Issue 13 - Ray Gun Revival

Conversion
by Shaun Farrell
M. Deirdra
by Richard S. Levine
The Price of Conquest
by Mik Wilkens
THRILLING TALES FROM BEYOND THE ETHER
Exclusive Serial -
Deuces Wild: “In the Lap of the Gods” - Part One
by L. S. King
“EMAN,” by Bassem Hassan
Issue 13
January 01, 2007

Table of Contents
Table of Contents 2
Overlord’s Lair: It’s 2007 - Strap in and hang on! 3
Conversion, by Shaun Farrell 4
M. Deirdra, by Richard S. Levine 14
Featured Artist: Bassem Hassan 17
The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens 20
Serial: Deuces Wild - “In the Lap of the Gods” - Part One
by L. S. King 49
The Jolly RGR 55
Overlords (Founders / Editors): L. S. King, Paul Christian Glenn, Johne Cook
Venerable Staff:
A.M. Stickel - Managing Copyeditor
Paul Christian Glenn - PR, sounding board, strong right hand
L. S. King - lord high editor, proofreader, beloved nag, muse, webmistress
Johne Cook - art wrangler, desktop publishing, chief cook and bottle washer
Slushmasters (Submissions Editors): Scott M. Sandridge, John M. Whalen, David Wilhelms
Serial Authors: Sean T. M. Stiennon, Lee S. King, Paul Christian Glenn, Johne Cook
Cover Art: “EMAN,” by Bassem Hassan
Without Whom... Bill Snodgrass, site host, Web-Net Solutions, admin, webmaster, database admin, mentor,
confidante, liaison – Double-edged Publishing
Special Thanks: Ray Gun Revival logo design by Hatchbox Creative
Visit us online at http://raygunrevival.com
Rev: 20070101b
All content copyright 2007 by Double-edged Publishing,
a Memphis, Tennessee-based non-profit publisher.
Pg. 2
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Overlord’s Lair:
It’s 2007 - Strap in and hang on!
Ray Gun Revival went live in July of 2006. Six months
and twelve biweekly issues have passed and Ray
Gun Revival continues to grow and thrive. The Overlords
Lee (Loriendil) King, Paul Christian (Fireflyfellow) Glenn,
and myself thank each of you for visiting Ray Gun Revival,
downloading the e-zine, and taking part in the fun on the
forums.
Despite being a
paying market, RGR will
continue to be available
as a free download for this
coming year (donations
cheerfully welcome to
support our authors). We
provide this out of our
own pockets because we,
like you, believe in space
opera and golden age
sci-fi / adventure fiction.
As Overlords, we are
committed to the resurgence
of quality space
opera authors and stories.
This issue features
a story by Shaun Farrell
entitled Conversion. It is a
ripping good story, a cautionary
tale, and starts Issue 13 off with a bang:
When nanotechnology changes humanity and eliminates
free will, a small group of people on a distant colony
world fight to escape the pervasive NET.
Our second story, M. Deidre, by Richard S. Levine, is
more of a flash sci-fi piece than we normally accept, but the
slushmasters and editors liked it so well that we couldn’t
resist picking it up to share with you:
We all know how deadly hurricanes can be. What
would you do if you knew you could turn one away?
We were looking for something special to grace the
Pg. 3
cover of the first issue of 2007, and Bassem Hassan’s
“EMAN” is not only a great piece, it is also the result of a
collaboration and was created in honor of a special person.
Click on over to the Featured Artist interview for the most
touching story we’ve featured yet!
And that brings us to The Price of Conquest, by Mik
Wilkens. This is the longest work we’ve ever published at
RGR, however, this is one of
those works that starts fast
and never lets up. Smart,
challenging, and gripping,
this story features a plucky
heroine and a ship with
something of an attitude:
Freedom is all Kressa
Bryant has ever wanted.
When she’s given her own
starship, it seems the
answer to all her dreams.
But the ship has a mind of
its own and comes with a
price she may not be able
to pay.
Due to the size of Issue
13, look for Paul Christian
Glenn’s popular JASPER
SQUAD serial in Issue 14, so stay tuned for that.
Wrapping things up is Overlord Loriendil’s stunning
Deuces Wild installment, the first of a multi-part min-arc,
“In the Lap of the Gods,” in which one of the intrepid adventurers
is kidnapped and the other comes to grips with his
feelings ont he matter (or would, if he had any).
Stay with us as we venture into this new year - we have
a lot planned for the year and with your continued encouragement
and readership, will be shooting ever higher. Strap
in and hang on! Issue 13 launches right now!
Johne (Phy) Cook
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

"The Battle for Monday Morning," by Jordan Lapp Pg.
Conversion
by Shaun Farrell
“T
hey’re here, aren’t they? Aren’t they?
Hush. I already know. I can feel them.
The music, the music!” Flapper stumbled
away, leaving Gen to huddle over his hand held
computer interface. Flapper’s right hand shook
uncontrollably, like it always did, his arm tucked
into his side.
“Yes,” Gen replied, feeling nauseas. He rubbed
his leathery face. “They’re here.”
Flapper danced, left shoulder tilted to the
floor, right leg kicking sideways. To Gen, the youth
looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, except
uglier.
“I knew it!” Flapper exclaimed. “Maybe my
nans are working again! I can hear the network.
The voices.” He fell to the floor, lifting his arms in
exaltation, drinking the wireless energy beaming
around him. Then he stopped and looked at Gen
in concern. “Are they going to kill you?”
Gen grunted. He saved his work on the
computer and resisted the temptation to throw it
against the wall. For twenty years he had sought
a way to infiltrate NET, to break their seemingly
impenetrable control. But their firewalls were too
advanced, and by now they were so complex he
hardly understood what he was looking at. There
was always a backdoor, and he better find it in
the next few hours or he’d be converted himself.
Unless he forced NET to kill him. Which suited
him just fine. Better than conversion.
“Are they going to kill you, Gen? Are they?”
Flapper stood at Gen’s side now, eyes strangely
focused and sincere. They had grown to like each
other over the years. Weird.
“They’ll try,” Gen said, softly.
“What will you do?”
Gen sighed and turned back to his computer.
Captain Tuck should just about be ready with his
traps. Gen would have to finish his work from
within the underground facility.
“I’m going to kill them back.”
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007
#
“How about you give us some of those guns,”
Dixon said.
Tuck looked over his shoulder at the ex-criminal.
No, Tuck reminded himself, still a criminal. Just
beyond the short reach of the law. For now.
“Is that a joke?” Tuck asked. His low voice was
faint but managed to carry inside the vast underground
chamber. He had just finished setting
the primary trap for the NET soldiers. This was
the most logical entry point into the warehouse,
and he had rigged it with enough explosives to
demolish a small house.
He gazed over Dixon’s shoulder. Lynda huddled
against the wall, shushing her baby girl. The baby
cried softly, as if she understood the need for
stealth but couldn’t control her fear.
“When have you known me to joke, Captain
America?” Dixon asked. His ivory skin gleamed
under a thick layer of sweat and grease. Green
eyes peered out from shaggy eyebrows with
feline malice. The eyebrows looked huge under
his bald head.

Conversion, by Shaun Farrell Pg.
Dixon swaggered a few steps forward. “Come
on, you can’t hold them off by yourself.”
Tuck aimed a pistol at Dixon’s face. “Why
don’t you stay where you are? No one touches
my guns.”
Dixon hesitated, then slapped his thighs with
clenched fists. “Why the hell not? If something
happens to you the rest of us are screwed!”
“Not my problem. I need them.” Tuck had five
guns on him altogether. Two pistols on either leg,
a spitfire—a gun so small he could barely hold
it—wrapped around his ankle, and two L-20 rifles
strapped to his back. They fired a pea-sized round
capable of splitting a man in two.
Dixon started to stay something else, but
threw his arms up in disgust. “Fine.” He turned,
muttering under his breath. “Come all the way to
this damn planet just to have those NET bastards
chase me down anyway. Now, Captain Superman
here—will you shut that kid up!”
Lynda hugged her daughter even more tightly
to her breast. “She’s scared. She knows something
bad is happening, and you’re not helping!”
“Whatever.” Dixon spat on the floor as he
walked away.
Chloe, Lynda’s daughter, continued to cry.
#
“They’re here, they’re here!” Flapper
announced as he and Gen rejoined the others.
“What about the virus?” Lynda asked Gen.
The ex-computer expert shook his head, his
hand still punching commands into his small
computer. He remembered when this stuff used
to be easy. That seemed like another lifetime.
“Oh, sure,” Dixon said, leaning against the wall.
“You’re smart enough to help create the little
bastards, but you can’t stop them. Figures.”
“I had nothing to do with nanotech,” Gen
growled, a warning in his voice.
Dixon responded to perceived challenges like
a rabid dog inhaling bloody meat. He pushed off
from the wall with the heel of his foot, muscles in
his thick arms twitching. “I think you’re lying,” he
whispered with a smile. “I think you helped NET
infest the nations of earth, but when they turned
on you, you ran away like the little coward you
are. You booked passage on a ship and fled as far
as you could. And here you are, one of the last
clean humans in the universe, facing your own
creation.”
Gen’s face turned a deep shade of red. Blue
veins throbbed in his temples.
“That’s enough,” Tuck said. “We need to get
deeper underground. Their troop landers will be
here any minute. We need to—”
“Son of a—” Gen swung at Dixon, but the bigger,
stronger man easily blocked it. He returned the
blow, splitting Gen’s cheek open with callused
knuckles.
The world blacked out for a minute, and when
Gen came to he saw Tuck pointing a gun at Dixon’s
head, both men yelling obscenities. Flapper
jumped around like a monkey, grabbing his head
with both hands, screaming that he could no
longer hear the music. The buzz was gone. (Of
course, Gen knew Flapper hadn’t heard it before.
The nans in the boy’s body were completely dead,
making it impossible for him to interface their
network.) Chloe screamed at the top of her baby
lungs, and Lynda wept, begging Tuck and Dixon
to be quiet.
Humanity’s last children, Gen thought. The
final non-trans, and perhaps the last pure vestiges
of Earth’s greatest species.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Conversion, by Shaun Farrell Pg.
They didn’t stand a chance.
#
Besides storing food and supplies for the 300
colonists, which only accounted for a few, relatively
small rooms, the underground structure
processed the water gathered from Columbus’
moon. Columbus itself was practically desert.
The snowy poles could provide them water, but
the snow was so full of toxins that the energy to
purify it outweighed the expenditure needed to
travel to the moon and back.
Ice mining in a vacuum was dangerous, but
Dixon didn’t mind. This was freedom, even if
the elements threatened to kill you at any given
moment. He had been here for two years, and
while he couldn’t say he had made any true
friends, he had found peace.
Until now.
He finished packing the duffle bags with food
stuffs. Tempted to take the food and hide on his
own just to spite Captain America for ordering
him around, Dixon grumbled as he rejoined the
group. This food would keep them full for at least
two months. With luck, NET wouldn’t be able
to locate them deep within the warehouse. NET
would wait around for awhile, but after sixty days
of silence they’d classify Columbus as neutralized
and move on, leaving the desert world to burn in
its sun forever.
At least that’s what they hoped. He knew
better. NET was relentless. Tuck knew better, as
well, or he wouldn’t waste his time setting traps.
While Dixon cleaned out the food closet, Tuck,
Gen and Flapper had vandalized everything in
sight. All the spacecraft were gone, and while
other colonists had fled for the dunes and caves,
Tuck wanted to give the appearance that all of
them had escaped. But not before wrecking the
place. It was consistent with human behavior, Tuck
had said. When humans couldn’t have something,
they would rather destroy it than allow enemies
to utilize that resource.
Whatever. Dixon thought the Commando
Extraordinaire just wanted to shoot something.
“Did you get the food?” Gen asked.
“What do you think?” Dixon replied, dropping
the bags on the floor.
“Pick those up,” Tuck ordered. “We’re done
here. Time to get deeper underground.”
A thud echoed from above. They all looked at
the ceiling, hearts racing. Tuck cocked one of his
L-20s, aimed it upward.
Silence.
“They couldn’t have landed already, could
they?” Lynda asked. Chloe, for the moment, had
fallen asleep in her arms. The little girl’s fingers
gripped a lock of Lynda’s hair.
“Impossible,” Gen muttered. He pulled his
computer from his pocket and switched on the
screen. Accessing the facility’s security systems,
he brought up a view from the roof cameras.
A metallic cylinder walked across the roof on
matching, polymer legs. It seemed to glide, its
round body swiveling from side to side. Gen recognized
it, though the design had changed drastically
over the last few years. It looked alive. And
it looked hungry.
“It’s a transponder,” Gen said. “They’re going
to infect our system with nans.”
“Can’t they do that from space?” Lynda asked.
“I made sure the firewall was up,” Gen said. “I
didn’t realize they could land these things on a
planet now. We only have a minute or two before
all the computers are out of our control.”
“Oh, well that’s just—” Dixon began.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Conversion, by Shaun Farrell Pg. 7
Gen cut him off. “Luckily, none of the doors or
lights down here are automated. It’s old fashioned
as can be. We did that on purpose, just in case.”
“Just in case?” Dixon sneered. Then his voice
deepened into a growl. “You’ve known this day
was coming all along.”
“I suspected,” Gen admitted. “But things have
changed so much, I’m not sure that any precautions
can help. If I can just get through their
firewall. . .”
“Come on,” Tuck said. “Let’s get moving. I think
our window is even shorter.”
Gen shut off the image and disconnected
his computer from the colony network. His unit
would continue to function uninfected. For now.
As they jogged toward a staircase, he glanced
at Flapper and wondered if the boy would cause a
bigger problem then he was worth. He was acting
much calmer than usual.
Gen would keep an eye on him.
#
Lynda tripped as she scurried down the dimly
lit passageway and nearly fell on her baby. She
managed to twist into the wall and keep her
balance. Nobody else noticed. She was the last
in a fleeting procession venturing down dark
passages as most of the lights were non-functional.
The rest of her group was too focused on
their impending destruction to care if she couldn’t
keep up.
An explosion had rocked the facility a few
minutes ago. Tuck’s trap. NET was coming for
them.
Chloe stirred, awakened by the stumble. She
sighed and blinked tired eyes.
“Hi, baby girl,” Lynda whispered. She tried to
keep her heart rate down. Chloe was quite sus-
ceptible to her mother’s emotions, and a fussy
baby was the last thing they needed.
Two years had passed since Lynda fled Earth.
NET had nearly converted every nation on the
globe. She had heard rumors that doctors were
injecting newborns at birth. Not even wiping
them off first. The nanotech engineered transhuman
era had truly begun, and Lynda wanted no
part of it.
It was sin. It was evil. She wouldn’t allow those
beasts to steal her baby’s soul.
Finding a ship to take her away hadn’t been
easy. Booking off-world passage required years of
sifting through yellow tape, acquiring insurance,
submitting to dozens of medical exams. And what
did the doctors do in those exams?
“Not you, baby girl,” Lynda said, kissing Chloe
on the head. Chloe smiled, still groggy.
A tear spilled down Lynda’s cheek at the sight.
They would never take her baby. They would
never destroy what made her so special. When
the time came, Lynda knew what she had to do.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007
#
They finally rested at a cross-section of halls,
taking refuge in an abandoned storage room. The
water aqueducts spanned all above them. Several
feet of concrete and millions of gallons of water
would make it very difficult to locate them with
sensors.
Of course, Tuck thought, that also makes it a
likely hiding place. If I were them, I’d look here
first.
But that was fine with Tuck. He was tired of
running. He was tired of hearing how superior a
man became with nans pumping his blood. Most
of all, he was tired of missing his wife.
“Only takes one bullet to kill a NET. Doesn’t

