Ray Gun Revival magazine, Issue 53

ALONE AT AX-1 

by Swapna Kishore 

BFF.JOV 

by Scott Davis 

NEW SERIAL FICTION 

by L.S. King, M. Keaton, 

Justin R. Macumber, and Keanan Brand 

INTO THE DEEP 

by Brandon Meyers 

ISSUE.53 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NIATTI 

by Raz Greenberg

3 Overlords’ Lair: A Shiny New Trek 

by Paul Christian Glenn 

3 Alone at AX-1 

by Swapna Krishore 

9 Bff.jov 


14 Into the Deep 


18 DEUCES WILD: 

by L.S. King 

v53b 

22 Happy Birthday, Niatti 

by Raz Greenberg 

35 CALAMITY’S CHILD - CHAPTER 7 

ROP: Rodeo Bull Ballet, Part Two 

by M. Keaton 

45 Featured Artist: Martin Steil 

OVERLORDS (FOUNDERS/EDITORS) 

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

Matthew Winslow Book Reviews Editor 

Shannon McNear Lord High Advisor, Grammar Consultant, Listening Ear for Overlord Lee 

Paul Christian Glenn - PR, Executive Tiebreaker, Desktop Publishing 

L. S. King - Lord High Editor, proofreader, beloved nag, muse, webmistress 

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

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

TABLE OF CONTENTS 

46 TALES OF THE BREAKING DAWN: 

The Ties That Bind, Part Two 

by Justin R. Macumber 

51 RGR REVIEWS 

by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt and Matthew Scott Winslow 

53 THIEVES’ HONOR - Episode 8 

Endgame, Part 1 

by Keanan Brand 

Ray Gun Revival Issue 52 © 2009 by Double-edged Publishing, 

a Memphis, Tennssee-based non-profit publisher. 

Cover Art 

“Real Air Force” by Martin Steil 

ISSUE 53 

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 

Page 2

Overlords’ Lair: 

Trek, Terminator, and the Tenacity of Hope 

by Paul Christian Glenn 

ve been thinking a lot about the 

I’ concept of hope. What it does 

for us, how it harms us, and it’s role 

in the stories we write and read. 

Of course it’s possible to craft 

hopeless tales, but let’s face it, those 

stories don’t capture the hearts, 

minds and imaginations of great audiences. 

And even many ostensibly 

hopeless tales ultimately captivate 

their audience with the subtle notion 

of mad hope (or, as Gandalf 

might put it, “fool’s hope”) in the 

face of unstoppable destiny. Take, 

for example, the “Terminator” films, 

which are predicated on an overtly 

dark and fatalistic idea, yet driven 

(through four films and a television 

series) by characters that choose to 

struggle in conscious futility against 

a predetermined future. Not many 

people would describe those films 

as necessarily “hopeful,” but there 

it is: hope in action. Is it any coincidence 

that the latest chapter, by 

far the most dour and despondent 

installment, has already become an 

epic disaster at the box office? 

Let’s contrast that with the summer’s 

biggest hit thus far: “Star 

Trek.” Here is a tale that is overtly 

hopeful (as the franchise itself has 

always been). The action is kicked 

into gear by the hopeful goading of 

Captain Pike, who senses potential 

greatness in a shiftless young ruffian, 

and is carried to it’s climax by 

the irrational hope of an old man 

who refuses to settle for anything 

less than what could be. The film 

practically vibrates with optimism, 

and has spellbound millions of fans. 

The first question, then, is why? 

Why do we seek hope in the stories 

that live with us? The answer is 

obvious: fiction is, to some extent, 

escapism, and when we cheer the 

exploits of the U.S.S. Enterprise, 

what are we escaping from, if not 

the utter hopelessness of the world 

we live in? In the real world, hope 

is rarely rewarded, or even justified. 

People are wicked and broken and 

confused. Good never completely 

triumphs over evil. Failure is the 

rule, not the exception. 

The second question, then, is 

stickier: Is fictitious hope a good and 

healthy thing? Or is it naive, dangerous 

and irresponsible to fill our 

minds with such fantastic notions of 

hope? From a purveyor of space opera, 

a traditionally hopeful genre, it 

is perhaps an odd question, but I’m 

curious to see how other fans of this 

genre feel about it. 

Are we better served by cheering 

for Captain Kirk and Luke Skywalker, 

or gritting our teeth with John Connor? 

The melted controller unit lay exposed 

amidst twisted machinery 

and crashed mining scoopers. My 

fingers trembled as I adjusted the 

high-res visual feed transmitted by 

spacecams over Delta. Station Delta 

had been my star performer, my most 

profitable mining unit, and one of 

the best in the belt. I had mailed innumerable 

cost-justifications to my 

bosses at Realtor to fit it with stateof-art 

machines. Now everything was 

rubble. 

“Earth, Jerry! I never knew a rogue 

could be so...brutal.” Cheng, standing 

behind me, said softly. 

I winced and continued to experiment 

with view-angles and zoom to 

study the ruin; I needed to understand 

the rogue’s attack algorithm to 

design a workaround. I clicked on the 

data dump sent by Delta’s interceptor 

before it succumbed to the rogue. 

“Now, Jerry?” Cheng’s voice quivered. 

I glanced at his pale face. Stationhead 

AX-1 was Cheng’s first posting 

after his training at Ceres; he probably 

fancied himself as a glamorous 

adventurer flashing laser cutters, ripping 

asteroids apart, and transporting 

ore in sleek ships to grateful colonies. 

Our temperamental equipment and 

Alone at AX-1 

by Swapna Kishore 


ongoing struggle to extract ore from 

ugly lumps must have shocked him. 

And now, this attack. 

“Rahul will repair the station.” I had 

sent Rahul to Delta to restart mining 

immediately after the attack yesterday. 

“Meanwhile, I must shield our 

remaining stations.” 

“Is Rahul in danger?” Cheng asked. 

“No, rogues don’t—” 

Beeps erupted around us. Red 

lights pocked the panel, and new data 

flooded my monitor. My stomach 

clenched; some station’s intercept 

program was reporting intrusion. Another 

rogue strike. 

Station Beta. 

Cam-feeds from Beta showed robots 

smashing into each other, scoopers 

screeching to a halt, and pickers 

dropping rocks. Crazed machines tangled 

and collapsed. Hex code from the 

interceptor streamed on my monitor. 

Cheng gasped. “What the—” 

“Damn.” The data dump stopped 

abruptly. The visuals died seconds 

later. In less than five minutes, my station 

was reduced to a pile of garbage. 

I’d never seen such swift savagery, 

human or automated, in my nine decades 

of belt mining. Typically, rogues 

disrupted work by affecting a couple 

of machines. This was annihilation. 

Page 3

Two stations down, ten to go, I 

thought bitterly. With Beta and Delta 

destroyed, my AX-1 production would 

plunge by fifteen percent. 

“Will you inform Base about Beta?” 

Cheng asked me. 

That Ceres Base! When I face-tofaced 

yesterday to report Delta’s status, 

a junior technician, barely eight 

decades old, officiously told me to 

focus on protecting my stations. The 

brat could still be on duty if Amelie 

weren’t back from her implant upgrades. 

“Base gets direct cam-feeds.” I 

mailed a formal notification anyway. 

“Cheng, you will leave now to repair 

Beta.” 

“But I...I’ve never repaired a station 

and I’m not sure I...” 

“You don’t know how to debug a 

rogue,” I said bluntly, “but your training 

covered the protocol to repair stations.” 

I softened when he wiped his 

brow nervously. “Our maintenance 

transpods are fully equipped. You can 

handle the job.” 

“You can do it better.” 

“I have to beat the rogue.” 

After Cheng left, I paced my metallic-gray 

control room, surrounded 

by the low buzz of machines. Both 

my juniors were off for repairs, and I 

was the only person on Stationhead. 

Though I didn’t consider Rahul or 

Cheng company—we shared no com- 

mon interests—I felt strangely lonely. 

I rubbed my eyes wearily. I needed 

Darlene. 

*** 

Lurid reds and blues swirled on Darlene’s 

walls; agonized groans saturated 

the air. I gripped the door-frame, 

dizzy and tense. A rogue attack, here? 

“Darlene?” 

“Jerry, has Beta been destroyed?” 

Darlene’s synthetic voice burst 

through the room. 

At least her speech circuits worked. 

I took a deep breath and peered 

past the psychedelic colors. Objects 

swished around, images morphed, 

but nothing lay broken, contorted, or 

burnt. Darlene’s settings were unstable, 

not damaged. 

The news about Beta must have 

agitated her. 

“You’ve been watching Net-home.” 

I should have guessed. Rogue activities 

provided sensation-seeking networks 

opportunities for alarming headlines, 

good boosts for popularity ratings. 

Sure enough, the Net-home corner 

displayed an old graphic of Station 

Beta—gleaming equipment, bustling 

robots, and scoopers piled with rocks. 

Bold black type declared: 

12th victim of Rogue 256: Station 

Beta of Stationhead AX-1 (Realtor 

Mining). Stay tuned for our WHO’S 

NEXT discussion between experts 

from Ceres and Mars. 

Twelve victims, right. My Delta and 

Beta, AX-1 stations under Realtor. Six 

stations of Ays mining. Four stations 

of Dedalus. 

I disabled Net-home and looked 

around the room. All the displayed curios 

were pre-World War IV Earth, of 

course, because that’s all I collected, 

but Darlene’s selection today reflected 

her agitation. I noticed a wizened 

hand purportedly used in witchcraft, 

a voodoo mask, and a twisted-clock 

Dali painting. 

“Jerry, is Beta as badly damaged as 

Delta?” Darlene asked. 

“I don’t know yet,” I lied. After 

a pause, I added, “I’ve sent Cheng 

there.” 

“What does this new rogue want?” 

Such irrational questions were typical 

of Darlene. It was my fault; I had 

incorporated too many emotion modules 

into her staid, standard houseware. 

I considered calming her by explaining 

that rogues were merely 

code segments. But she wouldn’t understand 

that fluff could drift out of 

destruction-oriented programs and 

lump under a knowledge management 

engine to cause havoc. Anyway, 

even if rogues couldn’t “want” 

anything, they could be vicious. They 


infected any station they could reach 

by piggybacking signals, they self-extracted, 

and corrupted intels. Worse, 

we couldn’t “kill” a rogue, only patch 

workarounds. By the time we figured 

out how to beat one rogue, the next 

one began its damage. 

“Rogues are not humans,” I said, 

keeping the worry out of my voice. 

“They don’t have motives.” 

I activated my workstation, adjusted 

my eye-zap for pattern-seeking, 

and loaded the data from Delta and 

Beta. 

“Are we safe, Jerry?” 

“Rogues never damage stationheads.” 

Not until now, I thought. A 

sudden image engulfed me: a puncture 

in AX-1’s shield; me lunging for a 

hard suit; a crazed Darlene dropping 

her ceiling on me. I fought the surge 

of panic; such thinking was futile. 

Crimson and turquoise robed dancers 

continued to gyrate around me. 

My head throbbed. The low ambient 

temperature made me shiver. 

“We are safe, Darlene,” I said firmly. 

“Now I need to concentrate. Please?” 

I waved my hands. 

The room became warmer. The 

walls steadied, and muted to my favorite 

lavender. 

*** 

I checked for advisories from the 

Mining Consortium at Ceres. None. 

Page 4

Not that I expected action from bureaucratic 

third-centenarians snug in 

their enormous bubble city. No, Sir, 

those dodderers woke up after isolated 

controllers like me, struggling 

to cope with rogues, developed solutions. 

Forget those fools. I would debug 

this myself. I had handled the first 

rogue, a few decades ago. Okay, so 

that was simple, and rogues were 

smarter now—they gathered more 

floating code, coalesced, and spawned 

mutants and variants. But even if new 

rogues had more convoluted logic, 

they were still just code. I could beat 

them. Even this new rogue, Rogue 

256, however malevolent it seemed. 

With data from two stations, finding 

the rogue’s core instructions 

should be easier. I profiled the critical 

window of the Beta data and the 

Delta data, overlapped them, and 

began pattern-seeking for commonalties. 

I touched the screen to enhance 

my connection with the data. The segment 

corresponding to 256’s initial 

query became obvious. I narrowed my 

looping scope to decipher the rogue’s 

algorithm. Nothing. I refined my eyezap 

parameters and tried again. And 

again. My tear duct-lubricators started 

drying. 

I lowered my head in my hands. 

“Can I help?” Darlene used the voice 

profile of Rooma, the girl I kissed as a 

callow teenager over a century and a 

half ago. Warmth spread through me. 

I felt glad I programmed Darlene using 

a collage of the women I knew, starting 

from Rooma right up to Amelie. 

“No, Darlene,” I said. “Thanks for 

offering.” 

“Why do rogues hate us?” 

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll design a 

workaround soon.” I had to. 

Darlene increased the illumination 

and sprayed lemon-grass essence 

in the air. A mug with steaming kick, 

coffee-flavored, appeared near my 

elbow. I sipped it and continued my 

analysis. 

*** 

“Jerry? Rahul reporting from Delta, 

over.” 

My display showed Rahul in his 

hard suit, standing on the debris, his 

face hidden by helmet and visor. He 

raised his right arm clumsily to indicate 

endcomm. 

“Did you spot any pattern in the 

rogue’s behavior? Over to you.” I signaled 

endcomm and waited. 

“All intel circuits are fused because 

of neural activity overload,” Rahul 

said after an irritating signal lag. 

“Purely mechanical equipment is unharmed, 

like cutters, axes, you get it. 

The invasion proceeded from most to 

least intelligent, as if the rogue aimed 

to maximize damage before any inter- 

ruption. I’ve repaired the power unit. 

Restarting mining with minimal scooper 

configuration will take me three 

days.” 

He gave a small laugh that was no 

laugh. “I’m skipping dome repair. I’m 

the only one who needs breathable 

air, and I can work wearing my suit.” 

I felt dejected after talking to Rahul. 

It had taken me decades of hard 

work to make AX-1 Realtor’s best 

stationhead and achieve profitability 

comparable with Ays and Dedalus stationheads. 

Rogue 256 could ruin everything. 

The consolation, if it could 

be called that, was that all belt miners 

were suffering. 

Wait. The rogue proceeded down 

the complexity ladder instead of 

randomly striking equipment. That 

reminded me of Darlene asking why 

do rogues hate us? Definitely, 256 

seemed anti-intelligence. Were we 

humans at risk? Rogues corrupted 

signals; could 256 mess up a human’s 

brain? Harm us? 

Calm down, I told myself, pulling up 

the data of stations attacked by 256 so 

far. Hmmm...no humans were present 

on any of the affected stations. That 

was strange. Realtor used remotemanaged 

stations to save costs, so 

our stations were usually unmanned, 

but Ays and Dedalus employed heavy 

manning and applied stringent in-person 

quality checks. The probability of 


randomly picking up ten of their stations 

without any person present was 

statistically low. 

“Maybe this rogue only attacks stations 

without humans,” I muttered to 

myself. “Could it have some archaic 

security law embedded?” 

“Are you humans more valuable 

just because your brains are in skulls?” 

Darlene sounded petulant. 

My head snapped up. I almost 

pointed out that humans were real 

while non-humans could be created 

or deactivated. Then I thought, forget 

it, she’s just coded to act emotional. 

“No, Darlene, all intel is valuable,” I 

said soothingly. 

Human, non-human, hmm....Was 

that where the clue lay? If the rogue 

sensed human presence to decide 

whether to attack, must be checking 

for human-specific neural patterns. If 

I patched a bot so that it seemed “human,” 

and placed it on a station, 256 

would be duped into “detecting” human 

presence and skip that station. 

Heartened, I refined eye-zap combinations 

to detect the human-present 

sequence. I checked for available upgrades 

to improve the zapper connection 

to my positron enhancements, 

and downloaded the latest version. 

I tried pattern-seeking for one hour. 

Another. Then, suddenly, a cluster of 

low-level instructions formed a pattern. 

Pause. Stare. Back. Rerun. 

Page 5

“Eureka!” 

“What happened, Jerry?” 

I sighed. “Nothing.” Darlene lacked 

Earth history modules; if Rahul and 

Cheng had been here, they would understand. 

Or maybe not; they knew 

nothing about Earth. To them, Earth 

was dead, useless. 

The Base duty roster showed Amelie 

was back at work. I decided to faceto-face 

because I wanted to see her 

expression and hear her voice when I 

shared my triumph. 

*** 

Amelie filled the screen, warmly 

human against the backdrop of the 

sterile Base office. She looked toned 

and energetic, her new skin glowing 

with health. “Jerry, I wanted to contact 

you. I’m sorry about your stations. 

I assume you want the endcomm modality? 

Over.” 

Most controllers chose parallel 

speaking despite the transmission 

lag, claiming it saved time, but to me 

such communication became wasted 

loose ends, replete with missed sentences 

and mismatched questions 

and answers. I preferred indicating 

endcomm and waiting politely. 

“Thanks, Amelie. First, let me 

cross-check my information. Were 

any humans present on the destroyed 

stations?” Darlene murmured something, 

so I whispered, “Later. I am 

busy.” I turned back to Amelie. “What 

does your data show? Over to you.” 

I waited for two minutes for my last 

word and endcomm to reach her, and 

another two for her response to begin 

reaching me. 

She nodded. “No humans. I noticed 

that, too. Pity Realtor can’t put humans 

on every station. To whom were 

you talking? Aren’t Rahul and Cheng 

off for repairs? Is that your home? You 

usually speak from the control room. 

What’s that metal piece? Over.” Eyebrows 

arched, she pointed to an object 

behind me. 

So many questions. I turned around 

to check. Darlene had changed the 

room again; the curio on the faux-oak 

mantelpiece, bought by splurging a 

year’s savings, was a favorite of mine. 

“I am alone,” I told Amelie. “I was 

instructing my houseware, Darlene. 

That relic is from Venus XI, Captain 

Shep’s last mission, when he became 

paranoid and tried to murder his team 

members, thinking they were aliens. 

Endcomm.” 

Amelie smiled. “I remember my 

pre-apo history, thanks. I’m impressed 

by your collection. So many Earth curios—” 

“I respect the world where humanity 

originated,” I interrupted. I realized 

immediately I sounded stiff and formal 

and defensive. Stupid of me. After 

decades of focusing on AX-1 prof- 

itability, I’d forgotten how to handle 

banter. Would Amelie get offended? 

“—anyway, I’m just teasing, Jerry,” 

she continued, and I realized 

my words hadn’t reached her yet. “I 

think you’ve done a great job at AX-1 

and—” 

“I trained hard for this job,” I cut 

in, then squirmed while my pompous 

declaration traversed the spaces between 

us. 

I first met Amelie over a century 

ago, when both of us joined Realtor 

as trainees. We underwent the 

same rigorous training for station 

management. Her current work profile, 

though different from mine, was 

equally challenging. On my last visit to 

Base, two decades ago, Amelie and I 

had several enjoyable debates on issues 

ranging from technology to sociology. 

We became friends. When I 

was returning to AX-1, she joked that 

no sensible person wanted to live on 

a flotilla of metal spaceships, controlling 

equipment that mined planetoids 

just a few kilometers wide. On Ceres, 

she laughed, the club provided normal 

gravity. And pool tables. And parties. 

Christmas parties with pseudo 

mistletoe, and piles of pseudo snow. 

Looking now at Amelie’s half-smile 

and teasing manner, I flushed. I had 

opted for traditional communication 

format and then violated it myself because 

I got defensive. Worse, I sound- 


ed downright obnoxious. I mumbled, 

“Sorry, let’s follow standard protocol,” 

and indicated endcomm. 

She paused after my last set of 

words reached her. She shook her 

head. “About this rogue,” she said. 

She shared her analysis of how it operated, 

and added, “Here, at Base, they 

call it Luddite. It’s Earth history stuff, 

so you would know what it means.” 

She grinned. 

Luddite: a movement where hatred 

of machines resulted in humans 

attacking and destroying machines. It 

seemed a fitting name for a rogue assaulting 

intelligent, non-human entities. 

Ironic, too, because the destroyer 

was itself a virtual entity. 

I smiled. “Don’t start me on history, 

or I’ll get sidetracked. I’m exploring 

ways to fool this Luddite.” I described 

the approaches I was considering, she 

gave me her comments, and I signed 

off, suggesting that we compare notes 

later. 

After disconnecting, I decided to recharge 

myself by taking a timed nap. 

My sleep was a muddle of disjoint 

dreams. A wooden boy, who called 

himself Pinocchio, waved hinged 

limbs with amazing grace. He drew 

a knife out of thin air and chopped 

his nose. He grabbed a double helix, 

snapped it into his chest. A girl wearing 

a red spacesuit said something, 

and he leered at her. “All the better to 

Page 6

live long, my dear.” 

I opened my eyes. My throat felt 

dry and scratchy; my heart hammered 

my ribs. 

*** 

Darlene had festooned the ceiling 

with virtual ribbons of incandescent 

pinks that rippled in a non-existent 

breeze. A rejuv tray slid near me and 

its micro-dispenser flushed me with 

nano-housekeepers. I flexed my fingers. 

They felt slightly stiff; I slipped on 

lube-gloves and waited for the sensor 

to indicate full system balance. The 

bed enabled its grav-vibrator mode to 

force me into an overdue workout. 

Fifteen minutes later, I returned to 

my workstation, refreshed and eager 

to continue. My fingers raced over the 

keyboard. With an hour of concentrated 

work, I coded a patch to fool 

the Luddite. I executed dry runs, corrected 

bugs and refined my code till it 

functioned perfectly. I hoped. 

Now I needed to try it out on a 

bot. 

The storeroom held twenty identical 

“Class A” bots, programmed for 

tolerance of ambiguity and fuzzy decision 

making, the profile Realtor hoped 

to replace most humans with. Their 

advanced neural circuits were a suitable 

base to patch for “human” thinking. 

I activated a bot labeled Argo. 

Red lights twinkled atop its apex cube, 

garish on its titanium cone body. 

When I returned with Argo, Darlene 

drawled, “A boring management bot.” 

I was amused. Curious to see what 

Argo “thought,” in turn, of Darlene, I 

instructed it to assess my houseware 

while I checked my mail. 

Cheng, now on Beta, had sent a 

detailed assessment of damages. 

He was repairing the power unit. I 

sent him my suggestions while Argo 

whizzed around. It stopped near the 

mantel, examined a limited-edition 

gold watch, and returned it to its 

place with slow, controlled movements. 

Next, it paused before a Japanese 

scroll to scrutinize the delicate 

brushwork. It stared at its reflection 

in an antique silver mirror. 

It rasped, “Displayed artifacts classified 

as Pre-third Millennium Earth 

Collectibles. Artifacts apart, this 

houseware is worth 50,000 kruers, 

more than thrice other sophisticated 

houseware.” 

“Correct,” I said. Darlene’s protest 

at this mundane approach was a perceptible 

drop in temperature. 

I loaded my simulator with my version 

of the Luddite algorithm and 

focused its input port on Argo for a 

baseline. The result: “non-human.” 

I streamed my patch into Argo and 

tested it again. I crossed my fingers, 

one of those ancient Earth superstitions 

Amelie found amusing. 

“Human.” 

For a few moments, I savored my 

victory; I had successfully created a 

workaround for another rogue. Then 

I sighed. My work was useless until I 

placed a “human” bot on every station. 

The fastest and cheapest method 

would be to stream the patch to each 

station, and remotely control its upload 

on a Class A bot already available 

there, but a Luddite replica might 

intercept my signal. If its engine included 

self-modification capability, 

and it recognized the objective of my 

transmission, it may amend its human-recognition 

algorithm to exclude 

pseudo-human bots. Luddite seemed 

sophisticated enough to make this 

possibility a real risk. 

Another option was sending Argo 

to the stations to upload the patch. 

But a bot, even an enhanced one like 

Argo, could not debug last-minute 

technical glitches or take decisions on 

the fly. That needed a human. 

I would have to go myself. With a 

patched Argo here, at Stationhead, a 

Luddite scan would show “human” 

presence and keep my stationhead 

safe from attacks. 

But suppose my analysis was 

wrong? Or my patch buggy? Luddite 

could destroy Stationhead when I was 

traveling, leaving Rahul, Cheng and I 

stranded on asteroids. 


Perhaps Consortium had some 

other advice. I checked my messages. 

There was no mail with an official approach 

on tackling the Luddite, but 

Amelie had sent her version of a Luddite 

simulator. Fingers crossed again, 

chest tight with tension, I tested Argo 

using her software. 

A pause, and then: “Human.” 

I leaned back in the chair, drew in a 

slow, deep breath, and let the happiness 

wash through me. What I wanted 

to do was share my triumph with 

Amelie, but that would have to wait. 

I mailed off my patch to Amelie, 

requesting her to validate my work. 

Assuming my code worked (it passed 

two simulators, so I expected it to), 

I needed enough upgraded bots to 

place on my stations. 

Back to the control room. 

I punched orders to activate 

enough Class A bots. I planned to 

carry them in the transpod, patch and 

test them in transit, and offload them 

at stations like a delivery boy. My first 

stop would be Gamma, the best of my 

remaining stations. Or I could profile 

the rogue’s attacks to identify which 

station was most at risk, and unload 

protection bots in that order. 

Amelie would have tested my patch 

by now. I was grinning as I connected 

to Base. 

“Did you check my mail?” I blurted 

after reaching her, like a student ex- 

Page 7

pecting praise for an excellent term 

paper. “Does it work? Endcomm.” 

I expected her to flash a congratulatory 

smile, but even after the message 

reached her and her expression 

reached me back, her face remained 

somber. Her lips were pressed tight. 

I tensed. I resisted the temptation 

to speak out of turn. 

“Your patch works,” she said after 

considering my question for an eternally 

long minute. “I tested it using 

data from other victim stations. Consortium 

plans to recommend a similar 

approach. But...doesn’t a fuzzyhuman 

neural patch make the bots 

too human?” She paused. “I know we 

have free will while bots are merely 

programmed...we’ve debated this 

millions of times...but today...” 

Why was Amelie , usually so focused, 

getting sidetracked into a futile 

philosophical meandering? A beep 

made me swivel to a news feed about 

a Luddite strike on a Dedalus station. 

I gaped at the live stream of the devastation. 

I turned to Amelie, who was 

biting her lip; she had not yet signaled 

endcomm. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” I cut in. “The 

rogue has struck a Dedalus station. 

I’m sure Base will get the feed soon 

enough. I must begin implementing 

the patch.” My throat pulled; my miniature 

voice-enhancers needed servicing. 

My words would take time to reach 

her. 

She was saying, “...rumors that cyber 

detectives are talking to Ays... 

someone leaked the story...it isn’t 

confirmed but...” 

Rumors. Who had time for rumors? 

I gathered data on the Dedalus attack: 

station stats, order of devastation, degree 

of damage. 

Four minutes passed. Five. Six. I 

looked at Amelie; she had stopped 

speaking. Her face looked bleached. 

Suddenly, I wanted to reach out and 

squeeze her hand. 

Finally, her voice came through, 

a whisper. “I shouldn’t distract you. 

Don’t worry about what I said. Bye.” 

She terminated contact. 

“See you after this rogue gets 

solved,” I whispered into nothingness. 

A trip to Base was long overdue. 

*** 

A pink blush pervaded the room. 

Impressionist masterpieces decorated 

Darlene’s peach-colored walls. 

Argo paced on a Persian carpet while 

diamonds of light danced off silver 

figurines. 

“What’s going on? Darlene? 

Argo?” 

“Darlene and I attempted communication,” 

Argo spoke in a rich 

baritone, a ridiculous audio-out for 

a titanium cone. “We encountered 

incompatibilities, so Darlene and I 

swapped code and upgraded.” 

“I can think better now.” Darlene’s 

voice carried an undertone of maturity. 

“I can sense more emotions,” Argo 

said. “Darlene is fascinating.” 

Unauthorized upgrades. Drastic 

personality changes. For a moment 

I felt alarmed. But no real harm had 

occurred, and besides, more urgent 

matters beckoned. 

“I’m going on a tour of the stations,” 

I told them. 

“I’ll manage Stationhead in your 

absence,” Argo said. “And don’t worry 

about Darlene.” 

Worry. Argo’s ability to sense my 

concern was a consequence of Darlene’s 

modules. 

Worry. Amelie had told me not to 

worry. Her face flashed in my mind, 

and morphed to the Amelie I waved 

goodbye to when leaving Base for 

AX-1. That day, her eyes drooped and 

leaked a bit, and I thought they needed 

servicing. 

Perhaps those droplets had been 

tears. 

Stop it, I told myself. I couldn’t afford 

to daydream. After telling Argo 

how to manage Stationhead in my absence, 

I sent messages to Base, Rahul, 

and Cheng, and gathered bots and 

other material required for the trip. 

To speed up the “humanizing” of sta- 


tions, I could go to Delta and give Rahul 

half the patched bots to deposit 

on various stations. Even Cheng could 

help in bot delivery. 

I was evaluating possibilities when 

I noticed the rogue simulator blink. 

The air chilled around me. 

For a long moment I stood there, 

my skin prickling. Then I positioned 

myself in front of the simulator’s input 

port and flipped a switch. 

“Human,” of course. Why was I so 

relieved? 

I was still shaking when my pod left 

the double-hatched airlock of the stationhead. 

Once my pod was well on its way, I 

connected to Base. 

“Amelie, I cut the last conversation 

short,” I said. “You were telling me 

something. Sorry. Endcomm.” 

Her eyes had bags under them. Did 

I miss them earlier? 

“You have your job to do.” She 

squared her shoulders. “But I think 

you should know the announcement 

that’s just come through. Cyber detectives 

claim Luddite broke off from the 

program Ays created to beat Rogue 

255. I’m sorry. Endcomm.” 

I repeated her words till they sank 

in. For decades I had been handling 

rogues as they popped up. Yet the trip 

I was making could create another 

rogue. A future Rogue 257 could escape 

from my patch for Rogue 256, 

Page 8

and a Rogue 258 from the solution 

to Rogue 257. Maybe down the line, 

rogues would target humans instead 

of avoiding them. 

Lined near me were twelve bots 

waiting to become “humans.” Each 

one would help me protect a station 

from savage attack. 

“Jerry? Please say something. Are 

you okay? Endcomm.” 

I blinked. This was probably the 

first time ever that Amelie had deviated 

from our communication protocol. 

Then I realized that her last message 

had reached me over twenty minutes 

ago. 

We were zipping through space. I 

looked out of the port window; the 

belt always seemed empty, even in 

this densest part. Amelie’s words 

were floating fragments drifting to my 

heart. 

I craved to be near her, near real 

persons, not bots and softwares who 

passed enough tests to be “human.” 

But a vacation would have to wait. 

“I am okay, Amelie, thanks,” I said 

softly. “I had thought, after beating 

this rogue, I would drop by at Base 

and meet you and others. We could 

have caught up with gossip.” 

Or discuss philosophy, I thought. 

I paused to get a grip on myself. 

“But for now,” I continued, “send 

me all you can on the Luddite origin. 

Tracers, comparison dumps, whatev- 

er. I’ll check my patch design based on 

that. I don’t want to end up generating 

a rogue. Endcomm.” 

A smile started spreading on her 

face when my words began reaching 

her, but as my message concluded, 

her face returned to its sad expression. 

I felt something twist inside me. 

“I’ll mail whatever I can get,” she 

said. “Meanwhile, I have some information 

on how Ays designs its 

patches, and one peculiarity of their 

approach is...” 

We discussed possibilities for over 

an hour. We considered modifications 

to my patch to make it a less 

likely rogue generator, but we needed 

more data to reach any conclusion. As 

she summarized our discussion, I absorbed 

her expression and imagined 

myself with her at Base, but then I 

shook off the distraction. There was 

no time to waste in regrets. No time 

to relax. 

