrung rope, and a comfortable breath brought downright uncomfortable pain, but anger kept him on his feet. Anger, and a fierce will that refused to let the other man win.

Anger, a fierce will, and the hard-won friendship of Fiona Grace. A freelance pilot, she’d no desire to join a crew or answer to a captain, but she had a grudge against certain folk in government places, and she didn’t mind doing them a bad turn whenever possible. Besides, the Vega was grandmother to the tub she first flew solo. Kristoff still didn’t know if it was his winning charm or her love for boats that kept her aboard. If she was hurt—worse, if she was dead—

He pushed until the gun mouth bit

Thieves’ Honor

Episode 7: The Game: Leaping the Circleby Keanan Brand

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into the skin between his eyebrows. Familiar pain radiated from the base of his skull; any minute now, a killer headache would send him to his knees. “Where is she?”

#

The splintered, weathered edge of the headsman’s block digging into the back of her neck, Finney stared at the night sky until Prospero’s two moons blurred to four, then six, then her eyes closed in sleep. She dreamed of the day that had sent her here, saw again Devlin’s puzzled surprise that she had shot him, felt once more the helpless anger that Governor Tarquin still lived.

Then, as dreams are wont, colors and shapes and time itself warped into scenes strange yet familiar, and Finney was fifteen, sitting in the pi-lot’s chair of an old freighter and clinging to the calm, assured voice of her grandfather as he guided her sweaty-palmed young self through her first flight beyond planetary at-mosphere. He lifted a hand, pointed toward a star, and helped her find the course. Then the hand contorted, clawed at the air, and the dream shift-ed again: the night Andronicus Settle-ment burned, then the morning af-ter, ash-strewn and smoke-streaked, when meager survivors found one another, gray ghosts haunting smol-dering ruins.

Finney woke, yanked back to con-sciousness by the stab of broken ribs. Her hands were numb, her wrists raw, but she twisted and pulled against the manacles until her arms shook and blood ran from her fingertips. It wet the chain, slicked her skin so that one hand slid free—slow, like a ship ris-ing in heavy gravity, or a shoe tugged out of thick mud. Drawing her hands forward, resting them palm-up on her thighs, she closed her eyes, feeling strained muscles ease. She almost fell asleep again.

Gracie. Wake up, Gracie. “Grandfather?”A soft breath of wind like a whis-

pered laugh. You’ll not be escaping the Tarquin that way, lazing about on these great soft stones. Up, lass. Away with ye.

Finney dragged her eyelids open. One hand was still manacled to a chain embedded in the courtyard, and the carlinnian collar set with explosives still circled her neck. She rose to her knees, gathered her strength, then pushed up to sit on the block. Using the liberated hand to apply pressure, she folded the imprisoned one over on itself and pulled against the taut chain. In scraping increments, the hand slipped free.

What’re ye waiting for? Applause? Get up, Gracie. Get up!

“You know, old man, I have a first

name.”Aye, ‘tis your granny’s. But Gracie’s

so I don’t call ye both at once.“You called my father ‘Gracie’,

too.”It’s what he gets for having such a

wee family name. Grace. How’d he in-spire fear in his enemies with a name like that?

“He was fine man and an excellent sailor. And he did make you afraid.”

It’s that shining handsome face, ye see, and that proud way of walking. How’s a father to maintain order in his home when his daughters hie af-ter braw lads in airships?

“You only had one daughter. And you’re dead.”

Ye quibble over crumbs. Up, lass. Up.

One arm folded over her ribs, Finney stood, and looked again to the night sky. She was in the desert, and from the way the moons tracked, the white crossing the path of the blue, Port Henry lay eastward. She could follow the blue for another three hours, maybe four, before sunrise ob-scured it.

She moved toward the shadowed portico, her boots scuffing along the stones. No guns, no knife, not even the pencils that had held up her hair in a loose knot. Well, the buckle on her belt might make a nice weapon. No radio. Maybe there was a settle-

ment nearby. Maybe a rebel contact with a long-range analog radio that could reach all the way to Port Henry and Captain Kristoff.

The toes of her boots banged against the rise of a shallow step. She stumbled, caught herself against a pillar then stepped up, crossed the portico, and found a recessed door that might lead from the villa to the desert. Running a hand along the in-set panels, she expected wood but felt instead cool, smooth metal.

A large, broad-shouldered figure carrying a hand-held Ginchon stepped from the darkness. “It’s locked.”

Of course it is.“Set foot outside the perimeter,

the collar explodes.”“Might get messy, I expect.” Finny

sagged against a column. “Little bit.”“And you’re not the only one on

patrol.”“Nope.”“Well, then,” she slid to the floor,

“reckon I’ll stay a while.”

#

With his fingertips, Mars tugged the small, white square of napkin back and forth on the bar, dragging the frosty glass with it, the beer in-side sloshing up the sides.

He should have kept a copy of those files. It would have been in di-rect disobedience of a command, but

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Captain Zoltana was up to something dangerous.

In order to put together a puzzle, one started at the edges, the bound-aries—the known—and then filled in the great blank at the center. What did he know? One, there was a signal coming from the freighter Martina Vega. Two, the signal originated in an implant in a crewmember. Three, such devices were secret government sur-veillance, equipped with kill switches should the bearers become liabilities. Four, Captain Zoltana now carried all his not-quite-legal research in a case on her belt.

She had a plan, and she was shut-ting him out. Shielding him.

Not quite the behavior he expected when he first boarded the Orpheus almost a ship’s year ago. A latecomer to the constabulary—he worked as a civilian technician and programmer for a few years after academy—he had still known about Captain Iona Zoltana: impeccable reputation for integrity and perseverance in the pursuit of criminals, precise in her command yet at ease with her crew, and they with her. Some female of-ficers seemed in competition to be tougher than the men, barking orders and exacting sharp discipline, but Zol-tana wore command as if it were an old coat, worn and stretched into a comfortable shape. It was a matter of

course that she be obeyed. But he should have kept a copy of

those files.“Doesn’t matter how far we ad-

vance, lieutenant”—Ensign Gaines leaned against the bar, in his eyes the too-bright gleam of a man who’d imbibed a couple pints already—”no amount of staring at that beer will make it jump down your gullet.”

Mars downed the beer, pushed the glass toward the bartender, picked up the duffel slouched on the neighbor-ing stool. “See you in a couple days, Gaines. Fly true.”

Gaines lifted his mug. “You, too, sir.”

#

They stood as still as convicts in sus-pension cells. Captain Kristoff looked like the only thing holding him up was the gun pressed to his forehead.

Something flickered, and Ezra glanced up. Above the hold, beside the winch at the end of the catwalk, the doctor sighted down a shotgun. Red-tufted darts lined the belt slung low on her hips.

Excellent notion. He’d toss the whole pot of chandimay tea at the bounty hunters, except topical appli-cation took at least an hour to make a full-grown man even a little woozy. Doc’s tranquilizers, now—there was a dart handgun in the emergency kit beside the hatch.

He took a long step back, not too fast, and nudged Holmes. Nudged him again.

Holmes turned his head. Ezra held out the tea tray, and Holmes lifted his bandaged hands to accept it, but his eyes were vacant of everything but fear. City bloke.

“Where. Is. Finney.” Kristoff’s words pushed out through clenched teeth.

Ezra slanted another glance at Doc. She winked, then looked at Holmes and jerked her chin toward the rear of the hold. Ezra grabbed a fistful of Holmes’s shirt and guided him back-ward, praying the cups and saucers didn’t chatter.

They were musical, like falling coins.

Guns swung toward the sound. “Oh, crap.” Ezra dove for Holmes,

knocked him to the deck, and sent Sahir’s prize tea set crashing against a crate. Gunfire erupted. Slugs car-omed off the inner hull, and fire spat across the hold.

“Stay down!” he ordered Holmes then ran for the emergency kit.

Something stung his left buttock. He staggered, the world went wavy, and the floor rushed up to meet him.

#

Like the others, the leader of the extraction team snapped his gun in the direction of the noise and started firing.

Without the barrel to prop him up, Kristoff dropped to the floor, next to the head constable. The kid hadn’t discharged his gun yet.

“What’s your rank?” The law officer stared at him then

winced as a sliver of fire shot past his face. “S-sergeant. Sergeant Frank.”

“Well, Sergeant Frank”—a chunk of something skipped across the deck between them—”I’m gonna need those marbles back.”

“They’re no-not your property, sir.”

A bullet brushed Kristoff’s cheek. “I don’t have a gun, sergeant.”

“Take mine, sir.” “Noble of you, but I’d rather have

the marbles.” Frank shoved the mesh bag at him,

and Kristoff rose to a crouch. Some-thing plucked his empty sleeve, and it caught fire. Frank pounded out the flames, and in doing so hit thick pad of gauze over the gunshot wound. Kristoff bent over, forcing down the vomit at the back of his throat.

The sergeant pressed a hand against his bowed back. “Captain?”

Man up. Kristoff ran the back of his hand across his mouth. You can be sick later. A slug screamed overhead. “Ever hear of leaping the circle?” The threatened headache arrived, radiat-ing from the back of Kristoff’s skull and pushing at the back of his eyes.

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Fingers shaking, he tugged open the mouth of the drawstring bag. “It’s when a player shoots the taw so it arcs up then comes smack-down in the middle, scattering marbles every which-way.”

“Not the best time for a game, cap-tain.”

Kristoff grinned. “Hide and watch.”“Wha—?”He stood, and as he did, he threw

the marbles straight up, keeping a grip on the bottom of the bag. They looked like varicolored stars, gleam-ing against the dim ceiling of the hold, then they streaked downward, hitting men on their heads and shoul-ders, pinging against gun barrels, the smaller marbles clattering through the square holes in the grating. The larger marbles, though, rolled un-derfoot. Men staggered, flailed their arms, toppled into one another. Some of them were aided in their falls by little feathery darts in their hindquar-ters.

A scrap of red zinged past him and thunked into a hunter’s shoulder. Kristoff looked up. Mercedes waved.

Light burst on the edges of his vi-sion, but it wasn’t the result of gun-fire. He took a step, went down on one knee. The agony in his head shoved aside all other pain. He tried to push up but his legs failed.

“Captain!”

He swatted aside Frank’s hand.In seconds, the only sounds in the

hold were groans, snores, and sleepy mutters.

Then, from the cage in the corner near the forward hatch, a groggy voice—Jink Turner’s—slurred a com-plaint as the man wakened from his drunken sleep. “Noisy. Keep it down. Hey. There’s a guy bleeding over here. Is he dead?”

Fortunate fellow. Kristoff tried once more to stand.

“I pick you up many more times, cap,” rumbled Corrigan, lifting him as if he were child, “folks might get the wrong idea about us.”

#

“So,” said the sentry after a long si-lence, “who were you talking to out there?”

Finney turned her head, and the pillar was cool against her cheek. “A ghost.”

“I gathered that. Whose ghost?”“You’re an incurious fellow.”“It’s a long watch, and you’re an

uncommon prisoner. Whose ghost?”After a short silence, she replied,

“The man your employer ordered killed.”

“I don’t work for Governor Tarqu-in.”

“For Gregor, then?”“Three years.” He was silent for a

few moments. “Saw Gregor and the

boys lead you out here.” He chuckled. “Seems a few of ‘em had a limp.”

Despite herself, Finney smiled.“Fortunate for them, your hands

were tied.”“Had I been free, your friends

might have been more cautious. No fun then.”

“Good point.”Finney’s eyes wanted to close, but

she widened them, blinked, forced herself to stay alert. Still her thoughts wandered strange fields, guided by the brogue-lilted voice of the late Admiral Archibald Cunningham. She refused to answer him aloud.

The guard settled the gun into the crook of his arm then leaned a shoul-der against a nearby column. “There are so many militias infesting the backside of the colonies, extraction teams are being contracted by port governors to deliver the leaders to government jails. Good money.”

“Not good enough to stop your team from tracking me down.”

“Like I said, you’re an uncommon prisoner.” He chuckled again. “I imag-ine your crew brings in decent money. There are a great many governors and officials who didn’t seem too eager to help us find you. Lotta lowlifes, too. Figured they’d been paid off—or they do business with the Vega. Name’s Bosko, by the way.”

Finney looked up at him. “We’re

not friends.”“No reason we can’t talk.”Ye don’t much like talking, Gracie,

do ye? Except to that crew and its cap-tain. The admiral’s voice held a slight harrumph. Captain Kristoff. Can’t say I approve his chosen trade—or yers. Pilot on a reputable ship might make a grandda proud, but on a pirate ves-sel?

Fewer rules, she replied. No uni-forms. No salutes. No blasted colonial government.