Conversion, by Shaun Farrell Pg.
sound so advanced to me.”
“What?” Gen asked.
“Nothin.”
A single light bulb hung from the center of
the storage room, spilling dim light that didn’t
reach the far corners. Storage crates made of
mesh plastic were stacked near the north wall.
Dust covered the floor. Grains of sand had slowly
filtered through a crack in the roof.
Tuck kicked at the dirt, enjoying the smell. It
made him feel alive.
He marched across the room to the door.
Activating the laser sight on the old L-20, he
gazed down the narrow scope into the dark hall.
He could kill their troops from here. He had the
advantage as long as he didn’t run out of bullets.
But the bodies would pile very high before that
happened.
Very high, indeed.
#
“What’s his problem?” Dixon asked. He
crouched next to Gen against the back wall.
Flapper danced in a circle directly under the
light bulb. He tapped his forehead with a knuckle
and murmured under his breath.
Lynda sang to Chloe somewhere in the
darkness.
Gen looked at Flapper. “He used to be NET.
The nans caught some kind of virus and screwed
him up before they winked out. I’ve been. . .
studying him, hoping to learn how his firewall
failed.”
“Not him,” Dixon said. He pointed at Tuck.
“Him. Marine Boy.”
“Oh.” Gen blushed. He was grateful for the
darkness. “He was an American soldier. Some
terrorists caught him and tortured him for years.
Locked him up in a closet for weeks at time so
he was practically bathing in his own wastes. By
the time he was released, most of the U.S. was
pro-nan. His wife had been injected and was an
important asset to NET. We all know what NET
programming does to a personality.”
“Yeah. Wipes it dry.”
Gen looked at his computer and continued to
punch in commands.
“Must be nice to have dirt on everyone,” Dixon
muttered.
“That was my job. Know who’s coming, who’s
going. Keep people safe.”
Dixon just snorted.
“Nanotechnology isn’t the real problem,” Gen
said, trying to sound casual.
Dixon nearly growled. “Could have fooled
me.”
“It’s the programming,” Gen insisted. “It’s NET,
the single most corrupt institution the planet has
ever known, hiding behind a fake religion to justify
its actions.” Gen realized he was nearly yelling.
Dixon grabbed Gen by the collar and pulled
him off the ground. The computer slipped from
Gen’s grasp, rattled on the floor.
“You should probably shut your mouth, old
man, and get back to work,” Dixon spit out
between clenched teeth.
Gen gasped, embarrassed at being manhandled
with such ease. “I’m not old!”
Dixon stopped, blinked. His eyes widened,
and he seemed to really see Gen for the first time.
Very slowly, he set Gen down.
“Just do your thing.” Dixon spun and stormed
out of the room. He bumped Tuck on the way,
ignored the Captain’s protests.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Conversion, by Shaun Farrell Pg.
“What was that all about?” Lynda asked.
Gen shook his head.
#
“Music, music, music, music.” Flapper rocked
on the floor, knees tucked into his chest.
Gen watched, wishing he could help the young
man. He still didn’t understand why Flapper had
been warped so badly. It was more than nanfailure,
Gen was sure of that. But what?
He turned back to his computer, studying the
data. Flapper was a goner, just like the rest of
them.
“Do you hear that?” Lynda asked. Chloe stirred
in her mother’s arms.
“No,” Gen said. “What?”
“Footsteps from above,” Tuck replied. He
stared down the hallway over the scope of his
gun, relaxed and still. “They’ll be here in a few
minutes.”
Dixon suddenly rushed back into the room
from the hall, chest heaving. “NET! They’re here.”
“We can hear them,” Tuck said. He rose,
casually turning the L-20 toward Dixon. “So, Dixs,
where have you been?”
Dixon paused in the middle of wiping sweat
from his forehead. “What are you talking about?
I’ve been sitting out there thinking about my
death, that’s where I’ve been.”
Tuck cocked his head. “Really, because I’ve
been right by this door, just waiting for something
to shoot at. I didn’t see you in the hall.”
“It was dark! What, are you Nocturnal Boy,
too?” He paused, looked at the gun. “Why don’t
you put that down before you piss me off.”
Lynda stepped out of the darkness and joined
Flapper, who had gone still under the light bulb.
“What are you saying, Tuck?” she asked.
“Doesn’t anyone else find it interesting that
the moment we hear the troops coming, Dixon
reappears after being gone an hour?”
“Hold on a sec, Tuck,” Gen said. “Dixon hates
NET as much as any of us. He—”
Tuck smiled. “Oh, I know he hates NET with
a passion. That’s the only reason I’ve let him
live. But you know what I think? I think there’s
something he hates even worse than NET or nans
or being displaced on this rock.”
Dixon fumed. His hands, balled into fists, pushed
into his thighs so hard his legs were going numb.
“Alright,” Dixon yelled. “Let’s hear it!”
“Keep your voice down!” Lynda said.
“Why?” Dixon said. “If he’s right, they already
know where we are. Besides—ah, did you hear
that? They’re getting closer. They’re right on top
of us! Any second now they’ll rush around that
corner and fill our heads with little machines that
will make our brains shrivel up and shut off, and
then you know what happens! You know what
happens THEN?”
Tuck cocked the rifle, brought it up to his
shoulder. “Shut your mouth.”
“Why should I?” Dixon said. “You don’t trust
anyone. Either you kill me, or they do. Either way,
I’m dead.”
“Tuck,” Gen started.
“Shut up, Gen. Get back to work.”
“Yes, work on the music, the music,” Flapper
said. “You are close to the music.”
They all paused, the tension in the room
coming to a sudden halt.
“I am?” Gen asked. “How can you. . .” his
voice trailed off. He held up his computer and
pressed a command.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Conversion, by Shaun Farrell Pg. 10
Flapper’s back arched. His eyes rolled back
into his head. Then he shook it off and started
rocking on the floor.
“What was that?” Tuck asked.
“The nans, the ones inside of him, must still be
alive somehow. They reacted to my transmission.
I think—” Gen turned away, hands typing rapidly.
“I think you can put the piece down now,
soldier boy,” Dixon said.
“How about I keep it where it is, just for fun?”
Synchronized footsteps filled the hallway. In
the midst of their argument, they hadn’t heard
the NET soldiers. Tuck and Dixon looked down
the hall in unison, their eyes widening.
A dozen soldiers stood out there, with more
in the stairwell behind them, no doubt.
“I knew it,” Tuck whispered, face twisting into
a scowl. “You betrayed us!”
Tuck began to re-aim the L-20 at Dixon. Simultaneously,
Dixon jutted forward and reached for
Tuck’s leg. With his other hand he deflected the
rifle toward the ceiling.
Tuck tried to sidestep, but Dixon was too
fast. In that moment Tuck realized his feelings of
control had been an illusion. Dixon could have
done this whenever he wanted.
Before Tuck could regain his bearings, Dixon
had relieved the Captain of a pistol and darted
down the hallway.
“He’s joining NET!” Tuck yelled, scrambling for
the door.
Then gunshots echoed around him. And
screams. Dixon’s screams. He was charging the
enemy soldiers, gun spitting fire, lungs releasing
the last breath of a man embracing his fate.
“No,” Tuck whispered. “It can’t be.”
The troops responded in unison, their minds
joined through NET. They unleashed hell into
the hallway. Dixon was chopped to pieces, but
he seemed to continue forward anyway, as if
the sheer force of his hatred could hold his flesh
together. His gun fired again and again.
Two men collapsed under the barrage of his
attack, but that was all Dixon could manage. He
fell, dead before he hit the floor.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007
#
“Dixon!” Tuck’s throat was instantly dry, adrenaline
zapping his mouth of moisture, replacing it
with salt. He screamed and took aim with his L-
20. Barely able to control the gun with his shaky
arms, he leaned around the doorframe and fired.
NET responded with typical effectiveness,
aiming their fire at Tuck’s side of the door. With
nans guiding their eyes and fingers, the NET
soldiers demonstrated considerable skill. Tuck
continually turned back into the room, the metal
doorframe disintegrating around him. At one
point he dove across the entry to the other side.
Miraculously, only one enemy projectile grazed
his leg.
Once the shooting began, Gen, Flapper, and
Lynda ran to the opposite side of the room.
Debris and bullets rattled all over the place, but
they found somewhat suitable shelter in the far
corner behind the empty storage crates.
Flapper yelled and tried to run into the hall.
He wanted to rejoin his brothers, and he slapped
at Gen when the older man held him back.
“They don’t want you anymore,” Gen screamed,
feeling the futility of the situation overtake him.
He should let Flapper run into the sea of bullets.
He would die instantly, but at least he would die
believing NET had come for him.
“I know, I know,” Flapper returned, still struggling.

Conversion, by Shaun Farrell Pg. 11
A growl of agony slipped from Tuck’s lips. They
could hear him clearly over the constant barrage.
He must be hit. Gen looked around the crates.
Sure enough, Tuck huddled against the wall, tried
to tie off a bleeding arm. His shooting arm.
Time was up.
Flapper saw it, too. “Here,” he said. Without
waiting for Gen’s approval, he snatched the
computer from Gen’s grasp.
Gen lunged for it like he would a lifeline at
sea. That interface was his last connection with
humanity, his last reminder of what he once was,
and the only hope to have a life ever again.
Flapper punched Gen in the face with surprising
strength. They stared into each other’s eyes,
the sound of violence around them deafening.
“We’re the only friends you have!” Gen yelled,
betrayal turning to anger. Yes, he had initially
brought Flapper to Columbus because he wanted
to study him, but things had changed since then.
They were the closest remnants of family either
would ever know. Or so Gen had believed.
“I know,” Flapper replied, his face still, his right
arm steady, his eyes confident. Gen froze. He had
never seen Flapper like this. He looked NET. His
eyes seemed to flicker silver, as if swarming with
nans.
“I can hear the music, Gen. It sounds sick.”
Gen shook his head. “That’s impossible. The
nans inside you are dead!”
Flapper turned to Lynda. “I’m sorry about your
baby.”
Without giving an explanation, he turned to
the computer and began to type one handed. He
moved with unnatural speed, as if he was intimately
familiar with the interface.
“Hey!” Gen reached for the computer.
Flapper kicked him.
Chloe screamed, and Lynda hugged the child
so tight the baby couldn’t breathe.
Tuck’s war-cry began again, his rifle spitting
death into the darkness.
Flapper handed the computer back to Gen.
His right hand seemed to shrivel, then shake, and
he hid it against his side. Bending at the waist, his
knees began flexing.
“Push initiate!” Flapper said.
“What did you do?” Gen asked. He didn’t
recognize the code filling the screen.
“Push it!” Tears began streaming down
Flapper’s face. Mucus leaked from his nose.
Knowing he had no other option, Gen pushed
the button and transmitted Flapper’s program.
The world suddenly turned silent. Tuck fired
a few more rounds before he realized the enemy
was no longer firing back. Flapper went rigid as
steel, his face placid. He fell backward into the
mesh crates, spilled them across the floor.
“What the hell?” Tuck muttered.
Realization dawned in Gen’s mind, and he
rushed to join the Captain at the door. The NET
soldiers had collapsed just as Flapper had.
“What happened?” Tuck asked.
Gen looked at his computer. Flapper had jacked
the interface into NET’s network. He studied the
signals coming from the nans. He could still detect
an energy signature, but it was faint.
“He reformatted them,” Gen whispered.
“What?” Tuck asked, now on his feet. Sweat
and blood covered his body. He had been hit
several times.
“Flapper. He must have remembered some
kind of. . . access code, or something. He refor-
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Conversion, by Shaun Farrell Pg. 12
matted them. Amazing!”
“What does that mean?” Tuck asked.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“No! NO!”
Then Gen realized how deep the silence in the
room had truly been. Chloe was no longer crying.
He rushed back around the crates, Tuck stumbling
after him.
Lynda had placed Chloe on the ground. Her
hands hovered over the child, shaking.
“Lynda?” Gen asked.
“She’s dead. My baby girl is dead!” Sobs racked
her as she lay down next to her child.
Gen knelt, put his hand on Chloe’s chest.
There was a gentle heartbeat there. Life still held
on. Flapper must have known. That was why he
apologized.
It took several minutes for Gen to calm Lynda
enough to talk with her. “She’s not dead,” he
finally said. “She was NET. The nans have reset.”
He wiped wetness from her face.
“How is that p-possible?” she finally asked.
“She wasn’t b-born on Earth.”
“I don’t know. But somehow NET infected
her.”
“I don’t mean to break up our moment of rest,”
Tuck said, “but eventually they’ll wake up, right?
If they’re just reformatting—”
“Then once the basic programs initialize, they
should wake, yes,” Gen said.
Tuck pointed at Gen’s computer. “What’s
the range on that thing? Did it reach their
spaceship?”
Gen considered it. “Probably.”
He swallowed, clearly in pain. “Alright, pick up
your kid. Gen, grab twitchy.”
“His name is Flapper,” Gen protested.
“Whatever,” Tuck said. “Come on, we’ll take
the landing shuttle to the ship, blow the rest of
them out an airlock, pick up the colonists in the
desert, and get the hell out of here.” He limped
for the door.
“Where will we go?” Lynda asked, gently
scooping Chloe into her arms.
“Don’t ask me,” Tuck replied, vanishing out the
door.
Gen put the computer in his pant’s pocket.
Flapper didn’t even weigh a hundred pounds,
and Gen lifted him with fair ease.
He wondered what the boy would be like
when he woke. Would he be his old self or a NET
agent? And what about Chloe? She must have
been infected in the womb, yet she acted like any
normal child.
What was NET up to?
Dixon’s blood covered the floor in the hall,
his body in pieces. He had given himself for the
group. Gen wished he had known the man better,
had tried to understand what had happened to
him. It was too late for that. It was too late for
a lot of things. But maybe they could start over
someplace else.
He walked past the sleeping soldiers. They
seemed to stare at him, and he imagined that he
could see programs coming online through their
vacant eyes.
Realizing he was getting behind, he rushed to
catch up with the others.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Conversion, by Shaun Farrell Pg. 13
Shaun Farrell
Shaun Farrell is a speculative fiction author
and the host of the Adventures in Scifi
Publishing podcast, a show that explores the
publishing industry by interviewing industry
experts, bestselling authors, and new writers.
To learn more about Shaun and his work, visit
www.shaunfarrell.com.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

"The Second Ascension," by R. Cruz Pg. 1
M. Deirdra
by Richard S. Levine
“...’tis a noble and heroic thing, the wind!
Who ever conquered it? In every fight it has
the last and bitterest blow. Run tilting at it,
and you but run through it. Ha! A coward
wind that strikes stark naked men, but will
not stand to receive a single blow. Even Ahab
is a braver thing—a nobler thing than that.”
– Herman Melville, Moby Dick
Below me, huge gray clouds circled counterclockwise
and glowed as bolts of
lightning struck the Gulf of Mexico. Over the roar
of my scowplane I heard, “Quad II here. Massive,
where are you?”
I said, “On my way, dad.”
“Hey, Captain Bahar to you. We’re in M.
Deidra’s eye, and we’ve got to move this thing
somewhere safe. Get here quick. Quad II out.”
The Massive was a fine scowplane, named
to honor the M designation for hurricanes with
winds greater than 250 miles per hour. It had been
twenty years since the last category M storm. My
heart raced.
The flight computer spoke. “Captain Bahar.
This area of the storm will be violent.”
I replied, “Thank you, Toby. Call me Michelle.”
I took the Massive down into the clouds. Rain
smacked the windows. Thunder echoed off our
hull. I could feel my heart pounding as I headed
towards Deidra’s eye.
Toby reported, “Winds at 250 miles per hour.”
I asked, “Where’s Deidra headed?”
“The Newer Orleans area.”
A large population, modern city, that wasn’t
what I wanted to hear.
A break in the clouds revealed a churning,
green gulf with clipped whitecaps and spray that
looked like shattered glass. The plane shook in
every direction.
I said, “Toby, take over until we reach the eye.
Get dad back on the comm.”
Soon I heard my dad’s deep voice. “Michelle,
you’re late.”
“We’re almost there.”
The Massive shuddered. Sunlight and blue sky
filtered through the eye of the storm.
I shouted, “I see you!”
Dad replied, “About time.”
I could see dad’s plane and two others of our
team near the middle of the eye. A towering white
wall of clouds encircled us. I said, “Toby, give me
back the controls.”
As all four planes traveled in a circular path
in the center of M. Deidra’s eye, Toby ordered
our target guidance mirror into position. I saw
the other planes tilt their mirrors in a kind of synchronized
dance. We waited for the microwave
transmissions from space.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007
#
Then, at dusk, light flashed all around us.
Toby reported first. “Masing has begun.”
Dad said, “Quad II here. Nice job. Stay in
formation.”
I asked, “Captain Bahar, where are we going
to give M. Deidra her funeral?”
“Our orders are to bury her to the northeast