“See you later, Jerry, bye,” she 

said. 

“See you,” I whispered, nodded, 

and disconnected. I closed my eyes 

for an instant, sighed, and then began 

listing priorities. 

Alone at AX-1 © 2009 by Swapna Kishore 

Who could forget the night Jupiter 

blinked on? At first, Charlie thought 

some joker in the street was shining 

a light into his apartment. But 

it came from above. Maybe a helicopter 

searchlight? He hadn’t been 

able to sleep and this cinched it. 

Charlie looked from the balcony. It 

didn’t move. If it were a star it was 

the brightest one he had ever seen. 

Three a.m. was no time for dawn, 

and it was too high in the sky. It was 

just there, where it hadn’t been a 

moment before. Insomniacs knew 

something was up. 

*** 

There were two suns that morning, 

the rising normal one and the 

setting little one. Preachers came 

on the TV saying it was the end of 

the world. But most normal people 

kept their heads and watched GNN, 

which knew nothing, so far. The 

screen had two heads talking away 

regardless—noise pollution their 

proudest product. 

Charlie figured there was no better 

place to go than the office. His 

family might have been worried 

if they knew about the celestial 

change, but the sandman made 

Bff.jov 



sure they didn’t. He went to their 

bedroom to kiss his wife. Close-eyed 

Merrie wouldn’t be satisfied with a 

quick peck; she pulled at his hand 

until she got her hug. Charlie tiptoed 

into his daughter’s bedroom. 

Violet squirmed—a rather unflattering 

acknowledgement of his kiss 

on her cheek. 

Checkpoints on the road cleared 

Cheyenne Mountain staff, no one 

else. The workday was in full swing 

at the Internet Security Department 

of NORAD. People were prairie-dogging 

over the cubicles talking excitedly. 

Some of these people must 

have arrived as soon as they saw the 

strange light, judging by the reflux 

of styrofoam cups on their desks. 

Lola sauntered up to him. “Did you 

hear about the email?” 

“No, what email?” 

“It says, ‘I’m sure you have questions 

about the changes in the solar 

system. For more information click 

here,’” Lola said. 

“It’s probably fake. Copy me.” 

It wasn’t. WHOIS gave an IP that 

mapped to juggernaut.jov. Charlie 

had never heard of the extension. 

He looked at the page source. The 

files had old dates. He looked at 

Page 9

search engine rankings. Low ranked, 

so they probably showed up on the 

third result page, where no one 

looked. That wouldn’t last. The page 

views were jumping by thousands 

with every refresh. 

The link on the email signature 

went to Mypage.jov. Charlie jumped 

in his chair. It looked just like any 

other self-indulgent social networking 

site, but the picture was of a thirteen-tentacled 

octopus. Not quite. 

The creature was salmon colored, 

doe-eyed, and held various gadgets 

in its various “hands.” The caption 

had its name: Blimm. Its clothes 

were fashionable, thought Charlie 

hysterically, for a Jovian. 

The About Me section had this 

text: “Ever since our sun went nova 

we’ve been having a really bad time. 

It’s been so cold and dark on juggernaut 

two, Io in your language. 

We’ve been hard at work for five 

of your years tweaking Jupiter. We 

put a muncher in the middle massing 

seventy-nine more Jupiters inside. 

You call it a black hole, but that 

name just makes us giggle. We think 

we got it just right to pull Jupiter to a 

density sufficient to light it up, spinning 

so fast it will take a while, a million 

years or two for the muncher to 

eat it all. If all goes well we’ll have a 

nice, little continuous hydrogen fusion 

sun just like home by the time 

you read this. 

“Don’t worry. Since we breathe 

sulfur dioxide and you drink corrosives, 

I mean breathe oxygen, I don’t 

think you’d feel comfortable here or 

us there. But we can always talk! We 

like to make friends. Wanna chat?” 

Charlie tried clicking to chat with 

this Blimm. No dice. His traffic surveillance 

tools told him why: the 

queue stretched from Perth, Odessa, 

Queens—the red pins were covering 

every populated area. It was 100 

million users deep. On cross-check 

with demographics he found the 

queue closely correlated with one 

kind of household: those with minor 

females. While Charlie was waiting 

to join the chat he checked the rest 

of his inbox. There were 102 emails, 

101 of which were bank transfer 

notifications needing his okay to 

receive a sixteen million from Nigeria, 

a hundred of which were scams. 

The non-Nigerian email was his 

boss, Dick, demanding a data dump 

on just what Charlie knew about 

this Jupiter business. Before Charlie 

could prepare a response, alarms 

went off. The launch mainframes 

had been hacked. 

Charlie raced down the red corri- 

dor to the ancient black text terminals. 

Lola got there first. He took up 

a position beside her. Their whole 

department arrived in seconds, 

clacking away and finding out the 

Jovians had downloaded AI avatars 

into the launch computers. Charlie 

guessed they were using proxies to 

lessen the ninety minute light speed 

delay to Jupiter and back. But to talk 

to who, girls? 

General Richard (“Dick”) Peacock 

strode into the computer room and 

shouted: “Men! This act of aggression 

must not be left unanswered! 

Shut the launch system down!” 

The women computer experts 

had steam coming out of their ears. 

It seemed that the entire contingent 

of top brass in residence under 

Cheyenne mountain had entered 

the room. There must be no one in 

the war room. Bart Clambake, Rear 

Admiral, whined like the little girl he 

wasn’t, “But Dick! Won’t we be in 

gravest danger? For years the threat 

of Mutually-Assured Destruction 

has kept us safe! We won’t be able 

to destroy anything once these computers 

shut down. I’m frightened!” 

*** 

“That’s hardly the biggest problem, 

Clambake! Our undercover 

agents have just reported that 


launch computers from Beijing to 

Havana—at all of our enemies’ 

defense networks have also been 

hacked! MAD’s deterrent value has 

become irrelevant! You know what 

that means to our military? Catastrophe! 

We must stop the outbreak 

of peace!” Dick shouted at point 

blank range. 

A breathless subaltern entered, 

gave Clambake a document, saluted 

strangely, then quickly exited the 

computer room. Clambake read the 

above top secret crypto message: 

“al’krj elrk reenq.” 

“What!?” shouted Dick. 

“Let me have that,” Charlie said, 

swiveling away from the terminal. 

He pulled a Civil War vintage decryption 

ring from an olive metal 

drawer. The top brass tapped their 

shoes, cleared their throats, and 

in every other way possible, tried 

to make Charlie understand how 

crucial a speedy decryption could 

be: the difference between life and 

death. He related the gist of the 

message: “The Jovians have downloaded 

their personalities to smartphones 

around the world.” 

Clambake resumed whining, 

“How do we defeat enemies sitting 

in people’s pockets?” 

*** 

Page 10

“What of it, Tooner?” Dick shouted, 

using Charlie’s last name. 

Charlie breathed deeply, left others 

to finish the shutdown procedure, 

and said in the most soothing 

voice possible, “Collectively, there’s 

more computing capacity in cellphones 

than all other computers 

combined. Each one isn’t so powerful, 

but with more than a billion in 

service—” 

“How did we ever allow such a 

point of vulnerability?” Dick demanded. 

Charlie spread his palms 

outward soundlessly. Dick looked like 

he wanted to shoot the messenger. 

The uniforms of the top brass were 

sopped with sweat and ripened the 

atmosphere of the computer room, 

now that the cooling system had 

shut down. Dick continued, “This 

calls for an immediate conference in 

the war room! Tooner, you’re with 

me!” 

Dick’s face darkened to the color 

of uncooked liver, then a livid gray. 

The war room seemed to suck color 

from every complexion unfortunate 

enough to be present. Dick was 

standing before a gigantic, starklylit 

conference table. The top brass 

came from the computer room, 

streamed around the table and sat 

down, overheated and sleepy. 

*** 

“Ideas, gentlemen!” Dick demanded, 

pounding the table for attention. 

Some stirred, face down on the 

table, others snored, a few struggled 

against the weight of their medals 

on their chests to sit upright. Charlie 

offered an idea: “Well, the AI 

replicas of the Jovians have to span 

hundreds of cellphones. They must 

depend on the tower network to 

parallel process their personalities 

through hundreds of units. If we deactivate 

the towers, the personalities 

should vanish.” 

“Brilliant! Order the Army Corps 

of Engineers to tear down the towers! 

Pull the plug on the cellular 

network and inform our allies to do 

likewise!” Dick decreed. 

“Uh, then the Jovians can have 

access to our enemies?” Charlie 

asked, while trying to make his head 

disappear between his shoulders. 

“Good thinking for a civilian, 

Tooner! Inform our enemies through 

all known secret channels! Tooner, I 

need you back in the Internet Security 

Department to monitor those 

mendacious Jovians. Report new 

developments immediately!” Dick 

resorted to his extreme stress protocol 

Charlie had heard about. As 

Charlie left he saw the war room filling 

with what must be a metric ton 

of meringue Dick was whipping out 

from his industrial mixer, ensconced 

in the corner for just such an emergency. 

*** 

With the Jovian infiltration stymied, 

Charlie was happy to get 

home at a reasonable hour, but Violet 

wasn’t in a good mood. Merrie 

and he exchanged cooking duties, 

so he listened while crushing garlic. 

Texting Jovians was Violet’s new favorite 

pastime, and it wasn’t working! 

“Can I see your cell?” Charlie 

whisked the gravy, stealing licks. 

“Daddy!” Violet’s tone was exactly 

as if he asked to use her electric 

toothbrush. 

“Anything there I should be concerned 

about?” Charlie turned and 

looked at her with what he hoped 

was a guilt-inducing stare. 

“We-e-e-ll, no, not really. Don’t 

you trust me?” Violet was obviously 

trying to deduct five years from her 

smile, getting suddenly pigeon-toed, 

awkward and in every way little girlish. 

“Sure. But I’m curious about these 

Jovians.” 

“We-e-e-ll, okay.” Violet gave him 


her pink cell in slow motion. Charlie 

scrolled up through the history and 

looked: 

Viola: I’m gonna flunk the quiz 

BLIMM: What’s it on? 

Viola: Quadratic equations 

BLIMM: CY they’re fun 

Viola: DLTM! 

BLIMM: Watch. All we have to do 

is name the variables Brad and Jen 

on one side and Angel and Hannah 

on the other. Now, B and J have a 

fight, and J joins AH on the first floor 

of the other side. 

Viola: KEWL All the girls gang up 

on Brad? 

BLIMM: Now, let’s see what’s left 

in Brad’s bank account when the ladies 

are done with him. 

Viola: LOL 

BLIMM: Tolja. We’re going to toss 

BJA&H around ‘til you ace this quiz. 

Viola: Thx FTBOMH Blimm, you’re 

my BFF. 

BLIMM: Know any other girls who 

need friends? 

Viola: LK, Evrybody? 

Merrie, Violet and Charlie sat 

down for supper. “Violet, we don’t 

know anything about these creatures. 

I’m sorry, but this will have 

to wait until they go through proper 

Page 11

channels,” Charlie said, chewing his 

meatloaf. 

“Dad, you don’t understand! 

They’re so-o-o great! How can you 

think they’re bad?” Violet’s eyes 

were downcast as she played with 

her peas. 

“We just don’t know, Dear,” Merrie 

said. “Best be careful.” Merrie 

took Apache, their marmalade tomcat, 

off the table for the 1,131 st time 

that month. 

*** 

A few days later at school, Coventry 

Lipshutz and Violet Tooner liberated 

just a few, little stones from the 

geology room. They drilled holes in 

them using a drill press in an empty 

shop classroom, got some old guitar 

string from a wastebasket in the 

music department, made the necklaces 

ready and put them in their 

backpacks. Soon, it was recess. They 

tried to sneak by the teachers on 

playground monitor duty, but that 

was unnecessary. The teachers were 

preoccupied. 

“Like, eww?” Violet shielded her 

eyes. 

“Like, you didn’t know? Strip pinochle 

is the new craze. All the old 

people are doing it,” Coventry whispered. 

Violet and Coventry walked to the 

end of the playground with several 

precautionary looks behind their 

shoulders. Then, when no one was 

watching, dashed over the embankment 

to the wetlands behind the 

school. Stepping around discarded 

vials and amorous couples, they 

came to the lily pond. 

“Do you think we got it right?” 

Coventry said from behind Violet, 

who was leaning down precariously 

over the banking. 

“Oh please, Covie! If you want to 

double check, look at the pic the Jovians 

left on your cell, and go over 

the necklace again. We just gotta try 

it.” Violet coaxed the swans toward 

the rushes at the edge. 

“Maybe you should use the bread 

from my lunch?” Coventry offered. 

“No, the directions were to say 

this rhyme,” Violet said: 

Oh beautiful Swan! 

Come to the shore precious one 

Let me put this necklace on. 

Don’t try to undo what I have 

done 

Take flight, be gone 

Let the necklace send cell signals 

hither and yon 

And let Jovian and girl be one! 

“Let’s try some bread,” Coventry 

said. 

*** 

The swan must have let hunger 

overcome her caution, though 

her mate called out a warning. She 

thrashed about but the girls were 

motivated. She flew off. The slipknotted 

necklace of carefully strung 

hematite, quartz, lodestone and 

mica on the metal wire was securely 

around her neck. 

“Try it,” Violet said. 

“I got bars!” Coventry marveled, 

looking at her cell screen. “We did 

it! How many other girls made necklaces, 

you think?” 

“Just let them try to stop us now,” 

Violet said, with a smug smile. 

“I’m gonna tell everyone. We can 

sell these!” Coventry was texting 

away at full speed. 

“You won’t get very far with just 

one swan. If she isn’t flying nearby, 

all those messages will be stuck in 

your outgoing.” 

“Oh yeah, I forgot. We’ll have to 

go back to the playground and actually 

talk to them, like, in person.” 

*** 

A few weeks later the girls’ mothers 

had an afternoon date. Jody Lipshutz 

and Merrie Tooner were finishing 

high tea. Jody’s great estate 


had white peeling columns. Dust 

danced in the sunlight shafts from 

windows that had needed washing 

five years ago. 

“Duty calls,” Jody said, leaving 

the table and the crumpet crumbs 

for the rats. The two donned English 

hunting hats. Merrie coughed from 

the mothball smell. They unlocked 

the gun cabinet and strode out 

across Jody’s poppy plantation. 

BLAM! BLAM! 

“Darn it! Missed again,” Merrie 

said, reloading her double-barreled 

shotgun. It had been over a week 

since open season was declared on 

the cell tower birds. Many hunters 

and even amateurs were enticed by 

the bounties offered. 

“Do you think that was one of 

them?” Jody picked up her dropped 

shotgun. She plugged her ears 

whenever Merrie took a shot. 

“Can’t see the necklaces from 

this distance. My motto is, shoot 

first, check later,” Merrie said. 

“It’s a little bit funny,” Jody said. 

“When Covie came home with wads 

of cash, I didn’t question, and now 

here we are, trying to undo what 

she did.” 

“Is that dirt in that barrel?” Merrie 

looked at Jody’s gun. 

“Oh, dear. I guess we’ll have to 

Page 12

ely on yours.” 

Merrie’s ankles were itching from 

ticks. It was hot. The birds were 

elusive. They tried as long as there 

was light, fruitlessly, before consoling 

themselves with absinthe back 

inside. By the time Merrie left for 

home, the crickets were out in song, 

Jupiter burned bright in the twilight, 

and the swans had tucked their 

heads under their wings, safely hidden 

in the swamp’s underbrush. 

*** 

Charlie took off his shoes, padded 

to their bedroom in slippers, and 

peered in to see Merrie, already 

asleep. It had been a particularly 

late night at the office. I wish I could 

sleep like that, Charlie thought. He 

had to decompress before joining 

his wife, so went back to the living 

room. He flipped on the tube and 

flopped on the couch. 

“...UFO crashes, hot air balloon 

deflations, airliner pockmarks, and 

other friendly fire incidents abound 

in the effort to take out the cell 

tower birds. But girls are still able 

to text,” the mellifluous announcer 

said. 

“What can be done about these 

terrorists in rainbow socks and yellow 

scrunchies?” the man head 

asked. His hair must be solid vinyl. 

“Isn’t that a bit extreme? They’re 

only children, our daughters,” The 

woman head said. She had hollow 

cheeks, a boney face and a blonde 

mane to complete an equine look. 

Charlie nicknamed her Anorexic Annie. 

“Look, they’ve adopted their own 

flag. Changed it to the pink, cream 

and teal. And the stars!” Vinyl Man 

was aghast, or was just playing to 

the camera. “The stars have sparklies, 

and they’re all different! Men 

fought and died for our flag!” 

“There, there, you can have your 

old flag if you want,” AnaAnnie 

soothed. 

“But, but, it’s not the same!” Vinyl 

Man wept like a colicky baby. 

The tears looked real. 

Just then, Charlie’s laptop beeped. 

It turned out that he was finally at 

the top of the Jovian queue he entered 

149 days ago, the morning 

Jupiter blinked on. Chats must be 

low on their priority list, with all the 

texting going on. He went to the den 

and typed to them under his screen 

name: 

Tuna: Can I talk to you as an 

adult? 

BLIMM: Full text is time consuming, 

but yes, we are also fluent in 

your dialect. 

Tuna: Why have you chosen to go 

after our youth? 

BLIMM: I’m sorry you feel that 

way. Can you be more specific? 

Tuna: Young girls are so impressionable. 

You’ve taken advantage of 

them. 

BLIMM: Perhaps you need one of 

your chemical sedatives? You seem 

upset. 

Tuna: I think I’m justified. 

BLIMM: Initial scans indicated 

young girls were the most advanced 

members of your species. 

Tuna: What? 

BLIMM: They have the most efficient 

communication method. In 

the time we have been conversing, 

a young girl would have proceeded 

at triple the rate, through abbreviation. 

Tuna: Oh, you mean texting? 

That’s just a game. Texting is moronic. 

BLIMM: If you tried it, you’d see 

it’s not all that vacuous with us. And, 

who knows? You just might find you 

get what you need. TTFN 

Blimm moved on to others in his 

queue. A popup advised Charlie of a 

Marshall Law Directive to confiscate 

any cell, wifi or other comm-net 


device from minor females. Charlie 

stole into his daughter’s room, 

disconnected Violet’s cell from its 

charger, and left without a sound. 

*** 

In the morning Violet dashed to 

and fro. She was frazzled beyond 

any and all attempts to placate her, 

and even refused her Ritalin. She 

locked herself in the bathroom. 

“Violet Sassafras Tooner! Come 

out of there at once!” Merrie used 

her most authoritarian voice. Sobs 

and dull thuds of shampoo bottles 

against ceramic tiles were all Merrie 

got in reply. 

“What are we going to do?” Merrie 

crossed her legs outside the 

door, looking at her husband, who 

adopted a stoic expression. He 

needed to go too. 

“There’s always the bushes,” 

Charlie said. 

“Oh, now that’s a realistic solution!” 

Merrie scolded. “You know 

how they’re cracking down on indecent 

exposure, what with the 

pinochle fad. And as if that weren’t 

enough, unsanitary disposal of hazardous 

waste, and livecams on every 

light pole? A fine example for 

our daughter.” Merrie pushed her 

jaw to one side. 

“I’ll break down the door,” Char- 

Page 13

lie said, getting ready to play hero, 

like on TV. 

“Wait!” Merrie held out her hand 

like a traffic cop. “You’ll wreck the 

door. You might hurt her, and for 

what? I bet the Jovians have something 

else up their sleeves if this 

doesn’t work.” 

“Yeah, after all they have thirteen 

of—” Charlie was interrupted by 

Merrie’s ring tone. 

“Yes,” Merrie spoke to her cell, 

“Violet’s in the bathroom too. No, 

we’ve had about enough.” Merrie 

closed the phone and said, “Jody’s 

going to compromise with Coventry, 

and says it’s all over the news. This 

confiscation order is very unpopular, 

and not just with kids, parents too.” 

“At least we won’t be alone,” 

Charlie said over his shoulder as he 

retrieved Violet’s cell, hidden in the 

bookshelf. Soon after he pressed 

the power button it beeped with a 

message. Charlie showed the screen 

to Merrie: 

BLIMM: Can’t we all just get 

along? We’re sorry. 

“Ha! Fine time for that!” Merrie 

said. “After all the trouble they’ve 

caused?” 

“Well, you know, I’ve kinda en- 

joyed watching Dick Peacock lose 

his authority. He’s such a terrible 

boss. It hasn’t been all bad,” Charlie 

said. 

“I guess it’s time we let young 

girls have a chance. Old men have 

been running things, and we know 

how well that’s turned out,” Merrie 

said 

“Or is this just our bladders talking?” 

Charlie slid Violet’s cell under 

the door. The knob turned. “Ladies 

first,” Charlie said, as Merrie rushed 

in with no time to spare. 

*** 

And so the frequent need which 

nature in her mysterious wisdom 

had placed upon all people of Earth 

finally handed cherished victory to 

the girls, who were reunited with 

their Jovian Best Friends Forever, 

since everyone has to pee. 

Bff.jov © 2009 by Scott Davis 

Lightning flashed across the sky 

like brilliant spider webs. Rain 

poured from the clouds and into 

the turbulent waves of the ocean’s 

surface, swirling froth and foam in 

torrents. 

A small white bulb floated across 

the crashing surface of the water, 

dipping and bobbing with the force 

of the waves, but never submerging. 

The bulbous shape resembled 

that of a disc or an upturned saucer. 

Rain pelted its smooth top as it 

coasted along through the vicious 

storm, rocking in violent jerks. 

Inside of the floating orb sat two 

haggard-looking men in blue flight 

suits. Facing one another, their harnesses 

held them fast to the seat 

backs as they swayed with the outside 

currents. The smooth, membrane-walled 

interior of the vessel 

was lit with iridescent blue light, 

which played over the faces of both 

men within. 

“How much further?” the first inquired. 

“It shouldn’t be long, Veedle,” 

replied his traveling companion, 

with an irritated tone. “Our coordinates 

were very precise.” Melkins 

adjusted the sweaty spectacles that 

framed his beady eyes. 

Into the Deep 



“Right,” Veedle agreed. “The coordinates.” 

A particularly strong 

wave threw them both sideways in 

their seats. “As long as we’ve got 

those.” 

When the lightning burst outside, 

it lit the interior of the compartment, 

pulsing through the thin but 

tough barrier and nearly blinding 

the vehicle’s occupants. 

“Say, Melkins. Suppose the coordinates 

were off just a little bit...” 

“Impossible,” Melkins gruffed. 

“These are not things that the Gantry 

takes lightly. You have no idea 

how much money was spent on the 

design and construction of this device.” 

He struggled to keep his glasses 

fixed on his nose. 

“Right, right,” Veedle said. “Well, 

with all that money, you’d have 

thought they might at least hire 

some kind of decorator. After all, it’s 

a little bland in here.” 

“Please quiet yourself.” 

“And supposing I don’t?” Veedle 

prodded. 

“You know the rules,” Melkins 

said. 

Veedle peered over the edge of 

the viewing port. Save for the circular 

bench seat, and a short ledge for 

their feet, the round vacuous hole 

Page 14

made up the entirety of the vessel’s 

base. In clearer waters, it would 

have provided the riders with a view 

into the depths below. 

“Are you as bored as I am?” Veedle 

asked. “I mean, aside from trying 

to keep your lunch down.” 

“Boredom is the solace of busy 

men,” Melkins said absently. 

Veedle raised his eyebrows. 

“That’s rich, Melkins. Whatever it 

means. But seriously, I can’t even 

see out of this damned eyehole, or 

whatever they called it.” 

“Perhaps that would have to do 

with the fact that we are currently 

floating in the middle of a storm,” 

replied Melkins. “And it’s called the 

keyhole.” 

“Right, that one. I mean, it 

wouldn’t have been so bad if someone 

would have told me, ‘Hey Veedle, 

bring along a fishing pole, why 

don’t ya?’” He watched the roundedged 

hole in wonder, trying to figure 

out the miraculous engineering 

that allowed for the existence of 

such a gaping thing that permitted 

absolutely no water to enter the 

vessel. 

Melkins ignored him, or rather 

tried his hardest not to have to 

meet Veedle’s gaze, and remained 

silent. This was harder to do than it 

sounded, given that the interior size 

of the orb was achingly cramped, 

and Veedle was quite large. While 

Melkins himself was no skeleton, 

he and Veedle differed structurally 

in that Veedle’s immense mass was 

attributed to mounds of rippling 

muscle. 

Melkins examined the blips on 

his watch that had begun its countdown 

sequence the moment they 

had hit the water. It had been nineteen 

minutes, though it had felt like 

sixty. Then again, having been thrust 

immediately into a raging storm, 

perhaps he was experiencing time 

a little more slowly as they were 

forced to endure the terrifying ride. 

At least he had had the sense not to 

eat anything before the departure. 

“So, who’d you piss off to get 

picked for this job?” Veedle asked 

after a series of sharp twists rocked 

the cabin. 

Melkins eyed the large man carefully 

before answering. “This was 

my plan.” 

“Your plan?” Veedle said. “Wowza, 

man. You must be outta your damn 

tree.” He looked the slightly chubby 

man up and down in his seat. 

“Said the pot to the kettle,” Melkins 

mumbled. 

Veedle laughed. Lightning outside 

illuminated the interior and reflected 

off of Veedle’s smooth skull. 

“I know why I’m here, man. What 

I can’t figure out is why in god’s 

name anyone else would volunteer 

to come along. I mean, no offense 

Melkins, but you’re kind of a sorrylooking 

bastard. What exactly are 

you planning on doing once we get 

through the drop point?” 

“No offense,” Melkins said. “Hang 

onto your seat. We should be entering 

the canal at any moment.” 

“Don’t you have any family, or 

anything? I mean, me, I got nobody,” 

Veedle said. 

Melkins bit down hard on his lip, 

bracing himself against a turbulent 

wave. 

“No. I don’t have anyone...not 

anymore.” 

At once, the interior of the oblong 

vessel turned a brilliant white. 

“System Alert: entering descent 

canal,” sounded the bubble’s electronic 

voice overhead. 

“Like clockwork,” Melkins said, 

satisfied. 

Veedle shook his head and 

laughed. “Here we gooo—” 

Much like a fly finding the business 

end of a vacuum cleaner, the 

rocking vessel was sucked into a 

gaping hole that had formed in the 

middle of the roiling sea. It shot 

downward with breakneck trajectory, 

pinning its occupants to their 

seats. Veedle managed to crack one 

eye open, looking over to Melkins. 

Apparently food was not necessar- 


ily a prerequisite for stomach expulsions. 

The circular cabin had darkened 

visibly, and the passing water outside 

the paper-thin walls roared like 

thunder. Just as Veedle was starting 

to feel unable to control his own 

stomach, the propulsion slammed 

to a halt, and veered in another direction. 

“Melkins, you awake, man?” 

Veedle ground through his teeth. 

The momentum was a little less 

now, and almost afforded him the 

capability of normal speech. He 

thought he saw his companion nod 

his head. 

After almost half a minute, the 

orb came to a complete stop. The 

subsequent sensation of floating 

inside the gently rocking vehicle 

proved to be too much even for 

Veedle. He heaved his lunch onto 

the floor. “Hnnph...I don’t remember 

eatin’ anything that looked like 

that.” 

Melkins rolled his head and 

breathed deeply. “We’ve made it. 

We actually made it.” 

“Don’t sound so surprised, Mel.” 

Melkins dared to test his visual 

equilibrium and opened his 

eyes. “Numbers are numbers,” he 

croaked. “Actually living through the 

process is something else entirely.” 

“Now what?” Veedle asked. Mel- 

Page 15

kins coughed and cocked an eyebrow 

at him. 

“Now, we wait.” Melkins slid back 

in his seat and sighed. 

Veedle huffed and tried to test his 

safety harnesses. “Never was much 

of a poker player, Melkins. Don’t 

have much time for patience. Just 

how long you think we’re going to 

be waiting here?” 

“Until they come for us,” Melkins 

replied softly. “It could be minutes. 

It might be hours.” 

“Any chance I can get these restraints 

off, now? I mean, we are out 

of the rough waters and all.” 

Melkins sighed again. “You know 

the rules as well as I do, sir.” Veedle 

noted how Melkins seemed to inch 

away as he said this. 

With a chuckle, Veedle stretched 

within the confines of his bonds, and 

the tiny compartment. He leaned 

back and rested his eyes, recalling 

each detail that had been pounded 

into his head by the bureaucrats in 

the fancy suits. It was a rather simple 

plan, actually. He smiled. 

It was going to be a hell of a good 

time. 

At some point, Melkins had dozed 

off, because he was awoken by forceful 

jerking movements of the ship. 

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Veedle 

said. “I think they found us.” 

“So it would seem,” Melkins said. 

A bead of sweat had formed on his 

brow. “Can you hear anything?” 

“Nothing but running water,” Veedle 

said. “Say, do you think it might 

be a good time to make away with 

these, now?” Veedle nodded toward 

his restrained arms and legs. 

“Almost,” Melkins said. He unstrapped 

himself and stood up. The 

ceiling only cleared his head by an 

inch. The blue luminescence now 

highlighted his growing sweat stains. 

Melkins approached the keyhole 

and peered downward. The faint 

glow given off by their craft lit up 

the water in a five foot radius. Nothing 

was visible in the water beneath 

the viewing window but silt particles. 

As had been expected, their 

conveyance was being pulled manually 

toward the docking station. 

Melkins’ hands began to shake a 

little at the thought of what he knew 

was coming next. But thoughts of 

his family hardened his fears and 

pummeled them away. 

“Visual status,” Melkins stated. 

“Doctor Emmanuel Melkins: voice 

identification accepted.” 

“Please give me a visual record,” 

Melkins said. In an instant the circular 

walls became invisible. Veedle 

jerked in his chair, having been 

unprepared for the sight of being 

completely surrounded by glowing 

water. Veedle had the immedi- 

ate impression that he was floating 

within a large soap bubble. 

“Pressure status,” Melkins said. 

“Pressure is within acceptable parameters, 

Dr. Melkins.” 

“Can they see us?” Veedle asked. 

He was referring to the transport 

vessel that was hauling them in tow 

to Damascus City. It was a large, rugged-looking 

metal ship that coasted 

through the water without creating 

any disturbance. It had very few 

windows. 

“No,” Melkins said. “Their vision 

cannot penetrate these walls. If all is 

as it should be, they should be completely 

baffled as to the appearance 

of this vehicle. After all, it has been 

nearly a decade since any form of 

communication was attempted by 

the topworld.” 

“And we all know how well that 

went,” Veedle spat. Melkins rubbed 

at his chest blankly. 

“Locate Damascus and give arrival 

estimation,” Melkins said. 

“Eight-hundred meters distance. 

Estimated time to arrival at current 

trajectory: two minutes.” 

“Maybe I’m just an ignorant asshole 

for asking, Melkins,” Veedle said, 

“but why didn’t they just blow us all 

to hell when they found our ship?” 

Melkins considered this with 

growing mental distance. “It was 

all up to chance. There was no way 


to calculate the expected odds of 

just such an occurrence. But ultimately, 

I knew they wouldn’t. They 

are too curious. I knew that they 

would want to know how anything 

had happened to find their means 

of transport to access the city. The 

process is really quite genius, exploiting 

the natural undercurrents 

of the ocean to create an underwater 

highway. Fitting that one of their 

crowning achievements will serve 

to bring about their own downfall.” 

“Sounds like someone took the 

Rains of November a little personally,” 

Veedle said. 

Melkins coughed and pumped his 

fists. “When nineteen-million lives 

are extinguished from the face of 

the planet, Mr. Veedle, there is not 

a single person still alive who should 

not take it personally.” 