Ach, Gracie, now yer talkin’ like a rebel.

Aye, Grandfather, and were I brav-er I’d have joined them years ago, but it’s safer in the supply line.

There was a snort. Safer? And with supplies stolen from honest citizens! Then the imagined voice gentled. Not always so honest, I suppose. Still, the goods are not yers for the taking. Look where yer piracy has brought ye.

Not piracy. She looked down, and wrapped one blood-crusted hand around the collar. Murder. Vengeance for you. Tears slipped from the cor-ners of her eyes and dripped from her chin. I acted in haste, and the wrong person died.

“No tears now”—Bosko sounded nervous—”and no pulling at that col-lar.”

Which bothered him more: the thought of exploding into bloody

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bits, or the sight of a female crying? Coward. Finney let go of the collar, and her hand dropped to her lap.

Across the courtyard, an armed man stepped from the depths of the opposite portico, looked toward the headsman’s block and the empty chains, then snapped his fingers and two other men appeared from the darkness, one with an orb of light in his hand.

Bosko cursed under his breath then went out to meet them. “Hey, boys, no need for panic.”

The man who’d snapped his fin-gers strode forward. “Where is she? How’d she get free?”

“Don’t know.”“I’d say she played you, but you

don’t have the key.”“She didn’t need a key.” Bracing herself against the column,

Finney stood. Carpe diem, and all that rot. She took a step back into deeper darkness. More like carpe nocturn. She almost laughed out loud, but clamped her lips tight. Not a great time for hysteria.

The man with the light held it low-er then he crouched to examine the manacles. “There’s blood here.” He moved the light. “And here. Tighter shackles next time.”

“Those are the smallest we’ve got,” said the snapping man.

“No worries,” said Bosko. “Broken

ribs. Bomb around her neck. She’s not going anywhere.”

Stepping so that her boots touched the stones heel-first then rocked for-ward, slow and quiet, Finney moved along the portico, feeling the way with one hand. Thank God for boots so old the leather didn’t creak with each step, and with heels so worn down they didn’t click on the hard surface.

The snapping man stepped closer and folded his arms, looking up at Bosko. “Why so soft on this one? She make you promises if you help her es-cape?”

“Our orders are to see she doesn’t leave, and she hasn’t.”

The wall ended, and Finney’s fin-gers bent around a corner. The light of the dual moons did not penetrate here: an alcove or a hall, or the door-way to a room.

“So. Where is she?”“Over there.”“Won’t make Gregor happy, you

making use of her without his leave.”Bosko’s voice turned ugly. “One of

these days, I’m gonna do something about that bilge between your ears.”

The snapping man’s hand hung beside the holster on his hip. “Why wait?”

Finney stepped around the corner—straight into a palm tree. A whole flock of ‘em. The tip of a frond poked her

in the eye. Blinking, her eye stinging, Finney groped for the trunks. A brief exploration revealed the rough edges of a waist-high clay or stone planter, long and rectangular, and on the wall a metal spigot for watering the small trees. The spout was dry, not even a drop or two lingering inside, and Finney’s mouth was dryer than the bottom of her boot. She couldn’t risk turning on the water, though, so she continued her exploration. The plant-er crossed the opening, but on the far side, away from the spigot, there was enough space for Finney to squeeze between the planter and the wall. Out of breath, arm gripping her mid-dle, she rested against the wall and looked out toward the courtyard.

The two antagonists still faced one another. Bosko’s Ginchon gun rested against his leg and pointed at the ground, but was held with a decep-tive looseness. No doubt he could tip up the barrel and squeeze off a shot before the other man drew his side-arm.

“Hey, boys,” said the man with the light, “you start shooting, you wake the household. Wake the household, the governor’s gonna demand an ac-counting. Stow this till later.”

After a few tense seconds, Bosko took a step backward.

His challenger shrugged—”Later, then”—and snapped his fingers at

the other two men. “Bring the girl.”Finney moved backward; her heel

butted against a wall, the space be-hind the planter just wide enough to allow the leaves air and growth. Gritting her teeth, Finney sank down, and stretched along the ground. She lay on her uninjured side, her back pressed against the planter, her legs drawn up so her boots wouldn’t show in the gap between it and the wall.

“Bosko, ain’t nobody here.”“She sat right there. We talked.”“Yeah. What was that about her

not going anywhere?”Silence. Finney imagined the men

looking at one another, each expect-ing someone else to answer. Cold seeped from the stones, and she shivered. Pain speared her side and chest, and she caught her breath.

Someone let loose a long and vi-brant string of curses.

“Everybody take a quadrant. And be quiet about it.”

Thudding footsteps vibrated along the stones. A light flashed high on the wall behind the thicket of miniature palms, but the searcher only paused for a second or two before continuing along the portico.

Finney closed her eyes, calmed her heartbeat, slowed her breathing. She twisted the collar so the clasp rested just under her chin. Prying the lock apart would trigger an immedi-

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ate detonation, but surely whoever made the device included a safety, some way to turn the thing off—not that Governor Tarquin wanted Finney anything but dead, but that the bomb maker would want a fail safe in case the collar were accidentally closed or otherwise mishandled. He’d keep himself safe.

Finney rubbed her thumb over the lock. Dead or alive, she was going to be here a while; might as well play Oburian roulette.

#

Propped up on a cot in the middle of the cargo hold because the head-ache wouldn’t let him stand and the wheelchair was still in the corner of Jay Mulligan’s bar, through half-closed eyes Kristoff watched the removal of bounty hunters and per-sonal bodyguards by his crew and the Port Henry constabulary. Governor Bat’Alon sputtered and threatened and demanded to know the where-abouts of his daughter Rebeka. Krist-off ignored him until the older man bent down and thrust his wrath-red face into the captain’s field of vision; Kristoff floored him with a right to the underside of his chin.

“That’s quite a negotiating skill you have, sir.” Frank stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Officer’s training. Military acad-emy.”

“Dang. I knew I should have lis-tened to my mother.”

His best butcher knife tucked ca-sually into his apron, Sahir herded a couple of groggy hunters out of the hold, and a constable confiscated their weapons. Corrigan and Wyatt, voices raised in argument over which of them knew how the standoff would end and when, dragged tranquilized bodyguards by the heels, the uncon-scious men’s heads bouncing with each bump down the gangway. How quickly normality returned.

Kristoff closed his eyes. “Your mother, huh?”

“Yes, sir. She wanted me to join the military, thought it might toughen me up, but my father wanted me to stay close to home.” Frank took a deep breath. “I’ve never been off-planet. Never been outside Port Henry.”

“We have two empty guest cab-ins.”

“I’ll think about it.”Kristoff squinted up at him. “Stand

around looking all official and legal-like, I might even let you fly for free.”

Frank moved aside as two of his deputies hefted the governor and car-ried him toward the gangway. “In oth-er words, you want me to make the Martina Vega look—respectable.”

“I was going for honest.”“That’s almost a confession, sir.”

Frank cleared his throat. “If you con-

tinue in this vein, I will be forced to arrest you.”

“Then I won’t add to your trou-bles—with this lot, you’ll be entering reports until your eyes cross—but I will ask a favor.”

Frank waited.“Leave Jink Turner in the cage over

there, and toss in the leader of the extraction team.”

“That would be against the law, sir. Extraction teams are illegal, and Mr. Turner is clearly inebriated.”

Muttering to himself, Turner turned in circles like a dog trying to catch its tail, and he kept patting his pockets, but the money he’d been paid by the extraction team was now stuffed into the cookie jar in the gal-ley. The bounty hunters could have pummeled information out of him, but likely they’d intended to get the money back—or perhaps it was a pit-tance compared to what Governor Tarquin offered them.

“We could have all died tonight, Sergeant Frank, but then you handed over a bag of stolen marbles.”

“Yes, sir, but I cannot allow those men to remain. Besides, Governor Bat’Alon has accused Mr. Holmes and Mr. Turner concerning Miss Bat’Alon, and those charges must be an-swered.”

“Those bounty hunters took my pilot, and Turner helped them do it.”

Kristoff’s jaw clenched; he strove to keep his words civil. “I need to know where she is.”

One of the constables approached, telling Frank that all the hunters were secure, and that Governor Bat’Alon and his guards were being transport-ed to lodgings. Frank nodded, and in-structed the officer to get a key to the cage and collect Turner.

Then, turning back to Kristoff, Frank spoke in low tones. “Captain, were a casual collector to go looking for a long-range analog radio, which shop would you recommend? And how much should said collector expect to pay for such an item?”

“Risto’s Flea Market. And not much, maybe less than the cost of a couple beers at Jay Mulligan’s.” Again, Kristoff leaned back, eyes closed. All this talking made him tired, made his head hurt even more, and medica-tion didn’t dent the pain. “Rebels use analog radios.”

“So do schoolboys who find them among family heirlooms.”

“What are you getting at, ser-geant?”

“Though I understand your need for recompense, I cannot, in good conscience, leave those men in your custody.” Frank added, “I can, how-ever, extract the information you need.”

“Why would you do that?”

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“We could have all died tonight, Captain Kristoff, but you play a mean game of marbles.”

#

The civilian harbormaster whirled, a pistol in his none-too-steady hand. His uniform was rumpled, a couple buttons were missing, and his face was a patchwork of pallor and bruis-es.

Zoltana stopped just inside the door, and lifted her hands out, away from her body. “Your pardon, sir. I did not mean to startle you.”

He lowered the gun but didn’t set it down. “Apologies. Difficulty on the docks tonight.”

She took a step forward. “I’ll be brief, then. Which slip is assigned to the Martina Vega? She’s an old freighter—”

The gun whipped up. “Who are you, and why do you want that ship?”

“I’m an old friend of the captain’s.”“His name?”“Helmer Kristoff, runs with an inter-

esting crew: big guy named Corrigan, nervous little man named Wyatt, an engineer called Alerio who’s always wearing a white lab coat—sound fa-miliar?”

“Too familiar.” With his free hand, he dabbed a handkerchief at one bloody nostril. “Corrigan dropped by earlier to get a little information.”

“Looks like he exercised restraint.”

The harbormaster shot her a glance laden with irony. “Restraint.”

“You’re still alive.”He nodded, then lowered the

gun again. “Slip twelve, close to the street.”

“Thanks.”She stepped out of the office and

into the night. Most of Prospero’s year was summer, and the long coat Zoltana wore, lightweight as it was, held heat close. Sweat trickled down her sides, and there was a large damp patch underneath her duffle, where it rested against her back. Yet, despite the discomfort, it had been a long time since she’d been alone, well and truly alone, without crew just beyond her door or within instant communi-cation, and she’d enjoyed the excur-sion through the streets of Port Hen-ry, stretching her legs in long strides instead of in the monitored steps required for the passages aboard the Orpheus.

The civilian docks were louder, more crowded than the military or constabulary wharves, and casks, crates, carlinnian barrels, trunks, por-table freight lockers on wheels, were stacked into mountains and walls like impromptu mazes. However, with no ships docking, and these being the early hours of morning, no stevedores were about to load or unload freight; the noise came from the pubs and

gaming dens surrounding the docks. Drunken men wove down streets lined with flophouses and cafes and brothels. Down an alley, two sailors tried their best to bash one another’s heads against the wall. A woman with a pound of makeup and an ounce of clothing approached Zoltana, an in-viting smile on her carmine lips, un-til Zoltana raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

The streetwalker’s smile tilted, and she shrugged one shoulder. “Hard to tell what’s under that coat, love. Was I a good woman, reckon I’d do the same as you. Hide it all away. Safer.”

“Here’s to safety.” Zoltana tucked a couple bills into the woman’s hand—”Take the night off”—and kept walk-ing. She smiled to hear the startled gasp behind her.

The Martina Vega hunched be-tween a sleek yacht and modern freighter, each of them larger than the ancient tub built more for the rapid transit of small shipments than for the transport of passengers or bulk cargo. She was in need of a good scrub, and some of her seams bled a rusty blend of tarnish and grease, but someone had painted an interlocking blue M and yellow V on her nose, an attempt to dress up the old girl.

Of all the vessels in port, she alone was busy. Men released the grap-nel lines draping the Vega’s wings,

still telescoped against her hull, and coiled the ropes while crew and con-stables hauled bodies down the gang-way and into a waiting shuttle or two horse-drawn carts. The shuttle doors bore the logo of an expensive resort on the far side of Port Henry—a gray-haired man in a tailored suit was set inside, and strapped upright into a seat—and the carts were the bat-tered, wood-slatted kind used by caravanners to cross the desert. Bod-ies were piled in the back, weapons tossed into boxes under the bench-like seats. Two men in handcuffs were escorted down the gangway.