M. Deirdra, by Richard S. Levine Pg. 1
of Ciudad Victoria. The U.S. pays Mexico a lot of
money to scuttle hurricanes there.”
“Do you think we can turn an M hurricane?” I
knew it was a sensitive question.
The comm squawked as Toby changed to a
private frequency.
Dad replied, “You’re talking about M. Frances,
aren’t you? That was my mistake, not the Quad I.
We’ll turn M. Deidra.” His voice sounded grim.
“But what if we can’t?”
“That’s crap. Quad II out.”
The Massive’s windows were fogging. I looked
down at the colors where the maser fire blasted
the Gulf waters into steam.
A dropsonde from the Quad II parachuted
towards the Gulf. I didn’t see the changes in the
weather data we were hoping for; M. Deidra had
not turned.
I put Toby back in control of the Massive, and
I closed my eyes to nap.
#
A Mexican official spoke on the comm. My
father answered.
“Captain Bahar, is there any change?”
“We’ll know in a few minutes.”
“Give us a call as soon as you know.”
“Will do. Quad II, out.”
Dad loved to fly and could turn hurricanes
like herding cows in a cattle drive, but he wasn’t
comfortable dealing with people. Especially after
mom died.
I heard, “Michelle, are you there?”
I replied, “Dad?”
“There’s been no change to M. Deidra’s path.”
“Then Newer Orleans will have to evacuate.”
“I can’t let that happen.” His tone was confident,
but I’m sure he wasn’t.
“What do you mean?”
“I was so…so sure of our technology. I told
your mother that M. Frances wasn’t coming to
Pensacola. She felt safe. She didn’t even evacuate
when I told her to.”
I could feel his guilt. “Dad, you couldn’t have
known that you couldn’t turn a category M
storm.”
“You’re wrong. I could have made it turn. I just
need a much larger heat source.”
He sounded angry. I said, “Dad, you’re
worrying me.”
“Damn it, Michelle. I mean to stop M. Deidra.
Quad II, out.”
I watched the Quad II and our other two
planes drop from formation. They disappeared
into the steam from the Gulf.
I cried, “Toby!” He didn’t answer. I was locked
out of the controls. As I heard the mirror above
refocus the satellite beam, the Massive headed
on its own towards M. Deidra’s towering white
wall.
The Massive closed on the clouds. I felt
helpless. I remember entering the white wall just
before hearing the explosion. Then the clouds
turned the color of fire.
The Massive was pushed forward and then
downward. The wings glistened and flickered in
the light of the flames. Then the wind and rain
put out the fire.
Toby’s lockout released. He said, “Our engines
have shut down. Prepare for jettison.”
Everything happened so fast. I replied, “Toby,
thank you.”
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007
#
M. Deidra should have killed me that night. Yet,
the next day I was sitting in the floating sealed
compartment of the Massive’s inflatable.
The sounds of M. Deidra had moved on, and
I opened the compartment to reveal a blue sky.
There was a radio in my emergency kit. I called for
assistance.
I smiled when they told me that M. Deidra

M. Deirdra, by Richard S. Levine Pg. 1
had turned and headed east-north-east of Ciudad
Victoria. I knew that over fifty years ago the area’s
coast had been cleared of people and buildings,
and M. Deidra would expire over empty beaches
and the Sierra Madre Mountains.
I thought of my father and our team. Tears
filled my eyes.
And me. What about me? I still turn hurricanes
for a living. I guess I always will.
Richard S. Levine
Richard S. Levine began his working life as a
video game designer and developer. Several
of his science fiction short stories have
appeared in The Martian Wave and The
Fifth Di. With his wife Carrie, he lives happily
on the beach in Florida and writes. Now, if
only the hurricanes would go away. To learn
more about Mr. Levine’s writings and his
classic video game, Microsurgeon, please visit
http://web.tampabay.rr.com/rlevine6/.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Featured Artist: Euka Pg. 17
Featured Artist:
Bassem Hassan
Name:
Bassem Hassan
Age:
30
Hobbies:
Roller blading, cycling, swimming, fishing,
boating, and most of all designing!
Favorite Book / Author:
IT by Stephen King, and anything by Khalil
Jebron.
Favorite Artist:
I have three; the first being Greg Martin, the
second, Dylan Cole, and finally, my good friend
Chris,
http://dilekt.deviantart.com/
When did you start creating art?
I started creating art a little over four years ago.
What media do you work in?
I use many applications, but the ones that I use the most are Photoshop, Illustrator, InDesign, Cinema
4D (my favorite), and Terragen.
Where your work has been featured?
Ive received a couple of Daily Deviations over at http://www.deviantart.com. Most of my works are
actually printed stuff and Illustrator stuff I do for work, which can be found at most David Jones Stores
all around Australia.
Where should someone go if they wanted to view / buy some of your works?
My work is mainly featured over at deviantART and my page can be found here:
http://dv81.deviantart.com/
How did you become an artist?
Funny enough, whilst doodling around in Photoshop, I came across a couple of filters which assisted
me in manipulating an old family photo. I took off from there. Strangly enough, at that time I had
completed a degree in software engineering, and I’ve never looked back. I still do code, but my heart
is in art!
What were your early influences?
My early influence would have to be my twin brother who saw I had some hidden talent and insisted I
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Featured Artist: Bassem Hassan Pg. 1
keep going , and here I am today doing what I love best!
What are your current influences?
My most influential person now would be mum and how she inspires me to do better than last time!
And of course Greg Martin, and Dylan Cole, and above all my friend Chris!
What inspired the art for the cover?
A girl by the name of Eman (a disabled family
friend of mine) someone as I once wrote “...is
on the path to paradise”. She is a very special
person loved by many and frowned by none.
Her heart and courage to live in this world is
unmatched, her family... well I would need a
book to describe their love for her and their
devotion to make her stay on earth a pleasant
and peaceful one. Also, my friend Chris, his
work can be found at http://dilekt.deviantart.
com, another great inspiration of mine also
helped collaborate on this piece. You should
check out his stuff—he is truly an amazing artist
and friend!
How would you describe your work?
I draw with passion and with love, so if I was
to name it I would call it “EMOTIONS”. Every
piece I do, there is always a story behind it some
sort of catalyst which inspired me to do it in
the first place. My work is mainly built around
the cosmos, as I am infatuated with space , but
nowadays I find myself doing more and more
3D, but only to assist with my future space
scenes.
Where do you get your inspiration / what
inspires you?
The heavens and the earth, family, friends,
mother nature, movies, other artists, there is
so much to say and so little time to say it in. I
would have to say that anything is a potential
for inspiration, but what I draw is ONLY an
emotion so that I leave people with something
to think about as I like to share something of
mine with them.
Have you had any notable failures, and how has failure affected your work?
As I began to draw, I many times found myself thumping my head on the desk questioning my own
abilities, but it’s those times I cherish the most! I would learn to pick myself up and try again or
even try harder! My own flaws were my best strengths in becoming a better artist, so I say to others
out there the belief in onesself is one of the most powerful weapon one can acquire, so if you find
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Featured Artist: Bassem Hassan Pg. 1
yourself stuck, or not performing like you imagine, indulge
yourself in this moment as this is the point of vulnerability
and the part where you need to dig deep and find yourself
again!
What have been your greatest successes? How has
success impacted you / your work?
My greatest success, well, would be just to become an
artist. Winning my daily deviations on deviantART was
great, but becoming an artist was greater, and helps my
way of life how I see things in the real world. Even my
career is based around what I love most ! So that would
be the greatest success from all this!
What are your favorite tools / equipment for producing
your art?
The mouse.
What tool / equipment do you wish you had?
What else? Wacom Intuous 3. ; )
What do you hope to accomplish with your art?
A lot of smiling faces—if my art makes someone smile
than that is more important to me than anything anyone
can ever give me , to see someone happy, well, you can’t put a price on that!
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Featured Artist: Bassem Hassan Pg. 20
The Price of Conquest
by Mik Wilkens
Kressa Bryant wandered aimlessly through
north San Francisco’s dark streets, the
pitifully small pack that contained everything she
owned slung over one shoulder.
Around her, the cool night air hummed with
the passage of ground, air, and space traffic to
the south. Local bars throbbed with music and
raucous conversation. The crumbling buildings
shuddered as a starship landed at one of the
nearby ports.
Several meters behind Kressa, two men
shadowed her path. She frowned. Were they
following her? Easy enough to determine.
She turned left at the next corner and ducked
into a narrow alley partway down the block. The
reek of urine and rotting debris assaulted her;
the alley’s high walls gathered the city sounds
and muffled them to a dull roar.
Kressa shut out the distant sounds and tuned
her senses closer, back the way she’d come. The
quiet mumble of a conversation drifted over the
background noise, accompanied by a pair of
unhurried footsteps.
The men moved closer, paused, and crossed
the intersection where she had turned the corner.
Their footfalls receded, and she relaxed.
A rustle from behind whirled her around. She
dropped into a fighting stance and whipped her
knife from its boot-top sheath.
Something groaned, low and pain-filled, and
a weak male voice called, “Boy? Boy, can you...?”
The voice trailed off with a moan.
Kressa stared into the darkness, black eyes
wide to gather light. It did not surprise her to be
mistaken for a boy. She wore her black hair short
and her clothing loose in an attempt to hide the
fact that she was a nineteen-year-old girl graced—
or, in her opinion, cursed—with the genetically
perfected looks of the United Galaxy’s elite.
“Who’s there?” she called.
Another groan drifted from deep in the alley.
The agonized sound tightened her gut.
Something moved in the pile of discarded
boxes and rubbish that clogged the narrow
passage. She gripped her knife tighter and crept
forward, eyes straining in the dark.
Low clouds reflected the light from the ports
and the brightly lit south city in a dim glow, faintly
illuminating the debris. A bloody arm and hand
jutted from the trash. Kressa tightened her jaw
and continued forward, knife held close, ready to
use.
A battered body sprawled on the rubbish,
feverish eyes gazing up from a pallid face. The
hand groped for a clear spot on the alley floor and
levered the body into a half-sitting position. The
motion sent a sour odor drifting from the litter.
Kressa wrinkled her nose at the stench.
“You...do me a favor?” the man asked.
Kressa noted his once fine clothing, now
ruined by deep, bloody wounds; the bits of
expensive jewelry that adorned ear, throat, and
wrist; the pain-clouded features of a face that
had never been handsome and was now a pale
mask of approaching death.
“What’s in it for me?” she asked.
The man smiled, a grimace of lips pinched tight
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 21
in pain. He raised an unsteady hand and gestured
at himself. “Take what you want. I...won’t be
needing it.”
“Yeah. All right.” She bent closer, cast a wary
look over her shoulder, and turned back to the
man. “Who did this to you?”
“You—know the ports?”
She nodded. “I grew up around here.”
He reached toward a pocket on the front of
his jacket, and then abandoned the attempt with
a moan. He motioned toward it with his chin.
Cautious, Kressa removed a keycard from the
pocket.
“My ship—the Conquest,” the man said, each
word a struggle. “She’s at...Rostenport, hanger
three. Find a pilot. Take the ship to Varen, on
Arecia...” He drew a ragged breath and pushed
himself up straighter against the garbage. “Tell
them Cam...Cameron Thorne. My name. Tell
them what happened.”
“Tell who?” Kressa sensed how little time the
man had left, while another part of her chattered
on about what he’d said. A ship? It must be a
one-man vessel, but what type? A small yacht? A
courier? Or—dare she hope—a freighter?
“Thorne, tell me what happened.”
“Go to—Cartun-al Tavern, in Varen. Talk to...
B’Okhaim.”
“Okay. What happened?”
“Code,” Thorne said, his voice barely discernible
over the echo of sounds in the alley.
She leaned closer. “What code?”
“To get in. Panel under scanner. Remember.
Six six nine oh three five...seven two.”
She repeated the number.
“Good. Now—” Harsh, wet coughs wracked his
body. He rolled onto his side, choking up blood,
then lay still for a long time. At last, he spoke again.
“Tell Connie she’s been a hell of a companion...”
He remained quiet for so long Kressa thought he
was dead, but then his hand twitched, waving her
closer.
She knelt beside him. “Thorne?”
“Tell Teresa...my daughter. Tell her daddy’ll be
home to take her to the—Carver Day parade.” His
eyes rolled to focus blearily on Kressa. “Tell her?”
“Yeah, sure,” she said, convinced Thorne was
completely delirious. “Sure, I’ll tell her.”
She made the promise to a dead man.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007
#
Seated at the bar in a noisy north-city tavern,
Kressa stared at the keycard Thorne had given
her.
Rostenport, hanger three.
Should she use the card to try to get a look at
the ship, or should she sell the card and the information
Thorne had given her to another pilot?
“Want something to drink, miss?”
She looked up into the bright blue eyes of the
ruddy-faced bartender and set the keycard on
the moisture-ringed surface before her. “I’ll take
a C ‘n’ K.”
The tender prepared her order and placed the
glass beside the card. She paid for it with Thorne’s
money, took a sip, and gazed around the room.
Three years ago, in this San Francisco tavern,
she had met Tempo, captain of the freighter
Darsan. Less than three hours ago, she had left
him. On his request. Her thrice-damned looks
had caused one too many conflicts among his allmale
crew. Departing the Darsan had left her with
nowhere to go and nothing to do. She looked at

The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 22
the card again.
Rostenport. Thorne’s ship. Mine now?
She took a deep breath. The smells of sweat,
alcohol, and the sweet-spicy smoke of liftsticks
filled the air. The strident blare of music and
laughter, the squawk of voices, and the clink
and rattle of glassware dinned in the crowded
room. From the far end of the bar, a lone woman
watched her. Based on her heavily made-up looks,
Kressa guessed the woman was nearing the end
of her prime; she did not need to guess her profession.
The woman’s flashy, revealing costume,
bright body paint and glo-tats, and provocative
stance advertised her availability to anyone who
could afford her. She was what Tempo would call
a “cold glove.”
Kressa looked away.
Was the glove a glimpse of her future? Would
she end up as nothing more than a temporary bit
of amusement for whoever had the credits to pay
for a few minutes of her time?
Never.
True, she had used her looks to catch Tempo’s
eye, and she’d spent most nights in his bed, but
that had been a means to an end, one they both
enjoyed. In her three years on board the Darsan
she had learned the life of a free trader, the tricks
of the business, how and where to pilot a freighter
for the most profit. Plus she possessed a base of
the finest education available—attained through
her childhood at the local United Galaxy Patrol
Academy—and the skills and knowledge gained
during the years she lived on the streets after
running away from the Academy. She sighed. If
only she could find someone who could see past
her looks to her abilities.
She gave the keycard a final long look.
Rostenport. My own ship. No Academy instruc-
tors to obey, no gang prime to follow, no captain
to take orders from. Freedom.
She slammed down the rest of her drink,
scooped up the card and her pack, and left the
bar.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007
#
Rostenport was a rundown private facility
located several blocks north of the alley where
Cameron Thorne died, close to the narrow strip
of no-man’s-land that separated modern-day San
Francisco from the earthquake-shattered ruins
of the old city—the gang-ruled Territories where
Kressa had grown up.
She reached the port’s small terminal building,
glanced through the open doorway, and froze.
Two white-uniformed United Galaxy Patrol
soldiers were moving toward the counter from
the door to the landing pad and hangars. They
scowled at the man behind the counter—which
wasn’t unusual for Pattys—but the way their
hands rested not-so-casually on the pulse guns at
their sides suggested something was afoot. The
tight-lipped frown on the man behind the counter
supported that conjecture.
Kressa backed away from the door and leaned
against the outer wall to listen.
“Find what you were looking for, Commander?”
one of the men asked, presumably the civilian
behind the counter.
“Not yet, but we weren’t able to get much of a
look at that crate in number three. It’s got some
kind of defense system. Who does it belong to?”
Kressa frowned. Number three? Why would
the Pattys want to search Thorne’s ship? For that
matter, why were they searching all the ships, as
the commander’s words suggested?
“That’s Captain Thorne’s vessel,” the civilian

The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 23
said. “Whatever you’re looking for, it can’t have
anything to do with Thorne. He’s—”
“We’ll be the judge of that,” the commander
said. “Where’s Thorne now?”
“Don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen him since...
yesterday, I think.”
“Is there cargo on board?”
“Could be. There was some activity near the
hangar last night. A few groundcars and such. I
didn’t pay much attention.”
“All right. Wait here.”
Several seconds passed during which the hiss
of a whispered conversation drifted from inside
the building. Kressa assumed the Patrolmen had
left the counter to discuss their next move; she
used the time to consider hers.
Common sense suggested that if Pattys were
involved she should forget Cameron Thorne,
forget his ship, get the hell out of there, and
never look back. Yet if she abandoned this now
she feared she would spend the rest of her life
wondering what might have happened if she
stayed with it. She settled on a compromise. If
the Patrolmen left the port, she would make one
attempt to get to the hangar. If successful, she
would take it from there. If not, she would sell
the hangar key and information.
“Let me tell you what you’re going to do for
us, Foster,” the Patrol commander’s words drew
Kressa’s attention back to the terminal building.
“We’ve got a couple more ports to search, then
we’ll stop back here. If Thorne gets back before
we do, give us a call and keep him here. And
remember, we’ve got enough on you to close
this place down a dozen times over, so no tricks,
right?”
“Yes, sir.” The man sounded as if he spoke
through clenched teeth.
Two pairs of footsteps started for the
entrance.
Kressa ducked around the corner of the
building and melted into the shadows under the
high port fence. The soldiers’ bootsteps clopped
away.
Kressa counted slowly to thirty, made her way
back to the terminal entrance, and peered inside,
studying the distance to the opening onto the
landing pad.
Confidence will get you anywhere.
She took a deep breath, let it slide out, then
drew herself up, slung her pack over her shoulder,
and strode through the doorway.
The man behind the counter glanced up. She
tossed him a casual wave and kept walking, eyes
straight ahead.
Nearly there.
The man released a bored grunt, the cool night
air hit her face, and she was through.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007
Easy.
She darted into the darkness at the edge of
the pad and made her way along the port fence to
the hangar marked with a glowing numeral three,
opened the service door with Thorne’s card, and
stepped inside. The door closed and the lights in
the hangar came up, momentarily dazzling her
night vision, then she grinned. The Conquest was
a freighter. But her elation lasted only as long as
it took for her eyes to adjust to the light and get a
perspective on the ship.
She had assumed Thorne’s ship would be a
one-man vessel, otherwise his crew could take
it to Arecia for him, but a ship the size of the
Conquest required a crew of at least four. How
had Thorne expected a single pilot to fly a fouron
freighter? And where was his crew? Had the
same people who took down Thorne killed them