And then Damascus City came 

into view as they floated over an 

immense cliff and into an oceanic 

valley. 

“Wow,” Veedle said. “I never 

imagined so much...light.” Spires of 

shining rock stood out amongst the 

layout of the vast city, which was 

composed of innumerable smaller 

structures that were unmistakably 

dwellings. Glowing blue light radiated 

from the very core of the city, 

all the way to a barrier that, without 

the light’s reflection, would have 

Page 16

een invisible. 

“Approaching Damascus City,” 

the computerized voice said. 

“We stopped,” Veedle said. “Why 

did we stop?” 

“The retaining barrier,” Melkins 

said. He urged under his breath, 

“Keep going. Let us in. Let us in.” 

A light flashed from the hauling 

vessel and engulfed Melkins and 

Veedle’s orb. 

“Internal scan in progress,” the 

computer said. The light switched 

off, and they once again felt their 

vessel begin to move forward. 

Melkins let out the breath he had 

been holding. They were very close 

now. Both ships lowered to groundlevel. 

The white orb was pulled 

beside a docking bay of the larger 

ship. 

“What’s that?” Veedle asked. 

“Dry-dock barrier, Mr. Veedle. You 

see, the creatures live in a relatively 

dry environment, even though they 

are not aerobic beings.” 

“They don’t work out?” 

“No...They do not breathe oxygen. 

But our autopsies have determined 

that their bodies are well-adapted 

to dry environments. I think now 

might be a good time to prepare our 

air supply.” 

Veedle watched as the water surrounding 

them began to lower in 

level and finally disappear. It took 

him a moment to figure out that 

they had been sitting in a kind of 

air-lock that allowed the large ship 

to enter the confines of the city on 

solid ground. Water dripped down 

the sides of the drying orb. 

Melkins placed a mask on Veedle’s 

face, fastening it behind his head, as 

he had his own. 

“Just breathe naturally,” Melkins 

said in a muffled voice. 

“How long is it good for?” Veedle 

asked. 

Melkins did not reply. 

“Well, Mr. Veedle, it would appear 

that the time is near for your 

grand entrance.” 

Veedle nodded, smiling beneath 

his mask. 

“The famed Timothy Veedle,” 

Melkins said. “You make me sick, 

sir.” 

Veedle continued to grin. 

“I don’t mind telling you now that 

the time is near. I think you know 

how this is going to end for the both 

of us, and I believe that the time for 

fear has just passed. May those who 

you have massacred be avenged 

this day.” 

“Do it,” Veedle commanded. 

Melkins looked over his shoulder 

to watch as the ship was set down 

on the face of the keyhole, the only 

truly flat surface on the vessel. 

Their surroundings, like everything 

else in Damascus City, were made 

of smooth, glowing, natural stone. 

Melkins watched as the creatures 

began to disembark from their ship. 

They looked eerily like humans, 

but with aqueous indigo skin, and 

eyes as black as the midnight sea. 

They wore no clothing, which revealed 

other dissimilarities, but 

Melkins had seen them before and 

was not surprised. 

“Ugly little bastards, aren’t they?” 

Veedle huffed. 

Melkins nodded in silent agreement 

and turned to face Veedle. He 

reached inside his shirt collar for the 

key that would release his traveling 

companion. He slid the key into the 

slot just below Veedle’s neck. The 

restraints released their hold and 

Veedle stretched his arms. 

“Guns,” he said simply. 

Melkins spoke again to the computer, 

“Weapons release. Security 

code: Tidal Devil.” 

Melkins’ seat slid upward to reveal 

a hidden compartment filled 

with weaponry. Hunched over, Veedle 

raided the cache, arming himself 

with two of the largest guns that 

Melkins had ever seen. 

“Release hatch,” Melkins said, a 

small tremble in his voice. 

The top and sides of the ship exploded 

outward, leaving Melkins 

and Veedle standing directly over 


the keyhole, looking at the shocked 

creatures. 

Veedle took advantage of their 

surprise, mowing into them in an 

ear-shattering spray of gunfire. 

Bodies toppled to the hard ground 

in tatters while others began to flee. 

Veedle laughed. 

When none were left standing, 

he looked around for Melkins, 

and found that his portly traveling 

companion was kneeling on the 

ground. 

“No need to be scared of a little 

noise, Doc.” He pointed the business 

end of one of the guns at Melkins’ 

chest and squeezed the trigger. 

Melkins dropped in a heap. Veedle 

stooped to examine the fallen doctor, 

and that was when he noticed 

the electrical wires that attached 

Melkins to the luminous stone floor. 

Pulling the man’s shredded shirt 

open, Veedle saw a rugged-looking 

box that displayed the word activated 

in a digital readout. The wires ran 

from the box to the strangely glowing 

stone upon which he stood. 

“We all died...” cough, “the second 

they let us inside the barrier,” 

Melkins sputtered. “The whole goddamn 

city. And we used their own 

power source to do it.” He smiled 

painfully and rubbed at the device 

strapped to his chest. Red digital 

numbers began descending steadi- 

Page 17

ly. “It was the only way we could do 

it. 

“The hell are you saying, Doc?” 

“You did your part...bought me a 

few moments to charge the bomb. 

You cannot stop it.” He tried to 

laugh. “Remember the Rains of 

November. This war is over.” His 

eyes rolled back in his head and he 

slumped over lifelessly. 

The clock had just sunk under the 

two-minute mark. 

Veedle laughed hysterically. 

Apparently the noise from his 

weapon fire had caught the attention 

of others, because a flood of 

armed guards were making their 

way out of the nearest building, as 

well as from the ship. 

“Two minutes,” Veedle said. “Better 

make it count, then.” 

He steadied both of the enormous 

weapons and charged forward towards 

Damascus City, laughing the 

whole way. 

Into the Deep © 2009 by Brandon Meyers 

DEUCES WILD - Dining With The Enemy 

by L.S. King 

Tristan piloted his old partner Reggie’s 

ship safely through the Confederation 

blockade. Tristan now had to 

face Reggie—where the true danger 

loomed. 

The two guards behind Reggie, 

flanking his chair, raised their 

PBRs. Pursed lips gave away Reggie’s 

uncertainly despite his smug expression. 

“Kudos. I see your skill is no 

less than it used to be. You seem to 

have aged well, like a fine wine. I assume 

your other talents are equally 

as honed.” Reggie still spoke in a bit 

of a close-mouthed drawl, but that 

broken jaw had caused considerable 

damage, after all. It didn’t affect 

his silky voice though, and only increased 

his ability to appear poised. 

Tristan didn’t answer except 

through his stare. Reggie leaned 

back, tenting his fingers in front 

of him, his gaze growing curious. 

“Would you join me for a meal?” 

“Are you giving me a choice?” 

A smile slowly spread. To someone 

who didn’t know Reggie, it 

might seem genuine, but to Tristan, 

it was feral. 

“No.” 

Give in to the inevitable, wait for 


a chance. Tristan stood. Reggie rose 

as well, his lifted eyebrows the only 

indication he was surprised. Did he 

think Tristan would fight or balk? 

Perhaps. He remembered a much 

younger man, one with dark moods 

and an explosive temper. Could 

Tristan use that to his advantage? 

“I apologize but I must ask for you 

to relinquish your vest.” Reggie lifted 

a finger. “And don’t try to palm 

any of your...equipment. You know I 

would see it.” 

And he likely would, having been 

one of Tristan’s teachers in the art. 

His gaze didn’t falter as he took the 

vest off and held it out for a guard 

to take. None of the items was irreplaceable, 

but he would mourn 

the time, effort, and cost if he had 

to be put through the process twice 

within a year. 

One of the guards ran a scanner 

over Tristan, then nodded. 

Reggie swept an arm out, inviting 

Tristan to lead the way. The guards’ 

aim never faltered as Tristan passed. 

Once in the corridor—the plush 

blue fibers on the deck and polished 

dark mahogany moldings indicating 

it was a luxury yacht, Reggie said, 

“The dining room is aft.” 

Page 18

And dining room it was, with 

chandeliers, bulkheads of raised, 

dark mahogany panels accented 

with light, burl moldings, and a large 

table, sumptuously laid. Liszt’s Liebestraum 

played softly. Three servants—from 

their carriage and the 

fact they bore weapons, they doubled 

as guards—waited at various 

points around the room. Tristan did 

a mental calculation; standard crew 

on this class ship was eight. Two on 

the bridge, two stationed behind 

them at the door, and three in the 

room already. Where had the pilot 

been when Tristan was flying the 

ship? And did Reggie double as captain? 

How many people did Tristan 

need to worry about? 

At the table sat Tristan’s companions. 

Slap and Addie both glowering, 

were seated to the left of the empty 

host’s chair. Carter, on the right, appeared 

worried. 

“I was going to confine them to 

cabins, but that wouldn’t be very 

chivalrous for a rescuer, would it?” 

Reggie’s smile flashed as he strutted 

to the head of the table and indicated 

Tristan should sit to his right, 

next to Carter. 

“And besides, I have a feeling that, 

given the chance, Lt. Commander 

Donegal would be attempting some- 

thing ingenious which would be detrimental 

to the ship.” 

Oh, would he ever! The thought 

of what Carter could do to Reggie’s 

ship sent ripples of glee up Tristan’s 

spine. A hint of humor must have 

sparked in Tristan’s eyes as he and 

Reggie sat; his former partner shot 

him an intense, curious glare as he 

unfolded his napkin. 

A servant stepped forward with a 

bottle of wine. Tristan watched with 

veiled amusement as Reggie went 

through the pompous process of 

approving the selection—from sniffing 

the cork, to swirling it his glass, 

and the final show of tasting. 

When he gave the nod of endorsement, 

the servant then proceeded 

around the table. Tristan allowed 

his glass to be filled, but Carter put 

his hand over his. Slap followed suit. 

Addie, sitting across from Tristan, 

let hers be filled, and to his surprise, 

lifted the glass and stuck her nose 

almost into it. After a few moments, 

she took a sip, and held the wine in 

her mouth, lighting swishing it. She 

swallowed, wrinkling her nose, and 

for the first time, endeared herself 

to Tristan’s heart by announcing, 

“Well, that’s very bland.” 

Reggie’s eyes narrowed, then he 

quickly smiled most condescending- 

ly. “I expect your palette is not used 

to fine wines, child.” 

Tristan tasted his wine as Addie 

answered, “I’m not a child, and this 

is tasteless. My daddy taught me 

wines. What is it, a Chenin Blanc? 

Bet it’s from Minatoa or Cepheus. 

Both planets have a reputation for 

letting Chenin overproduce.” 

The girl had it right—the wine 

was very...uninteresting. Reggie’s 

taste hadn’t improved; he still didn’t 

know quality, just played at being 

cultured. 

Reggie’s frown deepened. “The 

wines of Cepheus are renowned.” 

Addie snorted. “Some are, especially 

the wineries on the west coast 

of the main continent in the eastern 

hemisphere. But not all, as this unimaginative 

little wine proves.” 

Tristan silently agreed. He stared 

hard at Addie, realizing he never 

had before. He’d let his eyes slide by 

her, not wishing to acknowledge her 

presence. That Addie was fearless 

in standing toe-to-toe with anyone 

was not news, but that she knew 

what she was talking about was. 

Reggie inhaled and turned to 

Tristan, overtly dismissing Addie. 

“Quaint passenger you picked up. 

Where did you find her, on a garbage 

scow?” 


“Is that supposed to be an insult?” 

Addie shot back. “Try harder 

you pretentious, low-brow gangster.” 

Fighting a smile, Tristan leaned 

back. This could unexpectedly good 

entertainment. 

Slap, sitting next to Addie, patted 

her arm. “Hush, girl. Be good.” 

He then scowled at Reggie. “And 

how do we know the food and drink 

aren’t poisoned?” 

Trust Slap to be blunt. 

Reggie’s smile grew smug. “You 

forget. I rescued you from the ice 

and cold of that planet, and from 

the Confederation. Why would I 

wish to bring harm to my guests?” 

Slap’s one-word reply was pure 

cowboy: direct and earthy. 

“Two very quaint companions, 

I see,” Reggie murmured. “I would 

not say you have come up in the 

world in your choices of friends.” 

Oh, so tempting to retort, but 

Reggie expected it, so Tristan merely 

returned his gaze evenly. 

After a few moments, Reggie 

turned his attention back to Slap. 

“If I wished to kill you, I could have 

merely left you on the planet, or instructed 

one of my guards to shoot 

you.” 

“What about drugging us?” 

Page 19

“The only one I might wish to drug 

is the Lt. Commander here, and that 

only out of concern that he might 

be tempted to...be creative in a misplaced 

effort to be what he feels is 

helpful to his friends.” Reggie’s feral 

smile returned as he turned to regard 

Carter. “But be not alarmed, sir, 

I have no intention of ruining such 

good food, and besides, it would 

eliminate the chance for us to have 

a heart to heart later.” 

Carter didn’t answer. Reggie, still 

smiling, adjusted the napkin in his 

lap. “Shall we dine?” 

A plate of scallops wrapped in bacon 

was set before Tristan. He cut 

his gaze to Reggie, whose expectant 

look slid into one of innocent 

bemusement and then into dismay. 

“Oh, dear. I believe I committed a 

faux pas. Or do you no longer only 

eat kosher foods?” 

Tristan had never kept kashrut 

as Zvi did, although he did follow a 

subset of the laws; a compromise 

of the two beliefs he’d been raised 

with. He avoided the slur intended 

and rounded with one of his own: 

“Company can render even a kosher 

meal treif.” 

“And which rabbi said that?” 

“Rabbi Yuri Rabinovich.” 

Reggie exhaled in a silent laugh. “I 

didn’t know Zvi was a rabbi.” 

“There’s a lot you don’t know.” 

Reggie’s flinty look quickly disappeared 

beneath his cool demeanor, 

and he picked up his fork. After several 

bites, he glanced around the 

table, and his expression became 

pleading. “Do eat. My chef went to 

great trouble. You wouldn’t want his 

feelings hurt.” 

Arms crossed, Addie asked, “Is the 

food any better than the wine?” 

“Addie!” Slap hissed. 

“I’m not afraid of him.” 

Reggie sat back, exhaling in dramatic 

exasperation. “My dear, child, 

there is nothing to fear from me. 

You are all guests.” 

“Then why the armed guards?” 

Slap asked. 

“Besides the fact I require my crew 

to be armed at all times? As long as 

you are under the misapprehension 

that you are in some danger from 

me, I find myself in the position of 

being in danger from you. A delicate 

standoff, isn’t it?” 

“Considering your boss hired you 

to kidnap Tristan, how are we supposed 

to trust you?” 

“Kidnap?” Reggie gazed upward, 

considering, and gave a shrugging 

nod. “I suppose, technically. Monsieur 

Lefevre merely wants to bury 

the hatchet, but your friend”—Reggie 

nodded at Tristan—”being stubborn, 

refuses to believe it.” 

“So why not leave him alone? 

Ain’t that buryin’ the hatchet? Or is 

it that he wants to bury the hatchet 

in Tristan’s neck?” 

“You really should leave discussions 

you know nothing about to 

your betters.” 

Slap’s explosive verbal reply made 

Addie giggle. Reggie ignored it and 

said to Tristan, “You should instruct 

your companions to eat. They must 

eventually give in or starve.” 

“I believe it’s the company, not 

the food, they find distasteful.” 

Reggie’s lips thinned and his face 

grew pinched. He carefully dabbed 

his mouth with the napkin. “Fine. 

You may all eat in your cabins, 

and remain confined there for all I 

care.” 

All four stood at almost the same 

time. Slap looked relieved, and Addie 

grinned. 

“Except you, Lt. Commander. I 

wish to have a word with you.” 

Carter frowned and spoke for the 

first time. “I have nothing to say to 

you.” 

Reggie shrugged. “You can listen 

then.” He nodded to the guards, 

who stepped forward, weapons 


raised. “Please don’t try anything. 

My people are all well-trained, and 

if one of you makes a move, all of 

you will pay the price.” 

Tristan allowed himself to be 

herded out, wondering what Reggie 

wanted to say to Carter. Dray 

was interested in his genius, but did 

Dray realize how badly the Confeds 

wanted Carter, what lengths they 

would go through to get him back? 

Even Dray might find himself biting 

off more than he could chew. 

Interesting scenario. If only 

Tristan and his tag-alongs weren’t 

caught in the middle. He let out a 

long exhale. He needed to plan his 

next move, but he had no idea what 

cards the other players held. 

*** 

Slap eyed the posh suite as the 

two guards escorting him took up 

positions at the door. The living 

room and bar took up more space 

than Bertha’s captain’s cabin, galley, 

and rec lounge/mess. Everything in 

the place was outrageously luxurious, 

from the polished, dark wooden 

panels on the bulkheads to the 

thick, carpet Slap sank into. The furniture 

was...swanky. He wondered 

if Granger would throw a fit if he 

actually sat on anything. The guard 

acting as bartender—or was he a 

Page 20

artender who also doubled as a 

guard?—regarded him distrustfully. 

Granger entered and crossed to 

the bar, smiling like a used rover 

salesman. What is he up to? 

“Please, join me.” Granger nodded 

to the guard who began mixing 

a drink. “What would you like?” 

Slap glared at him. “Your heart 

and liver served up on a platter.” 

Granger’s smile didn’t fade. “Your 

loyalty to your friend is admirable. 

But misplaced.” The guard placed a 

stemmed glass on the bar. Granger 

picked it up and sipped. He stared 

at Slap as if sizing him up. “He tends 

to betray friendships, you know. He 

betrayed me, and our employer, not 

the other way around. No matter 

what he might have told you.” 

Slap leaned an elbow on the bar, 

pretending to stifle a yawn. “Ya got 

anywhere to go with this, or you just 

blowin’ hot air?” 

“He was M. LeFevre’s protégé. 

Groomed to be his successor. Has 

he told you why he left?” 

Slap poked a finger at Granger. 

“Think I’d believe anything from 

space-sucking sleaze like you? You’re 

wastin’ your time. I don’t want to be 

here, I don’t want to listen to you, 

and I ain’t gonna to talk to you no 

more.” 

“He disobeyed our employer, and 

endangered both his life and mine, 

all just for self-gratification. “ 

Slap considered punching Granger, 

but instead decided to be more 

vocal in his rejection of the conversation. 

He leaned his back against 

the bar, crossed his arms, and began 

singing “Home on the Range.” 

By the second line, Granger 

stopped, open-mouthed. He tried 

to talk over Slap’s singing, but Slap 

just sang louder. The lizard’s expression 

changed from amazement to 

irritation to disgust. Finally, he lifted 

a hand as if dismissing Slap and 

turned away, pointing a finger at the 

door guards. They stepped forward 

and gestured with their PBGs. Slap 

let himself be led back to his fancy 

cabin. 

Once back in his gilded cage, he 

prowled wall to wall, helplessness 

and anger growing in him. How did 

the man think he could insult Slap’s 

intelligence—as if Slap couldn’t understand 

or didn’t remember the 

way Granger referred to him to 

Tristan—then try to play up to him? 

Slap might not have the fancy education 

Tristan did, but he wasn’t stupid. 

He wasn’t ever going to believe 

that smooth-talking piece of slime 

was someone he could trust, and 

he wasn’t going to tell him anything 

about Tristan either. 

Was Granger trying this game 

with the others? Carter would know 

better. Addie...Slap grinned, thinking 

of the insults the girl would hurl 

at him, but then he sat, thinking 

hard. Addie would likely give away 

anything she knew or thought she 

knew about Tristan without even 

realizing it. 

But what did she know? As far as 

that went, what did any of them really 

know about the man? Granger 

probably knew more than any of 

them. An irrational twinge of jealousy 

rose in him. As much as his 

friend trusted Slap with his life, he 

didn’t trust him with his past. If he’d 

played Granger’s game, the man 

might have told Slap plenty, but 

twisted, to fit whatever scheme the 

lizard was up to. 

No, he’d rather not know Tristan’s 

past than hear Granger’s version. 

*** 

“Interesting companions you 

have.” Reggie gestured to the chair 

across from him. Tristan glanced 

back at the guards and sat, eyes on 

his opponent. 

“Quite diverse,” Reggie added. 

“I take it you have...interviewed 

all three of them.” 


“But of course.” 

Of course. Tristan wondered what 

each of them had to say to Reggie. 

“You have managed to cultivate 

an incredible amount of loyalty in 

your...companions.” Reggie leaned 

back, swirling the wine in his glass. 

“Or so it seems.” 

Tristan waited. He could hear a 

“but” lurking. 

Reggie let his smirk show. “However, 

one of them is a spy. Do you 

know which one?” 

Addie. Tristan didn’t respond 

aloud and kept his face impassive. 

Reggie often ran fast and loose with 

truth, but Tristan had begun to suspect 

something himself. Sifting Reggie’s 

words might shed some light 

on his own ideas. 

“That girl disappointed her Confederation 

allies when she stopped 

cooperating with them.” 

“I can imagine their kidnapping 

of her had something to do with 

that.” 

“They rescued her from the original 

boors who kidnapped her, but 

that’s when she decided to stop cooperating. 

So,” Reggie paused to sip 

his wine, “they used her as bait to 

get you and Donegal.” 

Addie spying made sense. Her father 

probably put her up to it—he 

Page 21

lost business when the Mordas lost 

control. The Confederation would 

want to fill in a power vacuum, and 

an unscrupulous business man, 

made wealthy by criminals, would 

be a perfect in-road for them to gain 

a foothold. But why would Addie 

stop spying for the Confederation? 

“Is she your lover?” 

Tristan’s thoughts skidded to a 

halt. He blinked. “What?” 

Reggie stopped, open mouthed, 

and a smile slowly spread. “How extraordinary. 

You weren’t aware she’s 

in love with you?” 

Tristan’s astonishment of such a 

far-flung notion gave way to humor, 

and he found himself chuckling. 

“You never were very perceptive, 

were you?” 

Reggie’s grin faded. “I’m serious.” 

Glass in hand, he pointed at Tristan. 

“You, my old, dear friend, must be 

slipping.” 

Tristan opened his mouth to answer, 

but a shudder running through 

the ship stopped him. The klaxon 

blatted, and a voice over the comm 

announced, “We’re under attack!” 

Deuces Wild © 2009 by L.S. King. 

To catch up on previous episodes 

of the adventures of Slap and 

Tristan, visit: 

http://loriendil.com/DW.php 

Deuces Wild is dedicated to 

the memory of my best friend; 

my inspiration for an enduring 

friendship... 

http://loriendil.com/Starsky/ 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NIATTI 


Niatti stood on the platform, 

looking at her father with tears 

in her eyes. 

“Enough of this, honey,” he said. 

“You know I have to go. My crew 

could barely afford the extra week 

I stayed here because of your birthday.” 

“But why can’t I come with you?” 

“We’ve been through all this. You 

really want to leave the spaceport? 

You’ve got friends here, school, your 

mom...” 

“I hate my mom.” 

Her father’s face hardened. “Niatti, 

you shouldn’t say such things. Tell 

me now that you didn’t mean what 

you just said.” 

Niatti gave him a disobedient 

look. He stared back at her, without 

moving a single muscle on his face. 

She gave up after thirty seconds. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t 

mean it.” 

He bent down and patted her 

head. “Honey, the things your 

mother makes you do—especially 

your studies—are all important for 

your future. Don’t be mad at her, 

and don’t give her a hard time. She’s 

got enough trouble as it is.” 

“Why do you defend her?” Niatti 

asked angrily. “She never says good 


things about you. She always calls 

you a—” Niatti stopped, not sure if 

she should finish the sentence. 

Her father gave her a sad smile. 

“Your mother has many reasons to 

be angry with me, honey, and most 

of them are very good reasons.” 

He looked at his ship, the Lunarian, 

which was ready for takeoff. 

Then he turned back to face his 

daughter. “I’ll let you in on a secret. 

You’re still too young to come with 

us, but five years from now, when 

you’re twelve, your mother agreed 

to let you join us for a year, and see 

if you like it. And if you do, and if the 

crew agrees, you will get a permanent 

position on the ship.” 

Niatti leaped on her father, hugging 

him. “Yes! Yes! Sure I’ll like it!” 

“But only if you promise me,” her 

father continued, “to be a good girl, 

do well in school, and not give your 

mother a hard time.” 

“I promise! I promise!” She 

jumped up and down on the metal 

floor. 

Her father smiled. He kissed her 

goodbye, and turned back to his 

ship. 

“Goodbye honey,” he said. “Happy 

birthday, Niatti.” 

*** 

Page 22

Niatti ran into her mother’s office. 

“Daddy’s coming today, right?” 

Her mother shook her head. “No, 

Niatti, your father isn’t coming.” She 

pointed at the large screen hanging 

from the wall. The screen featured a 

picture of the Lunarian in space. The 

system’s news network’s logo appeared 

at the bottom of the screen. 

“That’s daddy’s ship. What...” 

Niatti’s mother pushed a button 

near the screen, and the image on 

it was joined by a voice. “The video 

you see now was sent to us by an organization 

calling themselves ‘Spacers 

for Fair Trade.’ Representatives 

of the organization claim since the 

Coalition does not intend to act according 

to trade agreements made 

with them, they will enforce these 

agreements on their own, and will 

take action against Coalition-favored 

traders.” 

Four smaller, yet heavily armed 

ships suddenly appeared around 

the Lunarian. 

“According to the organization’s 

representatives, the ship seen in 

the video was doing business under 

terms that contradict the agreements, 

with the full knowledge and 

support of the Coalition. After refusing 

the demands not to continue in 

its course...” 

Niatti stopped listening to the reporter’s 

words. Her eyes widened 

as she watched missiles fired from 

all four ships make their way slowly 

to the Lunarian, tearing it apart. The 

ship disintegrated completely after 

a few minutes. 

“A Coalition representative has 

called the attack an act of terrorism, 

and promised that a strong response 

will—” 

Even after her mother turned off 

the screen, Niatti kept staring it, 

speechless. 

“Niatti,” her mother finally said in 

a voice that had a hint of compassion, 

“We’ll have your birthday celebration 

some other day. You don’t 

have to work or go to school today if 

you don’t want to.” 

Niatti finally let what she saw on 

the screen sink in. “No!” 

“Niatti, I understand it’s difficult 

for you, but—” 

“He said he’ll be here! He said he 

was coming to get me!” 

The hint of compassion in her 

mother’s voice turned to anger. “Get 

you where? That’s the life you wanted 

so much? Barely making a living 

in space, looking for trouble?” 

“Yes!” Niatti screamed. “You always 

lied about him, tried to convince 

me—” 

“How did I lie, Niatti? Didn’t I tell 

you that he was going to abandon 

you, just as he abandoned me? 

Didn’t I tell you he was going to fill 

your head with dreams and fantasies, 

and leave you heartbroken at 

the end?” She pointed at the screen 

again. “Can’t you see that this is exactly 

what happened here, for the 

last time, thank god?” 

“I hate you,” Niatti whispered. 

She turned her back on her mother 

and ran out of the office. 

*** 

It was another reception for a 

VIP—that’s what Niatti’s mother 

called spaceport guests who 

brought many ships with them and 

paid a lot of money. In such receptions, 

the spaceport owner and her 

daughter would usually exchange 

pleasantries and sometimes modest 

gifts with the guests. It never took 

more than fifteen minutes, but Niatti 

loathed almost every VIP guest 

in the spaceport and felt like each 

reception lasted for hours. 

“It’s so good to see you, Mr. 

Seward,” her mother said. 

‘Mr. Seward’ was an overgrown 

goon who seemed to fit poorly in 

his fancy suit. “So, you’re the homeowner, 

eh?” He laughed. 

“The owner of this home, and 

many other homes that can host 

your fleet, I assure you. This here is 

my daughter”—Niatti stepped forward, 

dragging her feet, trying to 

make as much noise as possible— 


”who just turned fourteen today. 

And she’s giving me a lot of trouble, 

like any kid her age, but one day 

she’ll be the owner around here.” 

Seward’s smile broadened. 

“That’s a really cute girl you got. 

Here’s something for her.” He pulled 

a nice-looking bracelet from his 

pocket. “Made on a personal order 

at the most prominent workshop on 

Noraj.” 

Niatti remembered hearing about 

the Noraj workshops in the news— 

the Coalition declared their products 

illegal after learning that they 

employed people in slavery conditions. 

She put on the bracelet with 

a rueful look on her face. 

“Now that I’ve seen your kid, it’s 

time for you to see mine. Or something 

like that.” Seward laughed 

again and turned his head to look at 

his ship. “Antoine?” 

A young man came running out 

of Seward’s ship, and stood beside 

him. Antoine’s attempts at social 

pretension were even worse than 

Seward’s. Seward was a rough guy 

who tried to conceal his real character 

with expansive, respectable 

clothing. Antoine, with his unshaven 

face, punk haircut, and the dirty 

look with which he examined Niatti, 

was clearly a criminal of the kind 

she heard a lot about in the news. 

His features contrasted badly with 

Page 23

his fancy uniform. There was also 

something disturbingly familiar 

about the uniform too, but Niatti 

couldn’t figure out just what it was. 

“An extraordinarily talented young 

man,” said Seward. “When I picked 

him up, he was just released from 

the jail in Amjan, and they wanted 

to send him to work on mineral production, 

of all things. Now look at 

him. Barely twenty-two years old, 

and he’s already commanding my 

fleet. I’m telling you...” 

Antoine smiled at Niatti when 

he noticed her attention to him. 

Dream on, she thought. Then she 

understood what seemed so familiar 

about his uniform—it was the insignia 

on his sleeve. Where has she 

seen it before? 

“...those Coalition idiots wouldn’t 

dare to give me any more trouble. It 

took them some time, but now they 

finally understand who’s really running 

things in the system.” 

“No doubt about it,” Niatti’s 

mother agreed. “These people have 

to learn things the hard way.” 

Then Niatti finally remembered. 

She stormed at Antoine with a 

scream, scratching his face with her 

well-manicured nails. Antoine began 

fighting back. Her mother grabbed 

her as Seward did Antoine, struggling 

to break the two apart. 

“Niatti,” her mother hissed, “I 

don’t know what you think you’re 

doing but...” 

“This man killed daddy!” 

“Calm down right now, or else 

I’ll—” 

“Look at the insignia on his uniform! 

It’s the same one that appeared 

on those ships that—” 

The slap on Niatti’s face wasn’t 

strong, but it was enough to silence 

her. She looked at her mother 

through tears. 

“Go to my office and wait for me 

there.” 

Niatti blinked to make her tears 

go away. She wouldn’t let Antoine, 

Seward, or her mother see her cry. 

Just before leaving the platform, 

she noticed that the insignia from 

Antoine’s uniform also appeared on 

his ship. Seward’s ship. 

*** 

The ship that finished the docking 

process was old and rusty. It seemed 

at home among the platform’s noisy 

generators and leaking pipes. But 

the officer who came out—an impressively 

tall woman whose short 

grey hair, ironed uniform, and shiny 

ranks stood in sharp contrast to 

her miserable-looking ship—didn’t 

seem to mind. 

“It’s actually above the standards 

we’re used to,” she said, amused. 

“I’m very sorry...” Niatti checked 

her board “Colonel Chen. I’m afraid 

all the other platforms are occupied.” 

“No need to apologize or make 

excuses, my dear. We’re already 

used to the fact that reasonable 

platforms are reserved for paying 

customers, good platforms are reserved 

for well-paying customers, 

and luxury platforms are reserved 

for the criminal types. The garbage 

platforms are reserved for us the... 

how does your boss call us, anyway? 

On other spaceports I hear ‘parasites,’ 

‘vampires,’ ‘fleas.’” 

“My boss isn’t such a colorful type. 

For her, you’re all just ‘scams.’” 