Zoltana stepped behind a stack of crates, leaned back against them, and stared at the dim patch of dusty dock between her feet. First a gunfight on the Katy Joy, and now one aboard the Vega, in less than two days. Kristoff had always been bold, but he never drew attention. Resentment snaked through her. He had evaded every at-tempt to trap him, turning the chase into a game, each player sharpening wits on the other, until she almost looked forward to their encounters, but now a city constable was going to get credit for bringing down one of the most elusive pirates in the colo-nies.

Death and damnation, life was a cosmic comedy.

She straightened. Kristoff’s vagary

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must be contagious. She’d come here without much of a plan aside from somehow sneaking aboard, becom-ing the spy Rebeka Bat’Alon hadn’t been, and perhaps learning who car-ried the implant. Pointless now.

Footsteps approached, and she looked up. “I sent you on leave.”

“Aye, captain.” Mars loomed out of the shadows, his face crossed by a bar of light from the Vega’s bow lamp.

“Why are you here?”“Same reason as you, ma’am.”She looked at him.He shrugged. “I couldn’t let it go.” “More fools, we.” Zoltana tucked a

thumb under the duffle straps. “Too late, lieutenant. Go on. Don’t waste your leave.”

He didn’t move. “The engineer, Al-erio DiGianni, is the most logical can-didate for the implant—government laboratory, and all that—but the kill switch should have been thrown the day he disappeared, or whenever the government discovered his inven-tions were in rebel hands. But he’s still alive. That makes him clean, or a spy.”

“That eliminates one crewman.” Zoltana took a deep breath. “Six more to check off the list.” She stepped around Mars, but his voice stopped her.

“The bodies just now—those men aren’t dead, captain.”

“Pardon?” She turned.“Well, maybe one or two of them,

but the rest are unconscious.” She waited, hoping a bland expres-

sion hid her relief.“The doctor has an arsenal of tran-

quilizer darts. I, uh, heard the port constables talking.”

“I see.”Shrugging, Mars glanced aside then

back at her. “I’ve been here a while.”“And what were you planning, lieu-

tenant?”“Stow away for a day, find out what

I could before my leave was up. What were you going to do, ma’am?”

None of his dang business. Never-theless, Zoltana smiled.

#

Ezra and Sahir cleaned up the mess in the hold, sluicing the grated floor with buckets of saltwater drawn from the public pump, which piped wa-ter from the Gonzalo Sea. They let the bloody water drip down through the grated flooring and into the rec-lamation system, but the solid floor plates they swabbed with mops. As he dunked the mop head into a buck-et of lather, Ezra laughed to himself, remembering Holmes trying to swab the galley but getting more blisters than dirt.

Sahir plunked his mop into the wa-ter, too, and sloshed suds over the side. “What so funny?”

Ezra shook his head, but the mo-tion disoriented him, and he leaned on the mop handle for support. “Must be the tranquilizer.”

“Go to Doc.”He took a deep breath, and his

head cleared enough for him to keep mopping. “She’s the one who shot me.”

Grinning, Sahir slopped his mop to the floor and pushed a line of wa-ter ahead of the tangled strings. Ezra shot him a frown, but the cook’s grin only widened. They worked in silence then rinsed the mops and buckets, and hung them in a corner of the hold. Light glowed through the for-ward hatch. Sunrise. Ezra yawned.

Sahir clapped him on the shoulder “Maybe today, we find Finney.”

“Yeah.”“She likes my cooking.”“That’s what she says,” Ezra

punched him in the arm, “but she’s just afraid of that carving knife.”

Sahir locked an arm around Ezra’s neck, squeezing just enough to im-mobilize him. “You afraid of knife. She afraid of nothing. Braver than Kristoff.”

Ezra punched with his elbow—”Nobody’s braver than the captain”—and caught Sahir in his ample stom-ach. The cook grunted and released him, but then sprang after him. Ezra let loose a flying kick that damaged

the air and nothing else. He ran. The contest continued through the rear hatch, up the companionway, through the passage, past the infir-mary, to the crew deck, Sahir declar-ing victory at last when an exhausted Ezra couldn’t get up from the floor before the count of three.

“That’s because you’re sitting on my legs!”

Sahir shrugged as if to say the problem was not his. Then he slapped Ezra’s chest—”Not so bad”—and heaved himself to his feet. “Go to sleep. We find Finney soon.”

Arms outstretched, Ezra lay on his back in the middle of the pas-sage, waiting for feeling to return to his lower extremities. His thoughts flickered from Finney (please, God, protect her) to Rebeka (God help the next guy she tries to sucker) to Hol-mes, who’d nodded good-bye as the constables took him away. Gleason Holmes wasn’t crew, but he was all right. Maybe he’d be back, after the law realized there was no reason to hold him.

No. Holmes was rich. He’d be de-fended by the best lawyers, stay in a cell more comfortable than the best cabin on the Vega, and he’d forget his days as an almost-pirate.

Ezra looked up into the dim arch of ceiling. He ran away with a girl. He’s more a pirate than I am.

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The infirmary cots had thicker mat-tresses than the bunks in the crew cabins. Ezra stood, his legs feeling gelatinous, and headed back toward the infirmary. He’d ask Doc to check him out, make sure the drugs were filtering out of his system, then he’d conveniently fall asleep on one of the extra cots.

He heard an instrument clatter and fabric rustle. Ezra stopped in the doorway. Mercedes peeled away the last layer of bandage, rolled an uncon-scious Kristoff onto his side, folded the sheet down to his waist, then held his shoulder with one hand while she used the other to run a scanner along his back. Aside from the exposed gunshot wound, the thread of light showed only bruises and scrapes. All good, then. Ezra started to step inside the infirmary.

Doc pushed the captain’s shaggy hair away from his neck, and tilted the scanner.

A blue light pulsed under Kristoff’s skin.

Keanan Brand used to play mar-bles 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 de-

“How’s my sweet girl today?” Dada gazes into my eyes and pats my head.

“Dada!” I say and smile—smile real big. Happy, so happy, when he picks me up and swings me in the air.

“Honey, careful, she just ate.” I frown at Mama who is frowning.

Will she take me away? No, I wrap my arms around Dada, I want to stay with this familiar fuzzy creature.

“Oh, come on, Cheryl, this good girl’s eighteen months now, she’s not gonna hurl!” Dada looks at me, and smiles.

“Good guyrl...” I poke at the white squares attached in his mouth.

“Tosha! Ouch! Don’t put your fin-gers in Dada’s mouth. Cheryl, when did you last clip this girl’s nails?”

Mama comes over and puts her arms around Dada and me. I put my head in Dada’s fuzzies. Want Dada, not Mama.

“Today, that’s why their sharp.” Mama’s voice is nice and she

laughs. I pat her face, and laugh too. I rest my head against Dada. Then I watch their faces smoosh together. Dada isn’t looking at me. “No!” I say to Mama. I push her away.

Her mouth grows wide with a smile. “Tosha, you have to share our man.” She smooshes her face to mine and blow. I throw back my head and

laugh again. “Dada brought you a present.” Da-

da’s eyes watch me. I grab his nose and push. “Beep!” he says. “Beep!” I say. He holds up a small, silver, squishy

thing. “It’s an alien doll, Tosha. See this on the front, it says, Roswell, NM.”

“Ahhhhh,” I say and grab at the doll. Mama reaches over and pushes the middle of the doll’s face.

“Beep!” she says. I hear a sound like Dada’s in my

head. Commune, Tosha, I am Boppsord. “Moon?” I smile big. Nice voice,

happy voice. Commune, Boppsord. “Bop!” I say and push the doll’s

face. “Bop! Bop!” Mama frowns at me. “No, no, A-L-I-E-N,” says Dada. “Bop Bop,” I say. Mama pushes my face. “Beep!” I push her face. “Beep!” She pushes the doll’s face. “Beep!” “Bop Bop!” “George, don’t you think that’s

strange?” “Awww, she’s already named the

doll, Cheryl,” says Dada. Mama takes away Bop Bop from

Dada. “Tosha, who’s this?” “Bop Bop.” I hold my hands out. I

get mad. I want Bop Bop. Good guryl, Tosha. “Bop Bop! Bop Bop!”

Bop Bopby Jodi MacArthur

pending 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.blog-spot.com/

Thieves’ Honor: The Game: Leaping the Circle © 2009 by Keanan Brand.

ISSUE 52

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Mama frowns. “For heaven’s sake, Cheryl, give the

girl her doll,” says Dada. I make loud noises. Get what I want

when I make loud noises. Good, good... Mama gives me Bop Bop. I smile

and rub him on my face. Bop Bop feels soft and slippery. I feel happy.

“Roswell? What were you doing in Roswell?” says Mama.

I glance up from Bop Bop. I look at Dada because Mama is looking at Dada.

“I had to drive through there to get to Albuquerque.”

I look down at Bop Bop. Elevate Boppsord— up! “Up!” I say and hold him up the

way Dada holds me up. Good guryl, Tosha. “Good guyrl,” I say. “I made the sale, signed the paper-

work, all went smooth as honey,” says Dada.

Mama looks at me as I hold Bop Bop up. “What did you say, Tosha?”

“Oh yeah, you should of heard what Bob, the district manager, said after we sealed the deal...”

Mama glances back and forth to Bop Bop and me with a strange look on her face. “What is Tosha talking about?”

Dada raises a brow at Mama. “She’s just babbling like she always does...”

Mama’s worried gaze rests on Bop Bop, but then switches to Dada as she says, “So what did Bob say?”

Outside. “Ahhh!” I kick my feet. Dada sets

me down. “Outs,” I say and stumble towards

the door. Such a good guryl, Tosha... “Good guryl outs.” I smile and hold

Bop Bop in front of me. The door is open. I walk to the out-

side. Walk, Tosha, walk. I walk like a good guryl. I step on

green stuff, feels fuzzy like Dada. Another voice, scary voice. Commune, Boppsord? Commune,

Boppsord? Scratchy noises. Then I hear Bop

Bop. Commune, Mygnor: static virus

from earthling minor causing interga-latic goblic frequency inhibitor...

“Walks, Bop Bop,” I say. Sit, Tosha. I shake my head no. Walk, walk on

green fuzzy. Sit, Tosha. “No, No,” I say. Bad guryl. “Ouch!” I scream. Bad hurt in my

head, bad hurt. Water falls down my face, I clutch my head. “Oweee!”

Mama’s voice, “Tosha? Tosha? Where are you?”

SIT. I sit. Owee, is all better. I fall on

fuzzy green, sniff, and wipe my noise. Mygnor, commune: Step of first—sacrifice and embed-

ment of stuffed emblem.

Suffice. Step of second—commune with

earthling minor. Suffice. Step of third—mind control inhib-

ited. Failure. Minor’s self will stronger than communing minds of calculation due to possible brain matter leakage through air openings. Implementing brain trauma coercion.

Mama’s voice says, “George? What’s wrong with Tosha? Tosha, honey? Come here.”

I put my hands over my ears. The voice is not nice, it hurts.

Tosha, elevate Boppsord—up! “Up, up, Bop Bop, up.” Mama picks me up. I shiver and cry.

Afraid of hurt. Face in Mama’s hair. I smell flowers. “Bop Bop ouch!” I say looking at her face.

Mama gets that strange, worried look again and studies me. “Is Bop Bop giving you ouches?”

I nod my head. “Bop Bop ouches.” “Give me Bop Bop!” NO. “No,” I say and water falls down my

face. We walk to the big black thing out

back where Dada carries out the trash to the hot, hot, burn barrel. I see hot fire. “Hot.” I snivel into her hair.

She yanks Bop Bop out of my hands.

“No, no!” I cry out. My head hurts! “Owee! Ouch!” I scream.

“Bop Bop is going bye bye, Tosha.” Mama tosses Bop Bop.

Bop Bop swoops in the air and falls in the fire.

Mygnor, commune, transmission urgent! Mission thwart! Commune repeat: Mission thwart...do NOT dis-patch fleet!

Bad, bad hurts in my head. Scary bad hurts - hot! I cry, fling my arms, pull Mama’s hair. “Ouch! Ouch! Bad ooowwweee!”

And then it’s gone. “Shushhh, shush...it’s okay now,

honey, it’s okay.” Mommy squeezes me.

The ouches are gone. Mama pats my back. I pat her back.I sit up, sniff, rub my eyes, and look at Mama.

“All gone,” I say and spread my arms wide. “All gone.”

Exiled in deep southern Texas, Jodi MacArthur is a Seattle author hoping to write her way back to the Pacific Northwest. In her spare time, she twit-ters at her beloved finches, Edgar and Emily, and drinks coffee - but never at the same time. Her short stories have been published at Six Sentences and Ray Gun Revival. Forthcoming works can be read in Yellow Mama (Oct ‘09), The Absent Willow Review (Apr ‘09), and 6SV2 Anthology (Mar’09).

