ISSUE.

53

ALONE AT AX-1 INTO THE DEEP

by Swapna Kishore NEW SERIAL FICTION by Brandon Meyers
by L.S. King, M. Keaton,
BFF.JOV Justin R. Macumber, and Keanan Brand HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NIATTI
by Scott Davis by Raz Greenberg
 ISSUE 53

v53b

TABLE OF CONTENTS
3 Overlords’ Lair: A Shiny New Trek 46 TALES OF THE BREAKING DAWN:
by Paul Christian Glenn The Ties That Bind, Part Two
by Justin R. Macumber
3 Alone at AX-1
by Swapna Krishore 51 RGR REVIEWS
by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt and Matthew Scott Winslow
9 Bff.jov
by Scott Davis 53 THIEVES’ HONOR - Episode 8
Endgame, Part 1
14 Into the Deep by Keanan Brand
by Brandon Meyers
Ray Gun Revival Issue 52 © 2009 by Double-edged Publishing,

18 DEUCES WILD:
a Memphis, Tennssee-based non-profit publisher.

by L.S. King

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) Cover Art

Johne Cook, L. S. King, Paul Christian Glenn “Real Air Force” by Martin Steil

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
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

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

Page 2

Overlords’ Lair:
Trek, Terminator, and the Tenacity of Hope
by Paul Christian Glenn
I’ ve been thinking a lot about the
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 au-
diences. And even many ostensibly
hopeless tales ultimately captivate
their audience with the subtle no-
tion 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 coin-
cidence 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 sum-
mer’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 ruf-
fian, 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 sto-
ries 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, dan-
gerous and irresponsible to fill our
minds with such fantastic notions of
hope? From a purveyor of space op-
era, 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 Con-
nor?
Alone at AX-1
by Swapna Kishore
T he melted controller unit lay ex-
posed 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 in-
numerable cost-justifications to my
bosses at Realtor to fit it with state-
of-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 experi-
ment with view-angles and zoom to
study the ruin; I needed to under-
stand 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 quiv-
ered.
I glanced at his pale face. Station-
head AX-1 was Cheng’s first posting
after his training at Ceres; he prob-
ably fancied himself as a glamorous
adventurer flashing laser cutters, rip-
ping asteroids apart, and transporting
ore in sleek ships to grateful colonies.
Our temperamental equipment and
ISSUE 53
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 yester-
day. “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. An-
other rogue strike.
Station Beta.
Cam-feeds from Beta showed ro-
bots smashing into each other, scoo-
pers screeching to a halt, and pickers
dropping rocks. Crazed machines tan-
gled 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 sta-
tion was reduced to a pile of garbage.
I’d never seen such swift savagery,
human or automated, in my nine de-
cades 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-to-
faced yesterday to report Delta’s sta-
tus, 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 up-
grades.
“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 train-
ing covered the protocol to repair sta-
tions.” 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 me-
tallic-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 Dar-
lene’s walls; agonized groans saturat-
ed 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 unsta-
ble, 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 cu-
rios were pre-World War IV Earth, of
course, because that’s all I collected,
but Darlene’s selection today reflect-
ed 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 typi-
cal of Darlene. It was my fault; I had
incorporated too many emotion mod-
ules into her staid, standard house-
ware.
I considered calming her by ex-
plaining that rogues were merely
code segments. But she wouldn’t un-
derstand that fluff could drift out of
destruction-oriented programs and
lump under a knowledge manage-
ment engine to cause havoc. Any-
way, even if rogues couldn’t “want”
anything, they could be vicious. They
ISSUE 53
infected any station they could reach
by piggybacking signals, they self-ex-
tracted, 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, adjust-
ed my eye-zap for pattern-seeking,
and loaded the data from Delta and
Beta.
“Are we safe, Jerry?”
“Rogues never damage station-
heads.” Not until now, I thought. A
sudden image engulfed me: a punc-
ture 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 danc-
ers 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 fa-
vorite lavender.
***
I checked for advisories from the
Mining Consortium at Ceres. None.
Page 4