The Colonel laughed. “How very 

disappointing. Anyway, we get sent 

to places like this all the time. What 

did you do to get the punishment of 

handling us?” 

“I’m kept out of VIP platforms till 

further notice. But handling VIPs is 

the real punishment. I’d rather work 

with people like you.” Niatti’s board 

beeped. “Everything looks okay. Tell 

your people they can get off the ship 

and settle in. You know the rules— 

no wandering outside your assigned 

platform, and you need to check 

with me before leaving.” 

The Colonel raised an eyebrow. 

“You don’t intend to check our cargo?” 

“I just did.” 


“I mean, physically. Board our 

ship, see if we’re not hiding anything.” 

Niatti tapped her board. “You 

gave me your cargo manifest. That’s 

enough for me.” 

“And your boss knows that you 

show such trust in Coalition Patrol 

personnel?” 

“My boss never bothers to get 

down here herself, so she’ll never 

find out.” 

“Still, what would you do if it turns 

that we brought some weapons 

with us to get rid of some problematic 

people in your VIP platforms?” 

Niatti’s voice grew cold. “Let me 

know if you did. I’ll be glad to show 

you the way.” 

The Colonel laughed again, and 

patted on Niatti’s shoulder. “I’m 

sorry, dear, but we didn’t bring any 

weapons with us here this time.” 

She frowned. “We really need to 

do something about these people, 

someday. But until then...” 

She smiled again. “We have some 

merchandise we confiscated from 

smugglers. We didn’t report it, and 

we need to get rid of it before we 

get back. It just happens to be the 

kind of merchandise that our cook 

can work miracles with. So how 

about it, dear? You feel like joining 

the scams for a luxury dinner? I can 

promise you something at least as 

Page 24

good as the stuff they serve in your 

VIP platforms.” 

Niatti blushed. “I’d be honored.” 

*** 

Niatti stood in her mother’s office, 

wearing a Coalition Patrol uniform. 

Her mother’s voice was cold 

and no-nonsense as usual. 

“Go back to your room and take 

that costume off. I don’t want to see 

you walking around the platform 

wearing it.” 

Niatti sighed. “I always had the 

feeling that you forgot my birthday. 

So here’s an update for you: today 

I’m officially past the age in which 

you can tell me what to do.” 

“On the other hand, you’re also 

probably old enough for me to give 

up on you, and just let you go without 

any guilty conscience.” 

“That’s already taken care of. In 

two hours, I’m boarding a Patrol 

ship in platform 212, and you won’t 

have to see or hear from me again, 

ever.” 

Her mother seemed as though 

she was about to retort with her 

own snappy answer, but then she 

leaned back in her chair, and her 

face softened in an expression that 

Niatti hasn’t seen before—a combination 

of tiredness, sadness, and 

despair. 

“Before you board that ship, at 

least sit down and hear my side. I 

know you don’t believe this, but I 

want you to stay here.” 

Niatti sat and gave her mother a 

suspicious look. “Why? Ever since 

you brought Seward and his gang to 

the ports, you kept reminding me 

how I always stand in the way and 

never do any good.” 

“I brought Seward here because 

of you, Niatti. I grew up with nothing, 

had to fight to buy my first spaceport. 

Now, thanks to Seward, all the 

spaceports in the system are mine.” 

Niatti could hear the pride in her 

mother’s voice. “And one day they’ll 

be yours, which means you will own 

the system. Give it a chance, Niatti. I 

only want what’s good for you.” 

Niatti shrugged. “Even if I give it a 

chance, it will do no good. The Coalition 

is about to approve nationalization 

of all spaceports next month, 

and everything you worked so hard 

for will be gone. Seward managed 

to get on too many people’s bad 

side, and now he’s going to take you 

down with him.” 

Her mother gave her a dismissive 

gesture. “They can nationalize the 

spaceports all they want. It’s meaningless 

if they can’t enforce it.” 

“And you’re not going to let it 

happen.” 

“Exactly.” 

“So what are you saying? We’re 

going to war?” 

“We certainly are, and the ridiculous 

uniform you’re wearing 

belongs to the side that’s going to 

lose. You’ve seen enough Coalition 

Patrol ships, Niatti. You really think 

that these pieces of junk can stand 

against Seward’s fleet?” 

“Is that what you want to leave 

behind for me? The system will be 

all mine, I’ll just have to share it with 

a gang of criminals?” 

Her mother responded with a bitter 

smile. “You don’t have to believe 

everything you hear in the news, 

Niatti. Seward’s people aren’t terrorists—” 

“I said criminals, not terrorists. 

Terrorists at least pretend to work 

for some noble cause. Seward and 

his gang don’t even do that anymore—they 

stopped around the 

same time you let them into the 

spaceports.” 

“If it’s about your father—” 

“Yes, it’s about dad. But it’s also 

about extorting protection money 

from passengers in Diamond, running 

blood-merchandise through 

Emerald, and especially the way you 

broke the worker’s strike in Onyx.” 

Niatti paused for a few seconds, 

when she noticed the guilt on her 

mother’s face. “Those people were 

your friends, I even went to school 

with the daughter of one of them. 


How could you let it happen?” 

Her mother closed her eyes and 

leaned back. “I admit, I should have 

handled it differently, probably gone 

there myself instead of sending Antoine—” 

“Sending Antoine to do anything 

is a bad idea, period.” 

“You’re being unfair, Niatti. Antoine 

had a very hard life, and still 

managed to get far. He’s a talented 

young man, and unlike some people, 

he’s willing to listen to others 

who know a thing or two about the 

system.” Now it was her mother’s 

turn to hesitate. “I know you two 

haven’t gotten along very well so 

far, and it’s not just your fault— 

Antoine certainly needs to restrain 

himself in both his professional and 

social behavior. But I’m sure it will 

happen, and someday you’ll need 

him here besides you, to help you 

run the spaceports but also for—” 

Niatti’s eyes widened. “So that’s 

what you had in mind for me. Not 

just spaceports filled with criminals, 

but also marriage to a psychopath.” 

“I had no intention of dragging 

you to church, Niatti. You’ve already 

proven that I can’t force you into 

anything. But if you’re so unhappy 

about what goes on around here, 

this is your big chance to change 

things.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

Page 25

Her mother smiled, pulling an 

official-looking document out of 

her desk drawer. “You were wrong 

about me forgetting your birthday. 

I just waited for you to be old 

enough.” 

Niatti examined the document. 

It was a contract that transferred 

many of the management duties in 

the spaceports to her. “It looks very 

impressive,” she admitted. 

“You earned it. I heard many 

compliments about the work you 

do with ships that dock in the lower 

platforms—and these people 

had nothing but complaints before 

you started working there. I’m sure 

you’ll do a great job with the more 

prestigious platforms as well. And 

with all the other spaceports too. 

What do you think?” 

Niatti stared at the contract, not 

answering. 

Her mother leaned forward— 

could she feel Niatti’s dilemma? 

“Look, you’ve got an almost unlimited 

budget for anything you 

want—clothes, residence, transportation—you 

won’t get even close to 

such conditions in the army, even if 

they’ll make you Chairman of the 

Joint Chiefs of Staff someday.” Her 

mother smiled. “It’s never too late 

to start over, Niatti. Let’s start over. 

I’m sick of fighting with you.” 

Niatti put the document on her 

mother’s desk and got up. “No.” 

Her mother’s face hardened. 

“I will not be a part of what’s going 

on in the ports. As long as Seward is 

here, it doesn’t matter how much 

management duties you’ll give 

me—the ports will still be a den of 

criminals.” 

“Very well,” her mother’s voice 

returned to its familiar cold, ruthless 

tone. “If that’s your choice, and 

I can’t convince you, go board that 

Patrol ship. But the moment you do 

that, it’s a one-way ticket. You’re 

completely on your own—I have no 

intention of going after you, or even 

checking how you are doing. And 

don’t dare run back to me if you’ll 

discover that military life isn’t for 

you—as I’m sure you will.” 

Niatti turned her back to her 

mother, and walked to the door. Her 

mother’s voice chased her. 

“Think about it in the next two 

hours, Niatti. Your father tried playing 

by the rules. How far did it get 

him?” 

She left her mother’s office, saying 

nothing. 

*** 

Another shot missed Niatti’s head 

by a few inches, burning a black mark 

on the wall behind her. She dove for 

cover behind the stacked tables and 

crates of the storage room of the 

Amber spaceport. 

“Remind me again,” Samir asked, 

“why did we stay here after the order 

to retreat?” 

“I didn’t ask you to join me, 

Samir,” she answered. “I wouldn’t 

leave the Colonel behind, but that’s 

my problem. You could have joined 

the others.” 

“What, and let you get court-martialed 

alone? No way.” He grinned. 

“I’m sure the first thing the Colonel 

will do once we rescue her—” he 

paused for a second, when another 

shot was fired, “—will be to file a 

complaint against the three of us 

for not following orders. You’ll need 

company in military prison.” 

Sergei gave them both a disapproving 

look. “I hate to stop you 

two lovebirds while you’re having so 

much fun, but I’m out of ammo and 

if you have any left—” 

He didn’t get to complete the 

sentence. A shot blew a large hole in 

the center of his face. His body froze 

for a second before falling on the 

floor. Niatti and Samir both stared at 

him, paralyzed, horrified. 

The firing stopped, and a threatening 

silence spread in the room. 

A familiar voice broke it, just as Niatti 

began to recover from the shock 

of what she just saw. “I know you’re 

there, Niatti, along with some other 

asshole from the Coalition Patrol. I 


want both of you to come out with 

your hands raised.” 

“Screw you, Antoine,” she shouted 

back. 

A short laughter came in response. 

“Fine. Come out with your 

guns, if you want. You won’t dare 

shoot me anyway.” 

Niatti began to rise before she 

felt Samir’s hand pulling her back. 

“You’re out of your mind? He’s 

probably got at least ten mercenaries 

out there with him!” 

“I don’t care. I’ve been dreaming 

for years about shooting this man.” 

She leapt up, aiming her gun— 

and froze when she saw Antoine 

holding Chen with one arm, his own 

gun to her head with the other. 

“I’m in a generous mood today,” 

said Antoine, “So I’ll repeat my offer. 

Drop your gun and raise your 

hands.” 

Niatti stared at Chen, who gave 

her an angry look. “Lieutenant, I 

gave you an order—” One of the 

guards accompanying Antoine 

hit Chen in her stomach, and she 

moaned in pain. 

Antoine was getting impatient. 

“The gun, Niatti. Now!” 

Niatti eyes ran from Chen to Antoine. 

She could do it. She was a 

pretty good shot... 

“Dammit, Lieutenant, shoot him 

already!” 

Page 26

Niatti stared at Chen’s frustrated 

expression. Then she slowly let 

go of the trigger, and dropped her 

gun. “Sorry, Colonel. Can’t take that 

chance. I still owe you dinner.” 

Antoine did not look convinced. 

“Tell your boyfriend to do the 

same.” 

“Samir?” Niatti knew she had no 

right to expect Samir not to try anything 

stupid—not when she herself 

gave such a bad example. But surprisingly, 

he came out almost immediately 

after she called him and 

dropped his gun. He was probably 

under the wrong impression that 

Niatti knew what she was doing. 

Samir ordered two of his guards 

to cuff them. Then he gave Niatti 

that satisfied smile she hated so 

much. 

“The prodigal daughter returns,” 

he grinned. “Too bad she brought 

some unpleasant guests with her.” 

He threw Chen on the floor and shot 

her in the back. Her scream echoed 

off the walls. 

Niatti and Samir began struggling, 

to no avail—the firm grip of the 

guards held them in their place. Antoine’s 

eyes moved joyfully between 

their frustrated struggle and Chen’s 

painful crawling on the floor. 

He shot again, hitting Chen’s 

left leg. For a second, she seemed 

about to surrender to the pain, but 

then she kept dragging herself stubbornly 

across the floor. Antoine was 

about to shoot again, but instead he 

paused, his look fixated on the tortured 

body at his feet. 

Niatti understood what Chen was 

trying to do a second before Antoine 

did. The gun dropped by Samir was 

at her left hand’s reach—a fact she 

concealed by keeping that hand at 

the side of her body. With her remaining 

strength, Chen managed to 

pick up the gun, aim it at Antoine, 

and pull the trigger. 

The trigger’s clicked on empty 

cartridge. 

Time froze for a second, as Chen 

stared helplessly, the gun still aimed 

at Antoine. Then she finally gave in 

to the pain, letting her hand drop in 

an agonized cry. Antoine shot her 

again three times, aiming at non-vital 

areas in her body to prolong her 

suffering. 

Her body stopped moving a minute 

later. 

“Take him to one of the cells,” Antoine 

told the guard who held Samir. 

He then turned to Niatti, running his 

finger along her face. 

She spat on him, and he laughed. 

“That’s very good, you need to 

practice. You’re going to drool on 

me quite a lot, Lieutenant,” the last 

word was said in a mocking imitation 

of Chen’s voice. 

He turned to the guard that held 

Niatti. “Take her to the infirmary, and 

have her injected with something 

that will calm her down without 

taking her completely out of action. 

Then bring her to my room. Pass 

through the merchandise section on 

the way, and have them fit her with 

something nice to wear. We’re going 

to have some fun tonight.” His smile 

widened. “We’re going to have fun 

every night, from now on.” 

Niatti kept struggling all the way 

to the infirmary, until she felt the 

needle in her arm. 

*** 

Every time over the next year, Niatti 

returned from Antoine’s room to 

her cell with a guard accompanying 

her. The guard was strong enough 

to prevent any attempted escape, 

but also young enough to feel sympathy 

for her. It began with friendly 

smiles and nervous looks at her torn 

clothes and the signs of violence on 

her body. Then, a week ago, he no 

longer held her cuffed while going 

to the cell and allowed her to walk a 

few feet ahead of him. Niatti thought 

it was very unfortunate, considering 

what she was about to do. 

They reached the cell, and Niatti 

forced herself to wait while 

the guard punched the code that 

opened the door. When he reluc- 


tantly motioned her to get in, she 

made a single step toward the cell, 

and then turned around, drew 

the knife hidden in her dress, and 

stabbed the guard in his left eye. 

The guard fell to the floor, screaming. 

Samir leapt out of the cell. He 

picked up the guard’s gun, aimed it 

at him, and shot. 

“No!” Niatti hit Samir’s hand, 

causing him to miss. 

Samir gave her an angry look. 

“Every cry coming from him informs 

the other guards that something’s 

wrong.” 

“So let’s just get out of here. 

Just...” she looked at the guard, who 

was still on the floor, crying. “Just 

leave him alone.” 

They had the advantage of surprise 

when they reached the prison 

section’s exit—both guards posted 

there died from Samir’s shots before 

they managed to draw their own 

weapons. One of them did manage 

to push a button on the wall, and 

sounds of alarm began filling the 

corridors. Niatti and Samir hid in a 

small corridor just outside the prison 

section, and watched a group of 

guards running in. When the last 

guard passed, they both began running 

in the opposite direction. 

Niatti remembered how, as a 

child, she ran through similar corridors 

to avoid her mother. She just 

Page 27

hoped that the guards’ presence on 

the spaceport dwindled since she 

was captured. 

Samir started showing signs of 

exhaustion an hour after their escape, 

and they had to stop every 

few minutes for him to recover his 

strength. After a year of not being 

able to see him clearly in the darkness 

of the cell, she now noticed 

that he was sickeningly thin. She 

was in a somewhat better shape, 

especially since Antoine decided to 

accompany her torture-nights with 

luxurious dinners. A very bad decision, 

she thought as she recalled the 

knife she managed to smuggle out. 

Then a memory of the guard she 

stabbed flashed, and she felt consumed 

by guilt. 

“Look,” she finally told Samir. 

“We can’t go on like this. We’ll find 

a place to hide, you’ll get some rest 

and I’ll steal some food—” 

“Don’t be stupid. We’re getting 

out of this spaceport as fast as we 

can. Figured out how we’re going to 

do that?” 

She hesitated. “Cargo section. 

We need to look for an unmanned 

ship with organic cargo—they are 

launched automatically.” 

Samir frowned. “Organic cargo? 

We’ll be spending the next three 

weeks with chickens and cows and 

all their shit?” 

Niatti sighed. “Organic cargo 

ships are the only unmanned ships 

that contain a supply of oxygen and 

food.” It was chickens’ and cows’ 

food, but Niatti decided to keep that 

little detail for herself. 

“So how long does it take us to 

get there?” 

“Three hours, since we don’t use 

elevators. Hanging in corridors like 

this one for too long is also a bad 

idea.” 

When they started moving again, 

Niatti discovered that her assessment 

was too optimistic. Samir had 

to take longer breaks to recover, and 

at their current pace, it would take 

them more than a day to get to the 

cargo section. 

“Just leave me here,” he finally 

told her. 

“I will not.” 

“Haven’t you learned anything, 

Niatti? The reason we got in this 

mess to begin with is because you 

wouldn’t leave the Colonel behind 

here.” 

“That’s because you don’t leave 

people behind, Samir. Besides, Chen 

could give me orders. You can’t. In 

fact, I can give you orders. Get on 

your feet, Sergeant.” 

“So I’m going to disobey your order, 

just as you did, Lieutenant. I’m 

not going anywhere.” 

“If you’re not going, than I’m stay- 

ing here with you.” 

“Well, at least we tried.” He 

turned to one of the iron walls, and 

kicked it. A faint echo was heard 

throughout the corridors. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

“Noise, Niatti. They’ll be coming 

here to get me soon, so you’d better 

run.” 

He kicked the wall again, harder—and 

this time he cursed in pain 

immediately afterwards. The sight 

was almost funny. 

“Samir, that’s enough!” 

He gave her a desperate look. 

“Enough yourself, Niatti. You want 

to help me? Find a way out of here, 

and come back with the entire Coalition 

Patrol.” 

She hesitated for another second 

before turning her back on him and 

running. She could hear his body 

falling on the floor behind her. 

*** 

Niatti’s body started shaking. 

In the year since she escaped the 

spaceport, her body behaved the 

same way every evening, as though 

it was still getting ready for its daily 

abuse, bringing up memories of 

breath-stench, rude bragging, and 

endless pain. 

She opened the pack, got a cigarette, 

and brought it to her mouth 


while struggling to keep her hand 

steady and light it. The heat spread 

through her body, and the shaking 

was gone. She sank into her leather 

chair, slowly letting the smoke out 

of her lungs. 

Her body started shaking again 

almost immediately after she finished 

the cigarette. She needed another 

one. She sent a nervous hand 

toward the pack on the desk. It fell, 

and all the cigarettes rolled in different 

directions. It didn’t matter, 

really—she could pick them all up 

later. All she needed now was one 

more cigarette. She bent under the 

desk and took one. 

She sat back on her chair and was 

about to light the new cigarette, 

when she noticed that someone 

was standing at the other side of the 

desk. It was General Matsumoto, 

the newly-appointed commander 

of the spaceports campaign. 

“What do you want?” she asked 

impatiently. 

“I want many things, Captain. But 

we can start by satisfying my curiosity 

as to why you don’t get up and 

salute a senior officer when he enters 

your office.” 

“Funny, I expected you to be worried 

about bigger things, Sir. Like 

the war they let you handle. You 

know—the one we’re losing.” 

“We’ll get to that too, Captain, 

Page 28

don’t worry. But before we do, 

would you mind telling me why you 

didn’t attend the memorial service 

today?” 

Niatti lit her cigarette, and the 

shaking disappeared again. She 

blew the smoke in the General’s 

face. “Because I’m sick of it, Sir.” 

“’Sick of it,’ Captain?” he responded 

with a disgusted look. 

“I’m sick of it. All of it. All this circus 

where you cast me as a clown. 

‘Memorial service’ my ass. You don’t 

really care about the Colonel and 

Sergei. All you want is that the big 

hero of the Coalition will re-live her 

moments of pain in front of school 

kids, or new recruits, or some representatives 

that need to approve this 

budget or another. And I’m sick of it. 

I went through my torture in prison, 

and I refuse to keep going through it 

over and over, this time in the service 

of the Coalition Patrol.” 

The General gave her a cold look. 

“Captain, you seem to be under the 

wrong impression that you are doing 

the Coalition Patrol some kind 

of favor by attending these events. 

You aren’t. You are under orders to 

attend them, and you’re failure to 

appear to the memorial service today 

joins many other orders you disobeyed 

since you returned—in fact, 

even before you returned, counting 

your decision to stay in that space- 

port and try to rescue Colonel Chen. 

So to answer your question, I came 

here to tell you that it’s over. Everyone 

in the high ranks has run out of 

sympathy or patience for your behavior.” 

Niatti wasn’t impressed. “So what 

do you have in mind for me, Sir? 

You’re going to court-martial me 

and throw me in prison? It’s going 

to look bad if you’ll do that to the 

woman you’ve worked so hard to 

portray as the big hero of the Coalition. 

Discharge me from service? It 

will look even worse once I’ll be a 

civilian, and have some juicy, heartbreaking 

stories to tell the media.” 

The General was equally unimpressed. 

“I’ve dealt with bigger PR 

problems in the past, Captain. But 

I already have the perfect solution 

for your problem—far more elegant 

than prison or discharge.” 

“Really?” 

“Captain, ever since you returned, 

Headquarters has been swamped 

by requests from the Mental Health 

Department to have you committed. 

They’ve been dreaming of a 

patient like you for years—someone 

they can test all their new traumatreatments 

on. One word from me 

and you’ll spend the rest of your 

service, and your retirement as well, 

as a happy idiot staring at trees in 

some institute.” He gave another 

disgusted look at the cigarettes that 

fell on the floor. “An improvement, 

compared to your current lifestyle, 

if you ask me.” 

Niatti realized she had lost. “I’m 

sorry, Sir,” she whispered. “I promise 

to make myself available for any 

future event in which you’ll require 

my presence.” 

The General sighed. “I’m afraid 

that you’ll have bigger things to 

deal with, Captain.” He placed a 

small projector on her desk, and a 

three-dimensional map of the system 

appeared. “We decided on a 

new strategy. Instead of trying to 

break into the inner spaceports, 

we’ll concentrate on taking all the 

outer spaceports first. It will take 

more time, but after we’ll have all 

the outer spaceports, we can shut 

down Seward’s supply lines, and 

getting to the inner spaceports will 

be easier. I believe you’re familiar 

with the man in charge of the outer 

spaceports—someone by the name 

of Antoine.” 

Niatti blinked. “How did Seward’s 

golden boy become the guard-dog 

for the garbage-spaceports?” 

“We’re not sure, but Intelligence 

heard some interesting rumors. One 

of them claims that your mother 

learned of what you went through 

in prison, and didn’t take it very 

well. Seward probably decided to 


keep Antoine as far away from your 

mother as possible.” 

“Tell Intelligence that they can 

send my mother a nice card for the 

next Mother’s Day, as long as they 

don’t expect me to sign it.” 

The General hesitated. “Now that 

you mention it, it’s a long shot, but 

we’re actually exploring the possibility 

of trying to contact your mother 

and—” 

Niatti shook her head violently. 

“No. Forget it. If that’s what you 

came here to ask me—” 

“Captain, remember what I just 

told you about how nobody’s asking 

you for any favors? If we’ll manage 

to contact your mother, you’ll be 

under orders to cooperate, and you 

will. Are we clear on this?” 

Niatti said nothing, but nodded. 

“But like I said, this isn’t a likely 

scenario. We need you for other 

things.” The General pushed one 

of the projector’s buttons, and all 

the outer spaceports changed their 

color to red. “Captain, you know the 

spaceports like no other soldier in 

the patrol. This knowledge is an asset 

we should have used a long time 

ago. We intend to start now—you’ll 

be appointed as a special advisor to 

Headquarters, helping them build 

the strategy that will help us take 

the outer spaceports. And you’d 

better get ready for many sleepless 

Page 29

nights, because you’ll have a lot of 

work on your hands.” 

Niatti stared at the map. The 

role that the General just described 

wasn’t too glamorous, but it was 

much better than the toy-soldier the 

Patrol made of her since her escape. 

She was about to ask the General 

when she was leaving, but then she 

noticed something strange. 

“Sir, why is the Ruby spaceport 

colored differently from the others?” 

“This? Oh, it’s from a previous 

map. Intelligence thinks that this is 

where Seward keeps his prisoners. 

She felt her pulse quickens. 

“Samir too?” 

“If he’s still alive.” 

“Sir, I request permission to take 

part in the campaign.” 

The General raised an eyebrow. 

“As I just explained, Captain, you 

will.” 

“No, I mean a frontline job: fighting, 

commanding—” 

The General laughed. “Sure, Captain. 

Anything you say.” 

“Sir—” 

“Captain, you’ve been a wreck 

ever since you returned. You’re very 

lucky to have enough useful information 

in your head, but that’s no 

reason to give you a weapon and 

send you to the frontline. In fact, it’s 

a very good reason not to do that.” 

“Sir, I demand to be given a frontline 

job.” 

“And if you won’t, Captain?” 

She stared into his eyes. “Then 

you can call the Mental Health Department, 

and tell them to start 

trying all their new treatments on 

me.” 

A moment of silence followed, finally 

broken by the General. “Very 

well, I’ll have you assigned to a 

campaign ship. It’s actually a good 

idea—you’ll perform better as an 

advisor closer to the front.” 

“And then?” 

“We’ll see. I still don’t think you’re 

fit for combat duty, and you’ll have to 

work very hard to make me change 

my mind.” The General turned to 

the door, but stopped before he got 

out of the office. “One more thing, 

Captain. If you’ll get caught lighting 

one of these”—he pointed at the 

cigarettes on the floor—”onboard a 

campaign ship, you’ll get thrown to 

a military prison for a long time. And 

trust me, no matter how big a hero 

you are, there wouldn’t be any PR 

damage because of that sentence. 

None.” 

The Captain left and Niatti could 

feel her body shaking again. She 

was about to pick up a cigarette 

from the floor but stopped halfway. 

She leaned back in her chair, waiting 

for her body to stop shaking on its 

own. 

*** 

Niatti decided to try again. “This 

is the twenty-third platoon, calling 

Siberni,” she called on her communicator. 

“Requesting permission to 

break into the prison section.” 

“Permission denied, twenty-third. 

Please remain where you are and 

wait for further orders.” 

Niatti cursed loudly, without 

bothering to turn off her communicator. 

General Matsumoto’s voice finally 

came on-line. “That’s enough, 

Major.” 

“Sir, I don’t understand why the 

delay in the permission to attack.” 

“Headquarters still isn’t convinced 

you’re the right person to 

lead this attack. And I share some of 

their concerns.” 

“Sir, I have led the attack on five 

other sections in this spaceport, and 

I don’t remember anyone complaining.” 

“Major, the objective in this attack 

is releasing the prisoners, and 

completing the takeover of the 

spaceport.” 

“I’m well aware of that, Sir.” 

“Nothing else. I don’t want to 

hear about any soldier, including 

you, who decided to save work for 

the tribunals. Whenever a mercenary 

surrenders, he or she is taken 


prisoner. Understood?” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

There was a pause. “Very well. 

I’m authorizing your platoon to 

launch the attack. Call another platoon 

for backup. Good luck, Major.” 

The communicator went silent. 

Niatti switched it to speaker mode. 

“This is a message to all mercenaries 

in the prison section,” she called, 

her voice echoing beyond the section’s 

shuttered doors. “The Coalition 

Patrol is now in control of all the 

other sections in this spaceport. We 

demand that you will all come out, 

surrender, and deliver your weapons 

to us. We promise a fair trial to 

any mercenary who surrenders.” 

She waited another couple of 

minutes, and when no response 

came from the other side, she motioned 

the soldiers in her platoon 

to start moving, and called the fiftyfirst 

platoon to secure the exit. 

The prison section’s corridors 

were too narrow for her platoon 

to act effectively, and she split it 

into several squads, leading one 

squad herself. A few minutes later, 

the communicator came alive with 

reports from the other squads’ fire 

exchanges. 

No guards were seen in the corridors 

where Niatti’s squad advanced. 

A few prisoners in the cells along 

these corridors noticed the squad 

Page 30

and started banging on the doors, 

expecting to be released—but that 

would have to wait until the entire 

section was secured. 

Niatti led her squad to the section’s 

management offices. The offices’ 

doors were large, armored, 

and blocked from the inside. They 

used an explosive charge to open 

them. As the corridor cleared of 

smoke, the people on the other 

side began firing. Niatti ordered her 

squad to keep cover while the mercenaries 

wasted their ammunition. 

When the firing stopped, she called 

a squad of the fifty-first platoon to 

act as her cover, and ordered her 

own squad to charge. 

Four guards waited for them on 

the other side of the door. An accurate 

shot by Niatti caused one of 

them to drop his weapon. Two other 

guards weren’t so lucky, and they 

fell, dead, when the other soldiers 

in Niatti’s squad hit them. The last 

one dropped his weapon and raised 

his hands. Reluctantly following Niatti’s 

orders, a soldier in her squad 

cuffed him. 

There wasn’t any time for victory 

celebrations. The next room 

the squad stormed into was some 

kind of lounge for the guards, and 

some of them hid behind a cover 

of assembled luxury furniture. A 

shot missed Niatti’s head, and for a 

split second she recalled the battle 

against Antoine in a similar place. 

But now they’re on the side that 

needs to take cover, she thought as 

she shot back. 

The guards stopped firing after 

a few minutes. Niatti estimated 

two or maybe three people there. 

She decided to give them another 

chance. “It is over, people!” she 

called through the speaker. “Even if 

you’ll manage to escape this room, 

the entire spaceport is now under 

Coalition control. Come out and 

drop your weapons!” 

There was no reply. Niatti was 

about to order her soldiers to 

charge, when a small black object 

was thrown at her squad. The soldier 

standing next to Niatti jumped 

on her, pinned her to the ground, 

and absorbed most of the explosion 

with her body—saving Niatti’s life. 

Niatti wasn’t sure how much time 

passed before she could see again, 

and before the explosion’s echo 

stopped ringing in her ears. Her 

head still ached. She looked around 

the room that was now filled with 

bodies. All her squad’s soldiers were 

dead, as were the guards—the explosion 

collapsed their cover on 

them. Didn’t the idiots realize what 

would happen if they threw a grenade? 

The backup squad she called ear- 

lier swarmed into the room. The 

squad’s leader helped her up. She 

couldn’t understand what he was 

saying. She rose and noticed that 

her legs were unsteady. Two other 

soldiers grabbed her gently by the 

shoulders and started leading her 

out of the room. 

No, no way. She shook free from 

their grasp, and started to limp toward 

the last office. The squad’s 

leader tried blocking her way, talked 

to her, said things she couldn’t 

and didn’t want to understand. She 

pushed him away and opened the 

door. 

Inside the room, behind a large 

wooden desk, holding a gun aimed 

at his own head, was a single mercenary. 

He wore a patch on one eye. A 

look of recognition appeared in his 

other eye when he saw Niatti. 

It was the same guard who took 

her to and from Antoine’s room. 

The same guard who gave her sympathetic 

looks. The same guard she 

stabbed in the eye. 

She leaped toward him in a desperate 

scream, and the few feet 

that separated them turned into 

miles as he slowly pulled the trigger. 

She fell on the floor, crying, when a 

huge red spot appeared on the wall 

behind the desk. 

*** 


The tense silence onboard the 

bridge drove Niatti crazy. Finally, a 

voice was heard through the speakers. 

“This is the sixty-third platoon 

calling Siberni. We have Sapphire. 

Repeat: we have Sapphire.” 

The silence broke immediately, as 

the bridge filled with cheers. Niatti 

remained silent, but she could feel 

the tension disappearing from her 

muscles. General Matsumoto approached 

her. 

“We have all the outer spaceports. 