Websites:www.jodimacarthur.blogspot.com www.myspace.com/evokka_lair

Bop Bop © 2009 by Jodi MacArthur.

ISSUE 52

Page 27

Name: Gabriel Gajdoš

Age: 18

Country of residence: Prešov, Slovakia

Hobbies: Space art, listening to music, bodybuilding, martial arts, movies.

Favorite Book/Author: Lord of the Rings

Favorite Artist: Alexei Kozachenko When did you start creating art? I guess in November ‘06. Where your work has been fea-tured? Here, on the community of Slovakia on DeviantART, and also on Daily Deviation on DeviantART.

Where should someone go if they want-ed to view/buy some of your works? http://pipper-svk.deviantart.com/gallery How did you become an artist? A friend made some space art, so I said, I’m going to try that too...just for fun. That was two years before...let’s say I discovered beauty of the universe. What were your early influences? Mainly Alien Hunter, Hameed Navaz, and Jeff Michelmann. What are your current influences? Maybe Fernando Rodriguez and Alexei Kozachenko.

What inspired the art for the cover? Mainly, my idea was just to create a planet.... the rest was just improvisa-tion, with a some influence from Star Wars. Where do you get your inspiration? Maybe from viewing the work of other people, but I’m trying to not copy them. Have you had any notable failures, and how has failure affected your work? Well, if that means failure in my personal life... yes, I did have and still am having hard time... you know... women... and that has affected my work. I didn’t create anything in two or three months. Now, I have some new pictures but, I can’t say I feel better. What have been your greatest success-es? How has success impacted you? My biggest success was Daily Devia-tion on deviantART. But I found that I had no time to create anything, be-cause I tried to answer all the people who contacted me. Finally, I stopped trying to answer them every single one, so now: thanks to all.

What are your favorite tools / equipment for producing your art? Photoshop CS3, a mouse, and my “skill.” What tool do you wish you had? I wish I could have more skill. What do you hope to accomplish with your art? My dream is for my art to be my work, but it’s bit hopeless, I think, heh. I just want people to know and like my work; the more people that know of my work, the happier I’ll be.

FEATURED ARTIST

Gabriel Gajdoš

ISSUE 52

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“Excuse me.”Rourke stopped dead in shock. The

Mark had spoken to him. His careless-ness stunned him as he stared at the man.

“Are you all right? You don’t look well.”

Rourke was making things worse, he knew. He shook his head and ran a hand over his face. “No...no, I’m fine, really.” The words sounded strange as Rourke uttered them. How long had it been since he had spoken to an actu-al person? Two weeks? Maybe even three.

The Mark didn’t look convinced as he studied Rourke, his head tilted to one side. “Well, I was just heading over to Sandy’s for a drink.” He nod-ded towards the bar which Rourke had watched him visit every day for the past six days, exactly the same time each day. “Come with me. You look like you could do with a drink.”

Looking at him, Rourke realized that the Mark was younger than he had first thought, possibly mid-thir-ties, with thick, fair hair, clear, green eyes and a strong, firm jaw.

They never gave him details about the Marks, only ever a name and a location. He used to study the Marks religiously, finding out every conceiv-able detail about them before mak-

ing his move. But he tired of that; for a while he would awaken, locate the Mark, strike and then spend the rest of his time in bars and whorehouses, even though the drink had no effect and he had no need for sex. That was when he had invented the Game.

And the Game had suddenly taken an interesting new turn.

Rourke felt a wide smile spread across his face. “I’d like that, thank you.”

Stanisdor was a busy city. A fat red sun hung low and heavy in the sky, lighting a towering city of spires and skyscrapers in its warm red glow. Rourke followed the Mark across the plaza, the only open square in the en-tire city, a square lined by trees and flowers. It was a bright sanctuary in a city of grey.

This far into the city the crowds were mainly human—the native Skallians still seemed uncomfortable with the hurry and bustle and giant buildings of the city and kept to their own flat, domed habitats out in the scrubs. Only the occasional Skallian wondered past. Shorter than a man despite their three long, spindly legs. As they walked, their elongated heads swung ponderously from side to side as though searching for something among those brilliant flower beds.

Sandy’s was a quiet bar, common in Stanisdor with its low lighting and quiet corners and curtains drawn to shut out any prying eyes. Upstairs some dingy rooms could be rented for a small fee with no questions asked.

As Rourke followed the Mark into the bar, he noticed three Skallians crouched over a table, staring at each other with their bright, unblinking black eyes. He shivered as he hurried after the Mark.

“Mal! Good to see you again.” Sandy was a barrel of a man, all sweat and rolls of fat under a dishwater-coloured vest. He glanced question-ingly in Rourke’s direction before the smile returned. “Brought a friend with you today, then?”

The Mark gestured to Rourke. “Ah yes, this is my good friend—” he smiled brightly, waiting.

“Rourke.” Rourke said quietly, be-ginning to wish he hadn’t followed the Game through so far. He was get-ting careless. It had started out as a sudden need to touch each Mark, to have his skin touch theirs, to have a human contact with them. That had developed into the need for posses-sions, anything that belonged to a Mark he wanted, he craved, he stole. He reached into his pocket and fin-gered the credit disc there. Mal’s credit disc.

“Yes, Rourke.” Mal smiled brightly at Sandy. “And my good friend Rourke and I will have two Lysan Dreams, if

you’d be so kind.”Rourke was beginning to feel claus-

trophobic in the low, dimly lit bar. His forehead felt damp and clam-my; there was a pulsing pain in the back of his skull. He wanted nothing more than to go back to his room and add the credit disc to his collec-tion of Mark possessions. Every night he would go through the collection, holding each one and remembering. He never remembered names. He barely remembered the strikes, but he always remembered which pos-session belonged to which Mark. The little figurine of some long forgotten idol that belonged to the blonde, dark-eyed woman on Karond; the broken, flat timepiece that had be-longed to the little man with white hair on Ricol’s World...

“Are you sure you’re all right?” the Mark asked. Rourke cursed under his breath, he had drifted off again.

“Sure.” Rourke smiled and took the offered drink, a strange green-ish liquid with a smoky head. He frowned dubiously as he looked at it. “Thanks.”

Mal smiled, a flash of perfect white teeth. “So, what brings you to Stanis-dor, Rourke?”

You. You brought me here. Some-body wants you dead. Somebody wants me to cut out your heart and place it in a nice little box for them. Rourke took a sip of his drink. It was surprisingly pleasant. “Business.” He

The Forgottenby Martin Turton

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wiped at his lips and gestured vaguely towards the window. “You know how it is.” He shrugged.

“Business,” Mal repeated, smiling faintly, those green eyes bright in the darkened room. “Well, I don’t think anybody ever comes to Stanisdor for pleasure. Not the most attractive of cities, it has to be said.”

“Malachi!” A shrill squeal shat-tered the quiet of the bar, even the Skallians turned to watch the blonde woman run across the bar and throw her arms around Mal’s neck.

“I was beginning to think you’d for-gotten me, Fiona.” His tone was neu-tral, but Mal rested a hand on Fiona’s hands, still draped around his shoul-ders.

“Forgotten you, my love? Never!” She kissed his cheek and turned questioning blue eyes toward Rourke, her manner becoming instantly more guarded as she straightened, though a protective hand still remained on Malachi’s broad shoulder.

“This is Rourke, Fiona. Apparently he’s come to our fair city on busi-ness.”

Piercing blue eyes focused on Rourke for a long moment. Rourke resisted the urge to shift his weight under the weight of that gaze. She was beautiful, he noticed distantly, her blonde hair was cut short, she had the confident grace of a dancer, and those blue eyes, challenging and confident. Rourke took another sip of

his Lysan Dream.“Business?” Fiona finally tore that

gaze away from Rourke and looked down at Mal.

“Oh.” Mal laughed carelessly. “Not our business, no. Speaking of which, if you’ll excuse me for a moment?” He rose to his feet and moved across to the table with the Skallians. Three sets of shiny black eyes looked up at his approach, pincer-like jaws clicking what Rourke guessed was some kind of welcome.

“Beautiful man, isn’t he?” Fiona’s brilliant blue eyes followed Mal to the Skallian table. “Even the Skallians can’t take their eyes off him.”

Rourke followed her gaze; the Skal-lians did seem entirely focused on Mal, large black eyes following ev-ery movement of his hands as they danced through the air in quite a passable imitation of the forelimbs of the Skallians. A man of many talents.

“I’ve just met him, actually.” Rourke turned back to Fiona, she was shorter than him but full of a coiled energy; even as she leaned casually against the bar, there was a restlessness about her.

Fiona nodded thoughtfully. “Well, don’t make it the last time, Rourke—he’s a great man.” Her eyes suddenly seemed even brighter in the dim room. “I was one of Harley’s girls when I met him, stuck out in the scrubs, filthy old men pawing at me for a couple of credits a time.” She looked again at

Mal, the brilliant smile was still there, though his hands were still now as he watched a Skallian’s forelimbs sketch patterns in the air.

Rourke took a long drink of the Lysan Dream as he watched Mal. “He speaks to the Skallians?” He raised an eyebrow as he turned to Fiona.

Fiona’s smile was wide, her eyes bright. “You really have just met Mal, haven’t you?” She grinned as she drained her glass and placed it back on the bar, ignoring Sandy’s leering smile.

It was the almost fevered look in Fiona’s blue eyes, the way the Skal-lians communicated with Mal across that table, the way Sandy watched Mal work, the way his skull felt like it was splitting from the inside, the way the two large men in the darkened corner watched his every movement; Rourke suddenly had a very bad feel-ing about this hit. He drained his drink. “I have to go, give my apologies to Malachi for me?”

“So soon?” Fiona looked disap-pointed. “He won’t be long. Here, I’ll give him a shout.” She started to move away from the bar.

“No. No, it’s all right.” He fled, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He could feel his heart beating loudly against his chest. He felt dizzy; the pulsing pain in the back of his skull was giving pain a whole new mean-ing. And, as he pulled the door open, the fat red sun warming the plaza in

its heavy glow, he felt an intense pair of green eyes watching his flight with the faintest hint of amusement.

#

He had the best of rooms. He al-ways did. This room was the highest room in the tallest building in a city of towering spires and looming sky-scrapers.

Rourke lay back on his bed. Mala-chi’s credit disc danced between his fingers, a small round disc of fluo-rescent blue shining under the harsh artificial lighting that Rourke always had on maximum even on the rare times he tried to sleep.

Sixteen million credits were in that account. Sixteen million. And Mal wandered the streets of Stanisdor with the disc in his pocket as another man would carry his loose change. He hadn’t even noticed it missing at Sandy’s.

The disc flipped and rolled across Rourke’s restless knuckles. Sixteen million. He would know who had the disc, the collision in the plaza, the drink in Sandy’s. And yet nobody was hammering on his door.

Rourke had a very bad feeling about this hit.

He thought of the other hits since his rebirth. An aged, white haired man slumping to his knees as the bullet entered his cranium; the slow dawning of realization as his knife slid slickly into the stomach of the fat, red haired woman. All losers. All de-

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fenceless. All murdered with ruthless efficiency by a man with no memory, with no conscience.

He had known Mal was different as soon as he saw him. He had known this hit was different as soon as he had woken here on Sharaman.

Sixteen million credits. The disc in-creased in speed across his knuckles, nothing but a blur of flashing blue light.

It was worthless to Rourke, of course. Every time he completed a job he was placed somewhere new, exactly the same resources at his dis-posal; a standard issue electroscope rifle and various other blaster pistols and knives; and one hundred thou-sand credits, never a credit more, never a credit less.

Rourke rose from his bed of sterile white sheets and moved over to the window, the disc still dancing, still flickering across his knuckles as he looked out of that wall of glass, high up in the pink clouds floating listlessly across a sky of red.

It was a new world, Sharaman—new to mankind at least. Like on so many other new worlds, artistry and imagination had fallen prey to the need for speed. Space had become a rare commodity. Rourke, squinting against that pain hammering in the back of his skull, looked out on the result of this haste: uniform towers of grey bridged together with trans-parent tubes.

The credit disc fell, skittering nois-ily across the floor. His reflexes were slowing. He had known that the sec-ond Mal had spoken to him in the pla-za, never before had a Mark felt the first contact; he had always been too quick for them. It was as though his brain, his being, was being swallowed slowly and painfully by the vast well of emptiness that had always lingered at the back of his skull.

And now it was threatening to crush him, hammering at the walls of his mind, relentless and implacable.