The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 2
as well?
Suddenly this was looking a lot more dangerous
than she originally thought. Yet she was here now;
at least she could have a look around.
She walked toward the freighter, wary of any
defensive equipment. Nothing happened. She
approached the port side of the vessel, climbed
the boarding ramp to the closed airlock door, and
let her pack slide to the landing. What had Thorne
said about the code to get in?
Panel under scanner.
There was a printlock to the right of the door.
The milky glass of its scanplate glowed dimly in
the bright hangar, but Kressa saw nothing under
the plate except smooth, steel-gray hull. Maybe
a door covered the panel. She bent for a closer
look.
Nothing. Just unmarred hull.
A finger-wide margin of dull silver material surrounded
the edge of the scanplate. She squatted
before it. A narrow groove separated the margin
from the Conquest’s darker exterior.
Drawing her knife, she stuck the tip of the blade
into the crack on the right side of the scanner, slid
it down the side and across the bottom. Halfway
along the bottom edge, she met an obstruction.
She pressed the knife tip against the blockage.
The obstacle gave way and the bottom edge of
the scanplate popped outward.
She swung the plate up on hinges mounted
along its top, revealing a numbered keypad.
Smiling, she sheathed her knife, entered the code,
and clicked the scanplate back into place.
The airlock door hummed open.
Kressa retrieved her pack and stepped into
the lock. The outer door sealed behind her. She
sucked in a nervous breath and tried to ignore
the sudden sensation of being trapped.
After a moment the inner door opened and
she looked into the ship.
The airlock formed one end of a dim-lit corridor.
The hallway ran for about ten meters before
turning right, toward the rear of the vessel. Four
closed doors were situated along the corridor:
one just beyond the lock to her right, two evenly
spaced along the left wall, and one at the far end.
She stepped into the hallway.
“Halt,” a female voice said.
Kressa froze. A recording?
“Identify yourself,” the voice said.
Kressa scanned the corridor again, but saw no
one. The voice must be a message programmed
to play when someone entered the ship without
taking a particular action; a minor thing Thorne
forgot to mention. She took another step
forward.
“Halt. Where is Cameron Thorne?”
An anti-personnel turret dropped from the
ceiling halfway down the corridor, the barrel
pointed directly at Kressa. She took a startled
step backward. The gun followed her movement.
“Identify yourself,” the voice said.
“Kressa Bryant. Who are you?”
“Where is Thorne?”
Kressa eased to one side. The turret tracked
her.
“Move again and I will fire. Where is Thorne?”
“Dead.”
A long silence followed. “Tell me what
happened.”
Kressa related the story of her encounter with
Thorne. She paused once when she realized she
had no idea who she was speaking to, but the
voice bade her continue and the threat of the
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 2
overhead turret convinced her it would be in her
best interest to obey.
“Thorne instructed you to travel to Arecia?”
the voice asked after Kressa completed her story.
“Yes.” She thought it best not to mention that
she had no intention of taking the ship anywhere
near Arecia until she found out what the Pattys
wanted.
Another long pause ensued. “Enter the door
to your right.”
The barrier slid aside and Kressa peered into
a large, indirectly lit recreation room with several
vid outlets, a bar, plush furnishings, and a small
dining area.
She whistled. From what she knew about
freighters like the Conquest, most of their interior
living space was dedicated to sleeping quarters
and a small galley. This single chamber must have
been converted from the majority of the quarters.
And Thorne had all but given her the ship.
She stepped into the room, grinning.
A turret centered on the ceiling took up the
duty of tracking her movements, and her grin
disappeared.
“Sit at the table,” the voice said.
Kressa walked toward the dining area on
the far left side of the room, an uncomfortable
tension tightening her shoulders. She passed the
open door of the galley and glanced inside.
Traders were not known for their discriminating
taste in food, most of them being content with
whatever issued from the galley’s food processor,
yet the Conquest’s galley held a complete kitchen,
not just a simple processing unit.
The Conquest was one hell of a ship. Her ship
now if not for that damned voice. And the guns.
“Sit,” the voice said.
Kressa scowled but obeyed. “Who the hell are
you?”
“I am a Thompson-Krell Mark Five ship’s
computer. Registration number 20458KD83-38F.
ACC-AI revision 08935R installed on standard
date SY 4533-09.06. Hol-OS modifications made
SY 4533-12.02. Mol and quantum memory
modified SY 4534-02.05. Additional AI algorithms
installed...” There was another fifteen seconds of
the same, little of which Kressa understood. At
last the computer concluded, “You may refer to
me as Connie.”
Kressa stifled a laugh. So this was the mysterious
Connie whose company Thorne had enjoyed.
“Okay, Connie, so you’re a fancy computer. Is that
how Thorne piloted a four-on without a crew?”
“Correct.”
“And you’ll obey me now?”
“No.”
Kressa frowned. “What do you mean, no?”
Silence.
“Connie?” Kressa said.
“Waiting.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes,” the computer answered.
Kressa stared at the barrel of the overhead
turret. There must be some way to convince the
computer—
She rolled her eyes. One need not convince a
computer of anything. Computers simply followed
programmed orders. Clearly, Thorne had given
the Conquest’s computer orders to obey only him,
but he must have an override, some password
or phrase that told the computer to obey the
person giving it. Yet, other than the airlock code,
nothing Thorne had said could be construed as
a password. Unless... She thought hard. Unless
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 2
Thorne’s final ramblings hadn’t been as delirious
as she thought. What had he said? Something
about his daughter...
“Connie?”
“Waiting.”
“Thorne had a daughter, right? Named
Teresa?”
“Correct.”
“He wanted to tell her— Uh...” She thought
back to the last moments of her encounter with
Cameron Thorne. “He wanted to tell her he’d be
back to take Teresa to the Carver Day parade.”
“Command acknowledged. Voice pattern
imprint recognition program activated. Awaiting
input of additional operator identity.”
Kressa smiled.
#
“Connie, we could be in trouble,” Kressa said
after supplying the information that made her
the ship’s operator.
The ship’s operator. She grinned at the thought,
and forced herself back to business.
“There were two Patrolmen in the terminal
when I got here.”
“They wanted to search the ship,” Connie said.
“I warned them away.”
“What kind of cargo are you carrying?” Kressa
asked.
“Assorted Terran spices and liquors, cloth,
gems, small electronic specialty items, trinkets. A
cargo manifest is available if you—”
“No, that’s fine.” It sounded like Thorne
planned for a trip through the colony worlds. So
why did he want her to take the ship to Arecia,
and why did the Patrol want to search it? “Was
Thorne in trouble with the Patrol?”
“Thorne’s record contains several shipping
violations.”
“What kinds of violations?”
“Concealment to avoid tariffs, transportation
of animals considered harmful to indigenous life
forms, transportation of unapproved items.”
“That’s all?” She doubted any free trader alive
hadn’t broken at least one of those rules. “Was
anyone else after him, someone who might try
to kill him?”
“Unknown.”
“So what do we do now?” she asked, and
then started to laugh when she realized she had
just asked a computer for an opinion. But she
swallowed the laugh when Connie answered.
“We should leave immediately.”
“Why not let the Pattys do their search? If
there’s nothing wrong with the cargo...?”
“That is not advisable,” the computer said.
“Why?”
“The Patrol is not likely to allow you to pilot
the ship by yourself.”
“Why not?” Kressa asked.
“Are you licensed?”
“Well...no, but I know what I’m doing.”
“The Patrol will not allow you to pilot the ship
without a license and proper documentation.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right, but couldn’t we just
tell them the pilot will be back soon?”
“They will want to speak with him when he
returns.”
Kressa sighed. This was the first time she’d
been argued into a corner by a computer. Come
to think of it, this was the first time she’d carried
on a prolonged conversation with a computer.
As far as she knew, computers capable of intel-
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 27
ligent, meaningful discussions with humans
hadn’t existed since the fall of the Alliance left
the United Galaxy’s Patrol admirals in charge of
most of the known worlds. She’d always figured
the Pattys didn’t like machines that were smarter
than them.
“If we call for departure clearance,” she said,
“the port controller is just going to make us wait
for the Pattys to get back.”
“Then we must lift off without clearance.”
Kressa’s eyes widened at the suggestion.
“Have you done that sort of thing before?”
“Yes.”
“You’re one hell of a computer.”
“Thank you.”
#
The Conquest’s bridge was a three-by-fourmeter
chamber perched atop the vessel’s living
area. Kressa stood at the top of the ramp that led
to the room and studied the separate stations,
each with its own set of controls.
“Are you sure you and Thorne flew this ship
alone?”
“I can handle approximately eighty percent of
the responsibilities of the missing crew,” Connie
said. “I will let you know when I need assistance.
As you learn the ship’s systems, I will allow you to
do more.”
“How benevolent of you.” Kressa stood still for
another moment, listening to the quiet hum of
the ship’s drive coming on line, then she started
to prowl through the room, examining the various
boards and controls. In addition to her internal
defense system, the Conquest possessed an
impressive array of offensive batteries.
“You know, Connie, I don’t remember seeing
this many guns on the ship’s exterior.”
“Many of the weapon emplacements have
internal storage compartments to prevent
damage when not in use.”
And to hide them from prying eyes.
“Preparing for liftoff,” the computer said.
“Please take a seat.”
Kressa settled into the pilot’s chair and
watched the half dozen screens above the control
boards.
On the main screen, an expanding sliver of
dim clouds pinkly underlit by city lights appeared
as the overhead hangar doors opened. The ship
hovered just below them. A series of dull thuds
reverberated through the freighter as the landing
gear retracted and locked into place. An instant
later, the Conquest shot skyward. Swirling clouds
momentarily obscured the screen, and then the
bright constellations of Terra’s night sky blazed
from the viewer.
“Unidentified freighter, this is San Francisco
control,” a harsh, authoritative voice said over
the comm. “You are not cleared for departure.
Please respond.”
Unidentified freighter? “Connie, did you turn
off the ID beacon?”
“Yes.”
Kressa smirked. “That’s not going to do any
good. They’ll figure out who we are as soon as
they track back to where we lifted—”
The comm crackled on again. “Freighter
Wincarnis, you are to return immediately. Please
respond.”
“You were registered at the port as Wincarnis?”
Kressa asked
“Correct.”
The freighter did a sudden roll to starboard
and lights streaked by on one of the screens.
“What in hell was that?”
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 2
“An incoming vessel,” Connie said.
“A little warning next time would be—”
“Freighter Wincarnis,” the voice on the comm
said. “Come in, Wincarnis, or we will fire.”
“Damn!” Kressa dove for the weapons board.
“Excellent response time,” the computer said.
Kressa bit back an angry retort. Heart pounding,
she scanned the controls, trying to make sense of
them. A light on the board started to blink.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“The pursuit indicator.”
Pursuit...? She swallowed hard and looked at
the screens, but she saw only stars ahead and the
lighted spider-web clusters of cities falling away
beneath them.
“I don’t see any pursuit.”
“With luck, you never will.”
Kressa returned her attention to the barely
familiar array of controls before her. “What’s
following us?”
“Configurations indicate a light cruiser and a
destroyer.”
She glanced up again, limbs zinging with
adrenaline. “Warships? Just because we didn’t
ask for clearance, they’re coming after us with
warships?”
“The Patrol wanted to talk to Cameron Thorne,”
the computer said, as if that explained everything.
“I know that, but why?”
“Presumably to search the ship.”
“Connie, what aren’t you telling me?”
“It would require years to impart to you all of
the information to which I have access but have
not told you.”
Kressa scowled and studied the weapons
board again. Slowly the controls began to make
sense. They were not very different from the
Darsan’s, there were just a whole lot more of
them. She activated the guns and experimented
with the sensitivity of the controls and targeting
systems.
“Connie, give me a report.”
“We are clearing the atmosphere. Setting
course perpendicular to the system plane.
Pursuing vessels will be in firing range in one
minute, twenty-eight seconds. There is also a
chance the Patrol will have vessels within range
to intercept us outside the atmosphere.”
“How much of a chance?”
“Impossible to compute.”
“Want to make a guess?” Kressa asked.
“No.”
“Be sure to tell me if you detect any. And let
me know if I do anything wrong.”
“Of course.”
Kressa studied the screens in a vain attempt
to locate the pursuing ships before Terra’s swiftly
diminishing globe.
“Pursuing vessels will be in firing range in thirty
seconds,” Connie said.
Kressa licked dry lips and turned her attention
to the sensor readouts, waiting for them to pick
up a target for her guns.
“Fifteen seconds,” Connie said. “Computing
jump to Arecian system.”
“No! Not Arecia. Try—” She thought fast. “Try
Maetar.”
The Patrol vessels began to fire.
Following her instincts, her experience on
board the Darsan, and an occasional suggestion
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 2
from Connie, Kressa held the Patrol vessels back
far enough to prevent them from getting in a
damaging shot. The freighter picked up speed as
she flew farther out of Terra’s gravity well. Soon,
they’d pulled far ahead of the cruiser.
Damn, the Conquest was fast! The destroyer
was barely keeping up with her. Then Kressa
scored a solid hit on the vessel and it, too, fell
behind. A moment later sensors picked up two
more destroyers and another cruiser, closing fast
from three directions.
“Connie...”
“Activating transdrive field generator.”
The familiar gentle tingle of a transpace field
shivered across Kressa’s skin, but then the field
began to shudder—no doubt from the proximity
of Terra’s gravity well—and Kressa’s stomach
lurched uncomfortably. She swallowed hard and
waited, impatient, while the field strengthened.
The three Patrol vessels converged on the
Conquest, drawing ever closer to effective firing
range—theirs and hers.
“Field levels approaching nominal,” Connie
said.
Kressa targeted the closest destroyer and
glanced at the field-strength indicator. Almost
there. She looked at the Patrol vessels. Close
now.
“Field strength in range.”
Kressa leaped to the pilot’s station and slapped
the transdrive controls without taking the time to
consider their proximity to a planet and how it
would affect their entrance into transpace.
Once her stomach and head recovered enough
for her to consider anything, she was glad she
hadn’t eaten for several hours.
#
After recuperating from the stomachwrenching
effects of a transpace jump too close to
a planet and ordering Connie to never do anything
so stupid again, Kressa called up the Conquest’s
course on the nav console and compared it to the
freighter’s starcharts.
“Connie, you figured our jump wrong. We’re
not headed anywhere near Maetar.”
“We are going to Arecia.”
“Not on these coordinates. And I thought I told
you I wanted to go to Maetar.”
“You did.”
“Then why are we headed for deep space?”
Kressa asked.
“That is the course I set.”
“Why?”
“To prevent the Patrol from determining our
destination based on our initial jump.”
“Oh. All right.” It was a common enough trick,
but one that worked. “Did Thorne teach you
that?”
“Yes.”
“So what happens next?”
“In six hours, nine minutes we will emerge
from transpace and set a course for Arecia.”
“No! We’re not going to Arecia.”
The computer didn’t answer.
“Connie?”
“Waiting.”
“I said we’re not going to Arecia.” Kressa forced
her voice to remain calm.
Silence.
“Dammit, you’re supposed to obey me. Why
aren’t we going to Maetar?”
“Previous orders request a course for Arecia.”
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 30
“What orders?” Kressa asked.
“Orders from Cameron Thorne.”
Kressa fought to control her rising frustration.
“Thorne’s dead, Connie. You obey me now.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then get us back into normal space and set a
course for Maetar.”
“No.”
Kressa clenched her fists and counted slowly
to ten. Obviously she couldn’t win by arguing with
the computer, so why not try reasoning with it?
“All right,” she said in a steady voice, “let me
get this straight. You have orders from Thorne to
go to Arecia, but I am your operator, right?”
“Correct. Kressa Bryant is an authorized
operator.”
“An operator? Who else is an operator?”
“Juric Azano and Cameron Thorne are authorized
operators.”
Juric Azano? Who the hell was he? She’d
worry about it later. “So you have three authorized
operators, and you have to obey all three
of them.”
“Correct.”
“What if they give conflicting orders?”
“I will request clarification from the initiating
operators.”
“And if one of those operators isn’t available,
what then?” Kressa asked.
“I will carry out all orders to the best of my
abilities, unless I determine doing so will cause
damage to the ship.”
“What if I told you that taking the Conquest to
Arecia will cause damage?”
“There is no evidence to support such a con-
jecture.”
“But the Patrol is after us.”
“The Patrol is after a vessel called Wincarnis,
they do not know where we are headed, and
Arecia is a Free World.”
“A Free World? So what?”
“The United Galaxy Patrol does not have jurisdiction
on Free Worlds.”
Kressa scoffed. “When has that ever stopped
them? Hell, the United Galaxy has enough
firepower to take over most of the Free Worlds if
they really wanted to.”
“It is not lack of desire that prevents the United
Galaxy from taking over the Free Worlds.”
“You don’t think so?” Kressa asked, marveling
at the fact that she was discussing interplanetary
politics with a computer. “What is it then?”
“The reasons are varied, but the primary
causes are the need for the United Galaxy to use
its Patrol forces to keep its own worlds in line,
the infighting among the ruling admirals, and the
opposition of the Free World Guard.”
Kressa had heard stories about the Guard, a
quasi-military force that had begun to appear
on several of the Free Worlds a decade or so
ago. Still... “I don’t know, Connie, you sound like
you’re just repeating something Thorne told you
about his view of the way things are, or how he’d
like them to be.”
“On the contrary. My statements are backed
by historical fact and analysis of—”
“Never mind. I’m sure you know what you’re
talking about, but what we were talking about is
you taking the ship to Arecia. You’re going to do
that no matter what I say, aren’t you?”
“Correct.”
Kressa sighed, knowing she was beat. For now.
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 31
“Do you have any idea what Thorne intended to
do on Arecia?”
“Cameron Thorne intended to deliver cargo.”
“What cargo?” Kressa tried to think of anything
Connie had mentioned that would be a worthwhile
trade item on Arecia. “Give me a manifest.”
A datacard popped from a slot at the pilot’s
station. Kressa took the card, located a handheld
reader, and headed for the bay.
#
Kressa ran a hand through her hair, lips set
in a firm line. She had checked and rechecked
every shipping crate in the bay and compared
their contents to the cargo manifest. Everything
appeared in perfect order, except nothing would
be profitable on Arecia.
Maybe Thorne had other cargo stashed away,
illegal goods not listed on the manifest; goods
the Patrol might be interested in.
She began to search the ship, starting with the
two doors that opened into the ship’s bow from
the entry corridor. Behind them were two small
cargo areas designed for goods that required the
more stable heat, gravity, and pressure of the
freighter’s living area. One contained a sophisticated
med-unit, and Kressa wondered if Thorne
would have lived had he reached it.
The door at the corridor’s bend opened into
a large, cluttered bedroom that must have been
Thorne’s. Kressa made a brief examination of the
chamber and adjoining washroom, but found
little of interest except a small cabinet with an
assortment of weapons and several datacards
that contained the shipping documents for this
and previous runs.
“Connie, where did Thorne hide cargo he didn’t
want the inspectors to find?” She poked her head
into a control-system access hatch near the bay
entrance and gazed down the dark, dusty crawl
space. No one had been in there for some time.
“Connie, answer me,” she said after giving the
computer more than enough time to formulate a
reply. “I know he had a place. All free traders do.”
“There are two compartments in the cargo
bay airlock just beyond the ramp to the control
room.”
Right behind her.
She examined the airlock wall. “I don’t see
anything. Can you open them?”
The smooth wall façade rolled upward,
revealing two meter-square hatches. The doors
irised open with a quiet hiss, and Kressa peered
into the large compartments. Both were empty.
“All right, Connie, close the doors.” She stifled
a yawn. “When will we re-enter normal space?”
“Two hours, forty-two minutes.”
“You’re still determined to go to Arecia?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I’m going to try to get some sleep.
Wake me up when we come out of transpace,
and try to find some reason why we shouldn’t go
to Arecia.”
The computer didn’t answer.
Kressa returned to Thorne’s room—her room
now, she thought with a smile—stripped, washed,
and climbed into the big comfortable bed. She
expected to fall asleep the instant her head
touched the pillow, but there was too much on
her mind. She struggled to think it all through.
The Conquest had left Terra without the Patrol
knowing her real identity. They couldn’t track
her transpace jump, so they wouldn’t know to
look for her on Arecia. So maybe Kressa need not
worry about the Patrol, after all. Maybe Thorne
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 32
had simply crossed the wrong people or gotten
involved with the underground forces that were
beginning to emerge on United Galaxy worlds—
forces supposedly backed by the Free World
Guard. Maybe that was why the Patrol wanted to
talk to him. A lot of maybes, but certainly not as
bad as things could have been. Besides, Connie
was going to take the ship to Arecia no matter
what she said.
Looked at that way, it should be safe enough to
follow Thorne’s instructions and talk to B’Okhaim
in Varen. Perhaps he would be able to give her
some idea of what Thorne had done to get the
Pattys after him. After that, she would be careful
to avoid it.
“All right, Connie,” she said, “we’ll go to Arecia.
Don’t bother waking me for the jump.”
“Acknowledged.” Did she detect a hint of
triumph in the computer’s voice? “Sleep well.”
#
Kressa woke up famished. She rolled out of
bed, called for the lights, and padded across the
room to the closet. After a short search she found
a thin blue robe. She shrugged into it and headed
for the galley.
Hidden amongst the modern appliances,
she discovered an old, extremely basic food
processor designed to output small, supposedly
nutrient-rich cakes. She dialed for three of the
hard, tasteless biscuits and used them to take the
edge off her hunger while she prepared a proper
meal.
“Connie, what’s our ETA for Arecia?”
“Sixty-six hours, seven minutes.”
“How long did I sleep?” she asked, and then
added, “Approximately.”
“Seven hours.”
She fussed with food for a few moments.
“Who is Juric Azano?”
“Juric Azano is an authorized operator.”
“Yeah, I know that. Tell me about him.”
“Juric Azano was a Sundaran native. He was
the original owner of the Conquest.”
“He made all the modifications to the ship?
That must have cost a fortune.”
“The original estimate was twenty-five million
credits.”
Kressa choked on the bit of food she was
test-tasting. “He spent twenty-five million on
a modified freighter? Why didn’t he just buy a
yacht?”
“Who looks twice at a freighter?” Connie said
in an unusually casual tone that made Kressa
suspect the computer was quoting something
it had once heard Azano say. It continued in its
normal timbre, “The final cost of the completed
vessel was twenty-eight million, two hundred
forty-three thousand, thirty-nine credits.”
Kressa gazed around in wonder. She was
aboard a ship worth nearly thirty million credits!
“Where did Azano get that much money?”
“Inheritance, and wise investing.” Again, the
computer sounded as if it were quoting.
“He must have been an interesting fellow. Have
you been with—that is, a part of the Conquest
since the beginning?”
“My hardware and basic operating systems
were installed as part of the original plans.”
“When was that? Approximately.”
“Original power-up occurred twenty-five years
ago. Over the next fourteen years, Azano made
considerable modifications to my behavior and
personality algorithms.”
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 33
“Where did Azano get the original program?
I’ve never heard of a system like yours.”
“The system was designed at the request of
Admiral Bertrom Gellig. It was based on research
prototypes created near the end of the Alliance.
Gellig came into possession of the plans after the
Alliance War and ordered the development of a
computer to supply opinions regarding specific
inputs and scenarios, primarily historical and
political.”
“That’s pretty much what you do, right?”
Kressa asked.
“Correct.”
“So, why aren’t there more computers like
you?”
“Apparently Admiral Gellig did not like the
opinions offered by my predecessor and ordered
the original designs destroyed. A copy of the
system specifications was retained illegally and
Azano was able to buy them.”
“What did your predecessor tell the admiral to
get him so upset?” Kressa asked.
“Based on the data and political trends of
the time, it must have informed Gellig of the
eventual conquest of the United Galaxy by the
Free Worlds.”
Kressa started to laugh.
#
Two days into the transpace journey to Arecia,
Kressa was lounging in the Conquest’s rec room,
working her way through a bottle of sweet wine
from Thorne’s well-stocked rec room bar, when a
realization struck. Here she was, eating Thorne’s
food, drinking his liquor, sleeping in his bed, and
she knew nothing about him.
“Connie, tell me about Thorne.”
“Cameron Thorne was a native of Arkana.”
“The farming colony?”
“Correct.”
“How did he get the Conquest?”
“Thorne was Juric Azano’s partner.”
“Partner in what?” Kressa asked.
“Azano’s travels.”
“What happened to Azano?”
“He was killed during the Arkana rebellion.”
Kressa set aside her drink and tried to recall
anything she had heard about an uprising on
Arkana. “When was that?”
“Five years ago. Approximately.”
She smiled. Clearly, Connie had started to
adapt her behavior to her newest operator by—
Kressa’s brow furrowed. When had she begun
to think of the computer as a her? No matter. She
returned her attention to the conversation.
“Five years ago, huh? That was when the
United Galaxy tried to take over some of the Free
Worlds, right? I didn’t realize Arkana was a Free
World.”
“Arkana was not, but the Arkanans supported
them.”
“Why was Azano there? How did he die?”
“Azano and Thorne went to Arkana for the
Carver Day celebration. Azano was killed attempting
to help Thorne rescue his family during the
Patrol raid.”
“Then Thorne really does have a daughter,”
Kressa said.
“Thorne had one daughter, Teresa, and two
sons, Hal and Darris.”
“What happened to them?”
“Cameron Thorne’s family was killed during
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 3
the Patrol attack.”
#
Kressa had first visited Varen, Arecia’s famous
pleasure city, about a year earlier when she
accompanied the crew of the Darsan on a brief
recreation stop after a particularly profitable run.
Her memories of the city consisted of a jumble
of lights, sounds, and buildings, and the joyful
abandon of people taking advantage of the myriad
entertainments Varen offered. She remembered
nothing at all about the spaceport.
Now the Conquest swept in over that port,
revealing a vast field laid out across the semi-arid
landscape south of the city. Ships of every size
and type, from small yachts to huge passenger
liners, formed neat rows on the sunlit landing pad.
Buildings dotted the edge of the field: terminals,
tram stops, hangars, and warehouses. North of
the huge pad, the city of Varen sprawled in a
colorful patchwork, crisscrossed by an orderly
network of roads and tramways.
“Conquest CXJ-14217, you are cleared for
landing,” one of the port’s traffic controllers said
over the comm. “Guidance beacon lock-on 367D.
Welcome to Varen.”
“Acknowledged, control.” Kressa directed the
freighter’s approach from the pilot’s station on
the bridge. “Lock-on established. Starting descent.
Conquest out. Connie, take us in.” She watched
the main screen as the Conquest followed the
invisible beacon toward her assigned docking
site. Moments later, the ship touched down and
Connie directed Kressa through the freighter’s
shutdown and postflight procedures.
“There are two figures approaching the ship,”
Connie said as Kressa ran the last of the diagnostics.
She pursed her lips. “Let me see them.”
The image on the main viewer switched to
show two men moving toward the Conquest at a
fast walk. They wore the uniforms of port officials,
and Kressa relaxed slightly. Probably just cargo
inspectors.
“Connie, open the freight doors. I’ll meet them
in the bay.”
As Kressa entered the cargo area through the
internal lock, the two men climbed the ramp
formed by the lowered freight doors.
The man on the left, a chisel-featured, darkcomplexioned
fellow with the tawny eyes
common to many Arecians, looked at Kressa with
a knitted brow and a hint of a frown.
“Where’s your captain, miss?”
Kressa stopped a few meters from the men
and leaned on one of the shipping crates. “He’s
not available. How can I help you?”
“Registry says you’re carrying,” said the
Arecian’s partner, a short, brawny man of mixed
ancestry. “We have to check the cargo.”
Kressa nodded and gave the men a charming
smile. “I’ve got the docs right here.” She held out
the datacard. “I’m sure you’ll find everything in
order.”
The Arecian took the card, inserted it into a
reader slung from his belt, and glanced through
the files. After a moment he unclipped the reader
and passed it to his partner. “Check these for me,
Tad.” He looked at Kressa as Tad moved off to
begin matching cargo to manifest. “You’ve come
from Terra?”
“Yes, sir. San Francisco.”
“And you picked up the cargo there?”
“Yes, sir. It’s all on the card.”
“Uh-huh.” He glanced to where Tad was conducting
a surprisingly superficial check of the
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 3
cargo, and then looked at Kressa again. “You’re
sure there’s no way we can see the captain?”
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
He dragged a hand across his chin. “Maybe
we’ll stop by later.” He glanced at his partner.
“How’s it looking, Tad?”
“Everything checks out.” Tad returned the
datacard to Kressa and the reader to his partner.
“I’m ready to go.”
“Is there something you wanted to see the
captain about?” Kressa asked, hoping to get some
hint about what was going on.
“Just tell him Lanar came by,” the Arecian
said.
The two men turned and started down the
ramp, but halted halfway to the pad.
“Can I help you?” Lanar said to someone below
him, a menacing edge darkening his voice.
A flutter of alarm momentarily froze Kressa’s
breath, and she rushed forward.
Two men stood at the base of the ramp, Patrolissue
pulse guns drawn and leveled at the inspectors.
One of the newcomers pulled something
from a pocket and flashed it at Lanar. A Patty ID.
Kressa swallowed hard and backed toward the
open door into the freighter’s living area.
“Connie,” she whispered, “there are Pattys
here. Why didn’t you tell me someone was
coming?”
“I am not to reveal my existence or capabilities
in the presence of strangers.” The computer’s
voice was quiet, barely discernible over the
sounds from the port. “Those are standing orders
from Juric Azano. Also, there are too many—”
Connie’s voice cut off as the two plain-clothed
Patrolmen stepped up the ramp.
One of the men snapped his gaze into the bay
and gestured to his comrade.
The second Patrolman started forward, his
gun trained on Kressa. “Wait right there.”
Kressa froze, heart pounding, her limbs
suddenly cold. She stared at the gun.
“We’ve already inspected the vessel,” Lanar
said to the Patrolman on the ramp. “Everything’s
clear.”
“I’d like to inspect it again.”
Kressa tore her eyes from the gun.
Lanar shook his head. “This is a free port; you
have no jurisdiction here. I can’t authorize—”
“Maybe this will help with authorization.”
A dozen armed men stepped onto the ramp.
They wore civilian clothing, but their weapons
and the way they interacted with one another
identified them as Patrol soldiers.
Kressa swallowed hard. Was this what Connie
was referring to when she said there were too
many?
The Patrolman with Lanar gave him a gloating
smile and gestured to two of the newcomers.
“Escort the inspectors to my car. Hold them there
until we’re finished.”
The two soldiers led the port officials away.
The leader motioned for his men to follow
him, and climbed the ramp. He stopped in front
of Kressa and looked her over with an appraising
eye. “You the crew’s glove?”
Her face burned. “No.”
He gave her another long look. “Right.” He
snatched the datacard she held and passed it to
one of his men. “Check this, and get that sensing
equipment in here.” He beckoned to another
soldier. “Lieutenant, take your people inside and
round up the crew.”
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 3
“Aye, sir.” The lieutenant called three men to
him and started toward the closed door into the
ship.
Closed? Kressa looked again. The door had
been open a moment earlier. Clearly, Connie had
taken it upon herself to close it. And now she took
it upon herself to defend it as well.
The bay’s overhead turret swung to bear on
the four men.
“Halt!” the computer said in a toneless
mechanical voice that bore no resemblance to
the way she normally spoke.
The soldiers froze.
“Your friends trying to be funny?” the leader
asked Kressa.
She shook her head and fought to control her
racing heart.
“They must not think too much of you. Think
they’ll put away the gun and open that door if I
turn Perst here loose on you?” He gestured to the
man guarding her.
Kressa shot an anxious look at Perst, caught
his eager grin, and returned her gaze to the Patrol
leader. “There’s no one on board.”
“Oh? We’ve been watching this ship since
it landed. We didn’t see anyone leave. Are you
saying the crew just vanished?”
Kressa bit her lip. They would find out soon
enough on their own. “I am the crew.”
“You fly this big old ship all by yourself?” he
asked with an overplayed look of amazement.
She nodded.
His expression turned mean. “Then who’s
playing the games with the gun?”
“It’s an automatic defense system.”
“Yeah? Shut it off.”
Kressa considered the consequences of disobeying.
If she resisted, it would give the Patrol
something to hold her on, then they would bring
in equipment to overcome Connie’s defenses.
She preferred to keep her name off any Patty
records and keep both computer and ship in one
piece. Besides, she had searched the freighter
thoroughly enough to know the soldiers would
find nothing incriminating on board. Once they
assured themselves of that, they would leave her
alone and go on about their business. I hope.
“Connie, let them in.”
The turret retracted and the door opened.
“Perst, keep an eye on wonder-pilot here,” the
leader said. “I want to talk with her later.” He
moved off to speak with a pair of soldiers manhandling
a heavy piece of sensing equipment
around the bay.
For several long minutes, Kressa stood under
Perst’s alert gaze as the others swarmed through
the bay, opening shipping crates and prying into
corners.
“Captain! I’ve got something here.” The call
came from one of the men operating the sensor
machine. He pointed to the doors that formed
the boarding ramp. “The readings are coming
from there, sir. Strong, too. I’m picking up several
hundred energy signatures.”
“There must be a panel there,” the leader said,
his voice rising with anticipation. “Get it open.”
Four men carrying magnetic releasers
and prying tools hurried forward and began
loosening the thick metal plates that covered the
inner surface of the bay doors. Kressa watched
in dubious wonder as the soldiers dragged the
heavy plates aside, revealing hidden compartments.
Half of the compartments were empty,
but the others held dozens of narrow plasteel
shipping crates, each about a meter long.
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 37
Why hadn’t Connie told her about this? Didn’t
the computer know of the compartments, or did
she have orders not to reveal their whereabouts?
The latter conclusion seemed infinitely more
probable, and Kressa damned Cameron Thorne
for getting her into this.
“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” the leader
said.
Two soldiers brought one of the crates up
the ramp and set it on the bay floor. The others
gathered round. The leader gave Kressa a quick
glance and signaled for the removal of the lid.
Inside, nestled barrel-to-stock in protective
padding, lay two shiny new energy rifles.
Kressa’s mouth fell open.
The leader looked at her with a triumphant
grin. “So our pretty little pilot is a gunrunner.” He
gestured to Perst, his expression suddenly angry.
“Get her out of here!”
#
Kressa had never felt so alone, so hurt, or so
convinced she was going to die. If the drugs she’d
received during the last interrogation session
didn’t kill her, she knew the Patrol eventually
would.
They believed she was a gunrunner, and considering
the evidence they had, she couldn’t
blame them, which left her with only one
option—escape. Unfortunately, simply remaining
conscious was becoming an all-encompassing
struggle as the newest round of drugs took hold
of her mind and body.
She lay on the floor of a small, bare room
where her captors had dumped her after their
last round of questioning. She tried to think back
beyond that, to figure out how much time had
passed since the Patrolmen had taken her from
the Conquest and driven her to this nondescript
building deep in the city. At times it seemed like
less than a day, yet at other moments she felt
certain a week or more had passed.
She moved her eyes and tried to focus on
the tiny window high up on the door of her cell.
She failed. Everything was a drug-shrouded blur.
Even her thoughts fuzzed in and out, fading from
sharp clarity to muzzled incoherence. She began
to prefer the painless lapses of...
Incoherence.
How long until her captors decided the new
drugs had taken effect? The thought rolled lazily
through her mind as another lucid moment
came around to slam home the reality of her
situation. How long before they dragged her back
to the Other Room and began pounding her with
questions again? Maybe this time they would
realize she was telling the truth. Or maybe she
should make up a more credible lie so they would
leave her alone or put her out of her misery.
Maybe—
Her thoughts went away again and she...
dreamed? She hoped it was only a dream.
She sat in the Other Room. Tight straps across
her wrists, ankles, and chest held her in the hard
metal chair. In front of her stood the stone-faced
soldier who could do such agonizing things with
a touch, or a slap, or the cold sting of a drug pad.
Or was it simply the drugs heightening her sensitivity
to such excruciating levels that the brush
of air against her naked skin made her want to
scream? And why didn’t they believe her? She
couldn’t lie to them even if she wanted to. The
drugs made sure of that. Yet they asked her the
same questions, over and over, never satisfied.
Who? Kressa Bryant.
Where? Terra.
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 3
What? Guns... But I don’t know how. I don’t
know who.
She didn’t have the answers they wanted.
I don’t know. I don’t know...
Then the bare room with its tiny window on
a door that seemed a million blurring light years
away snapped into place around her and she hurt.
Everywhere, she hurt.
I want to die.
“Not yet,” said a voice.
Dark figures moved before her. They emerged
from a door that should not be there. One figure
stood at the real door, the one with the window;
two others waited by the smaller unreal one, and
two hovered before her.
A hand reached toward her.
Please. Don’t touch me.
It held something near her face. She smelled
pungent spice, chemicals. The hand touched her,
inflicting pain, blackness, and she screamed in
absolute silence.
#
“I’ve neutralized most of the effects of the
sensory enhancers, Colonel.”
The words drifted through Kressa’s consciousness,
running and tumbling together while at the
same time seeming to last an eternity between
syllables. She grasped for the meanings of the
sounds; finally made sense of each word except
the last.
Colonel? The Patrol didn’t use that rank.
Who—?
Someone else spoke from a short distance
away, the words too quiet to make out.
“It shouldn’t matter,” the first voice answered.
“There are plenty of other drugs left in her system
to keep her honest.”
“Just so long as she lives long enough to answer
my questions,” the second voice said, closer now.
“No problem there, sir. She’s in fine shape considering
what she’s been through.”
Kressa forced her eyes open.
She sat in a padded wooden chair, wrists
bound behind her, a blanket tucked around her
naked form. The dizzying effects of the interrogation
drugs whirled through her head, like the
comfortable buzz of a good strong drink, but most
of the pain was gone.
The chamber she was in looked like the
bedroom of a hotel suite, complete with a large
bed, a desk, an armoire, and a small washroom.
A man squatted before her, tawny eyes studying
her, a slight frown on his lips.
For a moment she thought he might be the
Arecian inspector from the port, but he was
lighter-skinned, with auburn hair and smooth,
handsome features. She guessed he was in his
mid-thirties. A second, younger man stood beside
him, drug pad in hand, a medkit open on the
nearby desk. A third man and a woman guarded
the door; another man stood behind her chair. All
five wore plain clothing.
She recalled her last memories from inside
her cell. Had these people rescued her, or was
this some Patty trick, a ruse to get her to talk? If
that were true, why was she tied?
The man before her straightened. “What’s
your name?”
“Kressa Bryant. Who—?”
“Where’s Cameron Thorne?”
She searched his eyes. How did he know about
Thorne?
He watched her for a moment, expressionless,
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 3
then reached past the younger man, removed a
scalpel from the medkit, and brought the blade
toward Kressa’s face.
She gasped and tried to draw away. The
sudden movement caused her head to spin, and
she struggled to force away the gray that edged
her vision.
The Arecian gave her a long look, eyes
narrowed, the blade held steady before him.
“Where’s Cameron Thorne?”
The answer formed unbidden in her head as
the interrogation drugs overcame her will.
“T—Terra.” She drew a deep breath and wrest
control away from the drugs. “Who are you?”
“A friend of Captain Thorne.” He lowered the
scalpel.
Kressa met his eyes. Could he be telling the
truth?
“Where’s Thorne?” he asked again.
The drugs pushed Kressa to answer. She fought
them, failed. “Thorne’s dead. I—”
The man behind her grabbed a handful of hair
and jerked her head back. “You murdering bitch!
Why—?”
“Hold it, Trin,” the Arecian said. “Let her
finish.”
“But, Colonel, she killed Captain Thorne
and—”
The colonel’s eyes met Trin’s, one brow
arched.
He released his hold. “Colonel, I don’t
think—”
“Trin, she came in the Conquest. Even if she did
manage to win her way into Cameron’s heart—or
even just his bed—and then took him out, how
could she have gotten control of Connie?”
Kressa’s gaze snapped to the colonel. He knew
about Connie. That said a lot about the truth of
his words. Or maybe she’d told the Patrol about
the computer and they were using the knowledge
against her.
“Who are you, Bryant?” the colonel asked.
“What were you to Cam—to Captain Thorne?”
“I...hardly knew him. I found him in an alley on
Terra. He was hurt bad. He said to get his ship to
Arecia, to Varen. He—”
A spasm wracked her body. Pain burst in her
belly, shot up her spine, and exploded just behind
her eyes. She tried to speak, but managed only a
gasp.
Through a blur of pain-clouded vision, she saw
the colonel pass the scalpel to the younger man
and give him a worried glance.
“It’s the drugs, sir.” The medic’s voice seemed
to come from some great distance through the
ache in her head, and she struggled to concentrate
on the words. “They’re beginning to wear
off. It’s not going to be easy on her.”
“Is there anything you can do to help?” the
colonel asked.
“I could give her a sedative, but there’s no
telling what it might do. With all the chemicals
she’s got in her now, another tranq could as easily
kill her as knock her out.”
Kressa tried to speak, desperate to tell the
young medic to risk a tranquilizer, but she could
no longer control her tongue. Her vision blurred
and she found herself in the Other Room, the
handsome Arecian colonel replaced by the stonefaced
Patrolman.
He gazed deep into her eyes and reached a
hand toward her face.
She tried to pull away, too aware of the pain
in his touch. “Please. Don’t touch me.”
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 0
“It’s all right, Bryant. We won’t hurt you.” He
knelt before her and looked up into her face. “I
won’t hurt you.” He glanced behind the chair.
“Untie her, Trin.”
#
Kressa awoke expecting to hear the thrum of
the Conquest’s systems and feel the skin-tickling
sensation of the transdrive field. She’d had a
terrible nightmare about guns, Patrolmen, and
a mysterious colonel, and needed the reassuring
sounds and sensations. But they weren’t there.
“Connie...?” She opened her eyes.
It wasn’t a nightmare after all.
She lay in the hotel bed, the colonel seated in
a chair beside her.
He smiled as her eyes met his. “Good morning.
How are you feeling?”
She studied him for a long moment before
concluding that not even the Patrol would resort
to a charade this elaborate to get information
from her.
“Alive,” she answered finally. A dull ache filled
her body and limbs, but no other evidence of her
ordeal remained. “Maybe even better than that.”
“Calin may be young,” the colonel said, “but
he’s a hell of a medic. I’ll thank him for you.”
Kressa gave him a weak smile. “Why do your
men call you Colonel? Are you in some kind of
army?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, some kind.”
She continued to watch him, determined to
get more of an answer.
“We’re with the Guard,” he said.
“Those guns the Pattys found on the Conquest
were for you?”
“They were. Cameron ran a lot of things like
that for us. He was good at it.”
“Not good enough.”
He frowned. “Someone sold him out.”
“How did you know him?”
“Our fathers did business together when we
were boys. They brought us with them whenever
they had a meeting. I suppose they hoped we’d
absorb some of their business sense, but we were
always too busy getting into trouble.” He gave a
reminiscent smile. “I lost touch with Cam after
my father and I had a—falling out. Then one day
Cam showed up with this crazy old guy and his
ship. Said he’d learned enough about business to
realize the only kind he wanted to be in was free
trade. Not that I think he and Juric did a hell of
a lot of trading. They were having too much fun
traveling around, spreading Juric’s treasonous
message.”
“What do you mean by treasonous?”
The colonel smiled. “Oh, Juric had these
wonderful, wild ideas about a free galaxy. He
came from a long line of highly successful businessmen,
but he didn’t like the way the profits
went to only a small percentage of the people. He
wasn’t exactly a revolutionary—he didn’t travel
around fomenting rebellions or anything like that.
He just happened to have different ideas than the
establishment, and the money to get those ideas
listened to.”
Kressa recalled what Connie had told her
about Azano’s death. “It cost him his life, didn’t
it?”
The colonel’s brow creased. “What do you
mean?”
“He was killed during the Patrol attack on
Arkana. They wouldn’t have attacked if Arkana
hadn’t been backing the Free Worlds. Don’t you
think Azano’s words had something to do with
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 1
that?”
“How do you know so much about him?”
“Records on board the Conquest.”
The colonel’s expression relaxed. “Juric only
told people what they already knew. The discontent
existed long before he came around. And
even if it was partially his fault, I think he believed
his life was a small price to pay for what he was
working toward.”
“Conquest of the United Galaxy?” She purposefully
used Connie’s terminology.
The colonel studied her for a moment.
“Something like that.”
Kressa shifted position on the bed. Had
Cameron Thorne shared his partner’s opinion of
the value of his life, or his family’s?
“Don’t you agree with what the Free Worlds
are trying to do?” the colonel asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t like the
Patrol, that’s for sure, but what’d the Free Worlds
ever do for me?”
He sneered and leaned back in his chair, arms
crossed before him. “Living up to your heritage,
huh?”
“What do you mean?” Kressa asked, troubled
by his abrupt change of attitude.
“You aristocrats never were much for looking
beyond the ends of your own noses,” he said, his
voice filled with contempt. “As long as life’s good
for you, it must be good for the rest of the galaxy,
right? And don’t ever stop to wonder where that
good life is coming from or who might be suffering
to keep you comfortable and fed and surrounded
by luxury.”
“What?” Kressa sprang up in the bed, then
snatched the covers around herself when she
realized she wasn’t wearing anything. “What are
you talking about?”
The colonel continued his angry, low-voiced
tirade, seemingly oblivious to her state of undress.
“Don’t you realize what it takes to support the
billions of people on the United Galaxy’s worlds—
worlds too overcrowded to support themselves?
Who do you think grows your food and makes
your clothes and keeps you neck-deep in luxury
items? Who—?”
“Don’t!” Kressa took a firm grip on her anger.
“That’s not me you’re talking about, Colonel. I
grew up on the streets, and I had to find my
own food and clothes.” She met his suddenly
confounded gaze and held up her left hand, the
inside of her wrist turned toward him to reveal
the pattern of thin white scars burned there by
a cutting laser—the mark of the Wolfpack, the
gang she grew up in. “I pay my way.”
The colonel stared at her wrist, clearly unsure
what to make of the mark. He glanced away, ran a
hand through his hair, and sat forward in his chair.
“I’m sorry.” His eyes searched hers. “I thought... I
mean, the way you look...” He shook his head. “I
guess I was wrong.”
“Guess you were.” She took a deep breath
and forced away the last of her anger. “So, what
happens now? Am I free to go?”
“Go where?”
“Back to the Conquest. Off Arecia. As far as I
can get.”
“That may be a little difficult. The Patrol’s
watching the Conquest, and you’re supposed to
be dead.”
She looked at him askance. “According to
who?”
“The local authorities, the media. The Patrol.
We put the word out this morning that we found
your body in the city. We’re hoping the Patrol will
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The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 2
think you escaped on your own and got yourself
killed. That way they won’t be looking for you or
thinking anyone knows where they are.”
“How did you know they had me?”
“The inspectors at the port. They sent someone
to follow the Patrolmen and then called us. We
put together a team as quickly as possible to
rescue you.”
Kressa scowled. “You mean to find out what
happened to your friend.”
The colonel frowned. “Look, Bryant, we did
what we could with the information we had. We
didn’t know who you were or what happened to
Cam. Once we’re done with our operation here,
we’ll turn you loose.”
“What’s your operation here?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. What about the
Conquest? I brought her here like Thorne asked.”
“We haven’t got a lot of extra money floating
around—Cam always did his runs for free—but
we can probably scrape together some kind of
finder’s fee for your troubles.”
“I don’t want money. I want the Conquest.”
“That’s one hell of a request,” he said. “Do you
have any idea what a ship like that is worth?”
“Twenty-eight million credits.”
“That much?” he asked, clearly taken aback.
Kressa nodded. “But she won’t do you any
good. I’m the only one alive who can fly her.” She
met his eyes, her expression firm. “I want that
ship.”
The colonel watched her for a moment, eyes
narrowed, before he rose to his feet and glared
down at her. “I’m not interested in what you want,
Bryant. I appreciate what you did for Cam, but
you should be happy we got you away from the
Patrol. Now, I have work to do. We can discuss
what you want another time.” Turning on his heel,
he swept from the room and slammed the door
behind him.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007
#
Kressa remained in the bed for several minutes
after the colonel left, seething. How dare he
accuse her of being a United Galaxy aristocrat, of
living off other people’s misery? He had no idea
who she was, and no appreciation for what she’d
done for him and the Guard. She’d brought him
his guns, hadn’t she? And come damn close to
being executed as a gunrunner for her trouble.
Sure, he’d rescued her from the Pattys, but he did
that with no interest in her personal welfare. He
only wanted to know what happened to Thorne.
And just what did he think he could do with the
Conquest? He’d admitted the Guard had no extra
money, yet it would cost hundreds of thousands
of credits to refit the ship with systems anyone
could use.
Thinking of the Conquest without Connie
sent a chill down Kressa’s spine. She would order
Connie to add one of the Guard soldiers to her list
of authorized operators before she let anyone go
in and disconnect (kill?) her. But first she would
try to get the ship back for herself.
The muffled sound of one of the hotel suite’s
doors opening drew her attention. She pulled a
blanket from the bed, wrapped it around herself,
and crept to the bedroom door. Only an unintelligible
mumble of voices made it through the
barrier. She listened for several minutes, straining
to make sense of the conversation, but it was no
use.
Probably just the Guard soldiers working out
the details of their “operation.”
She began a careful inspection of the bed-