And it’s largely thanks to you, 

Colonel.” 

Niatti smiled. “The really tough 

job is still waiting for us with the inner 

spaceports, Sir.” 

He nodded. “So I think it will be 

a good idea for you to get back to 

your room and get some sleep. We 

need you in your best shape on the 

staff meeting tomorrow.” 

She left the bridge relieved, as 

she didn’t feel like joining the other 

celebrating officers. Besides, she really 

did feel tired. Maybe she’ll even 

manage to sleep without taking the 

pills... 

Niatti froze when she noticed the 

door to her room was open. She 

held classified material in there— 

but that was supposed to be okay, 

because the door could only be 

opened by authorized personnel. 

Page 31

So what was it? A prank? Surprise 

party? She hoped not. She didn’t 

feel like celebrating in her room any 

more than she felt like celebrating 

on the bridge. 

She stepped inside. The door 

closed behind her and she was 

about to turn on the lights when a 

voice echoed in the darkness. 

“How’s it going, eh, Colonel?” 

She sighed in relief, and then 

frowned. It was Samir. Drunk, as 

usual. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“What everyone else is doing, 

Colonel. I came to celebrate the big 

victory with you. And your birthday, 

while we’re on it.” 

“Leave me out of your celebrations, 

Samir. Ever since you were 

released, birthdays and funerals are 

all the same to you—an excuse to 

get drunk and make a fool of yourself. 

Now if you don’t mind, I want 

to get some sleep.” 

“Bullshit, Colonel. Everyone 

knows you never sleep.” He gave her 

a dirty smile. “I know better than everyone 

else.” 

“Get out of my room.” 

“Not so fast, Colonel. Don’t you 

want to see the present I brought 

you?” 

He went behind Niatti’s desk, and 

kicked a human-looking figure into 

the center of the room. The figure 

wore a prisoner’s uniform, its hands 

tied and mouth gagged. Its eyes widened 

in fear as they met Niatti’s. 

It was Antoine. 

“How did you bring him here?” 

she finally asked Samir. 

“Well, you know how I’m best 

buddy with all the guys at ship’s security 

staff. You’ve got nothing to 

worry about—we agreed on a story 

about how he escaped from his cell 

and came to your room, so you had 

to kill him.” Samir kicked Antoine’s 

body again, and he moaned in pain. 

“Samir, our orders were to take 

him captive—” 

“They never said if he should be 

dead or alive.” 

“Don’t be a smartass. Intelligence 

needs him for interrogation.” 

Samir’s face darkened. “And 

they’ll probably drop the death penalty 

if he’ll give them the info they 

want.” 

“He’ll still spend the rest of his life 

in prison.” 

Samir kicked Antoine’s body 

again, more forcefully, and Antoine’s 

painful moans became unbearable. 

“That’s enough, Samir. Take him 

back to his cell.” 

Humiliation burned in Samir’s 

eyes. “Life in prison, Niatti? You’re 

going to let him get away with life 

in prison?” 

“That’s the problem, Samir? You 

can’t kill him yourself, even when 

you’re loaded, so you come running 

to me? Next time you feel like playing 

my knight in shining armor, at 

least do it all the way through. And 

it will also help the general impression 

if you’re sober while you do it.” 

“Give me a break. You want to kill 

him as much as I do.” 

“I have no reason to kill him, Samir. 

This whining, pathetic creature you 

have on the floor here”—Niatti had 

the urge to kick Antoine herself, but 

she felt it wouldn’t serve her argument 

very well—”is a proof that I’ve 

won. And if you’ll think about it hard 

enough, in your daily five minutes 

of soberness, you’ll see that you’ve 

also won. Now take him back to his 

cell.” 

Samir didn’t seem convinced. 

“Okay. But there’s something I want 

you to see first.” 

Niatti began losing her patience. 

“Samir...” 

“Trust me, you want to see this. 

It’s something the General made 

personally sure you wouldn’t know 

of.” 

“And if I see whatever it is, you 

promise that you’ll take Antoine 

back to his cell? No more games?” 

He gave her a vicious smile. 

“Promise.” He placed a projector on 

her desk. A display of a large room 

appeared. 


“What’s this?” 

“This is what the team that 

cleared his rooms found on Ruby. 

Notice anything weird?” 

“All those things on the wall?” 

Samir nodded. He pressed a button, 

and the display zoomed on the 

wall. Hanging on it were heads. Human 

heads. Samir answered Niatti’s 

question before she could find the 

words to ask it. “Yeah, they’re real. 

Our favorite psycho loved looking at 

his victims in the eyes. Even after he 

was through with them.” 

Niatti fought to control herself. 

“If you’re trying to make me change 

my mind, Samir, you’re wasting your 

time. I won’t...” Her voice died as 

she recognized one of the heads on 

the wall. 

It couldn’t have been real. The 

Lunarian disintegrated in space, 

her father couldn’t have possibly 

survived the attack and fallen captive... 

“Samir, leave me here with Antoine.” 

He smiled again. “You sure you 

don’t want me to stay? Maybe you’ll 

need help cleaning up after...” 

“No. Get out of my room. Now.” 

Samir shrugged and left. 

Niatti bent down and removed 

the cloth from Antoine’s mouth. He 

started crying, cursing, begging, and 

even tried calling for help. 

Page 32

“It’s no use,” she whispered, 

bringing her face closer to his. “Everyone 

else in this section is still celebrating 

on the bridge.” 

She kicked him, making him roll 

over. “I’m going to kill you. And I’m 

going to do it the same way you 

killed Chen.” She drew her gun and 

fired a single shot at his back. 

He responded with a painful 

scream and useless crawling on 

the floor. Just as Chen did, Niatti 

recalled. But she couldn’t feel any 

satisfaction, any relief. All she could 

feel was disgust. 

She was about to shoot again, but 

suddenly the gun felt very heavy 

in her hands. Her next shot missed 

him, leaving a burn mark on the 

floor. 

She wouldn’t miss again. She 

moved closer to him—and then felt 

her stomach turning. She vomited 

on floor, into the large blood spot 

that grew around Antoine’s body. A 

puzzled expression froze on his face 

when he finally lost his consciousness. 

“I’m not like you, you son of a 

bitch,” she whispered. “I’m not like 

you.” 

Then she fired a single shot directly 

into his head. 

*** 

Niatti decided she had enough. 

“Mister Brim, please leave the 

bridge before I’ll order security to 

throw you out.” 

The Coalition representative 

gave General Matsumoto a furious 

look. “General, I am trying to bring 

an end to this war with no further 

bloodshed. Please tell your soldier 

here not to get in my way. You have 

all done a very good job so far, and 

now it’s time for diplomacy.” 

The General probably noticed 

that Niatti was about to turn violent, 

because he motioned her to 

stay silent. He then turned to the 

representative. “I am very sorry, 

Mr. Brim,” he said. “But you came 

aboard this ship in an attempt to get 

a surrender announcement from 

Seward. It was agreed that if you 

fail, the army reclaims the authority 

here. Given that more than ten 

hours have passed since you began 

the negotiations, I think it can be 

determined that you have failed. 

Please leave the bridge, as the Colonel 

asked.” 

“This is an outrage. I demand that 

the decision will be reviewed by—” 

“You may appeal my decision 

through the proper channels, but 

you may not do so from this bridge. 

Please spare us any further unpleasantness.” 

The representative turned his 

back to the General, and his frus- 

trated steps echoed on the metal 

floor as he left the bridge. 

The General turned to Niatti. “I 

hope you know what you’re doing, 

Colonel.” 

“I’ve been planning this for years, 

Sir.” Niatti approached the communication 

panel. “Seward? Can you 

hear me?” 

Seward’s voice remained just the 

same as Niatti remembered. “What’s 

going on? Where’s the clown that 

talked to me before?” 

“The clown went back to performing 

in his circus. They brought me to 

entertain you instead. You recognize 

my voice?” 

There was a short silence and 

then—”Niatti? How’s it going, honey?” 

“I’m afraid we just don’t have 

enough time for the answer to that 

question. So let’s get to the bottom 

line here: you lost. The last spaceport 

under your control is surrounded 

by Coalition ships, and my good 

mood is the only thing standing between 

you and a marine platoon ordered 

to capture you and drag you 

to a war-crimes tribunal.” 

Seward did not sound impressed. 

“Your good mood, plus the dozenhundred 

hostages I’m holding here. 

If you send in your marine platoon, 

I suggest you’ll equip them with 

sponges—they’ll have a lot of clean- 


ing to do before they’ll get to me.” 

“These hostages don’t happen to 

be civilians who collaborated with 

you? Because there aren’t many 

people left who are going to cry 

over them.” 

“Funny you should mention that. 

I have one such hostage here. You 

can tell me just how much you’re 

going to cry over her.” 

A new voice came through the 

communication panel. It was another 

voice that remained just as 

Niatti remembered—cold and nononsense. 

“Niatti, don’t listen to 

anything he says, and don’t cut any 

deal with him. If you have to send in 

your troops then—” 

The communication panel went 

silent. 

Niatti froze for a second, but recovered 

quickly when she noticed 

the General’s worried look. “Seward, 

you have no idea how happy I am to 

hear that my mother finally understood 

who she went into business 

with. Too bad it took her so long. 

But if you think a few more murders 

won’t have any effect on your 

already-bad balance, you are making 

a big mistake.” 

Seward laughed. “I hope to improve 

my balance, honey, by avoiding 

any more murders. Isn’t this 

what we’re negotiating here?” 

“I can’t offer you a pardon, and 

Page 33

even if I could—” 

“I don’t want a pardon. I want a 

safe passage.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” 

“I’ll take a ship, a crew and ten 

hostages—your mother among 

them, you can be sure about that— 

and leave the spaceport and all the 

other hostages to you. You won’t 

follow me with any of your ships, 

and when I’m far enough from your 

fleet, I’ll release the remaining hostages 

on a planet of choice, and you 

can come to get them.” 

Now it was Niatti’s turn to laugh. 

“Very amusing, Seward. Do you realize 

how many people in the system 

want to see you lynched? You’ll 

meet these people as soon as you 

land on any planet within voyage 

distance. And even if you won’t, I’m 

sure at least one of the people in 

your loyal crew will be glad to give 

you up in return to a commuted 

sentence.” 

“I’ll take that chance.” 

“And I’m almost tempted to give it 

to you. But I’m afraid it’s not within 

my authority.” 

Seward sighed. “I’m starting to 

get the impression that you can’t offer 

me much, Niatti.” 

“Actually, I can offer you quite a 

lot. The Coalition agreed to get you 

the best lawyers the system’s taxpayers’ 

money can buy.” 

Seward voice turned bitter. “No 

lawyer is going to save me from the 

rope.” 

“That’s right. But they can extend 

it. They’ll drag your trail for years, 

and you might die from heart-attack 

before your sentence is even announced. 

Or maybe cancer—if it 

helps, I can give you my stock of cigarettes. 

I’ve had nothing to do with 

them since I stopped smoking.” 

“That’s very generous. But I’ll still 

take the safe passage option.” 

“As I just explained to you, it’s not 

going to happen.” 

Seward sighed again. “You’re a 

stubborn one.” 

“After so many years in the company 

of my mother, you should have 

realized that stubbornness runs in 

our family.” 

“So maybe it’s time both you 

and your mother will learn that this 

stubbornness has a price.” 

Three shots were heard through 

the communication panel, and then 

it went silent. 

*** 

Niatti stood up when General 

Matsumoto entered her office and 

saluted him, smiling. “Why, it’s the 

new Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of 

Staff! Congratulations, Sir!” 

The General replied with a smile 

of his own. “Thank you, Colonel. I 

understand that congratulations are 

in order for you to. You and Samir 

decided on a date yet?” 

“We tried, but it’s a little difficult—with 

all those jobs you give 

him on such a short notice...” 

The General laughed. “Noted, 

Colonel. I’ll make sure you can both 

spend more time together.” 

“Thank you, Sir.” 

“Actually, I came here with a proposal 

of my own. This new job is the 

last one in my military career, and 

five years from now, I’ll need a man 

to replace me.” He leaned back in 

his chair. “Or a woman.” 

Niatti raised an eyebrow. “Are you 

sure this is a good idea, Sir? My reputation 

is very problematic in some 

circles.” 

The General gave her a dismissive 

gesture. “You’re a soldier, Niatti. 

Most people understand that it can 

be a dirty job.” 

She stared at her mother’s picture, 

hanging on one of the office 

walls. “Sometimes I find myself 

thinking just how dirty it has to be, 

Sir.” 

“Haven’t we been through this, 

Colonel? Seward was going to kill 

her regardless of anything you could 

have said or done.” The General 

frowned. “But while we’re on the 

subject, I’ve had some complaints 

about your insistence to keep the 


picture here.” 

“The picture stays,” said Niatti. 

“And so do I.” 

The General gave her a puzzled 

look. 

“Sir, I’m grateful for your offer, but 

I have to say no. In fact, it’s probably 

a good time to tell you that I am resigning.” 

“Colonel, you’ve been through a 

lot, but you’re still too young for retirement.” 

“Who said anything about retirement? 

I want to stay here and keep 

managing the spaceports. It’s nonstop 

work.” 

“Colonel, you can’t—” 

“Sure I can. I’ve been doing that 

for the last two years, and I haven’t 

heard anyone complaining. Other 

than that picture thing, of course. 

But they’ll learn to live with it.” 

“You’ve done an excellent job, 

no argument. But you can’t just 

take over the job you did as a soldier 

when it becomes a civilian job. 

There’s a procedure, the Coalition is 

examining candidates—” 

“I know. I’ve registered to become 

one. And you’ll make sure I’ll 

get the job.” 

“Look—” 

“You’re a big hero, Sir. People 

will listen to you. I want the spaceports.” 

“But why?” 

Page 34

“Just like you said, Sir, a military 

career has to end someday. But 

running the spaceports is a job for 

life. People will always need places 

to dock, buy and sell goods, meet 

other people from the system. My 

mother tried explaining all this to 

me once, but I didn’t listen.” She 

stared at her mother’s picture 

again. “And I want to make sure the 

spaceports will keep running, as she 

intended me to do, without repeating 

her mistakes.” 

The General nodded. “I understand. 

I’ll see what I can do.” He 

got up and shook her hand. “Happy 

birthday, Niatti.” 

Happy Birthday, Niatti © 2009 by Raz Greenberg 

CALAMITY’S CHILD - CHAPTER 7 


by M. Keaton 

one yet?” Graves asked. The 

“Dair-conditioned office building 

was surprisingly hot. “The security 

guard is due in,” he paused, 

checking the time again, “four minutes 

now.” 

“Do you have any idea how hard 

it is to bypass a retinal scanner?” 

hissed Priest. “Let me work.” 

“Work faster.” The last two days 

had worn their tempers to a frazzle. 

Two days of decrypting data by day 

and stealing it from isolated terminals 

at night while Red Dog stalled 

the Senate committee below. 

Frustration did not help. File after 

file, database after database had refused 

to yield any useful information. 

No new connections between the 

Senators and the Hecate, no links to 

Casey other than the public records, 

nothing. Graves had even gone so 

far as to tell Priest exactly what he 

was looking on the off chance the 

Kwakiutl could find something he 

had overlooked. No luck. They were 

down to three offices. Admittedly, 

the three offices of his prime suspects, 

but the complete lack of any 

information and the risk that the entire 

endeavor had been a wild goose 

chase was enough to push Graves to 

the edge. 

Priest rolled out from under a 

desk. “Got it.” 


“Too slow.” Graves killed the 

lights and dropped to the floor next 

to the hacker. “Red,” he whispered 

into the microphone that cherrystemmed 

around his chin, “we need 

a distraction.” 

In answer, thunder rattled the 

doors of the building. Thunder that 

formed words. “Red Dog needs 

soda!” Despite his tension, Graves 

smiled. The security detail must 

think the Cillian was in a permanent 

state of dehydration. “Red Dog 

needs soda now!” 

“I’m gonna kill that bug,” said a 

voice on the other side of the door. 

Keys jingled. “Diplomatic immunity 

or not, I swear...” The voice faded. 

Graves counted to ten as his heart 

beat in his ears. “Thanks, big guy,” 

he said. 

“Red Dog accepts all compliments.” 

He helped Priest to his feet, 

checked the hallway. “Let’s go.” 

They backtracked across the guard’s 

pattern to an office the man had already 

checked. To Graves’ surprise, 

the door was locked. “I thought you 

disabled the doors.” 

“I did,” Priest snapped, kneeling 

at the knob. “This is mechanical.” 

Graves motioned him out of the 

way, digging into his pockets for a 

Teflon wedge. He shoved the wedge 

Page 35

into the gap between the lock and 

the frame, grabbed the knob in both 

hands. Drawing a quick breath, he 

jerked the knob upward and set his 

shoulder against the door, popping 

the lock. Priest shot inside. Graves 

followed a heartbeat later, pressing 

the door closed. They waited, frozen 

in the darkness. 

“Red Dog thanks fool human for 

soda and watches fool human return 

to work. Red Dog suggests fool 

human ask for raise.” 

“Got that right,” growled a voice 

in the hallway, and Graves listened 

until he was past. Satisfied, he 

switched on his flashlight, panning 

the room. 

“What on Earth, pardon my pun, 

is that?” Priest said, pointing to the 

wall. Instead of the usual desk and 

terminal, there stood a wooden 

secretary desk flanked by a pair of 

square black minarets. 

“File cabinets,” Graves replied. 

Apparently, he was not the only 

one who understood technological 

myopia. Few things were as secure 

on Earth as the written word in a 

locked drawer. “Have I ever told you 

that Senator Hazel reminds me of 

my grandmother?” 

*** 

“Cowboys away!” 

Not a moment too soon. Nuclear 

fire smeared across the Orion’s hull, 

spilling into the still-open launch bay 

six and wiping it clean like death’s 

own hand. The missile’s deliverer 

was part of the explosion, torn apart 

by depleted uranium slugs pouring 

from the point defense turrets. 

House prowled the rim of his platform 

in CIC like a lion in a cage. “I 

asked, how many?” He struggled to 

keep his voice down, his tone calm. 

“PD 4 ammo feed just jammed!” 

“I can’t tell,” the tech smacked her 

console with the heel of her hand. 

“Somebody’s jamming the sens—” 

“Hecate reads at least twenty,” 

Beta Max interrupted. “Rain’s asking 

permission to engage.” 

“No. Negative.” With his salvage 

claim being tossed around as a political 

baseball, House did not dare 

commit the cruiser, did not dare 

draw more attention to it. And 

somebody out there knew it. “Anything 

heavier than a fighter?” 

“Two escort-bombers,” Max answered. 

“One now. The other is 

spread across the hull.” 

“Put the cowboys on it. Leave the 

fighters to PD.” 

“Port laser bays one and two online. 

Forward arc, online. Starboard 

one and two, online.” 

House finally smiled. It was not a 

comforting sight. “Fire at will.” 

Two of the attacking fighters 

erupted, a third tumbled out of control. 

The escort spun on its axis and 

a quartet of fighters braced it for 

another attack run, this one from 

behind, on the Orion’s engines. 

House’s cowboys struggled to find 

each other in the confusion of a 

scrambled launch. 

“Chase missiles?” House asked, 

trying to sound unconcerned. 

“Coming online now, sir.” 

“PD 2, 5, 7 destroyed. We’re weak 

up front.” 

“One thing at a time.” House 

made himself clasp his hands behind 

his back. “Bring us around. Use 

the Hecate as a screen.” The Orion 

maneuvered like a pregnant hippo 

but he would take what advantages 

he could get. 

“Firing ECM decoys, fore and aft. 

Chase missiles away.” 

A trio of building-sized missiles 

drifted away from the Orion, dead 

in space for an agonizing second before 

their guidance systems locked 

and thrusters lit. They burned 

through their first-stage thrusters 

a second later, the hollow shells 

falling away. The escort’s fighters 

poured fire into the missiles as they 

raced at each other. ECM decoys 

and tracer rounds twinkled in the 

void as they died. A counter-missile 

exploded into a cloud of high-tech 

ball bearings and one of the chase 

missiles detonated, its companions 

whipped through the debris. A second 

missile faltered, spinning madly 

head over tail before detonating. A 

pair of the Orion’s cowboys found 

each other, angled in, cutting the 

distance between themselves and 


the escort-class bomber. 

The third chase missile struck the 

escort, slopping plasma across its 

hull, tearing the ship like a piece of 

paper. Half of the escort’s missiles 

and all of its port maneuvering jets 

joined most of its hull as a trail of 

dully glowing slag, trailing behind 

the ship like a comet’s tail. Fiendishly, 

the escort’s pilot kept it steady 

long enough to fire its remaining 

missiles before one of its own 

fighters slewed out of control and 

crashed into the ship, both evaporating 

into a radioactive mist of gas 

and metal. 

Its missiles blossomed against the 

Orion’s hull and House gripped his 

railing until he was certain his hands 

would fuse with it. 

“Main engines shutting down.” 

The tech twisted in his seat to look 

back at House. “Override?” 

“Negative. Containment?” 

“Containment’s good.” 

House nodded. “Let the reactors 

power down. We’re not desperate 

enough to risk blowing ourselves 

up.” Not yet. 

“Hull breach! Port foredeck 

three!” 

“Damage control teams en route, 

sir.” 

“As you were.” House stood still. 

The fight was largely out of his 

hands. His job now was to look confident 

so his crew could stay calm 

enough to do their jobs. 

Page 36

“Upgrade?” Max asked, his own 

voice deceptively steady. 

“No. We’re through the worst of 

it.” The Orion would be considerably 

safer, and more lethal, if he allowed 

Max to activate the advanced 

technology secretly installed on the 

Orion, but he had to play for the 

long game, hold his ace as long as 

he could. Assuming there was a long 

game. 

“I’m through the jamming. Putting 

the plot in the tank.” The hologram 

came to life, and House tried 

not to stare. The space around the 

Orion was a maze of fighter duels 

and carnage. But he was right, they 

were through the worst. If his attackers 

had any sense, they would 

break off, save what they could. 

“Hecate reports a missile launch. 

Big one,” Max said tersely. 

“I’ve got it.” The tech hesitated. 

House felt the fear in her voice. 

“Sir, I think I can pan it with the 

port laser bay if—” 

“Helm,” House interrupted. “Take 

direct feed from weapons. Put us 

where he needs us.” He turned 

toward Max. “Who the hell fired 

that?” 

Max looked through him, listening 

to the disembodied voice in his 

ear. “Rain says our mystery ship is 

back and wants to play. Asks for permission 

to engage.” 

“If it fires again, pound it into 

dust,” he snarled, straightened, took 

a steadying breath. 

“Firing laser bay.” 

“Launching ECM and decoys 

port. Launching anti-missile missiles 

port.” 

The combine assault of offensive 

and defensive firepower flayed the 

salvo to rags. House felt his skin 

prickle with sweat, resisted the urge 

to wipe his face on his sleeve. 

“They’re breaking off,” Max said, 

almost subdued. “Leaving the fighters 

behind.” 

He tried not to think about how 

many crew members had been in 

the engine room, or port foredeck 

three, or the launch bay. “Kill anything 

that stays,” House ordered, 

“anything we can catch.” A tech 

turned in his seat at the sound that 

emerged from House’s throat, saw 

his face and quickly turned back 

again. House forced his hands open, 

releasing the rail. He glanced down 

at the line of blood drops welling 

across his palms. With a huff, he 

swung them behind him and stood, 

watching lights wink out on the 

plot. 

“You have a call, sir.” Dell’s voice 

startled him out of the cold river 

of his thoughts. For a moment, his 

mind would not wrap itself around 

the words. Dell would not trouble 

him with a call during a pirate attack. 

Unless. 

“Who is it?” 

“A Mister Edgar Casey.” 

House squeezed his eyes shut, 

drew his breath through his teeth. 

“Sir?” 

“I’ll take it in my office.” He 

opened his eyes, scanning the CIC. 

No one met his gaze. “SOP,” he announced 

at last. “Page me if there 

is any problem.” He started for the 

door, stopped. “Well done, people. 

Pass it along.” 

He had almost stopped shaking 

by the time he reached his office. 

It had taken longer than usual; the 

lifts were off and damage control 

teams had the right-of-way in the 

ship’s passages. House pulled a cloth 

from his desk drawer and wiped the 

sweat from his face before activating 

the screen. 

“Hello, Sam.” A conversation in 

two words. House’s cheek twitched 

at the memories behind them, 

schooled his face into a poker player’s 

mask. 

“I’m called House.” 

“So I hear.” Unlike House, Casey 

was not a big man, nor an especially 

small one. People who saw him 

would later find themselves at a loss 

to describe him, except for his eyes. 

They remembered the eyes, the 

black intensity. He had the devil’s 

own eyes. 

The rest of his face was the same 

bland mix House had last seen over 

a decade ago. The cheeks were a bit 

thinner and the hair line a few inches 

higher but otherwise unchanged. 


Except for the bump on the bridge 

of Casey’s nose where House had 

broken it. 

Casey inspected his fingernails. “I 

also hear you’ve had a bit of trouble 

lately.” 

“No more than usual. The Orion’s 

a fat purse. A lot of folks want a 

bite.” 

“Ain’t that always the way? Seems 

like someone else is always trying to 

cut in on a man’s business.” Casey 

paused, choosing his words like 

cards, deciding which to keep and 

which to throw away. “I’ve had a bit 

of trouble myself. A lot of my top 

men are in jail—trivial things, but 

I suppose crime doesn’t pay. Kor’s 

dead. So’s Carlos.” 

“You calling to ask for help?” 

“I’d like to think you’d be there if I 

were.” Casey smiled. It looked genuine. 

“No, Sam. I’m doing okay. Still, 

the Frontier’s a rough place. I’d like 

to change that someday.” 

“Only because you don’t understand 

it. And you can’t abide what 

you can’t understand and can’t control.” 

Even as he said them, House 

wanted to take the words back. 

Casey had baited him, let him call 

the tune then danced him into a 

corner. 

“Tell me how it is, Sam. Just one 

more time; I’ve missed your lectures.” 

In for a penny; in for a pound. 

“The Frontier’s big. Bigger than any 

Page 37

man. And because she’s big, a man 

can be big here. He can be whoever 

he wants. No caps, no limits except 

for himself. It’s a place to be free. A 

place where a man can start over until 

he gets it right.” House stopped, 

gave himself a mental shake and 

began again. “Mankind needs that. 

Without a Frontier, it’s a zero-sum 

game where you have to take your 

share from the guy next to you. But 

the Frontier’s big. She just keeps on 

giving.” He looked down at his desk, 

shaking his head. “You never understood 

that, Ed. You’re never going to 

break her. You’re too small a man.” 

“Always the romantic,” Casey said. 

“I almost envy you.” 

House let the mask slip a little further, 

putting his elbows on the table, 

leaning in toward the screen. “I’m 

not in the mood for social calls.” 

Casey’s smile got tighter, his 

eyes more intense. “I don’t like to 

be pushed.” Words snapped like 

cards against the table. “I’m feeling 

pushed, Sam. Somebody’s pushing.” 

He glanced off screen, adding, “I’d 

hate to have to push back.” 

“I don’t think your gun’s big 

enough.” House felt a surge of satisfaction 

when Casey flinched. “Let 

me tell you what I’d do, if someone 

were to push me.” House felt the 

mad smile from the CIC crawl back 

onto his face. “I’m an Old Testament 

kind of guy, Ed. Eye for an eye and 

all that.” Casey opened his mouth 

and House interrupted him. “I don’t 

want any misunderstanding about 

this. Anybody touches one of my 

people, I’ll kill him. I’ll burn down 

everything I’ve built, spend my bottom 

dollar, just for one clean shot. 

That’s the kind of stakes I’d play for, 

Eddie.” 

Casey pursed his lips, quirked an 

eyebrow. “Mighty expensive way to 

play a hand.” 

“Smaller stakes aren’t worth playing.” 

House met his gaze, held it. 

The polite smile returned to 

Casey’s lips. “Good thing we’re not 

fighting then, isn’t it?” 

“It is.” 

A bit of the smile touched Casey’s 

eyes. “You’d have made a good partner, 

Sam.” 

“I’ll make a worse enemy.” 

Casey tapped the ridge of his eyebrows 

with his forefinger in mock 

salute. The connection fuzzed to 

static. 

*** 

Priest sat on the beige office carpet 

with his legs crossed, hands 

fidgeting helplessly with his bag. 

“It’s time-locked.” 

“What does that mean?” Graves 

asked. They were down to the final 

office—Daley’s, the terminal with 

the external encryption key. Saved 

for last because Priest was not certain 

he could break it. 

“Even with the key, it can only 

be accessed at certain times of day. 

In this case, noon to four,” Priest 

shrugged. “It’s a pretty smart security 

precaution actually.” 

Graves thought for a moment. “So 

we come back during tomorrow’s 

testimony. But you can crack it?” 

Priest made a sucking noise with 

his teeth and lips. “Yes, but—” 

“Red Dog needs soda!” roared an 

alien buzz, only slightly muffled for 

being in another room half the floor 

away. 

“We late?” Priest asked nervously. 

“Hang on.” Graves cupped his 

hand around the microphone at his 

chin. “Red, what’s up?” 

“Red Dog is thirsty!” 

Graves pinched the bridge of his 

nose and sighed. “I may have to kill 

him myself,” he told Priest. He took 

a deep breath. “Back to work. ‘Yes, 

but’ what?” 

The other man hesitated, tracing 

Graves’ train of thought mentally 

until he caught up. “Okay. Yes, I can 

break it as long as we’re here during 

its time window. But, there’s a 

problem.” Thin arms fluttered inside 

crimson sleeves as Priest diagramed 

his thoughts in the air as he spoke. 

“The software’s too advanced for 

anything I’ve got. I could put a leech 

on it and let it work but, with external 

encryption, we could be looking 

at, I don’t know, a week maybe before 

it hits the right code. The only 

other way I can get past is brute 


force. You’ll get your data; it’s an 

isolated terminal, so I won’t set off 

any alarms. But it’ll leave a trace, a 

pretty visible one. Next time somebody 

uses the terminal, they’re going 

to know.” 

Graves scratched the stubble under 

his chin as he thought. It was 

not a total surprise; he had half expected 

something like this to come 

up. “All right. We hit it tomorrow. 

Get back to the room. I have to 

make arrangements; I’ll catch up 

with you later.” 

Graves checked the hall, sliding 

through the door with Priest at his 

heels. With a nod, he sent Priest on 

his way then headed for the stairs. 

“Red, Priest is coming back. I’ll be 

in later.” He pulled the headset off, 

stuffing it in his pocket. “Going to 

pick up some dinner,” he said cheerfully, 

waving at the first-floor guard 

station. “You guys want anything?” 

“No thank you, sir. I’ll buzz you 

out.” 

“Thanks. See you in about an 

hour.” Graves stepped into the 

street. He walked to the corner, 

tasting the night air as he waited 

for a tram. The air smelled of heat, 

hinted at rain in defiance of a cloudless 

sky. 

Mankind had developed weather 

control technology centuries ago 

only to learn, like many things, the 

natural method was more efficient 

than the invented one. By the time 

he reached the starport, the rain 

Page 38

was falling as a warm mist. The 

musk of oil overlaid with a hint of 

fish came with it. Light spilled from 

a booth. Graves stepped inside. 

“Service required?” asked the 

soothing female voice all of Earth 

felt obliged to use for automated 

vocals. 

“Search.” 

“By berth, ship type, cargo—” 

“Give me a full list.” 

“Stand by.” The wall of the booth 

filled with script. 

Graves studied the list. “Next,” 

he said, looking. “Next.” He used his 

finger to keep his place. “Next.” Still 

nothing. “Next. Wait, go back one.” 