#

It was the incessant pounding on the door that awoke him. He ran a hand through his hair, damp with sweat, and groaned quietly. His head felt as though somebody was trying to push a fist through the back of his skull from the inside.

“Rourke?” He recognized Fiona’s voice. He rolled onto his knees, a flash of blue catching his eye. The credit disc lay under his bed; he grabbed it and stuffed it into the pocket of his crum-pled pants, every movement sending a shooting pain spearing through his brain as he struggled to his feet and made his way to the door.

“You look like hell.” Fiona stepped past him, her eyes widening as she saw the room, bathed in the glow of a rising red sun, every wall a window out onto those grey towers that sur-rounded the hotel. “What business are you in anyway, Rourke? You must

make a packet.”He ran a hand through his hair.

“Not really, my boss pays for it all.” He moved to stand next to her, looking across those towers reaching up to the pink clouds. “What are you doing here anyway?”

Blue eyes looked up at him thought-fully, “Mal sent me here, Rourke. He wants you to come with us.”

That feeling of dread again, a feel-ing that he was a player in a game where he didn’t know all the rules. Far down below his room, he could see the hover cars, tiny from up there, beginning to wind their way through the narrow streets. “Go with you?” Rourke asked blankly, turning away from the window. “Where are you going?”

Fiona smiled, though her eyes nev-er flickered from his own. “Business,” she said. “Mal has some business to attend to.”

A feeling of falling. Of worlds be-yond counting flashing before his eyes: Gertina with its towers of blue ice under a cold yellow sun, the lush green world of Hartin, the searing heat of Rastin’s World with its end-less deserts. All worlds Rourke had woken on with a name and a location implanted in his mind.

Rourke smiled brightly at Fiona, vertigo making him feel faint. “Let’s go then.”

It was a small hover car that Fiona had brought with her, barely enough

room for Rourke to squeeze in behind her as she took the controls.

She drove slowly, carefully, through the narrow streets at the base of those towers of grey. Hover cars sped past her on either side with a faint hum before they were lost in the distance. It was still dark this low in the city, the massive stone buildings blocking out most of the light. There wasn’t much to see anyway. This far away from the plaza it was rare for anybody to be walking on foot, and so the streets were empty apart from the occasional hover car humming past and the relentless grey of the towers and those transparent bridg-es above.

Fiona was silent as she drove, her eyes fixed straight ahead and so Rourke contented himself with watching her drive. The way her blonde hair curled around her ears, the way her shoulders moved under that thin white shirt as she adjusted the steering.

Rourke suddenly felt an increase in the pressure in his skull. When had he last thought about a woman like that? He couldn’t even remember. It had been one of Father’s ‘distrac-tions,’ as he had called them, that had been cut away and placed into the well of emptiness. The fist in the back of his skull flexed and tightened and Rourke sunk down into his seat.

The towers were beginning to thin, and sunlight streamed into the hov-

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er car. People now lined the streets watching the hover car with grim fac-es, their clothes ragged and patched. Skallians walked among them, their awkward, jerky gait making Rourke look back to Fiona.

“Are we almost there?”She didn’t turn, though he could

tell she smiled. “Almost.”

#

“Rourke, you look like hell.”“Thanks, Fiona’s already pointed

that out.” Mal was waiting for them beyond the last of the grey towers that dominated Stanisdor. He was standing next to his own hover car, surrounded by low, rickety huts that were little more than crumpled, rusted metal bolted together with a sheet over an opening that passed for a door. These huts spread for miles in either direction, circling the city. Skallians were everywhere, picking through the piled litter and garbage on their ungainly, spindly legs while hunched, dead-eyed humans drifted around aimlessly, cloaks pulled tight about their bodies. Somewhere in the distance a baby wailed unanswered.

“Nice isn’t it?” Mal looked like some paragon of virtue with his bright smile, clad all in white standing among the misery and deprivation.

Rourke’s skull felt like it was beat-ing in sympathy with his heart as he squinted at Mal. “Why did you want me here?” His throat felt dry.

Mal looked accusingly at Fiona who

had moved to stand next to him, her arm linking through his. “You didn’t tell poor Rourke why we wanted him with us, Fiona?”

Fiona shrugged and smiled up at him, “I think Rourke likes a bit of mys-tery, my love.” She rested her head on his shoulder.

Mal kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of that soft blonde hair. “Is that right, Rourke? You like a good mystery?” His brilliant smile suddenly looked menacing, the green eyes flat and cold.

“Mystery?” Rourke blinked slowly as he tried to focus on Mal; the Mark was nothing but a vague radiance of brilliant white. The fist in the back of his head had taken on a rhythm all of its own, a rapid, pulsing beat of pure agony. A memory, almost as painful as that pulsing beat: a spill of blonde hair traced across his chest as the soft, soothing breath of sleep brushed against his neck.

The white angel tutted in annoy-ance. “Shit, Fiona, how much did you give him? He’s nearly gone already.”

Fiona’s voice came from some-where close to him as a small hand roughly grabbed his elbow. “It isn’t the drug, Mal. It’s the Hollowness leaking—he’s had it. He’ll be in and out for the next few days. Here, grab that rope, will you?”

Darkness. And then a face, a wom-an’s face looking down at him. A warm smile, kind brown eyes, and she

spoke to him as she smiled, but the words made no sense, however hard he tried to understand. And then darkness again.

“He’s coming around.” A woman’s voice, barely heard behind the pound-ing in his skull. He couldn’t move. He was seated in a high backed chair, legs fastened tight and his arms tied at the wrists behind his back. He opened his eyes slowly. Fiona and Mal were looking at him from across a dimly lit round room with a hard packed dirt floor, the only other furniture the two chairs his abductors were seated on.

Mal shook his head and looked to Fiona. “This can’t be right, look at the state of him.” He pointed accusingly at Rourke. “Why would they send that? I don’t like this—I’ve taken too big a risk in being here.”

Fiona rose to her feet and drew a short, cruel-looking curved knife from her back pocket. She walked in a slow circle around Rourke’s chair, tapping the blade of the knife against the palm of a hand. “He’s in the early stages,” she said to Mal. “They never can tell when the leak will begin.” She stroked the knife against Rourke’s cheek, a cold caress. “Must feel like his head’s falling apart from the in-side.”

The frown darkening that hand-some face suggested Mal wasn’t con-vinced by this, but he got to his feet and moved closer to Rourke, his steps quiet on the dirt. “So, who sent you?”

It was as though that ready smile had never existed. The bright green eyes were now shadowed, hard and ques-tioning.

“Father...” Rourke, rasped.There was no warning. Mal was

nodding, looking down at him from those hard green eyes, and then a punch, a punch that landed on Rourke’s jaw and sent a deep, shiv-ering pain all the way down to his ankles.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific, Rourke, if we’re going to remain friends.” Mal flexed his hand. “Father. You say father sent you. Who is this father? I know yours is dead, you know that, don’t you? Father is dead.” He did smile now, his lips twisted and cruel.

“Rourke?” Someone shouted from behind him. A worried voice, con-cerned but familiar. Rourke twisted in his seat, “Rourke?” That voice again, a man’s voice, but the more Rourke strained and twisted in his seat, the more that voice remained on the edge of his vision. “Father?” Rourke called out, straining against his bonds. Something cold trickled down his wrist.

“He’s gone again.” A woman’s voice, full of disgust as the darkness descended once more.

The next time he opened his eyes, the room was bathed in bright sun-light and Mal and Fiona were both looking down at him. Their faces

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looked greyer, dark circles rimmed their eyes.

“Right, we haven’t got time for this, the Skallians are getting restless.” Mal had a blaster in his hand and knelt in front of Rourke, looking up into his eyes. “Rourke? Can you hear me? Rourke?”

This close, Mal looked nothing like an angel. His cheeks looked fatter, the stubble lining his jaw was more grey than blond. Rourke nodded, the movement making his head spin and his vision blur sickeningly.

“Who sent you, Rourke? Do they know where the next shipment is go-ing to be?” Mal’s voice had taken on an almost pleading tone.

“Father...” Rourke mumbled through blistered lips.

There was a noise, a hum like the sound of a hover car speeding past and then the smell of burning flesh. Rourke dimly realized that it was his own burning flesh; that Mal had shot him in the foot. “I’ll ask you that again, Rourke,” Mal looked him in the eye, the green eyes looked resigned, sad, almost. “Who sent you?” He aimed the blaster at Rourke’s other foot; the agony was only now beginning to shoot up his leg, mingling with the screaming pain in his brain.

“Lucy...” Rourke suddenly remem-bered the name of the woman with the golden hair. The woman whose breath brushed his cheek as he slept.

Mal sighed. “Let’s—” His mouth

fell open slackly, he fell forward with a slump, dust rising into the still air as he hit the ground, a cruel knife still embedded in the base of his skull.

“Lucy.” Rourke blinked slowly as Fiona began to untie his bonds.

“Shush, I know,” she whispered sadly.

He slumped forward as she untied the last knot and she pushed him gen-tly back into the chair. “You did well, Rourke. Be still.”

A vast ocean of blue, fat white clouds overhead and the wind warm in his face, whipping through his hair. A young, fair-haired child looked up at him, blue eyes bright and excited as the little boat scudded through the waves.

And then Rourke opened his eyes to a dark, empty room. Empty save the shadowy figure seated on the dirt facing him. He raised his head pain-fully.

“You did well, Rourke. Rest.” Fiona’s smile was sad.

Rourke tried to clear his throat, “Why?” it was a harsh whisper, sound-ing loud in the hut.

Fiona smiled and rested a light hand on his arm. “I got two names this time, Rourke.” She met his eyes, the sad smile remaining. “The target and the decoy.”

Rourke grunted. “The decoy?” He tried to laugh but it sounded more like an oozing cough.

“Yeah, I suppose it’s what they do

when the Hollowness is beginning to leak.” Fiona shrugged heavily. “Makes me wonder though. Here we are tak-ing out that.” She kicked the dead body; the blood leaking from Mal’s neck looked black and oily. “He was selling bodies to the Skallians, you know? Taking them from this hole and selling them to those insects?” She shook her head sadly. “Makes me wonder how Father is different, tak-ing us from our lives and sticking this time bomb in our heads.” She tapped the side of her head before looking at him questioningly. “Rourke, what’s it like?”

There was a clamour of voices now, and Rourke knew each one of them, he even knew their names, his wife Lucy, his children, Beth and Cameron, he knew them all. He smiled.

But there was one insistent voice he couldn’t shake. “Rourke?” The voice was getting desperate. “Rourke? What’s it like? When the memories re-turn? I get so lonely, what’s it like?”

But Rourke could only smile with contentment as he drifted willingly into the blessed darkness.

Martin Turton lives in East York-shire, England with his wife and three daughters. In the little spare time he has after working full time and look-ing after three children all under the

age of four, he had been working on an unwieldy fantasy novel before turning to the shorter form in the hope of actually finishing something. His work has appeared in Flashing Swords, Reflections Edge, Abandoned Towers, Allegory, Ray Gun Revival and others, and is forthcoming in 2009 in The Rage Of The Behemoth anthol-ogy, Ray Gun Revival, Golden Visions Magazine, Abandoned Towers, After-burn SF, Sfzine.org and others.

The Forgotten © 2009 by Martin Turton.

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“I’ve come with a solution to your problem,” Sam, the President of New World Ventures, told him.

“And what problem would that be?” Donald, the CEO of Galactic Shipping and Travel, responded, still wonder-ing how Sam had managed to set up this meeting. He had never heard of Sam’s company before today.

“I’m sure you are aware that the Pathfinder Probe recently complet-ed its 100-year mission and crossed the Barren Zone of the Galactic Arm and returned,” Sam answered with a statement.

Donald nodded.“The Barren Zone is a strange line

over 100 light years across in the Ga-lactic Arm that has no habitable plan-ets, and every single one of the larger M through smaller A class stars, one’s with temperatures between 3,500 and 7,500 degrees, in the Zone is un-stable, so it would be impossible to set up any kind of base in their solar systems. The stars outside of that range are either too hot or too cold to have habitable planets.”

“And how is that my problem?” Donald asked.

“The Pathfinder probe detected signs of an advanced space-faring civilization on the other side of the

Zone. The first shipping company that can open a trade route between our side of the Galactic Arm and the other side stands to make an obscene amount of profit in the long term, ex-panding their shipping routes while the competition scrambles to even start to make their own trade route.”

“We haven’t really thought about it,” Donald said, even though he had been pushing his staff to come up with a way to open a route just this morning.

“Well, I’m sure you know, that the way we travel across interplanetary spaces is through Space-Time Tun-neling. Basically we pull two points in space-time together through sub-space, creating a tunnel. Once estab-lished, with openings anchoring the tunnel at each end, travel through these tunnels is nearly instanta-neous,” Sam explained.