Not that I expected action from bu-
reaucratic third-centenarians snug in
their enormous bubble city. No, Sir,
those dodderers woke up after iso-
lated controllers like me, struggling
to cope with rogues, developed solu-
tions.
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, find-
ing the rogue’s core instructions
should be easier. I profiled the criti-
cal window of the Beta data and the
Delta data, overlapped them, and
began pattern-seeking for commonal-
ties. I touched the screen to enhance
my connection with the data. The seg-
ment corresponding to 256’s initial
query became obvious. I narrowed my
looping scope to decipher the rogue’s
algorithm. Nothing. I refined my eye-
zap parameters and tried again. And
again. My tear duct-lubricators start-
ed 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, start-
ing 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 indi-
cate endcomm.
“Did you spot any pattern in the
rogue’s behavior? Over to you.” I sig-
naled endcomm and waited.
“All intel circuits are fused because
of neural activity overload,” Rahul
said after an irritating signal lag.
“Purely mechanical equipment is un-
harmed, 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 scoo-
per 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 Ra-
hul. It had taken me decades of hard
work to make AX-1 Realtor’s best
stationhead and achieve profitability
comparable with Ays and Dedalus sta-
tionheads. Rogue 256 could ruin ev-
erything. 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 remote-
managed stations to save costs, so
our stations were usually unmanned,
but Ays and Dedalus employed heavy
manning and applied stringent in-per-
son quality checks. The probability of
ISSUE 53
randomly picking up ten of their sta-
tions without any person present was
statistically low.
“Maybe this rogue only attacks sta-
tions 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 “hu-
man,” and placed it on a station, 256
would be duped into “detecting” hu-
man presence and skip that station.
Heartened, I refined eye-zap combi-
nations to detect the human-present
sequence. I checked for available up-
grades to improve the zapper connec-
tion 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 pat-
tern. 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 un-
derstand. Or maybe not; they knew
nothing about Earth. To them, Earth
was dead, useless.
The Base duty roster showed Ame-
lie was back at work. I decided to face-
to-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 con-
tact you. I’m sorry about your stations.
I assume you want the endcomm mo-
dality? 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 sen-
tences 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 some-
thing, 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 hu-
mans 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.” Eye-
brows arched, she pointed to an ob-
ject 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 cu-
rios—”
“I respect the world where human-
ity originated,” I interrupted. I realized
immediately I sounded stiff and for-
mal and defensive. Stupid of me. Af-
ter decades of focusing on AX-1 prof-
itability, I’d forgotten how to handle
banter. Would Amelie get offended?
“—anyway, I’m just teasing, Jer-
ry,” 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 be-
tween us.
I first met Amelie over a century
ago, when both of us joined Real-
tor as trainees. We underwent the
same rigorous training for station
management. Her current work pro-
file, though different from mine, was
equally challenging. On my last visit to
Base, two decades ago, Amelie and I
had several enjoyable debates on is-
sues ranging from technology to so-
ciology. 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, control-
ling equipment that mined planetoids
just a few kilometers wide. On Ceres,
she laughed, the club provided nor-
mal gravity. And pool tables. And par-
ties. 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 be-
cause I got defensive. Worse, I sound-
ISSUE 53
ed downright obnoxious. I mumbled,
“Sorry, let’s follow standard proto-
col,” 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 oper-
ated, 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 ha-
tred of machines resulted in humans
attacking and destroying machines. It
seemed a fitting name for a rogue as-
saulting intelligent, non-human enti-
ties. Ironic, too, because the destroy-
er 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 re-
charge 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 wear-
ing 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 fin-
gers. 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 concen-
trated work, I coded a patch to fool
the Luddite. I executed dry runs, cor-
rected 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 iden-
tical “Class A” bots, programmed for
tolerance of ambiguity and fuzzy deci-
sion making, the profile Realtor hoped
to replace most humans with. Their
advanced neural circuits were a suit-
able base to patch for “human” think-
ing. 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 move-
ments. Next, it paused before a Japa-
nese scroll to scrutinize the delicate
brushwork. It stared at its reflection
in an antique silver mirror.
It rasped, “Displayed artifacts clas-
sified 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 per-
ceptible drop in temperature.
I loaded my simulator with my ver-