Not perfect but close enough. His 

luck was holding. 

“Give me a guide light to berth 

63 and ping the captain of the Good 

Karma, let him know I’m coming.” 

“Your name?” the machine asked 

but Graves had already left, following 

a line of green running lights. 

The mist gave the pavement a dark 

sheen that twinkled with reflected 

light. Starships and their tenders 

hissed and sighed in pneumatic 

chorus as white plumes of steam escaped 

into the air. A steady drizzle 

of rain was falling as Graves reached 

berth 63. 

“Agent Graves,” called a man 

standing silhouetted in the light of 

an airlock. “Welcome to my humble 

ship.” The Good Karma was a cargo 

hauler with a ‘humble’ 1,420,000 

cubic feet of hold. 

“How’d you know it was me?” 

Graves asked, accepting the stubby, 

childlike hand that reached down to 

help pull him into the ship. 

Wu Lung shrugged. “Who else 

would refuse to give his name?” 

Graves chuckled and followed the 

man’s squat, rolling gait deeper into 

the ship. “You will share a meal with 

me?” It was both a request and a 

command. 

“Not if you’re still on your bean 

curd kick,” Graves joked, mostly. 

They entered the single room that 

served as both kitchen and bedroom 

for the ship’s captain. The room was 

cramped, more from Wu’s collection 

of curios and bachelor housekeeping 

than from lack of space. Graves 

lifted a stack of papers out of a chair 

and sat. “I was surprised to find you 

here. What’re you doing on Earth, 

Wu? It’s an awfully long way from 

the Frontier.” 

“I could say the same for you.” 

Wu began tossing ingredients into 

a shallow wok. Most stayed in, a 

few slid over the opposite side. 

Wu corralled the escapees, flipping 

them back into the wok. “I had to 

have some gaseous holding tanks 

installed. Couldn’t find a shipyard 

I trusted any closer. What about 

you?” 

“Talking to the Senate again.” 

“I don’t envy you on that.” The 

wok sizzled and the aroma of sear- 

ing meat and peppers filed the cabin. 

“I think you’ll like this. Go slow 

though. It’s a little hot.” As if to emphasize 

his point, Wu poured more 

sesame oil into the wok. 

“What’re you shipping now that 

needs gas tanks?” Graves asked. He 

had learned, no matter how pressing 

the matter at hand, a certain level 

of polite socializing was required 

before Wu would talk business. 

“DDT-7.” 

Graves coughed into his fist. “You 

know that’s illegal, right? Causes 

cancer.” 

Wu looked over his shoulder and 

grinned. “For most worlds, yes. But 

out on Newer Delhi and Ethopine 

I’m sure it’s not. Between malaria 

from mosquitoes and sleeping sickness 

from the black flies, their infant 

mortality is around sixty percent 

and the average lifespan is in their 

early forties. To live long enough 

to run the risk of cancer would be 

a major improvement.” He lifted 

the wok, set it on the table. “Making 

them suffer when a solution is at 

hand would not be justice. On these 

worlds, DDT-7 must be legal.” 

Graves nodded. “You’re probably 

right.” He was not; Graves knew 

for a certainty that environmental 

regulations were issued from Earth 

and no special circumstances would 

ever change them, but Graves was 

not about to do anything to stop 

him. Wu was one of the few smugglers 

Graves would never arrest, 


even had, in a strange kind of way, 

a friendship with. The reason was 

simple. Wu had never met a law he 

understood. In Wu’s mind, the law 

was synonymous with justice and 

the spirit always trumped the letter. 

ErSec agents were expected to 

employ a certain amount of discretion; 

in Graves’ case, he exercised it 

toward men like Wu Lung. 

Wu handed Graves a pair of 

chopsticks, lifted his own and began 

to eat. Graves lifted a curl of 

meat, sniffed it, popped it into his 

mouth, chewing slowly. “This is really 

good, Wu. You missed your calling; 

you should have been a chef.” 

He snatched a glass of water from 

the table and drained half of it. “Or 

an assassin,” he added in a choked 

voice. 

Wu laughed. “I told you it was 

hot.” They ate in companionable 

silence for several minutes. “What 

can I do for you, Agent Graves?” Wu 

asked. 

“What makes you think I need 

something?” 

“You’re here. You only come 

to visit me when you need something.” 

Graves smiled and nodded. “You 

do the same with me.” 

“True,” Wu said amiably. “That’s 

why we have such a good relationship. 

We understand each other.” 

“I need a couple of people off of 

Earth in a hurry. Unofficially.” 

“When? My upgrades will not be 

Page 39

finished until tomorrow morning.” 

“That should be fine. If things go 

the way I expect, I’ll ship them over 

tomorrow in the late afternoon.” 

Wu raised his eyebrows. “Ship 

them?” 

“You’ll see. One’s an alien. You 

have any problems with Cillians?” 

“I have no problems with any living 

thing in this wonderful universe,” 

Wu replied expansively. “I think I’m 

a Buddhist.” At Graves outburst of 

laughter, he amended, “In a previous 

life, maybe.” 

Graves sobered. “I’m asking you 

to take a big risk, Wu. I’m staying 

here to lay false trails and give as 

much cover as I can, but I think the 

best I can hope for is delay. Sooner 

or later—” Graves lifted his hands, 

palms up, and shrugged. 

“And what they do to me will determine 

how angry they are. Assuming 

they catch me.” Wu frowned as 

he thought. “I am just a transporter. 

Perhaps they will overlook me or 

decide I’m not worth bothering.” 

“It’s possible. I just don’t know.” 

Wu studied Graves’ face. “This is 

important?” 

“I think so. I could be wrong; I certainly 

don’t have the solid evidence 

I need. But if I’m right, a lot of lives 

are going to be in danger.” 

“And getting these people off 

Earth might help stop whatever it is 

you fear?” 

“If I’m lucky.” Graves shook his 

head in frustration. “It’s a long shot 

but it’s all I’ve got.” 

“Then I’ll do it.” Wu motioned toward 

the wok with his chopsticks. 

“Eat. You cannot save humanity on 

an empty stomach.” 

Contemplating the future killed 

Graves’ appetite. He picked at his 

food without talking, excused himself, 

and returned to the Senatorial 

offices in a heavy downpour. 

“Should’ve taken an umbrella, 

Agent Graves,” teased the door 

guard, opening the door for him. 

“It’s been quiet here, though. Apparently 

the bug’s finally had enough to 

drink.” Graves forced a laugh. 

Red Dog and Priest were playing 

cards when he stepped into the office. 

“I finished decoding what we 

had,” Priest said. “Added the information 

you took from the hardcopies 

in the Luddite office.” 

“Deal me in.” Graves pulled a 

chair to the table. “Find anything?” 

“If I did, I don’t understand it.” 

Priest scowled at his cards. “The 

only connection between Casey and 

the Senate that looks fishy are those 

factories.” 

“What factories?” Red Dog asked, 

folding his card. 

“Call. I’ll take two.” Graves 

dropped a pair of cards onto the table. 

“About two years ago, the Senate 

approved a grant to develop the 

infrastructures of Frontier worlds. 

Turns out, every bit of it went to 

Casey instead of the local governments.” 

“But here’s the part that throws 

me,” Priest said. “He didn’t just take 

the cash; they shipped him the parts 

to build the factories. If it wasn’t 

Casey, I’d say the entire deal was on 

the up and up.” 

Red Dog watched as Priest won 

the pot and dealt again. “What 

do the factories build?” the alien 

asked. 

“Industrial grade ceramics,” 

Graves muttered sourly, staring at 

another bad hand. “What the heck 

do you make with that kind of equipment 

anyway?” 

“Transports,” Red Dog hummed. 

“Raise.” 

“Fold. Wait a minute,” Graves 

stared at Red Dog. “What do you 

mean transports?” 

“During war—” Red Dog made a 

series of hisses and clicks that did 

not translate, “—used ships with ceramic 

hulls for transports. Dropped 

troops from orbit like eggs.” 

“It worked?” Priest asked. 

“Maybe half die. Field rations.” 

The more he thought about it, 

the more plausible it seemed. “It’s 

strong enough,” Graves said aloud. 

“It’d handle the heat of re-entry, 

maybe even better than metal. Especially 

with breakaway heat shields.” 

He laid his cards on the table. “They 

wouldn’t even need their own power 

source, just dump them out of a 

cargo hold.” 

“Red Dog said so already,” the Cillian 

rumbled, raking the chips into 


a pile in front of himself while the 

humans were distracted. 

“But what would he drop?” Priest 

asked. “Fifty percent casualties 

aren’t something human troops 

would stand for. Besides, Casey 

would have to have an army. Somebody 

would have noticed.” 

“There were Eaters on the 

Hecate,” Graves’ words came out as 

a hoarse whisper. Beside him, Red 

Dog shivered. “Priest, make a copy 

of everything we’ve got. Take it with 

you.” He explained about Wu Lung. 

“We still need to hit Daley’s terminal 

tomorrow, just in case there’s 

more. If we’re right, it really doesn’t 

matter if he knows we broke in or 

not.” 

“Red Dog will stall testimony 

more. If fool Senator must listen to 

Red Dog after end of time limit, Red 

Dog gains entire day head start.” 

Graves struggled to sort the alien’s 

syntax then nodded. “Do what you 

can. The important part is that you 

two get out of here in one piece.” 

He ran his hand across his scalp, fingers 

pulling at his hair. “They’ll send 

people after you. I hope I’m wrong 

on that but I doubt it. Go to ground 

for a while. Make yourselves scarce 

while things blow over; maybe I can 

pull a few strings, take some of the 

heat off.” He swore softly. “I hope 

we’re wrong.” 

“We aren’t,” Priest sighed, shuffling 

the deck of cards. 

“Red Dog and Priest will go on va- 

Page 40

cation.” 

Graves snorted. The Cillian 

grabbed his shoulders and pulled 

him closer, tapping Graves’ chest as 

he spoke. “Listen, fool human. Tell 

Kylee. Tell fool Ivan. Red Dog goes 

on vacation.” 

“I’ll find a way to let them know,” 

Graves agreed, feeling like he was 

missing something. “You guys 

should get some sleep. Tomorrow’s 

a long day.” 

“Not much point in it. Don’t think 

I could sleep anyway,” Priest said. 

“May as well play cards.” 

Red Dog skimmed a pair of chips 

from Graves while he was still distracted. 

“Shut up and deal.” 

*** 

“Red Dog, what condition did you 

find the Hecate in?” 

“Red Dog was sober.” A buzzing 

washed over the audio. “Red Dog 

has waited all week for joke.” 

“Red Dog, please.” 

“Hecate looked fine to Red Dog.” 

“Was anyone else with you?” 

“Red Dog went with stupid fool 

human Ivan.” 

“Why isn’t this Ivan here as 

well?” 

“Ivan injured and busy. More important 

events than Senate. Red Dog 

gets all bad jobs.” 

“Ivan was injured reclaiming the 

Hecate?” 

“No. Ivan got tiny scratch later 

when Red Dog stopped truck with 

bulldozer.” 

No longer concerned about detection, 

Priest surprised Graves by 

physically cutting through the side 

of the terminal and attaching his 

hardware directly to the internal circuitry. 

Minutes later, a bar of green 

lights flashed across Priest’s equipment. 

“Five more minutes and I’ll have a 

complete copy,” the Kwakiutl said. “I 

should have it decoded and copied 

before we’re due to leave.” 

“What transpired after you encountered 

these so-called Eaters?” 

“Ivan shot Red Dog.” 

“My word!” 

“No, Red Dog needed shooting. To 

stop pain.” 

“The Chair empathizes.” 

Priest slapped a piece of gray 

putty over the hole in the terminal’s 

side, nodding to Graves. They 

stepped into the hallway, made their 

way back to their quarters, resisting 

the temptation to run. 

“I read here that you reached the 

Hecate’s bridge shortly following 

this.” 

“Red Dog believes so. Red Dog’s 

memory not perfect.” 

“I would remind the Chair that my 

client had only recently been shot 

and his recollection of the events 

may not be as precise as would be 

preferred.” 

“Understood. Red Dog, I don’t find 

any mention of what occurred after 

you reached the Hecate’s bridge and 

before your relief ship arrived. Can 

you elaborate on this for the committee?” 

“Red Dog ate chair.” 

A pained sigh. “What time is it, 

Hazel?” 

“Five-thirty.” 

“All right. Let’s call it a day. My 

head is killing me.” 

Graves waited in tense silence as 

Priest finished copying their data 

and packed his belongings. Based 

on a quick scan, there was nothing 

new in Daley’s database. More details 

but still no clear answer. Graves 

was not even certain that he knew 

what he thought he knew; the entire 

mess was a piecemeal of supposition 

and gaping holes. 

“Those factories,” he asked Priest, 

“how many of the Senators on the 

panel voted for them?” 

Priest paused, checking. “All of 

them.” 

Graves made a growling noise in 

the back of his throat. More dead 

ends, more information that could 

mean anything or nothing. “I don’t 

know how far Wu will take you. 

That’s up to him; I just—” He cut 

himself off as Red Dog entered the 

room with his lawyer. 

The lawyer glanced at Priest’s 

bags and nodded. “I suspected an 

early departure would be in order 

at some point in these proceedings. 

This seems to be it then.” He 

smiled warmly at Graves. “Don’t be 

concerned, Agent. I shall of course 


maintain the polite fiction of my ignorance 

at tomorrow’s hearing and 

delay further inquiry as long as I am 

able.” 

Graves found himself returning 

the man’s smile. “I’d appreciate it.” 

“And Mister Red Dog,” the lawyer 

addressed his client, “it has been 

my rare pleasure and delight to represent 

you. I suspect you’re cleverer 

than even your companions give 

you credit for. Should you ever require 

legal services again, within the 

Hedge or without, do feel free to 

call upon me.” He nodded to Priest, 

looked back at Graves. “Goodbye, 

gentlemen. I wish you all success 

and safe travels.” 

As the door swung closed behind 

the man, Red Dog tilted his head, 

gnawing at the end of his staff. “Shyster 

is weird.” 

“Get a move on,” Graves said. 

“There’s a packing crate across the 

street with your name on it.” 

*** 

The tram station below ErSec’s 

headquarters in Quantico was unusually 

dark; at least half of its 

overhead lights were either out or 

flickering. That alone was enough 

to tell Lumley the situation was unusual, 

that he was not alone. Not 

that he needed the additional hint, 

the message hand delivered by a 

perplexed janitor had been enough. 

“Downstairs at the witching hour. I 

don’t care who you bring but you’ll 

Page 41

arrive alone.” It was not signed but 

it did not need to be. 

The hollow silence of the empty 

station combined with the jumping 

shadows made the white-tiled foyer 

disorienting, setting Lumley’s nerves 

on edge. 

“Evening, Lum. Glad to see you 

made it.” 

Lumley jumped, covered the 

lapse with bluster. “Graves! Damn 

it, man, you almost scared me to 

death.” The echoes made it difficult 

for him to pinpoint the direction the 

voice came from. “Where have you 

been for the last two weeks? Half 

the planet’s looking for you.” 

Graves laughed. “Not quite half.” 

“How’d you do it? This is Earth, 

not the Frontier. How’s a man just 

up and vanish?” 

“Myopia. Go to ground, get off 

the grid, don’t use your electronics. 

It was easier than I thought.” Graves 

stepped out of the shadows barely 

more than an arm’s length away 

from Lumley. He was dirty, clothes 

torn, face well on its way to a beard, 

but otherwise healthy. “You get a 

copy of the data I sent you?” 

“On the Senate? Yeah, I got it.” 

“Anything surprise you?” 

Lumley laughed nervously. “Why 

do you think I came down to HQ? I 

knew you were working on something. 

I just got out of the way and 

let you work.” 

Graves smiled. “Didn’t answer my 

question, Lumley.” 

“Of course I was surprised. I knew 

something was going on, but the 

scope,” Lumley shook his head. “It’s 

bigger than I thought.” 

“Still is.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He means that the little bribes 

you’ve been taking aren’t fleas on 

a dog in the big picture.” The new 

speaker walked toward them from 

the entrance with a stiff limp, a lean 

man with a broad face. 

“Director,” Graves said courteously. 

“Glad you could join us.” 

The head of ErSec nodded politely. 

“The Secretary of Defense 

sends his regrets. He was unavoidably 

detained.” The Director smiled. 

“You’re not the only emergency to 

come up.” 

Lumley’s eyes flicked nervously 

between the two men. “It’s a good 

deal,” he told Graves, almost pleading. 

“With Casey in charge, we can 

bring real government to the Frontier, 

real law.” 

“Real law. With Casey in charge.” 

Graves looked at him, smiling sadly. 

“The pitiful thing is, you believe 

that.” 

“It’s not too late,” Lumley said. 

“Come in now and we can make this 

all go away.” He glanced at the Director. 

“Can’t we?” 

“I suppose we could,” the lean 

man agreed. “But it doesn’t matter. 

You see, Agent Graves isn’t like you 

or me. He’s an ideologue. The ends 

never justify the means for men like 

him.” 

“You’d be surprised,” Graves said, 

his voice tense with an undercurrent 

of malice. 

“I forgot, the noble sacrifice,” 

the Director conceded. “We need 

men like Agent Graves. ErSec needs 

them. In their proper place.” 

“Like on the Frontier,” Graves 

said. “Well away from the cesspool 

of politics and pragmatists.” 

“You’re a good agent, Hyland. I’d 

hate to lose you.” 

“Did any of them tell you how 

Casey is supposed to take over the 

Frontier? About the Eaters?” Graves 

asked Lumley, his eyes still on the 

Director. “How many people will 

end up eaten alive by aliens because 

of your ‘means’?” 

The Director shrugged. “Eggs, 

omelets.” 

“Part of it I already suspected,” 

Graves explained, taking a calming 

breath. “I figured that the pirate 

activity between Third Earth and 

Farnham was a distraction. It would 

only take a few well placed leaks in 

ErDef’s comm net to let the pirates 

stay one step ahead. 

“And I figured that a Senator was 

setting Casey up with the obsolete 

stealth ships.” Graves paused, shaking 

his head. “I didn’t expect most of 

the Senate to be in on it.” 

“Not most,” contradicted the Director. 

“Just two sub-committees. 

That’s the biggest security risk. 


Most of them don’t know much 

more than Lumley does.” 

Graves continued speaking as if 

he had not heard. “What I couldn’t 

figure out was why. How does it 

all fit together? I’m still not sure I 

know.” 

“You’ve done pretty well so far. 

And I see that Agent Lumley is hanging 

on your every word. Why don’t 

you go ahead and try?” the Director 

said. 

“Because it’s not a game,” Graves 

replied, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t 

really care as long as its stopped.” 

“Very noble of you,” the Director 

conceded. “But what do you want 

stopped?” 

“All right, if that’s the way it’s got 

to be.” Graves did not bother to hide 

the anger and disgust in his voice. 

“I’m guessing the Eaters are the 

key. I know they’re where your plan 

went off track. They weren’t as easy 

to control as you expected.” Graves 

choked on a laugh. “Aliens usually 

aren’t.” He paused for breath. 

“Earth gives Casey the equipment to 

build transports for the Eaters then 

makes sure he’s got ships to break 

quarantine without getting caught.” 

He finally looked at Lumley. “We 

could’ve saved them some trouble 

if they’d asked. We knew Casey was 

breaking quarantine with the ships 

he already had. He didn’t need help 

on that front.” 

The Director nodded for him to 

Page 42

continue. Graves licked his lips and 

frowned. “The Frontier is bracketed 

by two main routes: Third Earth- 

Farnham and Nevrio-Fargone. Control 

them and you control the Frontier.” 

He paused, considering. “You 

wouldn’t, but I can see where you 

would think you did. Let’s just say, 

control those two routes and you 

control the shipping. You could put 

the squeeze on a lot of people.” 

“Go on.” 

“That’s all I’ve got,” Graves admitted. 

“If it weren’t for all the secrecy 

and the near-panic when the wrong 

person recovered the Hecate, I 

doubt anyone would’ve ever looked 

twice. As it is, I’m guessing Earth 

wants Casey to turn Eaters loose 

on Fargone, Nevrio, or both. Why, I 

don’t know.” 

“You told me Casey would bring 

the Frontier into the Hedge,” Lumley 

said. 

The Director nodded. “Eventually, 

yes. What both of you still have to 

learn is that control and safety are 

the same things.” 

“Crisis of confidence,” Graves 

said. “You don’t care about Casey 

or the Eaters, you just need a panic 

on the Frontier. You’re willing to unleash 

an alien species on multiple 

planets, kill tens of thousands— 

maybe millions—just to scare innocent 

people into jumping the way 

you want them to.” 

The Director scowled, giving a 

minute shake of his head. “Earth 

cares about Casey very much. You 

see, the Frontier is largely inhabited 

by people who don’t like or don’t 

trust the Hegemony. It’s a handy 

system, like a penal colony except, 

instead of waiting for the crime to 

be committed, the criminals line up 

and demand to be allowed onto the 

ships.” 

“I don’t follow,” Lumley said. 

The Director frowned, making 

a tsking sound with his lips like 

a teacher scolding an especially 

slow student. “To the savages on 

the Frontier, Earth is the ultimate 

boogey man. Acclimation has to be 

done by slow steps. If the Frontier 

sees Earth as the bad guy, then we 

use that role and let Casey be the 

hero.” 

“As long as he works for you,” 

Graves injected. 

“As long as he works for Earth. 

Bad old Earth can’t even do its job. It 

can’t control the pirates on the one 

hand or prevent aliens from escaping 

quarantine on the other.” The 

Director smiled, raised his shoulders 

in a loose approximation of a 

shrug. “But both problems are too 

big for the isolated tribes of savages 

to handle alone. They need a strong 

man, a big boss.” 

“Edgar Casey,” Lumley supplied. 

“And they trade him safety for 

control,” Graves concluded sourly. 

“He promises to fix both problems 

if they put him in charge. Problems 

he can handle easily since he’s also 

the cause of them. And just in case, 

you’ve given him a pair of stealth 

ships and let him build his own little 

army of pirates to strong-arm anyone 

who doesn’t go along with him.” 

Graves closed his eyes, his lips curling 

in a snarl of disgust. He coughed 

out a brittle laugh. “I don’t think you 

understand the Frontier very well.” 

“Maybe not, but as you pointed 

out, it only takes four planets. And 

Casey doesn’t have to solve the 

problems, just be more effective 

than Earth was.” 

“And you really think a man like 

Casey is just going to roll over and 

be Earth’s little lapdog?” 

“I don’t deserve that, Agent 

Graves. Of course I don’t. That’s 

why there was a paper trail for you 

to follow at all. Earth has proof of 

the truth to hold over his head, plus 

we sweeten the pot by making him 

Senator pro tem representing the 

Frontier.” 

“No chance in hell,” Graves pronounced. 

“We’ll see.” 

“No, we won’t,” Graves said stubbornly, 

one hand sliding inside his 

coat. He stopped, looking down 

at the red dot flickering across his 

chest. 

“It would be very easy for you to 

disappear, Agent Graves.” 

“Then why not?” 


“I doubt if you’ll believe me when 

I say this but, because ErSec really 

does need agents of your caliber. 

And because even those of us involved 

in this little scheme aren’t 

all convinced that it’s a good one.” 

Graves gave the Director a confused 

stare. “Wheels within wheels,” the 

Director said. “You’re really not cut 

out for politics at all.” He sighed. 

“I’m assuming that you’ve made 

copies of the information you have, 

put them in places where they’ll 

crop up if you stay gone for too 

long, melodramatics like that. It 

could all be silenced, of course, but 

that’s even more trouble. No, let me 

propose a compromise.” 

The red dot lay on Graves’ shirt 

like a stain. “I’m listening.” 

“In a few months, you go back to 

the Frontier. Back to your old job just 

like none of this ever happened.” 

“Just like that?” 

The Director ignored Graves’ sarcasm. 

“Just like that. No matter how 

this all plays out, there will still be 

a Frontier of sorts and ErSec will 

still need agents there when it’s 

over. You spend another couple of 

months on Earth and then you never 

have to come back again. I’ll see 

to it personally.” 

“And Casey?” 

“He’s on his own now. Earth has 

done enough for him to have a 

chance of success. You’ve muddied 

the waters here enough to justify 

Page 43

cutting him off. If he succeeds, he’ll 

be out of your reach. If he fails, 

Earth has no further use for him, 

good hunting.” 

Graves eyed the Director cautiously. 

“Whose side are you on?” 

“Earth’s, Agent Graves. Always 

Earth’s.” 

Graves thought it over. “What 

about Red Dog and Priest?” 

“It’s out of my hands. A warrant 

has been issued, men have been 

sent out. The best, I might add. 

Daley insisted on it. I think he took 

your tampering with his database 

personally.” 

“No deal then. They’re my responsibility.” 

“I can rescind the warrant. That’s 

the best I can offer. You’re really not 

in a very strong position to negotiate.” 

“Pull the warrant then. If Daley’s 

men stay after them, my money’s on 

the Cillian.” Graves hesitated. “And 

I want Casey. Give me a warrant to 

bring him in.” 

“You know that’s out of the question,” 

snapped the Director. “I’m fast 

running out of patience, Agent.” 

“If he drops the ball, you want me 

to bring him down, right?” insisted 

Graves stubbornly. “Then give me 

an excuse. If not on this, then on 

something else. Anything else.” 

“My last concession,” the Director 

warned. “If you can find evidence of 

wrong-doing, large or small, then I’ll 

give you a warrant.” 

“As simple as that?” 

“As simple as that.” 

Graves nodded slowly. “We have 

a deal,” he said, wondering if the 

Director had forgotten or was only 

pretending to forget: all warrants on 

the Frontier were ‘dead or alive.’ 

“You are a good agent, Hyland. 

I’m glad you’re sticking with us.” The 

Director turned to leave. “I’ll go now 

and let you have a word alone with 

your former partner.” 

Graves glanced down. The ruby 

splotch of the laser sight was gone. 

“Glad that worked out,” Lumley 

said. 

Graves turned, faked a punch at 

Lumley’s face with his left. As the 

other man jerked his arms up reflexively, 

Graves unloaded a right 

into Lumley’s stomach as hard as he 

could swing. Lumley dropped to his 

knees, retching. 

“I need to borrow your comm,” 

Graves said. Lumley was curling into 

a ball on the tile floor, too busy gagging 

to answer. 

In his pocket, he carried the list 

of codes and numbers he had found 

in Senator Hazel’s files, his last bargaining 

chip. Priest had not been 

able to make heads or tales out of 

the list. Graves, veteran of Earth bureaucracy, 

had chosen not to inform 

him. Some he recognized, like the 

number and code for the Director of 

ErSec and the Secretary of Defense, 

others he had not. 

Graves lifted Lumley’s comm unit, 

punching in the final number on the 

list then the access code that accompanied 

it. Hearing the voice that 

answered, he broke the link. He had 

wondered how high the conspiracy 

stretched. 

Now he knew. 

Calamity’s Child © 2009 by M. Keaton. 


Page 44

Name: Martin Steil 

Age: 17 

FEATURED ARTIST: MARTIN STEIL 

Country of residence: Germany 

Hobbies: 3D-, 2D-Art, web designing, 

badminton, Stargate 

Favorite Book/Author: Harry Potter 

Favorite Artist: Chris Diston 

When did you start creating art? 

2007 

What media do you work in? PC: 

Cinema 4D, Photoshop, ZBrush 

Where your work has been featured? 

deviantART.com, SciFiMeshes.com, 

SG-21.de, stargate-project. 

de 

Where should someone go if they 

wanted to view / buy some of your 

works? deviantART.com 

How did you become an artist? 

When I was 14 or 15, I started to create 

art on my PC. My first steps had 

been with Photoshop to create wallpapers, 

homepages, and some small 

stuff. During that time, I searched a 

lot on the ‘net to learn more about 

software, skills, and techniques. In 

2007, I finally started doing 3D work. 

The communities stargate-project. 

de and thescifiworld.net helped me 

a lot, and I made a lot of friends who 

created this kind of artwork too. My 

main subject is Stargate/Atlantis- 

Fanart because I like the series very 

much. 

What were your early influences? I 

think Stargate and Stargate-Project 

are some of the early influences. 

What are your current influences? 

My friends and my fans motivate me 

very much. And I want to become a 

better artist; I’m a bit of a perfectionist 

so I want to improve my skills 

and my artwork. 

How would you describe your 

work? In my opinion, it’s (often) 

good space/sci-fi digital-art. Some 

works are better then the others, 

but I think the most are relative acceptable. 

Where do you get your inspiration? 

Stargate and the work at deviantART 

give me a big part of my inspiration. 

Have you had any notable failures, 

and how has failure affected your 

work? I often had have some small 

failures but no really big one. I learn 

from my failures and mistakes and 

they are a part of my workflow. Often, 

I have to do something three 

or four times until it looks good or 

even works. 

What have been your greatest suc- 


cesses? How has success impacted 

you / your work? I think there have 

been two big successes. The first 

one was that I won the First (Best 

Wallpaper) and the Third (Best 3D 

Art) Place in the SGP-Fanartawards 

of stargate-project.com. It was 

great! But then 2009-05-15 my favourite 

artwork (RealAirForce) become 

a Daily Deviation. It was very 

amazing, and I have been very happy 

about this great glory! 

What are your favorite tools / 

equipment for producing your art? 

I use the following software: Cinema 

4D for the 3D art stuff like modeling, 

lighting, Photoshop for the 2D art 

stuff like textures, composing, webdesigning, 

Dreamweaver for web 

designing, ZBrush for special 3D art 

like organic modeling, displacement 

maps, and this hardware: Asus X53K, 

Logitech MX-518, Wacom Bamboo 

Fun medium. 

Page 45

What tool / equipment do you wish 

you had? A better/faster notebook/ 

PC would be very nice especially for 

the 3D art: More RAM and a better 

CPU would be great for rendering 

and the workflow because these 

programs (Cinema 4D, Photoshop) 

need a lot of performance if I want 

to create big models/pictures. 

What do you hope to accomplish 

with your art? I hope to improve my 

skills, and I want people to like my 

art—I think every artist wants this. 

For me, it’s very important to have 

fun with this because I spend a big 

part of my free time with this art. 

TALES OF THE BREAKING DAWN: 



hy do I get the feeling this 

“Wisn’t a social call, Jack?” 

Jessica asked. 

Sitting in the Stargazer lounge, 

Jessica and Boo of the star-freighter 

Breaking Dawn looked down at the 

computer screen that sat on their 

table. Peering back at them from 

the screen was the exasperated 

face of Jack Connelly, a man Jessica 

had known for over a decade. She’d 

first met him during one of the last 

runs she and her father had made 

together before his death. 

“Perhaps because of my harried 

expression?” Jack replied. 

“Don’t snap at me, Jack. This call 

has to be costing you a fortune, so 

just tell me what’s going on.” 

After huffing for a moment, Jack 

said, “I’m in a bit of a bind. My ship’s 

in a bad way, and I really need your 

help.” 

Jessica frowned at the screen. 

“What’s wrong with the Wandering 

Star? Do you need a loan or something 

to help get her fixed?” 

“No, that’s not it. I need you to 

pick up some cargo for me and deliver 

it before the contract time expires. 

It’s really important.” 

“Then call for an extension. I’m 

sure whoever your contract is with 


would rather get their cargo late 

than not at all.” 

Jack pulled at the hairs on his 

chin and shifted his gaze from left to 

right. “Not these people, Jessie. The 

contract...it’s with the Gorawnies.” 

“What the hell?! The Gorawnies? 

Jack, are you insane?” 

“Now, you listen here—” he began, 

but Jessica cut him off. 

“No, you listen! The Gorawnies 

are not people you want to get involved 

with! Jesus, Jack! Those guys 

are nothing but criminals, and folks 

like us have no business dealing 

with them.” 