“As the head of one of the largest shipping companies that owns a fair share of the Space-Time Tunnels, it is something that I am aware of,” Don-ald joked, but he was getting ready to cancel the meeting if the guy didn’t come to the point. “Without using tunnels the only other way to travel interstellar distances is by contracting space-time in front of a ship and ex-

panding space behind it, the amount of energy used makes it uneconomi-cal to ship anything that way. The only real use for that type of travel is to set up the far end of the tunnel.”

“Then you also know that maxi-mum realistic length of those tunnels is twenty-five light years.”

“Yes, the energy expenditure grows exponentially the longer the tunnel is, past twenty-five light years it would take more energy to hold the tunnel open then can be pushed into it.”

“So in order to cross the Barren Zone you would need several bases to anchor the tunnels, but because the stars in the Zone are too unstable you can’t set up bases,” Sam summed up. “And that’s the problem I have a solution for.”

“You’ve got my attention.” Donald told him.

“Lower M class, or red dwarfs, and higher L class, or brown dwarf stars with temperature outputs between 2,000 and 3,000 degrees.” Sam told him. “They are too small for the in-stability to cause problems.”

“Nice idea,” Donald told him, even though his people already had the same notion. “But in order for the tunnel to have a working end, in this case two, it needs a large support staff, thousands of people. You’ve got to have zero-point energy genera-tors to power them, technicians to maintain the anchors and the power plants, plus they want to bring their families. And you need support peo-

ple, cooks and entertainers and so on, for the technicians and their fam-ilies. In order to house a support staff of thousands of people you need a planet.

“Any planet far enough away from a brown dwarf, or even a small red dwarf so that it’s not be greatly ef-fected by the stars gravitational field would be too cold to terraform into an earthlike planet.

“We’ve found on barren, non-ter-raformed worlds, the workers tend to want to spend all their vacations and even long weekends on earthlike planets. Even setting up large domes and having realistic parks can’t sub-stitute for being able to go outside and experience the real thing. This puts a drain on the tunnel as workers start using it to travel back and forth every weekend. Having one base on a non-earthlike world would be barely profitable, so a string of four or five of them is out of the question.”

“So what you’re saying is the plan-ets of the brown and red dwarfs would have to be heated up to Earth temperatures for a series of tunnels to work?” Sam smiled.

“In a nutshell, yes.” Donald was getting ready to hear the same long explanation of setting up zero-point energy generators around the planet that his people had already come up with and dismissed because it wouldn’t give the workers the same light levels they get on earthlike plan-ets.

Thinking Long Term: Don’t Let the End of the Galaxy Spoil Your Plans

by Darrell B. Nelson

ISSUE 52

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“This is electro-translucent Bucky-paper.” Sam pulled a small piece of film as shiny as a mirror, out of his pocket. “It is basically a series of nan-otubes, approximately 50,000 times thinner than the human hair, held to-gether with a polymer. That polymer responds to small charges of electric-ity.

“With a charge, it is shiny like this.” Sam touched the corner of it and it seemed to disappear. “Without a charge it is transparent.

“Because the nanotubes are basi-cally one long carbon molecule, it is 500 times stronger than steel, yet you could cover a football field with it and it would weigh less than a gram.

“Since it can be either shiny or transparent, we could take nine pan-els of them, each panel being a square kilometer, put them together with the center panel transparent and the others shiny and float them over the surface of the star, then adjust the shiny pieces so that the gravity of the star and the force of the solar wind on our Buckypaper is equal making it float in space a couple hundred miles above the star.

“We can make the transparent panel into a lens, so all of the 2,000 to 3,000 degree heat going through it is targeted right at an Earth-sized plan-et, and it would also make the visible light from the star get brighter. Imitat-ing the light from a G class star.”

“How many of these things would we need?” Donald asked.

“Well, it depends on the planet we are warming up, and its star,” Sam replied. “The smallest brown dwarfs, which barely have any fusion going on in their cores, and a planet the same size as Earth having a surface area of 510 million square kilometers, half of which are facing the star would have an average temperature normally for-ty below zero. In order to match Earth temperatures to twenty degrees Cel-sius, we would have to raise its tem-perature sixty degrees. Each square mile transparent panel would warm the planet by 7.8 millionths of a de-gree, so we would need a little over seven and a half million panels.

“For the red dwarfs with tempera-tures of 3,000 degrees we would only need about 5 million.”

“And you expect us to ship that many panels to a new base?” Donald yelled. “I thought the workers travel-ing would eat into profits, this plan would have the new tunnels devoted to shipping panels for God knows how long.”

“The panels wouldn’t have to be shipped,” Sam explained. “They are, after all, just made of carbon which is a fairly common element. In fact, we have identified several stars in the op-timum route that have excessive car-bon in their upper atmospheres. It will be fairly easy to set up the manufac-turing of the panels in the star system where we put the base of the tunnel. My company has made several break-throughs in automating that process.

“The great thing is, we can continue making panels to be put around the star until it is completely enclosed. By regulating how much heat we let re-flect back to the star and how much we let escape we will be able to con-trol it completely for its entire 50 to 100 billion year life.

“The beauty of these smaller stars is that they have five to ten times the lifespan of G class stars like the sun. With some of the brown dwarfs, there is the barest amount of fusion happening in their cores. We can use the mirrors to maintain that small re-action hundreds of billions of years.

“When all other suns have burnt out, the ones we are controlling through this process will be going strong.”

“Okay. I’ll have to have my people run the numbers, but it does sound like the best plan I’ve heard so far,” Donald said. “But what does your company get out of this?”

“Well, your company is getting a trade route through the Barren Zone, with a nice environment for your workers, which will put you far ahead of all your competitors,” Sam said. “All we want is the planets that are made habitable in the process, minus the area for your bases of course. It’s a win-win for all involved.”

“Okay, that seems fair.” Donald smiled, looking ahead a hundred years when Galactic Shipping and Travel would be the largest company in the galaxy because of the new trade

routes opened up. Thanks to advanc-es in prolonging the human life span, that could make him the richest man in the galaxy before he retired.

“I thought you’d like it.” Sam smiled, looking ahead thirty billion years when the main sequence stars in this arm of the galaxy would be burnt out and life would only exist on the planets that this new process made habitable, and were controlled by his company. Thanks to advances that his company had made, his spe-cies, the Gorbaths, were nearly im-mortal, he could possibly be the ruler of the galaxy by then.

Darrell writes marketing material to pay the bills and writes horror and Sci-Fi to express his creative side.

Thinking Long Term: Don’t Let the End of the Galaxy Spoil Your Plans © 2009 by Darrell B. Nelson.

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Earth. She hung beneath them like a dream,

her seas a rich turquoise against the brighter green of her shores, her con-tinents a thousand shades of green speckled with browns, piped with the brilliant blue dots of lakes. Rivers ran like tears across her face. Mountain ranges rose gray and silver, vertebra of her unbending spine. The lights of her cities sparkled, winking through her atmosphere into space. So frag-ile yet so strong, destroyed once and born again by force of human will, human spirit her new breath of life. She lay wreathed in a veil of pulled-cotton clouds.

Earth. Home of mankind.“Looks like Christmas tree orna-

ment with mold,” rumbled Red Dog, ruining Graves’ revelry.

“I didn’t know Cillians celebrated Christmas,” he snapped, refusing to turn away from the view port and give the alien even that much of a victory.

“Was original Earth ugly too?”Graves did not answer right away,

choked back his temper first. The de-struction of Earth was the greatest single sore spot in human history. To even refer to it was the very defini-tion of ‘fighting words.’ “Red,” he said,

forcing himself to adopt a calm tone. “On Earth, hate speech is a crime.”

That gave the Cillian pause; Red Dog was keenly aware that his contin-ued survival in a human dominated universe depended on staying on the good side of the law. “What is hate speech?”

“Saying anything intended to cause offense or provoke violence.” It was an oversimplification, but Graves did not want to go into specifics.

“How is Red Dog to know what upsets unknown fool human?” Pick-ing inflection from the alien’s buzzing speech was difficult; and Graves knew there was always the risk of anthro-pomorphism, but he thought Red Dog sounded honestly perplexed.

It was a fair question, too. Graves shrugged. “Might be best if you don’t talk at all,” he suggested. Red Dog clattered his exoskeleton in agitation, falling silent as Priest joined them at the port.

“So this is Earth,” Priest said, voice barely above an awed whisper. “How many people live here now?”

“Just over four billion,” Graves an-swered.

“Red Dog needs more ammo.”Graves shook his head. “No guns.

Personal firearms were outlawed on

Earth decades ago.”“Earth law is insane,” Red Dog

hummed, and Graves did not dis-agree.

“It’s beautiful,” Priest said.“Marble covered in saliva,” count-

ed Red Dog.Graves left them, heading for the

cockpit. He was fast learning why Steponovich was so tightlipped. He dogged the hatch behind him and strapped himself into the copilot’s seat.

“I still think it’s a bad idea taking that thing to Earth,” Lumley said be-side him.

“The committee wants a witness. They’ll have to take what they get.”

“You’ll be lucky if they don’t shoot him. Or at least declare him a prison-er of war.”

“War’s over,” Graves said. “The law’s on his side now. Besides, the bug’s under subpoena. That carries some protections.”

Lumley harrumphed. “Forget the law and think about the press. They’ll whip up a lynch mob and keep them wound up until the Senate has to do something.”

Graves smiled. “Or turn off the cameras.”

“You mean hold an investigation without posturing and speeches for the evening news?” Lumley laughed. “Hell, you might as well ask them to actually do their jobs while you’re at

it.”“Without the press, we’ll be done

in half the time.”“That’s brilliant. You have a devi-

ous mind, Graves.” Lumley shook his head in amusement. “You’re not go-ing to win any friends on the commit-tee by taking away their face time, though.”

“Gee, I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe they won’t invite me back again,” Graves deadpanned, adding, “I’ll have Red Dog and Priest stay on the ship until things are set up.”

Lumley tapped the intercom but-ton. “Strap in back there. We’ve fi-nally gotten landing clearance.” He clicked it off, turning toward Graves. “I hope you know what you’re do-ing.”

Me too, Graves echoed mentally. Me too.

#

The select committee appointed to investigate “matters pertaining to the security of the Earth and her pro-tectorates” was comprised of nine members, three from each of the majority parties. In actuality, it was a seven-member panel: two Senators were up for reelection and were busy campaigning. More important to Graves, the panel included all three of his suspects.

The first time Graves testified be-fore a Senate investigatory commit-

Calamity’s Child

Chapter 7: ROP Rodeo Bull Ballet, Part Oneby M. Keaton

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tee, it was for a real investigation. Technology had been smuggled to the inhabitants of a quarantined world. Graves was one of the junior agents involved in the final raid. Sitting in the Capitol building addressing the entire 455 member Senate in formal assem-bly was a truly humbling and intimi-dating experience. His testimony was over in minutes but the proceedings left an indelible impression. It also made it difficult for him to take the dog-and-pony show of the typical in-vestigation seriously.

“Mister Graves,” a voice lashed across his thoughts. “The Chair asked you a question.” Unlike that first ex-perience, most hearings took place in one of the small antechambers of the main assembly or in a meeting room within the Senatorial offices, any-where a backdrop and soundstage could be thrown together. Beyond that, the only other determining fac-tors were the comfort and conve-nience of the committee members. Today was a pair of conference rooms with the dividing wall removed. The panel members sat behind a line of tables, Graves and Lumley shared a single table opposite. The Chair did not have to shout to startle Graves upright.

“My apologies, Senator. I fear I’m too tired to give the committee the attention it deserves,” Graves said smoothly. “Could I ask the Chair to

rephrase the question?”“I asked if you honestly expect this

committee to contort itself a dozen ways from Sunday simply to accom-modate the whims of your witness.”

“I thought I’d been clearer. Public knowledge of the nature of the wit-ness will result in significant public relations problems for the commit-tee as well as endanger the personal safety of the witness. Unless a media blackout is put in place and ErSec al-lowed to make arrangements for the security and privacy of the witness, I cannot in good conscience allow the witness to testify.”

The Chair was a balding toad of a man who had not set foot off Earth to visit the worlds he represented in years. He glared at Lumley, who nod-ded in silent agreement. “Would it be acceptable if the blackout were only in place for the portion of these hear-ings directly related to this witness’ testimony?”

“I think that would be reasonable,” Graves said. Easier to take away a ba-by’s pacifier than a Senator’s media, and with less crying. “Might I suggest we recess for the day to make the ap-propriate preparations?”