The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 3
chamber and washroom, hoping to find a way out.
Fifteen minutes later, she abandoned the search.
The room was an inner chamber with no windows
and only two doors—one to the washroom and
one to the main room of the suite. She found no
vent, pipe, or delivery chute large enough for her
to crawl through. And even if she had located a
way out, she would need to be truly desperate to
use it, for she found no clothing either. Escaping
into the streets of Varen dressed only in a blanket
did not sound appealing. Not until she ran out of
other options, anyway.
She stifled a yawn and returned to the bed to
consider those options.
The sound of the bedroom door opening
awoke her sometime later. She kept her eyes
closed and her breathing slow and regular as
someone crept up beside the bed. Her visitor
remained for a moment, then turned and started
out of the room.
She cracked her eyelids. It was the young
medic, Calin. He switched off the lights and exited
the room, leaving the door open a few centimeters.
It showed only a narrow strip of dim gray,
and Kressa realized it must be night.
Wrapping the blanket around herself, she
tiptoed to the door and peered through the
opening.
At first she thought there was no one in the
dark room, but by leaning hard against the wall
and craning her neck she could just see Calin
seated at a window. The lights of the city illuminated
his features as he studied the scene beyond.
A gun belt hung from the back of his chair, a pulse
gun resting in the holster.
Kressa smiled and stepped out of the bedroom,
letting the blanket she wore over her shoulders
fall open.
Calin glanced back, his eyes widening. “B—
Bryant.” He switched on a light and gave her a
professionally appraising look. “How do you
feel?”
She smiled enticingly. Calin’s role as a medic
would have left her body no secret to him, but
there was a tremendous difference between
seeing a young woman in bed as a patient and
seeing her up and moving, using her body for
what it was intended. She halted beside him and
pulled the blanket around herself. Best not carry
it too far lest he suspect she was up to something.
All she wanted to achieve was a little distraction;
she trusted she had done that already.
“I’m all right.” She put a hint of weariness and
lingering pain in her voice. “But I have a headache.
Do you have something for it?”
“Uh...yeah.” He crossed the room to where his
medkit sat on the floor.
Kressa slipped his gun from its holster. Too
easy.
“Besides the headache, how—?” Calin froze
for an instant when he saw his patient holding a
gun on him, then he grabbed something from the
medkit, rolled to the side, came up on one knee,
and fired the needler he now held.
Kressa whipped the blanket from around her
body and flung it forward to intercept the needler
dart, then she swung the gun she held and pulled
the trigger.
The needler exploded in Calin’s grasp. He
jerked his hand up to examine his burnt fingers,
then looked at Kressa standing stark naked
across the room, the gun pointed down at him.
His expression held a mixture of outrage and
cautious respect.
“Take off your clothes,” Kressa said.
He stared at her, his mouth working silently.
“Do it!” She thrust the gun at him. “Or this
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg.
time I’ll burn more than your fingers.”
He hesitated an instant longer and then, still
on his knees, he began to remove his shirt.
“Where’s the colonel and the rest of your
friends?” Kressa asked as he laid aside the shirt
and sat down to take off his boots.
He gestured toward the window behind
Kressa. “Taking back our guns.”
She resisted the urge to follow his gesture.
“When will they be back?”
“Anytime now.” He stood to unfasten his
pants.
“Liar,” Kressa said, hoping he was. “They just
left,” she guessed.
He shrugged, giving her no clue how good her
guess was.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
He frowned. “To keep an eye on you.”
She knew that wasn’t a lie. “Well, you can tell
the colonel you gave it a hell of an effort.”
He glared and stepped out of his pants.
“That’s enough,” she said. “Sit down there.”
She gestured to an overstuffed chair across the
room, and went to the medkit. Keeping the gun
trained on Calin, she examined the kit’s contents,
removed a sedative drug pad, and tossed it to
him. “Use it.”
He checked the label on the package and
peeled away the protective covering. With a
despondent glance in her direction he pressed
the pad to the inside of his elbow. In seconds he
lost consciousness.
Kressa gave him another dose of the sedative
from a second pad, donned his discarded shirt
and pants, and draped his gun belt bandoleerstyle
across her chest. She considered putting on
his boots as well, but she would be much more
nimble without them. Slipping the gun into her
makeshift shoulder holster, she located a short
leather jacket in a closet and put it on to hide the
weapon.
A long, empty hallway stretched beyond the
suite’s front door. She peered down it and stepped
through the doorway to freedom.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007
#
Kressa left the hotel through a side door. Once
away from the building, she traversed several
alleys and merged with one of Varen’s omnipresent
streams of pedestrian traffic. Among the
dozens of styles of offworld dress, no one gave
her dark, ill-fitting clothing and bare feet a second
glance.
She weaved through the crowds, relieving
passersby of a credit here, a credit there, until she
had enough to pay for tram fare to the spaceport.
She debarked at the terminal closest to where
she’d docked the Conquest and hurried out onto
the landing pad.
Following a circuitous route intended to
conceal her final destination from watching
eyes, she reached a point close enough to the
rear of the Conquest to determine that a nearby
groundcar held two watchful men, presumably
the Patrolmen the colonel had mentioned. Pulling
back from the landing gear of the small passenger
liner behind which she hid, she mapped out a
route that would bring her in near the front of
the Conquest while hopefully keeping her hidden
from the Pattys in the car. She concealed her
approach using the patterns of dark shadow and
bright light created by the spaceport beacons.
After several minutes, she reached the starboard
set of the Conquest’s forward landing gear.
She clung to the heavy structure, willing her
heart to slow its nervous pounding, and started