sion 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 supersti-
tions 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 sta-
tion.
The fastest and cheapest method
would be to stream the patch to each
station, and remotely control its up-
load on a Class A bot already available
there, but a Luddite replica might
intercept my signal. If its engine in-
cluded self-modification capability,
and it recognized the objective of my
transmission, it may amend its hu-
man-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.
ISSUE 53
Perhaps Consortium had some
other advice. I checked my messages.
There was no mail with an official ap-
proach on tackling the Luddite, but
Amelie had sent her version of a Lud-
dite 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 happi-
ness wash through me. What I want-
ed 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 congratu-
latory smile, but even after the mes-
sage 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 eter-
nally long minute. “I tested it using
data from other victim stations. Con-
sortium plans to recommend a simi-
lar approach. But...doesn’t a fuzzy-
human 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 fo-
cused, 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 dev-
astation. 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 min-
iature voice-enhancers needed ser-
vicing.
My words would take time to reach
her.
She was saying, “...rumors that cy-
ber 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, de-
gree 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 deco-
rated 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 com-
munication,” 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 matu-
rity.
“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 sta-
tions,” 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 Dar-
lene’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 need-
ed servicing.
Perhaps those droplets had been
tears.
Stop it, I told myself. I couldn’t af-
ford to daydream. After telling Argo
how to manage Stationhead in my ab-
sence, 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-
ISSUE 53
tions, I could go to Delta and give Ra-
hul 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 in-
put 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 sta-
tionhead.
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 detec-
tives 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 es-
cape 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 deviat-
ed 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 generat-
ing 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 expres-
sion. I felt something twist inside me.
“I’ll mail whatever I can get,” she
said. “Meanwhile, I have some in-
formation on how Ays designs its
patches, and one peculiarity of their
approach is...”
We discussed possibilities for over
an hour. We considered modifica-
tions 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 ab-
sorbed 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
Bff.jov
by Scott Davis
Who could forget the night Jupiter
blinked on? At first, Charlie thought
some joker in the street was shin-
ing a light into his apartment. But
it came from above. Maybe a heli-
copter 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 morn-
ing, 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 bet-
ter place to go than the office. His
family might have been worried
if they knew about the celestial
change, but the sandman made
ISSUE 53
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 tip-
toed into his daughter’s bedroom.
Violet squirmed—a rather unflat-
tering 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-dog-
ging over the cubicles talking excit-
edly. 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 ques-
tions 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 network-
ing site, but the picture was of a thir-
teen-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 jug-
gernaut 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 mass-
ing seventy-nine more Jupiters in-
side. 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, spin-
ning so fast it will take a while, a mil-
lion years or two for the muncher to
eat it all. If all goes well we’ll have a
nice, little continuous hydrogen fu-
sion sun just like home by the time
you read this.
“Don’t worry. Since we breathe
sulfur dioxide and you drink corro-
sives, 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 sur-
veillance tools told him why: the
queue stretched from Perth, Odessa,
Queens—the red pins were cover-
ing 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 Nige-
ria, 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 termi-
nals. 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 aggres-
sion 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 contin-
gent 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 com-
puters shut down. I’m frightened!”
***
“That’s hardly the biggest prob-
lem, Clambake! Our undercover
agents have just reported that
ISSUE 53
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? Catas-
trophe! 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 de-
cryption 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 down-
loaded their personalities to smart-
phones around the world.”
Clambake resumed whining,
“How do we defeat enemies sitting
in people’s pockets?”
***
Page 10