“We’ll send word when we’re ready for your witness, Mister Graves.” The Chair rapped the table with a gavel. The light behind the camera’s eye blinked off. The Chair leaned to look down the length of the table. “We can

still catch the buffet across the street if we go now. You interested, Paul?”

Paul Daley was Earth’s own senior senator. By Senate rules, he should have been chairing the committee but, unlike most politicians, Graves had never seen him pushing for a microphone. If anything, he seemed to avoid publicity, secure in his posi-tion and willing to let others have their moment in the limelight—and take the risks that went with it. A thin man in his early sixties, he had a nar-row face and pinched features that would have been seen as weak on a less charismatic man. With his wide, expressive blue eyes and thick white hair, he looked instead like an indul-gent patriarch, or a hunting hawk, depending on his mood. He was also Graves’ main suspect.

“We should have the blocks in place in a couple of hours,” a tech said from behind Graves. In addition to shutting down the cameras during Red Dog’s testimony, the technicians would ac-tivate blocking software in the plan-et’s broadcasting systems. Any foot-age of Red Dog would disappear off the information nets as quickly as it appeared. Even if an intrepid reporter climbed the wall and snapped a pic-ture through the window, he would end up with a blank room. The two ErSec agents waited in their seats as first the Senators and then the audio-visual techs filed from the room.

Senators Victoria Hazel and Sonya-ta Dane completed Graves’ short list. Senator Hazel reminded him of his own grandmother, short, soft, and soft-spoken. Dane was a third-gener-ation representative with red hair in shocking contrast to his amber col-ored skin. In Graves’ opinion, Dane was a long-shot. The man was barely into his second term, too young and new to the Capitol to have the kind of leverage Graves thought would be necessary. Maybe.

“I’ll be over at Quantico if you need me. Be back in a few days,” Lumley said, standing. “Looks like you’ve got things under control for now.”

Graves nodded. Every time they were on Earth, Lumley spent as much time as possible playing politics at headquarters, making himself visible to hurry along his promotion back to civilization. It was just as well. It was not that Graves did not trust Lumley, but he was also hesitant to explain the extent of his plan to his supervi-sor. Better to beg forgiveness...

Red Dog and Priest were waiting for him when he returned to the ship. Priest closed a portable communica-tor as Graves mounted the gangplank, dropping it into one of the pockets of his crimson robe. Red Dog carried a length of wood somewhere between a quarterstaff and a tree trunk.

“What’s that?” Graves demanded, pointing at the oversized staff.

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“Stick.”“No.”Red Dog ran the tip of the stick

down the chitin of the upright portion of his body, making a sound like hail on a tin roof. “Graves said no guns.”

“No weapons.”The alien sagged suddenly, clutch-

ing the staff with four of his arms and leaning heavily against it. “Red Dog is overcome with mighty Earth gravity. Needs help walking.”

Graves choked on a laugh. ErSec agents were fully briefed on alien races, even those under quarantine. Gravity on the Cillian homeworld was almost twice that of Earth’s, and the thought of a two-ton millipede need-ing just one more leg to get by was ludicrous. “Don’t even try. You’re not dealing with politicians yet,” he cau-tioned. “What’ve you got?” he asked Priest.

“A Kwakiutl lawyer will meet us as soon as I have a place to tell him to go.”

Moving Red Dog presented a prob-lem. Even if they had been close enough to walk, there was no way he would go unnoticed. Private vehicles had all but disappeared on Earth, replaced by mag-rail trains and un-derground trams for shorter trips. A Senator might command a tram car to himself for privacy, and often did, but getting Red Dog on and off un-seen was an impossibility.

Graves had the spaceport drop off an enclosed cargo car, called a few minutes later from pick-up. The driver eyed the car nervously as automated lifts placed it on the tram.

“What in heck you got in there?” he asked. The metal walls of the car-go box boomed like a giant drum as if someone were beating the walls with a hammer and humming madly. “Ain’t them killer bees, is it?”

Graves gave the man a dull look and shrugged. “Government work.”

The tram left the car at the hotel’s loading dock and, with a quick check of the halls, they took the freight el-evator to their rooms.

“Red Dog sees why Earth is ma-jor tourist destination,” the Cillian buzzed, wandering through the suite, inspecting every room. To Graves’ an-noyance, he also opened every closet door and pulled out every drawer. And left them open.

“Shut up. Priest, call your lawyer. See if you can get him to meet us here.” Graves lowered himself into a chair and began to massage his tem-ples.

#

“Let’s go!” John shouted, banging his fist on the hood of the truck. “We already waited an extra week!”

“I blame you,” James grumbled as he and Kylee stumbled into Selous’ predawn gloom. “If we hadn’t had to

process your langer—”“Then your brother would still be

a jerk,” Kylee snapped back. “And I have to ride with him.”

Behind them Pharaoh clucked his tongue. “We drew straws and I won. Life is not fair. Here, throw my bag in the jeep as you go.” He dropped the extra weight onto James and stepped back into the kitchen of the lodge. “Ma!” he called. “The children and I are going for a drive.” He laughed. Unlike his son, he did not begrudge the extra week spent at the lodge. It had been quiet for a change, and twice Kylee had slept through the night without waking. The boys saw processing langer shell as a chore. To Pharaoh, working the shell apart into useable sections with a diamond tipped chisel was a relaxing change of pace. One with cool air and water only steps away and fewer stinging in-sects than hunting. At the end, when the Kwakiutl took the larger sections north to ship from their starport, Pha-raoh was free to work with the small bits and pieces that remained. It was different from the mopane wood he carved in the evenings, though not much harder. The texture was more uniform, gave him a greater latitude to experiment.

In the case of Kylee’s langer, be-cause of its relatively small size, there had been a good deal of shell unus-able to the Kwakiutl. To Pharaoh’s

surprise, the girl had definite ideas about what to do with the leftovers, and he was happy to comply.

Pharaoh pulled Martha close and kissed her fiercely.

“Beast.” She giggled and beat him playfully on the chest. “How long you go?”

“Same as always. Until we are done or I get hungry for your cooking,” he replied.

“You’ll be back soon,” she said in a satisfied tone. “James cooks bad.”

He laughed again. “Even a bad cook has to work to ruin the eland. Besides, I thought I would have Kylee cook.”

“Hah! This is how you repay for making you take girl.” She giggled again, leaning her head against her husband’s chest. “Come back safe.”

“It is always high on my priority list.” Outside, horns blew, the low groan of the truck’s first followed quickly by the jeep’s high whines. “Those boys have their mother’s patience,” Pha-raoh said. “I have to go.”

She squeezed him until his ribs ached. He did not complain. “Be care-ful, Pharaoh, not crazy.”

He kissed her again. “Never crazy,” he reassured her and ducked out the door. His sons played a fresh chorus on the vehicle horns as he trotted to the jeep, sliding into the passenger’s side. “Let us go!” he shouted once he was belted in, waving his arm at the

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truck. “What is the hold up?” Kylee hung out of the passenger’s side win-dow, sticking her tongue out.

John fought the truck into gear, stalling it. It restarted with a cloud of blue smoke and rolled forward.

“You do not mind that I let Kylee come with us?” Pharaoh asked, watching the side of the road.

“No. I think it’s great.” James whipped the steering wheel quickly from side to side to avoid a hole. “It’s like having a kid sister around. I didn’t think I’d like it but, now that she’s here...I don’t know, it’s kind of nice.”

“Good job on the langer,” Pharaoh said.

“No kidding. She’s amazing with a gun, pop.”

“With a gun, yes.” He stretched in his seat, searching for a comfortable position to spend the hours until it was his turn to drive. “I taught her to use the .700. I have been wondering though, who taught her to set a land mine?”

James was suddenly intensely in-terested in the road.

Pharaoh suppressed a smile. “I suppose she could have figured it out on her own.”

“She’s really smart,” James admit-ted.

Pharaoh pulled his slouch hat for-ward, shading his eyes from the dawn, and watched his son from the corner of his eye. Several minutes passed

before the youth was totally at ease. “James, my son,” he said lazily. “Do not ever forget that your father is not a complete fool.” The sudden flinch of James’ shoulders confirmed what he already knew.

Timing was everything for a hunt-er.

#

“I have a building map,” Priest called over his shoulder, referring to the floor plan displayed on the screen of his portable data terminal. The in-formation was not secure, only dif-ficult to find, but it had been a good test of how well Kwakiutl technology stacked up against Earth tech. Thus far, the answer was: slower, but oth-erwise comparable.

Graves and Red Dog joined him, watching as the building’s outline filled with colored blocks indicating room usages and emergency exits. “That’s the office building the hear-ings are in?” Graves asked.

“The second floor. The other floors are queuing now, but this is the floor we really need to know. First floor is a reception area, public lobby, and the meeting room. Second floor is where the panel has their offices. It looks like the higher you are on the food chain, the closer your office is to the ground.”

“Can you tell which room is whose?”

“Not yet, but I should be able to find out.”

Graves squinted at the screen. “What’s that grayed-out room there on the side?”

Priest pushed in closer on the room, checked the map’s legend. “Unassigned.”

“Red Dog wants unassigned room,” the alien said. “Less riding in metal box.” The Cillian had been compara-tively quiet for the past two days as they awaited the panel’s summons. Graves had bribed him with a steady flow of old Earth movies, a necessary atrocity he was certain he would pay for later.

“He’s right,” Priest said. “And if you can swing it, we could move in a couple of cots and have access to the floor the entire time the hearings are going on. I’ll have to work my way around the building’s internal secu-rity, but if we’re staying in the build-ing, we can get into the other offices at night.”

“I like it,” Graves said, nodding. “What else have you got?”

“Not much. I pulled this through the main government database. Each office building has its own internal network and I’m betting each Sena-tor has their own isolated terminal as well.”

“All the more reason to get us in-side the building,” Graves said, biting the edge of his lip. “All right, let me

see what I can do. Get us a hardcopy of that floor plan too, I’d feel pretty stupid breaking into the wrong of-fice.” Something in Priest’s pocket chirped. He pulled his communicator from his robe, blanking the screen as he answered.

“Lawyer’s on his way up,” Priest said. “He says to tell you that he’s al-ready signed and filed a confidentiali-ty agreement.” Graves smiled at that; he liked a man that thought ahead.

Glancing through the peephole, he opened the door and ushered the so-licitor in to meet his client.

Visually, the man could have been Priest’s older, heavier cousin but he carried himself with a slow self-assur-ance and spoke with a voice trained to the courtroom. “Mister Red Dog,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m to be your legal advisor.” If the prospect of dealing with an alien bothered the man, he did not show it.

Red Dog canted his head to the side, looking at the proffered hand. “Not hungry. Shyster will keep Red Dog in law?”

“I believe we can achieve that.” The man withdrew his hand, placed his attaché case on a table. “My name is Hendricks, Lemuel Hendricks.”

“Shyster,” Red Dog insisted.“If you prefer.” The man frowned

slightly. “We need to discuss you’re testimony.”

Graves stepped into the other

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room, pushing the door closed be-hind him, and set about trying to take possession of the empty office. Six calls and four triplicate forms later, Graves decided they would have to get the room the old-fashioned way. The next morning, they shipped Red Dog to the building and moved into the empty office. Anyone who com-plained was told to file a formal com-plaint with ErSec at the Quantico of-fice.

“We are patched into building se-curity,” Priest announced less than a half hour after they had taken over the office. His equipment was at-tached to the receptionist terminal in the outer room of the office. Graves was busy rearranging furniture in the rear to make room.

“That easy?” he asked.“Easy? No. I’m just that good,”

Priest answered. “The system is fo-cused on keeping outside threats out; it’s wide open from inside. Also, the designers rely too heavily on soft-ware rather than hardware. A man at a desk watching security feeds is, in many cases, better than threat recog-nition software.” He tsked to himself. “Very disappointing. I expected bet-ter on Earth. This is sloppy.”

“Technological myopia,” Graves said, rubbing his hands on his pant’s legs as he stepped from the back half of the office. “Once you know what to look for, you see it all the time if

you travel between the Hedge and the Frontier.”

“No excuse,” insisted Priest.“How does Red Dog watch Red

Dog’s movies?” clattered a voice be-hind them.

“Terminal on the wall,” they said to-gether. Graves smiled wryly at Priest and added, “You’ve got to be down-stairs to testify in a few minutes.”

“If Red Dog’s next movie is good, fool humans can wait.”

“Shyster’s problem,” Priest said, returning his attention to his own terminal. “I’ve set up a simple loop, barely more than a child’s prank, but it’s enough for what we need. Once I activate it, we’ve got forty-five min-utes. I have three different loops and I can link them in sequence if I have to. I don’t want to reuse a loop though; too much chance the software might catch on just based on the repetition. The same events twice it won’t no-tice. Three times, I think it will.”