The older man looked ashamed, 

but anger brought a hard glint to his 

eyes. “First of all, I don’t need lessons 

in life from a girl less than half 

my age. Secondly, I’m trying to join 

the Trade Guild, and the Gorawnies 

are charter members. A sponsorship 

from them would give me a serious 

leg up.” 

“The Guild?” Jessica said. “Since 

when have you been interested in 

joining with them? If I recall correctly, 

the last time the Guild came 

up in conversation, it was said in the 

same breath as words like ‘corporate 

shills’ and ‘damn whores.’ You 

suddenly have a change of heart?” 

Page 46

Jack’s angry expression reverted 

to one of embarrassment, but the 

older man tried to hide it under a 

layer of bluster. “I’m gettin’ too old 

for this small time independent 

stuff. A man has to start thinking 

about his retirement at some point, 

and these milk runs we’re making 

just don’t cut it anymore. Guild 

membership is practically a golden 

ticket.” 

“That may be, but once you’re 

in the Guild, they own you. And to 

make matters worse, you’re willing 

to get into bed with the Gorawnies 

to do it.” 

“Age changes things, Jessie,” Jack 

said, his face drooping. “You’ll see. 

Besides, the Gorawnies have never 

been convicted of anything.” 

“Now you’re rationalizing.” 

“Yeah, maybe, but I entered into 

an agreement with them to deliver 

some cargo, and with my ship now 

out of commission I can’t complete 

it.” 

“What’s wrong with her?” 

Jack ran a shaking hand down his 

stubbly cheek. “It’s her damn armor-capillary 

system. She’s sprung a 

leak, and the weight shift has completely 

thrown off our engines. If 

we try to engage our drives at more 

than half-throttle we list around like 

a drunken sailor.” 

“Dammit,” Jessica replied. “So, 

not only are you in a world of hurt, 

but now you want us in it with 

you?” 

“I’ll pay you, of course. Everything 

I would have made and more. I just 

have to get their cargo in. If I don’t, 

it won’t be pretty. I hate to ask, but 

you’re the only person I know who 

can help me.” 

“Save the guilt trip. You knew I 

would help before you even called.” 

Shaking his head, he replied, “I 

didn’t, but I hoped.” 

Jessica shrugged her shoulders 

and tilted her head. “Either way, you 

know I can’t leave you hanging out 

to dry like this. Where are you and 

what do I need to haul?” 

“We’re in the Shush’ka Shipyards 

out in Outpost 8A-14, but the 

cargo isn’t with us. I couldn’t take 

a chance on dock scanners finding 

it...whatever it is...so I dumped the 

cargo pod and left it in the Proxius 

asteroid field.” 

Boo gasped. “You mean you left 

their cargo just spinning with the 

rocks?! Are you insane?” 

Jack jumped to cover the speaker 

on his comm terminal, then replied, 

“Of course not! The asteroid belt 

isn’t very thick, and an onboard nav 

system can move it with air thrusters 

if anything gets too close. Trust 

me, it’s safe enough. There’s a passive 

homing beacon on it though, so 

in order for you to find it you’ll need 

to ping the belt with an encrypted 

transmission burst. Once you do 

that it’ll light up enough for you to 

find it.” 

“I know the drill,” Jessica told him. 

“Don’t forget, it was dad who came 

up with that smugglers package in 

the first place.” 

“That’s right. I’m sending you 

the encryption credential right 

now. Once you’re at the Proxius 

conduit node, start broadcasting. 

It shouldn’t take more than a few 

minutes for it to ping you back. I’m 

also sending you the delivery file so 

you know where to take it. When 

you’re done, call me back here and 

let me know so that your money can 

be transferred.” 

“The money will be sent over 

now, Jack.” Jessica’s voice was unwavering. 

“There’s a lot that can 

go wrong, and I’m not going to risk 

being left out to dry along with you 

should that happen. I love you like 

an uncle, but even that has limits.” 

The elder freighter captain glowered 

at the screen, but his anger and 

frustration meant little in the face 

of her resolve. “Alright. I’ll transmit 

payment as soon as I hang up with 

you. You’ll find it more than reasonable, 

I assure you.” 

Nodding once to the screen and 

then once to her second in com- 


mand, Jessica said, “Sounds good.” 

“I appreciate you doing this for 

me. I know you don’t agree with 

what I’m doing, but you’re sticking 

by me anyway, and I’ll never forget 

it.” 

Giving him a half smile, Jessica 

replied, “Oh, I think you can count 

on that. I foresee many retellings of 

this over drinks in the future.” 

Jack smirked back. “I guess I deserve 

that.” 

“I’ll call you when the dust settles.” 

“I’ll be waiting, Jessie. Thanks 

again.” 

Jessica and Boo gave their farewells. 

Once the call window faded 

to black, she downed the remainder 

of her drink and pulled up a banking 

window. True to his word, Jack 

deposited a healthy sum of money 

into their account. 

“You know this won’t end well,” 

Boo said as they stood from their 

chairs and began walking toward 

the exit of the lounge. 

“Nothing involving the Gorawnies 

ever does. Then again, my karma 

is pretty clean, so there’s always 

hope.” 

Boo grunted and shook his head. 

Seconds later they were free of the 

lounge and headed back toward 

their waiting ship. 

Page 47

*** 

“And that,” Jessica said with an air 

of finality, “is the tall and the skinny 

of it.” 

Everyone around the table that 

served as the primary gathering 

place for meals aboard the Breaking 

Dawn grunted and sat back to 

mull over what she’d told them. After 

several seconds of silence, one 

crewmember stood up. 

“I’ll not say that I’m entirely 

pleased with all this,” Zen squawked, 

her cream-colored feathers barely 

bristling, “but as your people say, no 

use crying over spilled muff.” 

“Milk,” Boo corrected with a light 

chuckle. 

Zen’s pitch black eyes slid over to 

the Kleeetan abruptly. “Pardon?” 

“Milk,” Boo repeated. “No use 

crying over spilled milk.” 

Clicking her beak lips, Zen tossed 

her head and shrugged. “Fine. Milk. 

Thank you, Boo. But my sentiment 

stands. We are committed, and we 

have been paid, so I think we might 

as well get the task done with as 

quickly as possible.” 

Jessica looked around the table. 

None of her crew appeared happy 

to be working for the Gorawnies, 

even if only tangentially, but no one 

stood up to say they refused either. 

Nodding, she said, “Okay then. Get 

to your stations. I’m going to be 

pushing the engines fairly hard all 

the way, and I don’t want any surprises.” 

Everyone filed out of the room, 

some going fore and some aft. Jessica 

and Boo made immediately for 

the bridge. The Kleeetan lowered 

himself into the pilot’s seat while 

his captain went to a command station 

above and behind him. As he 

strapped himself in and began preflight 

checks, she put on a headset 

and brought her communications 

display online. 

“Traffic control, this is Breaking 

Dawn requesting immediate clearance 

to depart.” Her words were 

crisp, clear, and direct. A reply was 

not long in coming. 

“Breaking Dawn, you are not yet 

cleared for debarkation. Stand down 

while we secure an exit lane for you. 

One moment please.” 

Tapping the screen to her left, she 

brought up the ship’s status display 

and saw that all systems were reading 

within nominal ranges. For a ship 

as old as she was, Breaking Dawn 

was fitter than most starcraft half 

her age. All her crew saw to that. 

Next she brought her navigation 

displays to life and started charting 

a route to Proxius. There were two 

to choose from, but neither was 

an easy trip, and ultimately it came 

down to deciding which was the 

lesser evil. One route consisted of 

eight hops; seven of them through 

standard Conduit nodes, and one 

through a Coven gate, with the entire 

trip taking an estimated six days. 

The other route took only three days, 

but there were four hops, and all of 

them were through Coven gates, the 

last two being within hours of each 

other. She didn’t want to put any 

of them through that sort of stress, 

but the saved time was too great to 

ignore. In the end, it really wasn’t a 

choice at all. 

“You’re now cleared to leave 

Vimm’skka Station, Breaking Dawn,” 

the traffic control operator said. 

“Exit vectors have been uploaded to 

you. Deviate from them and you will 

be fined accordingly. Have a good 

day.” 

Jessica checked her screens 

and saw the uploaded flight plan. 

“Thanks, traffic control. Breaking 

Dawn out.” She then added the 

transmitted exit vectors to her Proxius 

nav route and forwarded it to the 

piloting station. A disgruntled snort 

came seconds later. 

“Four Coven gates?” Boo asked. 

“Was it something I said?” 

She laughed, but it was a sound 

with little humor in it. The coming 

journey promised to be a trying one, 

and she silently cursed the bond 

that had caused her to help her old 


friend. Had it been anyone else in 

the galaxy, she would have turned 

them away without a second’s 

thought. But Jack was different, and 

the old man knew it. 

Still, she thought, Zen’s right. We 

took the job, and we took the payment. 

No use grousing about it now. 

Let’s just get it done and move on. 

The sooner we get all these Coven 

gates passed us, the better. 

*** 

For the fourth time in nearly as 

many days, space unraveled itself 

around Jessica in terrible swirls 

of light and dark as her ship flew 

through yet another Coven gate. It 

was a horrible feeling, like she was 

dying in slow motion, and it never 

got easier no matter how many 

times she went through it. 

“One...two...three...four...five...” 

she whispered, her eyes closed 

and her skin clammy. “Six...seven... 

eight...nine...ten.” 

By the time she was done counting, 

the medicine Zen had given her 

kicked in, easing her stomach and 

frazzled nerves. Going through a Coven 

gate was bad enough, but how 

the Coven themselves could stand 

to live inside them was something 

she would never understand. 

Checking her navigational 

screens, she saw that her ship was 

Page 48

approximately six million klicks from 

the conduit node in the Proxius system. 

At maximum burn that meant 

about an eight hour trip to reach 

the asteroid belt. She didn’t like 

pushing her engines that hard for so 

long, but she trusted Duka to keep 

them operating in the green. 

After initiating the ship’s autopilot 

program, she sprang from the 

piloting chair and exited through 

the aft hatch to make her way toward 

the galley. As she entered the 

communal room, Zen came through 

the hatchway that led to the crew’s 

sleeping pods, a small black bag in 

her hands. 

“Did the medicine help, Captain?” 

Zen asked, looking a bit green 

around the beak herself. 

Jessica nodded. “So far, so good. 

Thanks for the popper.” 

Zen nodded, settled into a chair, 

and opened her medical bag and 

pulled out a med-patch. After removing 

the adhesive cover, she settled 

the patch over the thin feathers 

of her neck. A satisfied sigh escaped 

her beak. 

Seconds later Ferron joined them. 

After a silent greeting he opened a 

cabinet door and began rummaging 

around in the pantry until he found 

a large bag of dehydrated meat. The 

snack never failed to calm his stomach. 

“How long until we pick up the 

package, skipper?” he asked around 

mouthfuls of chewed flesh. 

Zen, whose species was strictly 

vegetarian, looked at him with barely 

disguised disgust. Ferron didn’t 

notice. 

Opening a refrigerated cabinet, 

Jessica replied, “Eight hours, give or 

take. After that we hit the node and 

get rid of it as soon as possible.” As 

she finished speaking, she withdrew 

a pouch of chilled nutrient-enriched 

fruit juice, closed the refrigerator, 

popped the top off her drink, and 

started sipping. 

“And then we can get back to our 

normal lives,” Boo said as he shuffled 

through the same hatchway Zen 

and Ferron had used. Sleep was still 

evident in his four brown eyes and 

in the sags of his dog-like face. 

“Anyone heading down to the 

grease pit?” Ferron asked. “Because, 

if not, I thought I’d take a 

snack down to Duka, see how he’s 

doing.” 

“Take him a few of those galonaan 

podberries,” Jessica suggested. “He 

loves those.” 

Nodding, Ferron plucked two 

handfuls of the sickeningly sweet 

fruit from a bin and shoved them 

into one his pockets, and then started 

walking toward the aft passageway 

that led toward the ship’s main 

engine cluster. 

“Do you mind watching the 

helm?” Jessica asked Boo as she 

finished the last of her juice and 

dropped the plastic pouch into a recycling 

bin. 

The Kleeetan pilot answered with 

a silent shake of his head. He then 

took hold of a tall metal cup and 

filled it with steaming coffee, coffee 

only he could stomach. The strong 

smell of it made Jessica’s nose wrinkle 

up in disgust. 

“Okay, thanks. I’m going to take a 

shower and then snooze for a bit. If 

I’m not on the bridge in five hours, 

beep my cabin.” 

He nodded, screwed a lid onto 

his cup, and shambled toward the 

bridge. 

The walk to her cabin was short, 

and she crossed into it with relief. 

It wasn’t much, but it was home. 

The Breaking Dawn only had one 

full-fledged living compartment, 

and it was hers. Everyone else on 

board slept in sleeping tubes, with 

their few possessions stored in personal 

lockers, but as the captain of 

the ship she had a room all to herself, 

and even if the quarters were 

cramped she did all she could to 

make them her own. 

Articles of unwashed clothing 

were draped over her desk chair 

and the foot rail of her tiny bunk, 

while under it were three pairs of 

boots that had been kicked off and 

forgotten. One corner of her desk 


was cluttered with a haphazard 

collection of makeup containers, 

half-empty perfume bottles, and 

an ancient squeeze tube of hair gel 

that had hardened past the point 

of usefulness. The slim closet door 

next to her desk was half open, and 

poking from it were the barrels of 

two handguns that hung in leather 

holsters from a coat hook, both of 

them in need of a good servicing. 

“Hey dad,” she said to a portrait 

of her father that sat on the shelf 

over her bunk. “Hangin’ in there? 

Yeah, me too.” 

Also on the shelf was a picture of 

her mother, Muriel, a young woman 

with an angelic face that echoed 

strongly in her own. Her mother 

had died minutes after giving birth 

to her one and only child. All Jessica 

knew of her was what her father 

had passed on through stories. 

As the hatch closed and locked 

behind her, she sat down in her 

chair and undid the buckles of her 

boots, which were shuffled off to 

join their companions beneath the 

bunk. Next she removed her socks, 

her vest, undershirt, and trousers. 

A full length mirror was secured to 

the wall next to her small bathroom 

stall, and in it she quickly looked 

herself over. At five and a half feet 

tall, Jessica was in average physical 

condition. She’d never felt that she 

was an overly attractive woman, at 

Page 49

least by human standards, though 

none of her lovers had ever seen fit 

to complain. Her eyes were gray like 

the ocean under a stormy sky, and 

her hair, which was naturally a deep 

red, hung in thick curls that fell just 

past her shoulders. 

Down her arms and back were 

tattooed thin swirls of black, red, 

and blue lines, the result of a drunken 

stay in a strange port. It was the 

only thing she and her father had 

ever shared cross words over. Two 

weeks after the argument, an accident 

in the forward cargo hold took 

his life. In his will he’d left everything 

to her, including his stake in the ship 

and its business, which amounted 

to just over half of the freighter’s 

total worth. 

I can’t believe it’s been so long 

since he died, she thought. How is it 

possible to feel this young and this 

old all at the same time? 

With a shake of her head she finished 

disrobing and stepped into 

her shower. A hot water shower on 

a small ship like hers was a luxury 

she rarely allowed herself. Lathering 

up was a delight, but it was nothing 

compared to the joy of hot water 

cascading down her skin to wash 

the suds away. Next she washed 

her hair, and then she brushed her 

teeth. When she was done she felt 

like a new woman. 

On a hook next to the shower 

was a towel, which she used and 

then threw onto the rest of the dirty 

clothes in her chair. For a moment 

she toyed with the idea of reading 

her latest email download, but the 

warm water had drained the last 

reserves of her energy away, so instead 

she collapsed onto her bunk 

and sank into several hours of much 

needed sleep. 

*** 

“Are we ready to broadcast?” 

Boo asked from the command console 

as the Breaking Dawn reached 

the outer edge of the Proxius asteroid 

belt. 

Jessica, her nap still fresh across 

her pink face, reached out, grabbed 

the engine throttle, and pulled it all 

the way back. In space there was 

no such thing as a true stop, but so 

far as the rest of the Proxius system 

was concerned, she was as good as 

parked. “We are now.” 

Boo tapped a series of buttons on 

his communications panel that sent 

an encrypted transmission burst 

into the asteroid field. Several seconds 

later, a beeping sound came 

through the bridge speakers, and a 

light began flashing. 

“Looks like the package is where 

Jack said it would be,” he said. 

On her nav screen, Jessica saw 

an indicator icon slowly pulsing at 

the very edge of the display. “We’re 

lucky it’s still in range. The belt isn’t 

too crowded out that way, but I’m 

not taking any chances, so get Cam 

to man the guns. I want him ready 

to fire on any stray rocks that get too 

close. And then go get some sleep. 

We’re nearly on the home stretch, 

and I want you frosty.” 

Nodding, Boo stepped back from 

the command station and said, “I’ll 

have him right up.” 

She waved her hand and yawned. 

“I’ll call if an asteroid hits us.” 

The Kleeetan laughed as he exited 

the bridge. Once the door closed 

behind him, Jessica tapped her nav 

screen and set up a series of checkpoints 

that formed a route through 

the asteroid belt to their target. The 

navigational computer checked her 

course against the drift of all the asteroids 

detected and found it to be 

a sound flight path. As she finalized 

her preparations, the bridge door 

whisked open. 

“Ready for some target practice?” 

she asked Cam over her shoulder. 

“I don’t require practice, Captain. 

My skills are constant.” 

She shook her head and grinned. 

“It’s just an expression.” 

“I know, ma’am.” As he spoke, the 

android settled into the tactical station 

and plugged himself into the 

ship’s sensor and weapons grids. 

Within seconds he and the ship 

were one. “Tactical is ready.” 

Knowing they were as ready as 


they possibly could be, Jessica nodded 

and hit a button that activated 

the ship’s intercom system. “Everyone, 

we’re about to go swimming 

with the rocks. Start praying to 

whatever gods you find comfort in. 

Bridge out.” 

With that done, she grabbed the 

throttle and slowly pushed it forward. 

The ship’s engines throbbed 

to life, and into the asteroid field 

they flew. 

To be continued... 

Tales of the Breaking Dawn © 2009 

by Justin Macumber. 

Page 50

RGR REVIEWS 

by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt and Matthew Scott Winslow 

The Dragon’s Nine Sons 

by Chris Roberson 

Solaris, 2008, 416pp. 

It is 2052 in an alternate universe 

where Imperial China battles the 

Mexic Dominion for control of the 

fourth planet from the sun, Fire 

Star. Nine trouble-making soldiers 

are given a reprieve from execution 

if they undertake a suicide mission: 

piloting a captured Mexic spaceship 

to the asteroid stronghold of the enemy 

to destroy it from within. When 

they arrive at the base, they discover 

dozens of Chinese prisoners destined 

to be used as human sacrifices, 

and their suicide mission becomes a 

desperate rescue attempt. 

The Dragon’s Nine Sons is a novel 

set in Chris Roberson’s Celestial Empire 

universe, a fascinating alternate 

history where fifteenth-century 

China, instead of closing itself off 

from the world, continued its program 

of exploration and wound up 

becoming the major world power. 

Roberson has about a dozen or so 

short stories set in the universe; The 

Dragon’s Nine Sons is the second 

novel, with others forthcoming. 

The leaders of the assault expedition 

are Captain Zhuan Jie and Ban- 

nerman Yao Guanzhong. Zhuan is 

a reluctant captain. He joined the 

Imperial transport forces to escape 

the family business of training wild 

animals for the Emperor’s enjoyment. 

When war with the Mexica 

broke out, Zhuan was pressed into 

military service where he eventually 

made captain. He was arrested and 

sentenced to execution because his 

own cowardice made him disobey a 

direct order and command his ship 

away from a battle. 

The other main character, Bannerman 

Yao, is Zhuan’s opposite. 

Career military from a military family 

on both sides, he was a dutiful 

and honorable officer. Yet when his 

unit chances upon a Mexic attack 

of a civilian station on Fire Star, his 

superiors order him not to engage 

the enemy. This leads to an enormous 

amount of civilian casualties 

and unanswered questions for Yao. 

The Bannerman persists in looking 

for answers in spite of orders from 

his superiors to let the matter drop. 

When he finally finds out what happened 

he is arrested as well. 

Zhuan and Yao are put in charge of 

the captured Mexic ship, renamed 

the Dragon, and a team of seven 

misfits: Ang the pilot, gambler, and 

thief; Nguyen, the gentle mountain 

of a man with a murderous temper; 

Cai, the awkward prankster; Paik, 

the self-centered loafer; Dea, the 

killer marksman who thinks he’s 

a wild-west gunslinger; Fukuda, 

the nervous explosive expert; and 

Syuxtun, communications officer 

and devout Muslim. Zhuan and Yao 

must get this motley bunch to work 

together if any of them are to have a 

chance of returning from their mission. 

Save for the incredibly inventive 

universe, The Dragon’s Nine Sons 

does not break much new ground. 

Roberson could have easily titled 

the novel, “The Dirty Three-Quarters 

Dozen.” So much could have 

been done with the voice of the narrative, 

say, by drawing from the rich 

tradition of Chinese literature or 

more recent wuxia fiction. In spite 

of the exotic setting, the novel reads 

like American action-adventure science 

fiction. 

For me to say this is unfair, I know. 

A reviewer must review the book an 

author actually wrote, not the one 

the reviewer wishes he had written. 

Roberson has an excellent prose 

style, delightfully transparent to 

the story he tells. The adventure is 


engaging. I would not say I was surprised 

by anything that happened in 

the story, but I consider it a pageturner. 

And I do want to read more 

of Roberson’s Celestial Empire stories. 

Lovers of military SF and a good 

action-adventure story will definitely 

want to check out The Dragon’s 

Nine Sons. 

Reviewed by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt 

*** 

The Stormcaller and The Twilight 

Herald 

by Tom Lloyd 

Pyr, 2008, 2009, 449 pp., 503 pp. 

In a land ruled over by distant, capricious 

gods, a young man named 

Isak has been plucked from poverty 

to be the heir of the Duke of Farlan. 

Isak is a white-eye, born larger and 

more powerful than most men, a 

representative of the gods among 

humanity. As he grows into his new 

position, he learns that the land is 

facing a time of struggle the likes of 

which it has never seen since ages 

ago when mortals battled with and 

even slew gods. 

The Stormcaller and The Twilight 

Page 51

Herald are the first two volumes 

in Tom Lloyd’s high fantasy series, 

“The Twilight Reign.” The series is 

projected to run to five volumes, 

with the third already published in 

Lloyd’s native U.K. (Pyr has it scheduled 

for release later this year in 

North America.) 

The Stormcaller presents Isak 

finding his way in his new environment, 

drawing friends and allies 

to himself (and making enemies), 

learning to lead men into battle and 

to control the magic within himself. 

Isak is a likeable character, but indecisive 

the way an eighteen-year-old 

youth can be. I often found it unclear 

what motivated him, his decisions 

often seeming to stem from 

mere impulse. 

Fortunate for Lloyd, the characters 

around Isak are extremely entertaining 

and vivid. These other 

characters take much more of the 

stage in The Twilight Herald. Dark 

forces in the minor city of Scree 

draw a wide range of people to it. 

Isak’s ally, King Emin, who seeks revenge 

for crimes against his nation 

and his queen. Princess Zhia, an ancient 

woman cursed with vampirism 

and compassion. Doranei, member 

of Emin’s elite forces, who finds 

himself falling for Princess Zhia. 

Count Vesna, Isak’s right-hand man, 

with a reputation as an irresistible 

lover and unbeatable soldier, who 

now finds himself falling in love and 

hating war. 

And this is all setting the stage for 

a cosmic battle of good versus evil. 

Or perhaps better, order versus chaos. 

Unlike a number of high fantasies 

out there that I could name but 

won’t, one feels there is a point to 

all this. Lloyd is trying to tell a definite 

story, not writing tomes for the 

sake of writing tomes. 

The style of Lloyd’s prose is rich, 

but not overly so. To use an image 

from architecture, if Tolkien is a parish 

church in English perpendicular 

Gothic, Lloyd would be a chateau in 

the French Baroque. He excels especially 

at the vivid description of 

battle and other action sequences. 

The question still may remain why 

readers of RGR might be interested 

in Lloyd’s work. A first answer would 

be the battle scenes just mentioned. 

Space opera is all about adventure, 

and Lloyd’s series has adventure 

aplenty. 

But within the adventure, there 

are larger issues at work. Questions 

of good and evil. Belief and 

disbelief. The consequences of individual 

choices. The roles of destiny 

and free will. Speculative fiction remains 

a literary venue where such 

meaningful questions can be raised. 

Space opera and fantasy are at their 

best when a human story wrestles 

with human values. Lloyd has a very 

human story, and I look forward to 

see how it continues. 

Reviewed by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt 

Donald Jacob Uitvlugt grew up in western 

Michigan and now lives in Arkansas with his 

wife and dog. He can be contacted via www. 

myspace.com/DonaldJacobUitvlugt 

Matthew Scott Winslow has been a science 

fiction and fantasy addict since he first 

discovered Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series 

on his dad’s shelves at a young age. He can 

be reached at reviews@raygrunrevival. 

com. 


Page 52

THIEVES’ HONOR: EPISODE 8 

Endgame, Part One 


Previously, on Thieves’ Honor: 

Finney, the Martina Vega’s pilot, 

still inside Governor Tarquin’s villa, 

is hiding behind a thicket of potted 

palms on the edge of the courtyard 

after escaping her bonds and reluctantly 

making the acquaintance of 

a guard, Bosko, working for the extraction 

team. However, there’s still 

the matter of the carlinnian collar set 

with explosives and locked around 

her neck, and the voice of her longdead 

grandfather, Admiral Cunningham, 

which only she can hear. 

Sergeant Frank of the Port Henry 

constabulary becomes Captain Kristoff’s 

unexpected ally, and Captain 

Zoltana and Lieutenant Mars of the 

aerospace constabulary separately 

arrive at similar ideas for investigating 

the crew of the Martina Vega, 

only to learn that—once again— 

they’re too late. 

Sixteen-year-old Ezra unknowingly 

sees something Zoltana and Mars 

are trying to find: which Vega crewman 

has the IntuiCom implant. In its 

civilian capacity, the device is used 

for medical purposes, and law enforcement 

uses it to monitor certain 

released criminals. In government 

hands, however, it can be deadly. 

And now, on Thieves’ Honor: 

hat were you thinking, 

“WBosko? Talking up the merchandise 

like that?” Using a torch so 

small he appeared to squeeze fire 

from his fist, a bondsman welded 

manacles around the wrists of the 

prisoner lying prone in the courtyard. 

“Vortuna not teach you nothin’?” 

Bosko’s arms were black with 

bruises, and one of them twisted 

on itself like the thick strands of a 

rope. The man should be screaming, 

but he lay, unmoving, on the paving 

stones. A moan burbled from the 

bloody pulp where his face used to 

be. 

Crouched behind the meager 

shield of planted palms, Finney 

cursed all manner of foggy phrases 

under her breath, then winced 

when her own broken bones jabbed 

at her again. She’d wrapped her shirt 

around her torso then buttoned her 

vest over everything to support the 

ribs. It was crude but functional, 

learned from the field medics in Andronicus 

Settlement when she was 

young. 

She lived there with her grandparents 

when she wasn’t aboard a 

ship with her parents. It was sup- 

posed to be a new hope for the colonies, 

a place where the differences 

between the government and the 

rebels could be resolved, a safe noman’s-land 

between armed forces. 

Retired from the military, then 

becoming a sky commander with 

the constabulary, the admiral volunteered 

as mediator. But he was 

killed, the settlement burned, and 

conflict still sent friction sparks skipping 

through the tinder of border 

towns and outback settlements. 

Some of those sparks landed in cities, 

flaring among the discontented, 

the educated, and the outcasts. 

Yet, after years of propaganda 

and government re-education— 

centuries-old methods of cultural 

brainwashing—how many of those 

who called themselves rebels knew 

the truth of the rebellion? 

“If the merchandise comes out 

of hiding to rescue Bos, we’ll be all 

over her like stink on scum.” The 

bondsman closed and latched the 

toolbox. “The only thing gettin’ him 

out of these is—well—nothin’.” 

One of the extraction team kicked 

Bosko’s leg. “What makes you think 

she’d risk it? Ol’ Bos is one of us.” 

“He didn’t alert the rest of us, did 

he, when she tried to escape?” The 


bondsman stood, hefting the large 

box. “No. They chatted.” 

“Bosko talks.” The hunter 

shrugged. “He gets other people 

to talk. Too bad he keeps making 

friends with the merchandise.” 

Finney scowled. Merchandise. 

Made her sound like cargo. Or a 

street wife. 

Bosko’s head moved. “Waaaterrr.” 

“Better wash the blood off his 

face,” said the bondsman. “Keep 

the flies away.” 

The hunter unslung his canteen 

and twisted off the cap. 

“No!” A cloth-draped litter was 

borne into the courtyard by servants. 

A crone’s hand thrust through 

the curtains. “No. He aided my enemy. 

He deserves no kindness.” 

The house guard fanned out behind 

the litter, their pale, sleeveless 

garments almost too bright in 

the morning sun, and the brownuniformed 

extraction team stepped 

from the porticos to face them. 

“Bosko’s our man,” said the 

bondsman. 

Two servants handed her down 

from the litter, their sun-dark skin 

gleaming. Once on the ground, 

she leaned on two canes, hobbled 

Page 53

toward Bosko, and stared down at 

him, her mouth contorting, drawing 

the many lines on her face toward 

the center like the drawing of tributaries 

into a bitter river. “Our business 

is not concluded, your leader 

is delayed, and the merchandise, 

as you so quaintly call her, is still 

not found.” She prodded his broken 

arm with the tip of a cane, and he 

groaned. “This man is mine.” 

Finney clenched her teeth. Do 

nasty old hag bones pop when you 

crush them? 

It’d be nice if they popped. Might 

even make a person smile. 

“Best leave him be,” said the 

bondsman. 

“Leave him be?” Tarquin’s surprise 

looked almost authentic. 

“What more could I do to him that 

you, his comrades, have not already 

done?” 

The hunter gestured to the side 

with his weapon. “Back away.” 

The governor tilted her head. 

“Extraction teams have a frightening 

reputation, but my experience 

so far has been less than satisfactory. 

And expensive.” She shrugged. 

“Rather too bad Gregor took your 

pay with him. He was arrested, you 

know, he and the rest of your gang. 

In the hold of the Martina Vega, no 

less. It appears I am now your employer.” 

Tarquin smiled. “I do so en- 

joy a good irony. “ 

She whacked the side of the 

headsman’s block with a cane. “We 

will be needing this soon.” 

*** 

“What I don’t get is why Tarquin 

wants us?” Corrigan swigged a 

frosty glass of buttermilk, chomped 

on the corner of an egg-salad sandwich, 

and asked around the food in 

his mouth, “Why send an extraction 

team after a whole crew when you 

already got the person you want?” 

“Because Finney’s just an excuse.” 

Mercedes sipped her tea, and shot 

a grimace at Alerio. “She’s bait.” 

He slurped a spoonful of Sahir’s 

whatever’s-in-the-larder soup then 

crumbled a few more crackers into 

his bowl. 

Wyatt straightened a stack of 

banded bills, pushed aside his abacus, 

and made a notation on a clipboard. 

“Don’t know how you all 

can eat so much, or so loud. Didn’t 

no one’s momma teach ‘em manners?” 

“Didn’t your mother teach you 

proper grammar?” Ezra didn’t look 

up from his book, but reached toward 

a plate of thick-cut fries slathered 

in ketchup, and stuffed a handful 

into his mouth. 