“What of it, Tooner?” Dick shout-
ed, using Charlie’s last name.
Charlie breathed deeply, left oth-
ers to finish the shutdown proce-
dure, and said in the most soothing
voice possible, “Collectively, there’s
more computing capacity in cell-
phones than all other computers
combined. Each one isn’t so power-
ful, but with more than a billion in
service—”
“How did we ever allow such a
point of vulnerability?” Dick de-
manded. 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, starkly-
lit conference table. The top brass
came from the computer room,
streamed around the table and sat
down, overheated and sleepy.
***
“Ideas, gentlemen!” Dick de-
manded, pounding the table for at-
tention.
Some stirred, face down on the
table, others snored, a few struggled
against the weight of their medals
on their chests to sit upright. Char-
lie 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 de-
activate the towers, the personali-
ties should vanish.”
“Brilliant! Order the Army Corps
of Engineers to tear down the tow-
ers! 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 Secu-
rity Department to monitor those
mendacious Jovians. Report new
developments immediately!” Dick
resorted to his extreme stress pro-
tocol Charlie had heard about. As
ISSUE 53
Charlie left he saw the war room fill- her pink cell in slow motion. Charlie
ing with what must be a metric ton scrolled up through the history and
of meringue Dick was whipping out looked:
from his industrial mixer, ensconced
in the corner for just such an emer- Viola: I’m gonna flunk the quiz
gency. BLIMM: What’s it on?
*** Viola: Quadratic equations
BLIMM: CY they’re fun
With the Jovian infiltration sty-
Viola: DLTM!
mied, Charlie was happy to get
BLIMM: Watch. All we have to do
home at a reasonable hour, but Vio-
is name the variables Brad and Jen
let wasn’t in a good mood. Merrie
on one side and Angel and Hannah
and he exchanged cooking duties,
on the other. Now, B and J have a
so he listened while crushing garlic.
fight, and J joins AH on the first floor
Texting Jovians was Violet’s new fa-
of the other side.
vorite pastime, and it wasn’t work-
Viola: KEWL All the girls gang up
ing!
on Brad?
“Can I see your cell?” Charlie
BLIMM: Now, let’s see what’s left
whisked the gravy, stealing licks.
in Brad’s bank account when the la-
“Daddy!” Violet’s tone was exact-
dies are done with him.
ly as if he asked to use her electric
Viola: LOL
toothbrush.
BLIMM: Tolja. We’re going to toss
“Anything there I should be con-
BJA&H around ‘til you ace this quiz.
cerned about?” Charlie turned and
Viola: Thx FTBOMH Blimm, you’re
looked at her with what he hoped
my BFF.
was a guilt-inducing stare.
BLIMM: Know any other girls who
“We-e-e-ll, no, not really. Don’t
need friends?
you trust me?” Violet was obviously
Viola: LK, Evrybody?
trying to deduct five years from her
smile, getting suddenly pigeon-toed,
Merrie, Violet and Charlie sat
awkward and in every way little girl-
down for supper. “Violet, we don’t
ish.
know anything about these crea-
“Sure. But I’m curious about these
tures. I’m sorry, but this will have
Jovians.”
to wait until they go through proper
“We-e-e-ll, okay.” Violet gave him
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,” Mer-
rie said. “Best be careful.” Merrie
took Apache, their marmalade tom-
cat, off the table for the 1,131st time
that month.
***
A few days later at school, Coven-
try Lipshutz and Violet Tooner liber-
ated 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 gui-
tar string from a wastebasket in the
music department, made the neck-
laces 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 pi-
nochle is the new craze. All the old
people are doing it,” Coventry whis-
pered.
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 embank-
ment 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 Jo-
vians 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
ISSUE 53
said. had white peeling columns. Dust
*** danced in the sunlight shafts from
windows that had needed washing
The swan must have let hun-
five years ago.
ger overcome her caution, though
“Duty calls,” Jody said, leaving
her mate called out a warning. She
the table and the crumpet crumbs
thrashed about but the girls were
for the rats. The two donned English
motivated. She flew off. The slip-
hunting hats. Merrie coughed from
knotted necklace of carefully strung
the mothball smell. They unlocked
hematite, quartz, lodestone and
the gun cabinet and strode out
mica on the metal wire was securely
across Jody’s poppy plantation.
around her neck.
BLAM! BLAM!
“Try it,” Violet said.
“Darn it! Missed again,” Merrie
“I got bars!” Coventry marveled,
said, reloading her double-barreled
looking at her cell screen. “We did
shotgun. It had been over a week
it! How many other girls made neck-
since open season was declared on
laces, you think?”
the cell tower birds. Many hunters
“Just let them try to stop us now,”
and even amateurs were enticed by
Violet said, with a smug smile.
the bounties offered.
“I’m gonna tell everyone. We can
“Do you think that was one of
sell these!” Coventry was texting
them?” Jody picked up her dropped
away at full speed.
shotgun. She plugged her ears
“You won’t get very far with just
whenever Merrie took a shot.
one swan. If she isn’t flying nearby,
“Can’t see the necklaces from
all those messages will be stuck in
this distance. My motto is, shoot
your outgoing.”
first, check later,” Merrie said.
“Oh yeah, I forgot. We’ll have to
“It’s a little bit funny,” Jody said.
go back to the playground and actu-
“When Covie came home with wads
ally talk to them, like, in person.”
of cash, I didn’t question, and now
***
here we are, trying to undo what
A few weeks later the girls’ moth- she did.”
ers had an afternoon date. Jody Lip- “Is that dirt in that barrel?” Mer-
shutz and Merrie Tooner were fin- rie looked at Jody’s gun.
ishing high tea. Jody’s great estate “Oh, dear. I guess we’ll have to
Page 12