Graves nodded in understanding. “How long will you need per office?”

“Won’t know until I get there.”“All right. We’ll do the first one and

play it by ear from there. How do we keep track of what’s going on down-stairs?”

Priest frowned. “If you keep watch, I can clear out in about a minute, a lit-tle longer if I’m in the middle of some-thing, but not by much.” He reached into a tote bag by his leg, pulling out

a flesh-colored earbud. “Even under the black-out, they still record the hearings. That’s tapped into the au-dio feeds; you should be able to hear them when they start. If it sounds like they’re going to break, warn me and we’ll cut out.”

Graves raised his eyebrows at the man. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Very much. It’s not often I get to test myself against the best. Or do anything more interesting than pro-gramming detonation codes, for that matter. Plus,” the smile spreading across his face was colder than any-thing Graves would have thought the man had in him, “I think you underes-timate how much the Hamatsa hate this government.”

“Technically your government too.”

“Only by military fiat, I assure you.” Priest stood, lifting his bag onto the desk. “Mister Graves, Earth has op-pressed and harassed my people from before colonization. They out-lawed potlatch three times before the Kwakiutl left Earth and have been trying to stop it ever since. I don’t think there has been a time in the last century when the matter was not in the courts on some level.”

“Based on my experience, I can’t say that I’m thrilled with your reli-gion,” Graves acknowledged. “But why the rancor?”

Priest shrugged. “Earth claims

our practices are reckless, endanger people, promote criminal behavior—public safety and the common good. Our lawyers counter with arguments about religious freedom and the im-portance of preserving historic cul-tures. The real reason, Mister Graves, is simply that the government cannot abide competition. What we have, they cannot. To a government, any government, that’s enough of a rea-son.”

A series of firm raps on the office door interrupted them. “Mister Red Dog, are you ready?”

“Shyster!” Red Dog thundered as Priest opened the door. The Cillian limped painfully from the back room, leaning heavily on his staff, his head drifting drunkenly from side-to-side. “Poor Red Dog,” the alien hummed, standing abruptly upright.

The lawyer nodded. “Yes, I think that will do.”

Graves snorted. “What, no neck brace and wheelchair?”

“Agent Graves,” the lawyer said stiffly, “things will go much smoother if we do everything in our power not to remind the committee that my cli-ent possesses the physical prowess, and likely predisposition I might add, to kill every human being in the coun-cil room before security could arrive. I should like to not conduct this hear-ing under armed guard.”

Graves looked from the man to his

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client and back again. “Your show. Good luck with it.”

“U’melth be praised,” Priest added for good measure.

Red Dog limped past them, follow-ing the lawyer. “Give ‘em hell, big guy,” Graves said and the Cillian chittered with something disturbingly close to a laugh. He checked his watch. “We’ll wait about fifteen minutes for things to get going and then we hit the first office,” he told Priest. “Ready?”

Priest stroked his tote bag like he was petting a puppy and did not bother to reply.

#“Lemuel Hendricks, esquire, rep—”“Shyster!”“Representing the Cillian Red Dog.”

A short pause. “Before testifying, I be-lieve we need to clarify my client’s le-gal status and its relation to this com-mittee. Specifically, Senators, that this committee has no legal authority whatsoever over my client.”

Graves tapped the bug in his ear, smiling at Priest. “Let’s go.” Crimson robes fluttered and Priest sprinted into the hall. “Easy,” Graves laid a hand on his shoulder. “Try not to look like we’re robbing a bank.” Priest gave him an embarrassed smile. Graves suppressed a laugh, stepping past priest and walking calmly down the hallway.

He jerked his hand back as the first door lock chirped open at his touch.

“I deactivated all the internal locks,” Priest explained slipping past the Er-Sec Agent, into the Senatorial office.

“The Chair must acknowledge that my client is the only known Cillian liv-ing outside the post-war quarantine.”

“He’s also a member of a race that tried to exterminate humanity!”

“Be that as it may, the war is long over and irrelevant to his legal status. The simple legal fact is: my client is covered under the diplomatic immu-nity extended to all alien representa-tives present on Earth in an official governmental capacity. Such protec-tion is implicit in the subpoena issued that demanded his testimony before this committee.”

Priest knelt on the floor below the office’s data terminal, laying out his own equipment. He spread what looked to be a veil of gold mesh over the local drive, nodding happily as it shimmered to life with twinkling bursts of light. “Terminal security is biometric,” he mumbled to himself as he stood. “Fingerprint only.” He worked a piece of gray putty into a ball between his fingers, pressed it against the thumb scanner, and pushed a computer chip against the top of the clay. A moment later, the terminal blinked to life. “The problem with fin-gerprint detectors,” he explained to Graves, “is that the people who use them forget to clean them after each use. The finger oils are still there and

that means most of the fingerprint is too.” Graves acknowledged the com-ment with a grunt, his eyes fixed on the door.

“Further, my client is a recognized archetype of the Kwakiutl religion and is therefore protected under both the Endangered Tribal Species Act as well as the Religious Tolerance and Acquiescence Act, subsection 17A, covering the protection of artistic and iconic figures.”

“Where’s all this headed?”“Simply this, Senator. My client

asks for no more than what is typi-cally granted to witnesses testifying before investigatory committees. Be-fore my client can testify, he requires a blanket immunity for any matters occurring or revealed during his tes-timony.”

“Give us a moment to confer.” The muffled thud of a hand covering a mi-crophone. The susurrus of whispers. “Very well. The Chair and Committee will agree to testimonial immunity for the duration of these hearings. May we please continue with the matter at hand?”

“I’m afraid not quite yet. There still remains the matter—”

“Done!” Priest stood, returning his tools to his bag with rapid delicacy. “Time?”

“Seven minutes.”“The rest will go faster.”The next one did. Priest took

two steps into the office, spun, and walked back out. “Retinal scanner. I’m not ready for them yet,” he said. “We’ll have to come back to this one at night.”

Graves opened his mouth to com-plain, closed it with a pop. Let the man do his job, he thought. You brought him because he’s the expert.

“Now, Mister Dog—”“Red Dog.”“Beg your pardon?”“Red Dog!”“I believe my client is objecting to

being called ‘Mister Dog’, Senator. It may be a problem with his transla-tor or any number of similar cultural variables.”

“Well what should I call him then?”

“Red Dog is called Red Dog. Friends call Red Dog ‘Red’ but Red Dog has no fool human friends. Senator can call Red Dog ‘Mister-Red-Dog-sir-please-and-thank-you.’” A choking noise that sounded like it might have come from Shyster.

“Moving on.”Two more retinal scanners and one

terminal with something Priest called an “external hardware encryption key.” Two more passed by because an aide was still at work inside. They fin-ished the remainder before Priest’s loops ran out. Graves’ map was be-ginning to look like a patchwork quilt of ‘X’s and ‘O’s. They could have

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concentrated on the three offices of Graves’ suspects but he wanted to check them all on the off chance that someone was using a different office for their ‘unofficial’ work.

“We’ll go back to work on the oth-ers tonight?” Priest asked as they returned to their appropriated quar-ters. Graves nodded.

“I’d best get to work now that I’ve a better idea what I’m going to find. Thank U’melth there wasn’t any DNA encryption. That I can’t crack.”

Graves suppressed a groan, sink-ing into a chair. Everything was going without a hitch, so why was he cov-ered in sweat? He forced himself to relax, considered sleeping while he could, decided against it.

“Red Dog, when you discovered the Hecate, you were in the employ of a house? Am I reading this correctly?”

“No. Red Dog works for Red Dog. Red Dog looked for ship because House paid Red Dog.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt. You’re self-employed and were working to pay for a house?”

“House! Fool human like Senators. Not house like fancy cave.”

“Red Dog, the Chair would remind you to maintain a civil tone, or I’ll be forced to find you in contempt.”

“Red Dog is in contempt. And fool humans gave Red Dog immunity.”

“He’s got a point, Ben.”“Oh shut up.”

Graves smiled. At least there was entertainment.

#

They made camp at the edge of the river a few hours after sundown. Kylee helped James with the tents, one ear on John’s discussion with Pharaoh. Both had originally wanted to cross the river before stopping, but they differed on the safety of a night crossing. Pharaoh had the final say, pointing out philosophically that there were always delays. The discus-sion shifted to the morning’s agenda.

“Of course, you knew we were stopping here or I wouldn’t have started on the tents,” James told her with a grin. “We always plan to cross the river before we stop but we never do.”

“How come?” she asked.“I think that, back when it was just

Pop and Ivan and one truck, they could make it in one day. When Pop tells his stories, that’s how it is. I guess it’s kind of stuck our heads that that’s the way it ought to be. We for-get we’ve got a lot more equipment these days.” He shrugged. “And stuff comes up.”

“Like when I hit that hole and blew the tire this afternoon,” Kylee said with a grimace.

“Two years ago, there was a langer sleeping in the middle of the road. We parked and sat for hours until it

woke up and wandered off.” James laughed. “Good thing it didn’t wake up grumpy.”

They crossed before dawn, while the sky was still gray. Pharaoh, dressed in worn jeans and a thick rope bound around his waist, walked the ford first. He leaned into the cur-rent as he struggled across, stopping in places to feel around with his feet. As he did, John stood on the hood of the truck watching the water, rifle at the ready.

“Crocs don’t like fast flowing wa-ter,” James explained to Kylee. “But better safe than sorry.” She scanned the water with the scope of her own gun. She had read about crocodiles but had never seen one.

“It is deep,” Pharaoh said, emerg-ing from the river, feet muddy.

John hopped down from the truck, pushed his rifle back into its sleeve. “You want to run a cable?”

“And wade across again? No. If we have trouble we can use the winch, but I think we will be fine.” Pha-raoh looked pointedly at Kylee. She laughed and turned her back as he stepped behind the truck to change into dry clothing.

“James,” John called. “Did you put the snorkels on?”

James rolled his eyes. “Yes, I put the snorkels on.” He grimaced at Kylee, adding, “You’d think he’d figure out, I never take the snorkels off.”

They drove across slowly, the truck first. The muddy water lapped across the floorboards of the truck but did not raise higher. Reaching the op-posite bank, John pulled to the side, stepping out to watch the jeep creep across the ford. Kylee walked a little way in front of the truck, surveying the land that spread south of the river.

The reds and purples of the na-tive jungle were replaced with the livid green of grasses topped in gold. The entire veldt rippled in the wind like an ocean sprawling beneath the horizon. The yellow sea was broken in places by the spreading branches of acacia and mopane trees casting pools of long shadows in the rising sun. It was as if she gazed at a differ-ent world, embraced by the sun and spreading out to infinity.

The jeep powered up the bank with a roar and the grass exploded with life. Bodies flew into the air like a flock of startled birds, only they were not birds. Horned creatures barely larger than dogs launched themselves across the plain, bound-ing on all four hooves at once.

Kylee put her hands to her mouth, suppressing a squeal. “There’s thou-sands of them!”

“Hundreds of them, at least,” John said with a laugh. “Bushbuck.”

She watched the tiny antelope bounce in and out of the grass.

ISSUE 52

Page 42

“They’re adorable!”“They are pests,” Pharaoh coun-

tered, stepping from the jeep, but he was smiling.

“When they jump like that, it’s called pronging,” James said as he joined them.

“And so tiny,” Kylee whispered.“Bigger than the Suni,” John

teased.Beneath the outstretched arm of

a mopane tree, a bushbuck hesitat-ed too long. A darker portion of the tree’s shadow dropped onto its back, riding the bushbuck to the ground, its jaws locked on the antelope’s throat.

“I did warn you to look up, did I not?” Pharaoh asked as the cat wait-ed for its meal to stop thrashing.

“Leopard?” she asked, squinting.“Jaguarundi,” Pharaoh said sadly.

“Selous was never able to buy leop-ards. He settled for the tigrillo.”

Kylee watched the bushbuck sprint in the dawn. Dragging a body only slightly smaller than it was, the jag-uarundi fought to climb the mopane’s trunk. He slipped, peeling away chunks of bark with his claws, and began again. The bushbuck calmed; ox-peckers fluttered to land among them. The veldt sighed in the wind, and Kylee sighed to match it.

“Welcome to Selous’ Folly,” James said, smiling at her.

Pharaoh draped a long arm around her shoulders. “The ghost of Africa.”

Growing up in a family with a histo-ry 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 educa-tion inspired the short television se-ries: These Teeth Are Real (TTAR).

His literary “mentors” are as di-verse as his experiences. Most power-fully, 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.)

Calamity’s Child: ROP: Rodeo Bull Ballet, Part 1© 2009 by M. Keaton.

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