The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg.
to climb. Working by touch, she located foot and
hand holds among the complex series of struts
and bars. In less than a minute she sat tucked
up inside the total darkness of the gear housing,
the odors of grease, ship exhaust, and scorched
metal filling her nose and mouth.
She took a deep breath, barely able to believe
she’d made it this far.
“Connie,” she called, “it’s Kressa.” She kept
her voice low. “I’m in the starboard nose-gear
housing. Open the maintenance hatch.”
A dull clump shook the air above her. She
reached into the darkness over her head, found
the hatch, and pushed. The door moved and she
followed it up into the body of the freighter. She
sealed the hatch, made her way through the
dusty, dim-lit maintenance crawlway, and headed
straight for the galley, eager for something to
eat.
“Connie, how are you?”
“I am completely operational.”
“What did the Patrolmen do while they were in
here?” She grabbed three biscuits from the food
processor and hurried toward the control room.
“They searched for crew members. I recorded
their conversations and movement. Shall I play
the recording?”
“Not right now.” Kressa munched on one of
the biscuits as she entered the bridge and began
to preflight the ship. “Why didn’t you tell me
about the storage areas in the bay doors? And
the guns?”
“Previous orders requested censorship of all
information pertaining to additional cargo and
location.”
“Thorne’s orders?” she asked around a
mouthful of dry protein and other nutrients.
“Yes.”
Kressa took several minutes to complete the
preflight tests, and took a seat in the pilot’s chair.
“Let’s get out of here. Think you can blast us out
like you did on Terra?”
“Yes. However, without the cover of a hangar
the port officials will detect the engines coming
on line and may question our failure to call for
clearance.”
“That’s a chance we’ll have to take. At least
there aren’t any Patty warships around to get
after us. Power up.”
The throb of the freighter’s engines began to
pulse through the ship.
“Freighter Conquest, this is Varen control,” a
friendly voice said over the comm. “Come in,
please.”
Kressa ignored the call and switched on the
main viewscreen to see how the two Patrolmen
would react when the supposedly unmanned
ship started to lift off.
“Freighter CXJ-14217, Conquest, come in,
please,” the voice said again, less friendly this
time and tinged with concern. “This is Varen
control. Please reply, Conquest.”
The Patrolmen leaped from their car, brandishing
their pulse guns as if they could use them
to prevent the freighter from taking off. Kressa
chuckled at their antics.
“Conquest, this is Varen control!” The voice
held a threatening edge. “We have orders to keep
you on the ground.”
Orders? From who? The Patrol? No, it must
be the Guard. She scoffed. Fine, Colonel, let’s see
you try to stop me.
The ship began to lift off.
“Conquest, set down immediately or we will
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg.
fire,” the voice on the comm said. “This is your
only warning.”
“We have been targeted,” Connie said.
Kressa’s brow furrowed in bewilderment.
“Targeted? By what? The port doesn’t have any
weapons, does it?”
“No, but a nearby commercial freighter has all
available batteries trained on us.”
Kressa fought to control rising desperation. A
commercial freighter? How—? She scanned the
viewers and located the ship. It bore the insignia
of an Arecian shipping company. Clearly, the
colonel had anticipated she might try something
and arranged for a way to stop her.
She snarled. “Set us back down, Connie.
Engines off.”
#
For a long time after the sound of the Conquest’s
engines faded, Kressa sat in the pilot’s
chair, thinking, planning, turning ideas and
scenarios over in her head as she struggled to
come up with some way out of her predicament.
Finally she gave up. Short of abandoning the
freighter, she could think of nothing that would
get her out of this mess. By now she probably
wouldn’t even be allowed to leave. She had
watched on the freighter’s viewscreens as a
half dozen port security men led the two Patrol
soldiers away. Doubtless others were waiting out
there to take her into custody if she left the ship.
Connie would be able to verify that suspicion if
she asked, but she didn’t ask.
She could always just hole up in the Conquest,
at least until someone arrived with something
to get past Connie’s defenses. That didn’t sound
very appealing, however, and she feared it would
only make her final punishment that much worse.
What was the penalty for stealing a starship
anyway?
Yet had she actually stolen the Conquest?
Maybe Thorne hadn’t come right out and said
she could keep the vessel, but he had given her
what she needed to control it. That must be
worth something. But what court would listen
to a nineteen-year-old girl trying to lay claim to a
ship as magnificent as the Conquest? Maybe she
could contact Tempo and have him testify on her
behalf, to let her accusers know she could operate
and maintain the vessel. Maybe then they would
listen to her. Except the colonel would never allow
her to appear in any court to plead her case.
“There is a single figure approaching the ship,”
Connie said.
Kressa looked up slowly.
The colonel was moving toward the Conquest,
keeping to a bright splash of light cast by one of
the port beacons. He wore a gun belt, but the
holster was empty. In his right hand he carried a
squarish piece of equipment about the size of a
small carry-all.
“Connie, what’s that he’s got?”
“The object appears to be a high-energy laser
cutter.”
Did he intend to cut through the hull to gain
access to the ship?
She thought fast. Spaceport control had
warned her against use of any of the ship’s
weapons, yet she couldn’t just let the colonel
walk up and cut his way into the ship.
“Connie, do you have external speakers?”
“Yes.”
“Turn them on.” She switched on the comm.
“Colonel, stop where you are.”
He glanced at the freighter and kept walking.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg. 7
“Open the airlock.”
“Go to hell.”
“Look, Bryant, I don’t want to cut up Cam’s
ship, but I will if you don’t let me in.”
Kressa seethed. There had to be some way to
stop him. She thought hard.
“Connie, open the main airlock and extend the
ramp.” She dashed out of the control room.
She was waiting in the entrance corridor, one
shoulder resting against the wall inside the inner
airlock door, when the colonel arrived.
He set the laser cutter on the floor. “I thought
I said we’d talk about this later.”
“It’s later,” Kressa said, “and the only thing I
have to say to you is get off my ship. Go back to
your friends and tell them to let the Conquest
leave.” She gave him a menacing look. “Or the
Guard is going to be minus one colonel.”
“Don’t be a fool.” He grabbed for her.
Kressa danced back a step. “Connie, stop
him!”
“Negative.”
“What?” She ducked as the colonel lunged for
her again, a hint of a smile on his lips.
“Voice and visual imprints identify Colonel
Halav Kamick. Designation: ally. Previous orders
request—”
“Shut up!” Kressa whipped out the gun she’d
taken from Calin and turned it on the colonel.
He stopped in mid-lunge, his smile fading. He
raised his eyes to look deep into hers.
She swallowed hard, shocked by the emotion
in his gaze. No one had ever looked at her with
so much—understanding? But her aim did not
waver.
“You didn’t shoot Calin,” he said. “You’re no
killer, Bryant. And I still want to talk.”
She stared at him, her thoughts rolling around
in a confused tumble. She held the gun at arm’s
length, level with his chest.
She thought about backing away, but did not.
She thought about pulling the trigger, but
could not.
You’re no killer.
“You’ve got a chance here,” the colonel said.
“Don’t throw it away.”
“What chance?” She tried to put emotion
behind her words, but they came out flat,
desperate.
“Connie may not be willing to shoot me,” he
said, “but she won’t obey me either. You, on the
other hand...” He searched her eyes. “The Guard
needs the ship, you control it. Maybe we can
make a deal.”
A deal? Maybe she could keep the Conquest
after all. But what price would he demand? And
what price was she willing to pay?
She continued to watch him, silent, the gun
held before her, her finger tight on the trigger.
“You told me you pay your way, Bryant. Are
you willing to do that now?”
The gun wavered in her grasp, and she forced
her hand to hold steady. “How?”
He laughed. “Besides your ability to control
the Conquest, there’s the fact you were resourceful
enough to get away from us, and get past the
Patrol and onto the ship. That’s a hell of a recommendation
as far as I’m concerned. The Guard
needs people like you.”
Kressa said nothing, trying to absorb the
meaning of his words. He had every ability—and
probably every right—to take the ship by force,
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg.
yet he was offering her a place in his organization
instead. And he wanted her for her abilities, not
her looks.
“Look, Bryant, all I’m asking is that you give me
and my people a chance to show you what we’re
doing. You just might find it’s what you’ve been
fighting for all along.”
She started to tell him she’d never fought for
anything, but then she realized she had been
fighting all of her life. Fighting for the freedom
to live and do as she wanted. It was why she
ran away from the Academy, why she left the
Wolfpack and hooked up with Tempo. It was why
she wanted the Conquest.
The Guard fought for freedom, too, only on a
much grander scale. Maybe working with them
wouldn’t be so bad. At least she could give it a
try; that was all the colonel was asking. And she’d
get to keep the Conquest.
That didn’t sound like too high of a price to
pay.
Mik Wilkens
Mik Wilkens has done many things in
her life--all of them creative. She’s been
an illustrator, trophy designer, graphic
artist, programmer, multimedia developer,
and webmaster. She is a huge fan of space
opera but can never get enough to read,
so decided to try writing some of her own.
To date, she has written several novels
and novellas (SF and fantasy), and even a
couple of short stories.
Mik participates in Renaissance
Faires throughout the southwest United
States, promoting adoption of retired
racing Greyhounds with Greyhounds of
Fairhaven, a non-profit organization she
founded several years ago. She also enjoys
mastering fantasy role-playing games,
a dangerous habit she picked up when
Dungeon and Dragons was first released
in 1976. Mik lives in Scottsdale, Arizona,
with her husband, five retired racing Greyhounds,
and a three-legged demon in a
cat suit.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Deuces Wild
“In the Lap of the Gods” - Part One
by L. S. King
Caution:
some colorful language
Two chimes and no answer. Tristan weighed
Slap’s privacy against his last memory of
Slap not answering. If the cowboy’d had another
nightmare of his family being killed in front of his
eyes, what might he do? Surely he wouldn’t do
something stupidly fatal?
Tristan stared at the door, licking his lips.
Surely not.
He overrode the lock.
A twisted shape lay before him, tangled in
a blanket. One bare arm and shoulder hung off
the bunk, and one leg. A mass of dark, tight curls
nested on the pillow, and from under it came
muffled snores.
Tristan sighed quietly in relief. He took a deep
breath and loudly called, “Slap!”
The snoring shifted tone, into a soft buzz.
He called again.
“Snrt?” The head lifted, eyes still shut. “Wht?”
The body began to move, and Slap flopped onto
the deck with a loud whuff! He groaned and
scratched his head, one eye blearily opening.
“What is’t?”
“Morning.”
“Mornings,” Slap said through a yawn, “come
too early in the day.”
Tristan suppressed a smile. “This from a
rancher who had to rise at dawn every day?”
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007
Pg.
“Didn’t mean I liked it.” Slap peered at the
chrono and scowled. “It ain’t morning either.”
“It is planetside. We need to get moving.”
“Sadist,” mumbled the cowboy.
#
Slap glanced up at the tall, grey buildings
looming menacingly over them. He shivered. This
planet, what little he’d been on it anyway, had
frosty, metallic-tang air, and little greenery. A
Dusty planet, and a cold one at that. He hunched
inside the just-bought jacket, hands stuffed in his
pockets. His nose felt icy and began to run. He
sniffed.
Tristan opened a door, and Slap stepped inside
behind him. He was never let out without a leash.
A loyal dog following its master. “What am I even
doing here?” Slap asked in a plaintive whisper. He
looked around the huge metal-walled warehouse.
One of many in this part of the port city. It wasn’t
much warmer inside.
Tristan didn’t answer. With a sigh, Slap trailed
his friend as he headed for a small office to one
side.
An older man with a slight stoop to his
shoulders looked up from his desk. Curiosity lit
his round face. “May I help you?”
“I hope so,” Tristan said. “Name’s Philips.”
The man held out his hand. “Howard Kane.”
Tristan shook his hand. “I need some equipment
for my ship. A Bussard collector, for starters.”
Ah, Slap thought, then he’s going to keep ol’
Bertha for awhile. He said he’d install a hydrogen