With a sour look at the kid, Wyatt 

snagged the plate. 

Still reading, Ezra grabbed for 

more fries, but his sticky red fingers 

slammed down and trailed ketchup 

across the scarred table. “Hey!” 

Wielding a fork, Wyatt shoveled 

fries until his cheeks bulged, then 

he grinned. It wasn’t pretty. 

Sahir wiped his knife blade with a 

white towel then tucked the blade 

into the waistband of his apron. He 

slapped his belly, and beamed like a 

benevolent uncle upon the crew. 

Seated on a stool at the counter, 

Kristoff downed the last of his coffee 

then slid the empty mug toward 

the sink. He listened a little while 

longer to the bickering, and he fiddled 

with the sling Doc insisted he 

wear until her magic elixir closed 

the wound. She called it by some 

long, scientific name, but it sparkled 

and bubbled, and burned worse 

than drunen acid. At least drunen 

was a proven agent—it dissolved 

crud in Martina’s engines—but hydrobacta-whatever-its-name 

was 

pink, and it came in a corked bottle 

about the size and shape a snake-oil 

seller might peddle to naïve desert 

dwellers. Doc claimed it was good 

medicine. 

He’d clenched his teeth like a man 

until she left the infirmary, then he’d 

doubled over and cried. 

There was still a nagging sting 

deep in his chest, and the blasted 


sling chafed his neck. He ran a finger 

under the strap. 

“This whole thing smells,” said 

Ezra. 

Corrigan frowned, and sniffed the 

air. 

“Smells like what?” Wyatt wiped 

a smear of ketchup from his chin. 

“Not sure.” Ezra closed his book. 

“Seems like Tarquin has gone 

through a whole lot of trouble for a 

simple vengeance.” 

“You reckon Finney’s all right?” 

Corrigan sucked his teeth then 

swished more buttermilk around 

in his mouth. “If she’s bait and all, 

she’s gotta be alive, y’ know?” 

Kristoff slid from the stool and 

returned to the wheelhouse. He 

gripped the back of the pilot’s chair. 

A hot pink bandanna knotted one 

arm. He sat, and the loose ends 

of the bandanna trailed across his 

knee. Blast you, Finn. Why’d you 

leave the ship? 

A fuzzy warble emitted from his 

radio. He unclipped it and hit the 

button. “Go ahead.” 

“Western desert, just outside of 

Horatio, a garrison city built around 

an oasis.” 

“Anything else?” 

“Tarquin wants you pretty bad. 

She paid them more money than I 

could make in four lifetimes. Gregor 

never broke—he’s old school—but 

Page 54

the others gave it up as soon as 

they saw all the nifty gadgets at my 

disposal.” The voice on the radio 

chuckled. “From all the stories I’ve 

heard, I expected more. But I guess 

bounty hunters aren’t what they 

used to be.” 

“These were just cadet thugs. 

Give ‘em a couple more go-rounds, 

and you won’t want to meet any 

in daylight, much less a dark alley.” 

Kristoff stretched out his legs, and 

crossed them at the ankles. “Jink 

Turner and Gleason Holmes?” 

“Governor Bat’Alon filed charges 

this morning. He wanted me to arrest 

you, but I did some wink-wink, 

nudge-nudge talk, and he backed 

down, but he isn’t happy.” 

“I don’t expect he is.” 

“Right now, he’s more concerned 

about his missing daughter, Rebeka. 

If I were you, I wouldn’t come back 

to Port Henry any time soon.” 

“I feel the hinterlands calling my 

name.” Kristoff wound the ends of 

the bandanna around his fingers. 

“Finney?” 

A brief, reluctant sound, like a 

sigh and a muttered curse at once. 

“She was alive when the team left. 

A little roughed up, maybe, but only 

because she didn’t go quietly.” 

Kristoff ran a hand down his face. 

“Thanks, Frank. I owe you.” 

“It broke up the routine, and this 

morning one of my superiors accidentally 

called me sir. I figure we’re 

even, captain.” A pause. “Happy 

hunting.” 

*** 

Step, step, turn, step. It was the 

only exercise the narrow space allowed. 

Finney pressed a fist against 

her grumbling midsection. Step, 

turn, step. Almost two days, no 

food. At least she had water once a 

day, when the servants— 

Here they were now, dressed 

in white, opening the spigots just 

enough to release thin streams of 

water that filled the narrow troughs 

around the pot rims then dripped 

through holes in the troughs, soaking 

the soil without flooding it— 

common practice in the desert, 

where water was traded like currency. 

Finney dropped to a crouch. The 

long, fluid tunics and wide-legged 

trousers of the servants swished 

with every movement, and the soft 

soles of their shoes whispered over 

the stones, mingling with the muted 

music of falling water. She might almost 

be watching the quiet, efficient 

staff going about their tasks at her 

favorite resort back in Port Henry. 

The same resort where she’d 

been captured. 

Out in the courtyard, Bosko 

croaked, “Water. Please. Water,” 

but the servants never turned their 

heads. 

Don’t be feelin’ sorry for him, lass. 

The admiral’s ghost-voice hadn’t 

spoken since sunrise. He’s yer enemy. 

“So was Kristoff,” she murmured, 

“once upon a time.” 

Were Kristoff yer friend, he’d turn 

ye out and force ye to find honest 

work. 

“You forget, Grandfather, I choose 

to pilot a pirate vessel.” 

What did I do wrong? 

“Nothing. You’re my hero, Grandfather. 

When I grow up, I want to be 

just like you.” 

Ah, now yer butterin’ me like 

toast. 

A woman approached Finney’s 

hiding place, bent at the waist, and 

pushed aside the broad, drooping 

fronds near the faucet. 

Finney’s muscles ached with the 

tension of keeping her body absolutely 

still. 

The servant turned the knob. Her 

long hair slid over one shoulder, 

becoming a veil between her and 

Finney. 

Then Finney’s stomach gurgled. 

*** 

“Captain?” Ezra leaned through 

the wheelhouse hatch. “Sahir’s 


stowed the last of the galley supplies, 

and Wyatt’s a little twitchy 

about flying without cargo.” 

“An empty hold means faster 

flight”—Kristoff turned in the pilot’s 

chair—”but twitchiness is dominant 

Wyatt DNA. Fuel?” 

“The fence wanted to unload 

several barrels of liquid, and even 

Corrigan’s persuasive powers didn’t 

work.” Ezra stepped inside. “Doc’s 

wrapping his hand. A couple broken 

knuckles, I think.” 

So. Kristoff nodded. Skippy’s hired 

a few strong-arm types. Good for 

him. 

Ezra shifted his stance. 

Kristoff raised his brows. 

“If that guy won’t deal with us, 

captain, what’ll we do for fuel?” 

“Skippy’s just flexing his muscle. 

He’ll deal.” 

“How can you be sure?” 

“Kid. How long have I been doing 

this?” 

Ezra laughed, and looked down. 

Then his smile faded, and he tapped 

the toe of one boot against a tool 

locker. 

Kristoff waited. Ez was a deep 

well, and he tended to reveal more 

in his face than in his words, but the 

words were there. 

“After everybody disappeared on 

the Elsinore, Finney was the first 

person I saw.” Ezra turned away his 

Page 55

face. “All that time alone on ship, 

and I almost forgot there were other 

people in the universe. Then the 

Vega docks, and this woman walks 

right through the hatch like she’s 

the captain, smiles at me, and says, 

‘Hey, kid. Anybody home?’ She’s”— 

he shrugged—”you know.” 

Yeah. I do. 

Kristoff stood and walked to a 

port, his back to Ezra. Beyond the 

ship spread a dusty village in the 

foothills of the Riva Mountains, on 

the edge of rebel territory, and folk 

dressed in white or varying shades 

of brown walked past the bow. Martina 

was as battered as the ships in 

their scrapyard, and no one gave her 

a second glance. Good. If any colonial 

troops passed through town, 

she’d be outside their notice. 

“I’ll radio Corrigan. Ez, grab Wyatt 

and Sahir, and meet me at the forward 

hatch.” 

*** 

Finney looked straight into the 

servant’s eyes, seeing the pupils 

widen, but the woman didn’t blink. 

She didn’t flinch or cry out. Instead, 

she cupped water in her hand, rose, 

turned, lifted her hair, and splashed 

the water onto the back of her neck. 

Her fingertips traced the white 

thread of a scar that began below 

the neckline of her white tunic and 

disappeared up into her hair. 

Dear God and gearshifts. The 

woman was a rebel. 

Another servant, this one a man 

with curls of graying hair on his 

forearms, passed with a tray in his 

hand. He nodded once, a warning in 

his glance, and strode out of sight. 

The woman dipped her fingers 

into the water again, and wrote on 

the stones above the faucet: dark. 

Without looking back at the palms, 

she flicked her fingers, scattering 

droplets, and walked to the next alcove. 

There was a slight squeak as 

the spigot opened. 

Finney let out her breath, and her 

hands shook. The letters on the wall 

disappeared, evaporated by the 

desert heat. 

A rebel. In Tarquin’s household. 

She gripped the collar. Maybe 

she’d keep her head after all. 

*** 

Ezra headed below, and radioed 

Wyatt and Sahir on their own frequencies: 

“Captain said meet him at 

the forward hatch. Better be quick. 

He doesn’t sound happy.” 

Kristoff wasn’t frightening, but 

he wasn’t weak, either. He’d beaten 

Jink Turner and Gleason Holmes in 

the same fight. Since Ezra had been 

aboard the Martina Vega, Kristoff 

had boarded at least four vessels 

and made off with their entire cargos, 

without firing a shot or being 

recognized—neither his crew nor 

the ship—no simple feat when the 

ship was a well-known bucket, and 

among its crews was a giant mechanic 

and a cook the approximate 

shape and size of a small planet. 

Once, Sahir had played the captain, 

and Kristoff acted a slavish 

idiot. Ezra helped acquire both costumes; 

easy enough to raggedy-up 

the captain’s clothes, but finding a 

white shirt with leather-lacings that 

was big enough to fit Sahir? Ezra 

and Mercedes pooled their skills, 

and turned a bed sheet into a tentlike 

version of a captain’s signature 

garment. The escapade ended in 

the Martina Vega taking on a hold’s 

worth of foul-smelling but expensive 

agricultural byproduct, and 

the crew leaning on one another in 

loud, helpless laughter as soon as 

the hatches were sealed. 

That load sold for a year’s take, 

and the crew had stayed in port 

for nigh a month. During that time, 

Kristoff tweaked the constabulary’s 

ear a time or two, posed as an officer 

on occasion, and kicked down 

a few doors. He seemed to like that 

bit. 

Frowning, Wyatt stepped from 

the portside companionway into 

the hold. “What’s this about, Ez?” 


Ezra shook his head, closed and 

latched the first aid kit mounted on 

the wall, and the pair strode forward. 

Kristoff was already at the hatch, 

knife in his belt, gun low at his hip, 

and an unreadable expression on 

his face. With his free hand, he hit 

the release beside the door, and the 

hatch opened, admitting a blast of 

heat that nigh sucked the air out of 

Ezra’s lungs. 

Swinging a bulging burlap bag 

over one shoulder, Sahir arrived, 

then Corrigan, with Alerio and Mercedes 

close behind. 

“I’m only taking three,” said Kristoff. 

“I don’t hide behind anybody,” 

rumbled Corrigan, and the engineer 

and the doctor protested over 

the top of one another, their words 

tangling, but the captain shook his 

head. 

“Three.” 

Then he reached behind him and 

tossed a gunbelt wound around a 

holster. Startled, Ezra almost didn’t 

catch it, but hooked the belt on his 

first two fingers, the weight and momentum 

of the gun wrenching his 

arm. The leather was sweat-stained, 

the edges blackened, and the gun’s 

wooden grip was worn smooth with 

much handling. Colonial weapons 

were composite or metal; this one 

Page 56

had probably voyaged from Earth in 

an ancestor’s trunk. 

Though Ezra rarely spoke of his 

beliefs unless asked, they were 

known to everyone aboard. He lived 

and served aboard a vessel crewed 

by pirates, but never had Kristoff 

asked or ordered him to break the 

law, nor had Ezra ever accompanied 

the crew on a job. 

He met the captain’s gaze; Kristoff’s 

expression didn’t change. Ezra 

looked around at the crew, and they 

looked back, Mercedes with a small 

frown that might be concern, Corrigan 

with a scowl that might be envy, 

and Sahir with a glimmer of excitement 

as if looking forward to seeing 

what the cabin boy could do in 

a fight. Alerio smiled—he’d taught 

Ezra how to shoot—and Wyatt narrowed 

his eyes, probably expecting 

Ezra to give back the gun. 

It grew heavier the longer he held 

it. 

Oh, God. A prayer, not a curse, 

and full of questions. 

He looked down at the gun. 

Was it wrong to commit a crime 

against a criminal? 

Would it be a greater crime to 

not do whatever possible to find 

and free Finney—assuming she still 

lived? 

Finney and the crew were pirates 

and smugglers. 

But, were it not for them, he’d be 

dead. 

He slung the belt around his hips, 

and buckled it. 

Sahir let loose a fat chuckle, 

slapped him on the back, and thudded 

down the gangway. 

*** 

Either the rebel servant was no 

rebel, or the house guard had finally 

arrived at the notion of checking behind 

all the planters. Armed men escorted 

Finney past Bosko, lying sunburned 

and unconscious, into the 

cool interior of the villa and down 

dim corridors to a high-ceilinged 

chamber hung with gauzy curtains 

over the lattice-cut windows. In 

the center sat the governor, canes 

resting against the arms of a chaise 

piled with cushions. 

Finney lifted her chin, and straightened 

her shoulders. 

“Your foray into freedom, brief 

though it was, seems to have restored 

your attitude.” A smile rearranged 

the wrinkles on Tarquin’s 

face into a sagging, over-painted 

theatre mask. “Unfortunately, we 

shall have to hobble you.” 

Two hunters pushed Finney to 

her knees, while another pressed a 

block between her ankles. 

“No. No.” Tarquin thumped the 

floor with both canes. “This is my 

revenge, and she will feel the full extent 

of it. Let her see the breaking.” 

The block was removed, the 

guards slewed Finney sideways, 

kicked her legs out in front of her, 

then set her upright, yanking her 

arms behind her back. With the toe 

of his boot, the bondsman nudged 

the block into place between her 

feet then set down his box, tools 

clanking. He took out a mallet. 

Sweat soaked Finney’s back. Heart 

pounded. Lungs seized. 

Tarquin laughed—a broken rasp. 

“There it is! There is the fear.” She 

leaned forward, a crow in a plump 

nest. “Do you know the true irony? 

Devlin was a headstrong nuisance. 

My grandson never cared for the 

family trade. He would rather play, 

bring home toys like you. He never 

cared what it meant to belong to my 

house. Nieces and nephews I have 

aplenty, my husband’s kin.” She 

pointed a knobby finger to the shadows 

where men and women stood in 

pale, loose-fitting garments. “They 

care. They know the honor.” 

Honor ain’t got nothin’ to do with 

it, you old bat. They know how much 

is in the cookie jar, and they want a 

fistful of goodies. 

Lowering her hand, the old woman 

slumped against the cushions, 

her shoulders hunched beside her 

head like a bird’s wings. “But one 


does not let the killing of one’s 

blood kin go by without an answer.” 

No—Finney’s gaze returned to the 

mallet in the bondsman’s hand— 

one does not. 

She flung herself backward, raising 

her feet, and the block knocked 

the mallet upward, catching him 

under the chin, snapping back 

his head. He collapsed like an airless 

pneumatic. Finney wheezed a 

laugh. 

The men on either side clamped 

her legs and shoulders to the 

floor. Her head banged against the 

stone. Her ears rang, and her sight 

blurred. 

“If you do not be still, Miss Grace, 

these men will simply shoot you in 

the legs. Shattered bones and open 

wounds. Excellent cause for sepsis. 

And even more pain.” Tarquin 

paused. “Why did I not consider it 

sooner? Shoot her knees.” 

*** 

In the shadow of a mud-and-timber 

building that listed to the south 

like the haphazard construction of a 

tipsy carpenter, Kristoff tapped Ezra 

on the shoulder and motioned him 

to step back. Rope coiled over one 

shoulder, Wyatt walked past on the 

street, each step raising fine dust in 

red-brown puffs. Sahir stumped off 

in the opposite direction, the con- 

Page 57

tents of the burlap bag shifting a 

little with each step. 

Careful, my friend. 

Four men emerged from a fenced, 

adobe building across the street, 

the reinforced door clanging shut 

behind them. They paused at the 

barred gate, then two followed Sahir, 

and after a little neck craning 

and low-voiced consultation, the 

other two followed Wyatt. 

Squinting against the light bouncing 

off the fence, Kristoff crossed his 

arms and leaned against the wall. On 

the edge of his vision, Ezra crossed 

his arms too, then uncrossed them; 

put his hands at his hips; shifted the 

gunbelt; turned to face the other 

way down the alley. 

“Kid.” 

Ezra stood still, the back of his 

shirt dark with sweat. 

“When we go in, stay behind me, 

and keep your gun in your hand. As 

soon as you get inside, take a step to 

the right, and stay there. Keep your 

back to the wall. Don’t let anybody 

leave.” Kristoff looked over at him. 

“You do that?” 

After a small hesitation, Ezra nodded. 

A few minutes later, Wyatt strolled 

up the alley, sans rope. “All four of 

‘em trussed up and ready to broil.” 

He ran a gloved hand along the back 

of his head, and his grizzled hair 

stood up in sweaty peaks. “They’ll 

be red as a slapped face by the time 

somebody unties ‘em.” 

Kristoff straightened. “Sahir?” 

Wyatt nodded. He stripped off 

the gloves then flexed his fingers. 

“These are the hands of an artist. 

They’re not meant for rough work.” 

“Come up with a new grudge”— 

Kristoff chuckled—”’cause that one’s 

wearin’ thin around the edges.” 

Wyatt scowled. “Say that the next 

time you need some fancy identification 

papers.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. C’mon.” Kristoff 

led the way down the alley. 

Ezra spoke in a low voice, “We 

doubling back to the other side of 

the street?” 

“That building is the decoy. The 

real business is right here.” Kristoff 

hooked a thumb at the ramshackle 

structure beside them. 

“Looks like it could blow over in 

the next sandstorm.” 

They sauntered along the side 

of the building to the back corner. 

Anyone passing on the street would 

think nothing suspicious about 

three dusty laborers at the delivery 

entrance. 

A quick glance around the corner 

revealed two men lounging in 

the shade, one with his head tipped 

back and his eyes shut, a cigarette 

burning close to his fingers, and the 

other tossing playing cards into an 

old boot, and between them a faded 

orange door latticed with carlinnian 

bars, fitted with a heavy lock. 

Kristoff jerked his head, and Wyatt 

and Ezra backed up the alley several 

steps. “Two guards. Not the problem. 

The door’s reinforced since our 

last visit.” 

Wyatt scratched the back of his 

head. “Dagnabbit.” 

“Captain.” Ezra pulled the doctor’s 

tranquilizer pistol from under his 

shirt. “On the Elsinore, I learned to 

break locks, too.” He shrugged. “It’s 

the only way I could move around 

the ship.” 

Kristoff smiled. “Well, kid, you’re 

on.” 

Seconds later, two men were 

propped against the wall in the alley, 

the playing cards and the old boot 

beside them, and a fresh, cheap 

cigarette curled up a malodorous 

smoke from the fingers of one unconscious 

guard. 

Using the tips of the two tranq 

darts, and with Wyatt holding a 

match flame to the keypad feed, 

Ezra popped open the first part of 

the lock. 

Everyone paused, listening. 

No alarm. No running feet or 

shouts. 

Kristoff nodded, and Ezra continued. 


The seal gave a little sigh, and a 

dark seam appeared around the 

edges of the door. Kristoff kicked 

open the door, stepped into the dim 

storeroom, and grinned at the fat 

man seated at a warped table. “Afternoon, 

Skippy.” 

Eyes wide, the man tried to stand, 

but his feet tangled in the chair legs. 

Man and furniture toppled with a 

crash. Armed guards surrounded 

him, weapons aimed at the bright 

band of sunlight invading their den. 

“Shoot him!” shrieked the fat man. 

“Shoot him!” 

Shots pinged off the doorframe 

and shelving, but three of the four 

gunmen dropped unconscious, and 

the fourth lowered his weapon 

when Ezra pointed the dart gun at 

him. 

“Now, Skippy.” Kristoff gestured 

with his pistol at the shelves laden 

with contraband. “Here I was thinking 

you were a man of business.” 

Wyatt stepped around him, and 

wagged a bulging purse over the 

table. Two plump, white hands 

slapped the tabletop, and Skippy 

heaved upright. He stared at the 

purse, prodded it with a thick finger, 

and smiled when the coins inside 

clinked. 

Hands spread wide, a tilt of the 

head, and Skippy might have been 

greeting a favored client. “You will 

Page 58

overlook the poor welcome, and 

convey my deepest regrets to your 

man for the unfortunate breaking of 

his hand?” He waved toward a hulk 

standing behind the remaining gunman, 

arms crossed. “Olson is new to 

my employ.” 

Good ol’ Skippy. He never missed 

a chance to toss a comrade under 

the keel. 

Ignoring the bodyguards, none 

of whom he recognized from the 

last time Skippy tried to stiff him, 

Kristoff ran the barrel of his gun 

along a row of cylindrical pumps, a 

triangular void at the base of each 

where the tri-planet government 

seal used to be. The metallic clickclick, 

click-click, click-click of pistol 

against shelving ticked like a robotic 

heartbeat. 

“Y’know, Skip, no better way to 

hide, sometimes, than to walk right 

up to your enemy and say howdy.” 

Skippy’s smile slid sideways. “I’m 

afraid I do not follow.” 

“I agree. You are afraid, and intelligence 

is apparently not requisite 

to a successful criminal career.” 

Kristoff tapped the end of the barrel 

against the last pump. “I’d have left 

the seals on. Easier to unload, and 

no one asks awkward questions.” 

“I don’t take advice from pirates.” 

Kristoff shrugged his right shoul- 

der, but the strap of the blasted 

sling still scritch-scratched along his 

neck. “I just want my fuel.” 

The man spread his hands again, 

palms up. “I can sell you all the liquid 

you want, but no pellets. They belong 

to a couple rebel leaders with 

better weapons than this lot carry.” 

His plump face glistened with sweat. 

“You understand my position.” 

Kristoff sighed. “Skippy, Skippy, 

Skippy.” He waved the pistol at a 

stack of chemical bottles. “I’d hate 

to be the one to put the first scratch 

on this batch of shiny new—what is 

this? Looks explosive. Maybe toxic.” 

Olson uncrossed his arms, pushed 

aside the other guard, and grabbed 

Kristoff’s wrist, twisting the gun 

from his grasp. 

“Now, see”—Kristoff looked up 

at him; fellow needed a good set of 

nose-hair clippers—”that kinda behavior 

is what gets a body hurt.” 

Olson grinned. 

*** 

“Governor,” said one of the men 

holding Finney to the floor, “shooting 

her in the knees is chancy. If she 

moves, bullets can ricochet, hurt 

anybody in this room. Even if we hit 

square, bone fragments and blood 

spatter could make it—messy.” 

Tarquin waved a dismissive hand. 

“Stand her up, then.” 

“If we stand her up, we still risk 

ricochet, ma’am, and there’s no 

guarantee we actually hit her in the 

knees. And what if something hits 

that collar, and sets if off? We’re all 

dead.” 

“What, then, do you suggest?” 

Her voice tensed with false patience. 

By all means, discuss the fate of 

my knees. Finney blinked her sight 

back into focus. Take as long as you 

like. 

“We take her outside the villa, 

away from all this stone. No worries 

about shrapnel or ricochets, and the 

sand soaks up the blood.” 

Tarquin looked at Finney, who 

stared back with as much calm as 

she could rally. 

“The smell of blood does not 

quickly leave a room, especially in 

the desert.” The old woman pushed 

herself up on her shaky, stick-like 

arms. “Outside. But not the garden. 

The new gravel is still white. Take 

her beyond the wall.” 

*** 

Ezra fired the sixth and last dart. 

It stuck into the side of Olson’s neck. 

He staggered, released the captain, 

took a clumsy step forward, and 

plummeted to the table. It creaked 

and collapsed, its legs and his 

splayed out like the limbs of a crazy 


spider. 

“Great shot, kid,” said the captain, 

wincing as he picked up his 

weapon. “C’mon, Skippy. Bring your 

goon. Let’s get that fuel.” 

*** 

The armed escort halted at a set 

of massive doors embossed with 

stars and planets arching over a 

grove of palm trees. 

Ye know, said Grandfather, anything 

green that grows on Prospero 

was brought from Earth, long years 

past. Before the colonists came, this 

rock was bald as my Aunt Tildy. 

Finney choked on her laughter, 

drawing a sharp glance from Governor 

Tarquin. 

“Yes, Miss Grace?” 

The doorkeeper unlocked the 

doors, and servants tugged them 

open, admitting a greenish luminosity, 

the strong sunlight mitigated by 

more palm trees. 

“If I go out that door, you can forget 

shooting me. I’ll be headless. So 

will you.” 

Tarquin made a noise low in her 

throat, and glared at Finney, then 

demanded, “Get the bondsman on 

his feet.” 

He shuffled forward, a dark 

bruise on his chin, his course wavering 

from port to starboard and back 

again. 

Page 59

“You are, I assume, the one who 

made the collar?” 

He dug two fingers into the breast 

pocket of his shirt and produced a 

thin key. 

“Well, man, get to it!” 

Fingers trembling a little, the 

bondsman turned the collar to 

reach the lock. The key missed, and 

dug into Finney’s neck. She flinched, 

and the entire group—guards, servants, 

and governor—tensed with 

her, some crouching, covering their 

heads with their arms. 

The bondsman cursed, and tried 

again. The lock released with a click 

and a whine; the trigger must have 

been linked in to a sonic barrier. 

He gave the collar a small tug, it 

opened wide, and he pulled it from 

her neck. 

Step one, said the admiral. 

Step one? 

Aye. Yer enemy is making the escape 

for ye. 

This doesn’t look like much of an 

escape. 

Ach, have ye no imagination? 

The governor’s litter led the procession 

along the broad, arched 

colonnade of trees. Built of quarried 

stone probably hauled from 

the Riva Mountains by the forefathers 

of many rebels, the villa was 

bounded by a low stone wall surmounted 

by crisscrossed strands of 

razor wire. Between the wall and 

the villa spread a garden of clipped 

shrubs and brilliant flowers lining 

manicured gravel paths. 

Guards opened the gates, and the 

entourage entered a strange desert, 

grass ending just beyond the gates, 

then sand and stones into the horizon. 

Finney looked over her shoulder, 

through the ranks of house 

guards and bounty hunters. Houses 

built of mud brick sheltered in the 

green shade of an oasis. An old fort 

rose at the center, its square towers 

set at the four corners of the wall. 

She’d come here before with Grandfather. 

This was Horatio. 

The file halted, but she was led 

several meters into the desert, the 

bonds tethering her to her guards 

were released, and the men backed 

away from her, weapons ready. Her 

back to the villa, she heard the scuff 

of boots and the click and hum of 

weapons being primed. 

Step two, said Grandfather. 

Thieves’ Honor © 2009 by Keanan Brand. 

RGR Author Bios 


3 Alone at AX-1 

by Swapna Krishore 

Swapna Kishore is a software consultant living in Bangalore, India with her family. 

She writes fiction and non-fiction, and has been published both online and in print. 

9 Bff.jov 


Scott Davis reappears after his Ray Gun debut with The Third Shadoc War (see the 

November 2008 issue). This time, he answers the musical question: Can you make 

a War of the Worlds story that includes these words: meringue, pinochle, absinthe, 

quartz, mendacious, fashionable, mothball, clambake, and reflux? If you’d rather, you 

can see a story that did. 

In addition to the two Ray Gun stories, Scott is slated to appear in Sonar 4 and 

Nova SciFi mid-year. He’s been writing fiction since 2007. 

14 Into the Deep 


Brandon Meyers has been writing fiction for two years. In that time, he has completed 

two novel manuscripts, and over thirty short stories. He works in construction 

during the day, and in his laundry closet with a rapidly failing computer, at night. 

18 DEUCES WILD: 

by L.S. King 

L. S. King is a science fiction and fantasy writer with one book, several published 

short stories, a column on writing, and an ongoing monthly serial story to her cred it. 

When on the planet, this mother and grandmother lives in Delaware with her husband 

Steve, homeschools their young est child, and also works as a gymnastics coach. 

In her non-existent spare time she enjoys gardening, soap making, reading, and online 

gaming. She also likes Looney Tunes, the color purple, and is a Zorro afi cionado, 

which might explain her love of swords and cloaks. 

Page 60

22 Happy Birthday, Niatti 


Raz Greenberg is a PhD student at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. He has published 

several short stories in Israeli science fiction magazines. More recently, a story 

based on his script Screaming With the Eagles appeared in the British comics magazine 

Futurequake. He also works as a book translator, and his Hebrew translation of 

John Scalzi’s Old Man’s War has won a Geffen Award (given by the Israeli Society for 

Science Fiction and Fantasy) for best translated science fiction book in 2007. 

35 CALAMITY’S CHILD - CHAPTER 7, 


by M. Keaton 

Growing up in a family with a history of military service, M. Keaton cut his lin guistic 

and philosophical teeth on the bones of his elders through games of strategy and 

debates at the dinner table. He began his writing career over 20 years ago as a newspaper 

rat in Springdale, Arkansas, U.S.A. before pursuing formal studies in chemistry, 

mathematics, and medieval literature at John Brown Uni versity. A student of politics, 

military history, forteana, and game design, his renaissance education inspired the 

short television series: These Teeth Are Real (TTAR). 

His literary “mentors” are as diverse as his experiences. Most powerfully, the author 

has been affected by the works and writers of the “ancient” world, including the 

Bible, Socrates, and (more modern) Machiavelli, Tsun Tsu, Tacitus, and Von Clauswitz. 

(This horribly long list only scratches the surface; M. Keaton reads at a rate of over 

two books per week in addition to his writing.) 

46 TALES OF THE BREAKING DAWN: 



A victim of the economy, Justin is now a full-time writer of space–faringopera and 

daring-do, working to earn his big break. He’s written stories in almost every genre, 

but science fiction is where his heart belongs, and it always will. He also created and 

co-hosts a writing podcast called The Dead Robots’ Society, which you can find at 

www.deadrobotssociety.com. 

And, if you want to learn more about him and read some of his other work, you can 

go to www.justinmacumber.com. 


53 THIEVES’ HONOR - Episode 8 

Endgame, Part 1 


Writing since age nine, when an English assignment required a short story, Keanan 

Brand dreamed of writing Westerns or books about history, or recording the crazy 

stuff of dreams. Late teens and early twenties witnessed the imposition of real life 

and the putting away of dreams. For a time, he dabbled in nonfiction and freelance 

journalism, then a supervisor suggested a free writing seminar at the local college, 

and Keanan returned to a greater love: fiction, specifically fantasy and science fiction. 

He started entering contests, winning awards for poetry, essays, and short stories. 

These successes led to freelance editing for other writers, and for a science fiction 

small press. 

His first story to be accepted by a Double-Edge Publishing, Inc., publication was At 

the End of Time, When the World Was New, a short piece of speculative fiction that 

appeared in the final issue of Dragon, Knights, & Angels. History, mythology, folktales, 

C.S. Lewis, Howard Pyle, J.R.R. Tolkien, William Shakespeare, Robert Louis Stevenson 

and the Bible remain great influences, as do the family tall tales, pioneer stories, and 

Southern gothic with which Keanan grew up. 

Page 61

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