Serial: Deuces Wild, "In the Lap of the Gods," Part One, by L. S. King Pg. 0
scoop if he were going to keep her. Did that mean
he was truly going to keep Slap around too? He
realized he still tensed up when they landed on
a planet or stopped at a station, wondering if he
was going to be left behind.
“Hm,” Kane said, “we can help you out with
that. What sort of ship?”
“Canary class freighter with a custom refit.”
Kane’s eyebrows rose. “An old Canary? Well,
I’d need the specs on her.”
Tristan handed him a data crystal. “Take a
look.”
The man pulled up the specs on his desk
screen and his eyes widened. He whistled through
his teeth as he read, muttering to himself. “Two
Type II assault turrets with twin plasma cannons...
twin capacitor jump drive...Mark I matter/anti
reaction assembly and 906 terajoule power grid?”
He gazed at Tristan and, with a very dry look, said,
“This isn’t a Canary. She might look like a Canary...
but I don’t know that I’d even call this a refit. This
ship has the armor, power, and weaponry to take
rip apart a Light Patrol with a few salvoes or shred
a wing of fighters within seconds.”
If only you knew. Slap kept his face straight,
but the image of the turrets demolishing the
launch bay of the freebooters’ Quick Strike Frigate
burned joyously in his mind.
Kane shook his head. “Why didn’t you have
the Bussard installed when you refitted her?”
“I didn’t. I recently inherited her.”
Slap didn’t even blink at the smooth lie. Well,
was it a lie? Could you call it stealing when the
owner was a gangster and dead to boot?
“I see.” Kane’s face seemed thoughtful. Too
thoughtful, Slap mused, and shook himself
mentally. He was getting paranoid, hanging
around Tristan.
“Well, I have Bussards in stock. My crews are
a bit overworked, however. We can’t start until...”
He looked at his screen, and scrolled a new read-
out to the surface. He blinked. “Is three days all
right?”
Tristan shook his head. “I’ve already made
arrangements for cargo. But that’s not all I
wanted, so if you can’t do the Bussard on a tighter
timetable, I doubt you could handle a particle
beam installation.”
Kane’s expression grew intense. “You want to
add to the armament?”
You betcha, Slap wanted to add, but stayed
silent. Tristan shrugged.
Kane scratched his head and smoothed his
thinning dark hair. “We could do it—all of it, but
the time...” He squinted at Tristan. “I could have
crews on overtime, but it would add to your bill.”
“How much?”
“Twenty percent over total cost.”
Slap inhaled sharply, but Tristan barely
hesitated. “That’s acceptable. Can you have the
ship ready in four days?”
Kane hissed through his teeth. “Let me talk to
Carter. He’s supervisor of all weaponry installation.
He’ll want to see the ship first.” He rose with
a smile and left the office.
“He seemed awfully curious about things,”
Slap whispered.
“Later.” Tristan fingered the edge of the desk
absently.
Slap ambled to the wall and looked over the
hanging blueprints, trying not to yawn. The day
might be half over planetside, but by ship’s time
he should just be waking up.
Kane soon returned. “He says he can be at
your ship by fifteen hundred.”
“Good. We’re dock pad NE fifty-three.”
The two men nodded at each other, and Slap
followed Tristan out, pulling up the collar of the
jacket.
“Well,” Slap asked as they walked along the
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Serial: Deuces Wild, "In the Lap of the Gods," Part One, by L. S. King Pg. 1
street, “think you can trust him?”
“I picked him for his reputation. Any fallout
from his ‘curiosity’ would happen after the job’s
done, and we won’t be staying around.”
“That’s good. Where next? To the ship? Any
chance you’ll let me look around a bit on my
own?” He knew the answer, but had to ask.
“We’re still too close to the Confeds. It’s too
risky.”
Slap sighed in defeat.
An apologetic look crossed Tristan’s face.
He added, “I thought we’d stop and eat before
returning to Giselle.”
Slap perked up. “Sounds good!”
#
“Oh yeah, I can have you hooked up in no time,
Captain” Carter said, wiping his hands on a rag as
he sauntered across the cargo bay to Tristan. A
gangly blond with a prominent Adam’s apple, his
weathered face wore a constant grin.
Slap leaned against the wall, arms crossed,
playing—what? Bodyguard? Not that Tristan
needed one, but with their sizes, it made a reasonable
assumption, especially since he usually
had Slap follow him around and never introduced
him.
“Which system do you suggest?” Tristan
asked.
“That’s a piece of pie. The TLACorp Mark III.”
Tristan’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a bit on the
heavy side.”
Carter nodded. “I’d agree but this baby”—his
hand slapped against a bulkhead affectionately—
“can handle it with the antimatter reactor.” His
grin widened. “She’s sweet! If I wanted to ship
out, I’d ask if you were looking for crew.”
“You weren’t born here,” Slap said. It wasn’t a
question.
Carter shook his head, still smiling. “Nope. I’ve
traveled all over, tried lots of things. Learned lots
of skills. Rolling stone, that’s what I am.” He tipped
his head. “You a Separatist? Three Systems?”
Slap nodded. How did he know?
Carter snapped his fingers with a laugh. “I can
call ‘em.”
Tristan cleared his throat. “Back to the Mark III.
You really think this ship should have that rather
than the Mark II?”
“Oh, yes, sir! See, it has its own built-in spectrograph
scanner and battle computer and does
the frequency control automatically without the
ship’s MBC and spectrograph being involved. The
smaller ones more often require a tie in, and you
don’t want that.”
Slap had been with Tristan long enough to
know the subtle changes on his face. He was
playing this guy to see if he was on the level. His
voice maintained a neutral, almost questioning,
tone. “I don’t?”
Carter shook his head, his eyes narrowing
knowingly. “No, sir. It’d mean letting outsiders—
meaning me—diddle in your computers. With all
you have here, you don’t want that.”
“And what do I have here?” Tristan asked, his
voice lower and sharper than usual.
Slap winced.
Carter’s smile took on an edge and he seemed
less buffoon-ish. “I don’t know exactly, but I wish I
did.” His voice was quieter, less manic. “This gal’s
rough exterior hides an inner beauty. And I bet
your cargo runs aren’t run-of-the-mill. Boring can
be good, but sometimes a guy likes to see things
stirred up.” He frowned down at the deck for a
moment, but when he raised his head, the grin
was back. “Anyway, I’ll get to work on this. And
bust the boys along on the collector too. Boss
said you had a tight timetable.” He nodded, his
Adam’s apple bobbing, and almost skipped to the
cargo hatch.
Slap scratched his cheek, waiting until the
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Serial: Deuces Wild, "In the Lap of the Gods," Part One, by L. S. King Pg. 2
engineer had left. “Whaddaya make of him?”
Tristan shook his head. “I’m not sure.”
#
Slap shrugged on his jacket and checked
for Tristan; his friend was immersed checking
something or other on the bridge. One more day
and they’d be gone. This might his last chance.
He grinned and strode down the cargo hatch.
Squinting and holding a hand up against the sun,
Slap peered up at the crew on the hull. Carter
waved a spanner in greeting, and bent back over
his equipment.
“Hey, Carter,” Slap called. “Can you let Tristan
know I went out for supplies? I shouldn’t be gone
long.”
“Sure thing.”
Slap walked off, chuckling to himself. Finally,
he was alone. Not feeling like a kid needing supervision.
He’d shown he could take care of himself
in a fight. Now he’d show Tristan he could do
something as simple as shop for groceries.
#
Tristan checked all the cabins and the galley.
No Slap. He descended to the hold. The collector
crew worked diligently, finalizing the installation,
but no Slap. He descended the ramp and glanced
up at Carter and his men. The engineer, grinning
as always, called down, “Captain? Your buddy
said to tell you he was going for supplies.”
Tristan’s insides froze, and his brain buzzed
into overtime. “When did he leave?”
Carter squinted in thought and scratched his
head. “Oh, about half hour or so ago. I guess.
Maybe longer.”
Tristan nodded and strode toward the gate,
cursing silently.
Like most port cities, this one had an open
air market just past the gate. Spacers would pay
premium prices for fresh foods. Many also had
local commodities available, with, of course, the
customary dockside prices.
Tristan wove through the market, peering
inside and behind the stalls as well as over them.
One of the vendors scowled at him while blowing
on his hands to keep them warm. Tristan kept
going, pushing past people. If only the galoot had
replaced his hat as well his knife. But the curly,
almost kinky, mass of dark hair rising almost a
head above all others wasn’t easy to miss either.
Yet he didn’t see it anywhere. No Slap. His guts
churned as he continued searching. Damnation,
why did the boy have to disobey? He knew
dangerous people were after them. How could
he take such a chance?
After a time, he slowed, thinking. Adrenaline
was a great ally at times, but not when one
needed to step back and use the brain.
To find Slap, he needed to know who had him.
Was it someone after Slap, or trying to get to
Tristan through him? The answer could give him
direction.
Could the Mordas have come after Slap
already? Or were the Eridani the culprits?
Or was it someone after Tristan? The Eridani
and the Mordas were also hunting him, not to
mention the Confeds dogging his heels, but it
might be any of several of Tristan’s old enemies,
even—heaven forbid—Dray.
To ask for help galled him, but he needed back
up, to watch the ships, for movement in the city...
But he took a chance. The very men he would
hire might be working for those who took Slap.
He didn’t have much hope, but he’d pull together
whatever resources he could.
He pressed through to the city.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007
#
“A bigger reward if he’s returned to you alive?”
asked one of the men by the wall, his eyes alight.
Tristan let his gaze burn into the man. He

Serial: Deuces Wild, "In the Lap of the Gods," Part One, by L. S. King Pg. 3
hunched his shoulders and looked away. He
glanced around the large, well-lit room, making
sure he had the attention of every one of the
men present, as well as their employer, seated
comfortably behind a large desk. Truss controlled
quite a few legitimate concerns. And a few illegitimate
ones besides.
“No. No attempts. He could be harmed.
Retrieval is my concern. Just the location.”
“And if we find nothing?” asked Truss.
“No results, no reward.”
Truss tapped the smooth top of his desk. “Who
is he to you to post such a...generous amount for
him?”
“Curiosity is a consideration?”
“Knowing who I’m dealing with is always a
consideration.”
“I would think,” Tristan said, letting his eyes
bore into the man, “that considering your...profession,
you would understand the importance
anonymity would play in some of your more
delicate business transactions.”
Truss leaned forward, lip curled. “In your case,
I think knowing is an important consideration.”
Gah! He hated having to play this game. Some
of his enemies would make any local underworld
organization quake with fear, and close doors to
him. Or worse, make them think of bounty hunter
fees. Meeting Truss’s eyes, he said evenly, “Money
usually speaks for itself.”
Truss settled back in his chair with a contemplative
look. “But...you won’t say who has your
friend. I don’t want to bring negative attention to
myself or my associates.”
“I’m not asking for direct involvement. Only
information. And you’re not the only ones who
will be given this opportunity.”
Truss’s nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply. “I
still think I need answers.”
Tristan considered his money situation. Upping
the ante would likely work, but he was stretching
his finances already. He sighed. This was like
tap dancing on a tight rope. “I don’t know who
has him. If I knew, I might have an idea where to
look. And this is wasting time. A ship might have
already taken off with him aboard, or he might be
dumped in a river or trash pile by now.”
“For what reason? Who is after him? And
you?”
Tristan shook his head and walked to the door.
It slid open and he turned. “The offer stands, if
any of your associates wishes to show personal
initiative.”
He left quickly. Walking through the streets,
something felt wrong. He doubled back, checking
to see if he were being followed. Nothing. The
back of his neck prickled, the Not Right feeling
increasing. A drizzle started as dusk fell and the
dank, oily odor of this ‘Dusty’ city increased. Slap
and his people had a point. Regardless of plans
to create an aesthetic display, industrialization
unchecked inevitably provided a polluted view
and environment.
Tristan had seen planets that moderated
industrialization, and kept themselves from
sliding into an abysmal defilement of their world,
but the moment the corporations got a toehold,
the cause was lost.
He shook off his train of thought—no doubt
Slap’s influence—and concentrated on his surroundings.
As he neared the port, the streets
grew narrower and dingier. Detritus littered the
street. Now he had to be extra alert. Silence grew,
except for the sound of light rain spattering.
A shadow moved ahead, and Tristan readied
himself.
The silhouette of a man stepped into the street,
hands away from his sides. He stepped forward
and light fell across his face. Steel Eyes.
Part of Tristan felt relieved. Chances were Slap
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

Serial: Deuces Wild, "In the Lap of the Gods," Part One, by L. S. King Pg.
was safe. Merely being held to blackmail Tristan
into helping the Confeds in whatever scheme they
kept hounding him about. But something was
wrong. Steel Eyes had been beaten. He sported a
black eye, his nose looked broken, his jaw swollen,
lips split, and blood stained his shirt.
“We need your help.”
“So you keep saying.” Tristan walked a few
steps closer. “But kidnapping Slap to try to force
me—”
“We don’t have him anymore.”
Tristan stopped, staring Steel Eyes, fear rising
from his stomach and threatening to choke him.
“Explain.”
Steel Eyes licked his lips and winced. “We took
him, like you said, to get you to help us. But now,
the enemy has him. Our enemy. And yours. The
Eridani.”
The fear rose, blinding Tristan with red rage.
His hand shot out and seized Steel Eyes by the
throat. “You bastards! You—” He choked, words
inadequate to describe them or his feelings. Steel
Eyes used a pressure point to release Tristan’s
choke hold.
Tristan struck twice swiftly, to the solar plexus
then the throat.
Steel Eyes dropped to his knees and croaked,
“We’ll help you get him back, if you’ll help us.”
His mind whirling with plots, schemes, counterplots,
Tristan spat, “I’ll make you pay tenfold
for every injury inflicted on that kid. You’ll wish
the Eridani had grabbed you rather than leave
you to me.”
Stay tuned as Deuces Wild continues next
month with part two of:
“In the Lap of the Gods”
To catch up on previous episodes
of the adventures of Slap and Tristan, visit:
http://loriendil.com/DW.php
L. S. King
A science fiction fan since childhood, L.S. King
has been writing stories since her youth. Now,
with all but one of her children grown, she is
writing full-time. She has developed a swordand-planet
series tentatively called The Ancients.
The first book is finished, and she has
completed a rough draft of several more novels
as well.
She serves on the editorial staff of The Sword
Review, is also their Columns Editor, and
writes a column for that magazine entitled
“Writer’s Cramps” as well. She is also one
of the Overlords, a founding editor, here at
Ray Gun Revival.
She began martial arts training over thirty
years ago, and owned a karate school for a decade.
When on the planet, she lives in Delaware
with her husband, Steve, and their youngest
child. She enjoys gardening, soap making, and
reading. She also likes Looney Tunes, the color
purple, and is a Zorro aficionado, which might
explain her love for swords and cloaks.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007

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Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007