rely 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 consol-
ing 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 hid-
den 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 yel-
low 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 An-
nie.
“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 spar-
klies, 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!” Vi-
nyl 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 en-
tered 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 consum-
ing, but yes, we are also fluent in
ISSUE 53
your dialect. device from minor females. Char-
Tuna: Why have you chosen to go lie stole into his daughter’s room,
after our youth? disconnected Violet’s cell from its
BLIMM: I’m sorry you feel that charger, and left without a sound.
way. Can you be more specific? ***
Tuna: Young girls are so impres-
In the morning Violet dashed to
sionable. You’ve taken advantage of
and fro. She was frazzled beyond
them.
any and all attempts to placate her,
BLIMM: Perhaps you need one of
and even refused her Ritalin. She
your chemical sedatives? You seem
locked herself in the bathroom.
upset.
“Violet Sassafras Tooner! Come
Tuna: I think I’m justified.
out of there at once!” Merrie used
BLIMM: Initial scans indicated
her most authoritarian voice. Sobs
young girls were the most advanced
and dull thuds of shampoo bottles
members of your species.
against ceramic tiles were all Merrie
Tuna: What?
got in reply.
BLIMM: They have the most ef-
“What are we going to do?” Mer-
ficient communication method. In
rie crossed her legs outside the
the time we have been conversing,
door, looking at her husband, who
a young girl would have proceeded
adopted a stoic expression. He
at triple the rate, through abbrevia-
needed to go too.
tion.
“There’s always the bushes,”
Tuna: Oh, you mean texting?
Charlie said.
That’s just a game. Texting is mo-
“Oh, now that’s a realistic solu-
ronic.
tion!” Merrie scolded. “You know
BLIMM: If you tried it, you’d see
how they’re cracking down on in-
it’s not all that vacuous with us. And,
decent exposure, what with the
who knows? You just might find you
pinochle fad. And as if that weren’t
get what you need. TTFN
enough, unsanitary disposal of haz-
ardous waste, and livecams on ev-
Blimm moved on to others in his
ery light pole? A fine example for
queue. A popup advised Charlie of a
our daughter.” Merrie pushed her
Marshall Law Directive to confiscate
jaw to one side.
any cell, wifi or other comm-net
“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 some-
thing 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 talk-
ing?” 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
Into the Deep
by Brandon Meyers
L
ightning 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 submerg-
ing. The bulbous shape resembled
that of a disc or an upturned sau-
cer. 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 har-
nesses held them fast to the seat
backs as they swayed with the out-
side currents. The smooth, mem-
brane-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 in-
quired.
“It shouldn’t be long, Veedle,”
replied his traveling companion,
with an irritated tone. “Our coordi-
nates were very precise.” Melkins
adjusted the sweaty spectacles that
framed his beady eyes.
ISSUE 53
“Right,” Veedle agreed. “The co-
ordinates.” 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 compart-
ment, pulsing through the thin but
tough barrier and nearly blinding
the vehicle’s occupants.
“Say, Melkins. Suppose the coor-
dinates were off just a little bit...”
“Impossible,” Melkins gruffed.
“These are not things that the Gan-
try takes lightly. You have no idea
how much money was spent on the
design and construction of this de-
vice.” He struggled to keep his glass-
es 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 circu-
lar 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?” Vee-
dle asked. “I mean, aside from try-
ing 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 some-
one would have told me, ‘Hey Vee-
dle, bring along a fishing pole, why
don’t ya?’” He watched the round-
edged hole in wonder, trying to fig-
ure 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 count-
down sequence the moment they
had hit the water. It had been nine-
teen 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 care-
fully 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,” Mel-
kins mumbled.
Veedle laughed. Lightning out-
side illuminated the interior and re-
flected 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 sorry-
looking 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 enter-
ing 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 elec-
tronic voice overhead.
“Like clockwork,” Melkins said,
satisfied.
Veedle shook his head and
laughed. “Here we gooo—”
Much like a fly finding the busi-
ness 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 trajec-
tory, pinning its occupants to their
seats. Veedle managed to crack one
eye open, looking over to Melkins.
Apparently food was not necessar-
ISSUE 53
ily a prerequisite for stomach expul-
sions.
The circular cabin had darkened
visibly, and the passing water out-
side 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 di-
rection.
“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 remem-
ber 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 vi-
sual 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 eye-
brow 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 re-
straints 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 sim-
ple 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 force-
ful 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,” Vee-
dle said. “Say, do you think it might
be a good time to make away with
these, now?” Veedle nodded to-
ward his restrained arms and legs.
“Almost,” Melkins said. He un-
strapped 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. Noth-
ing was visible in the water beneath
the viewing window but silt par-
ticles. As had been expected, their
conveyance was being pulled manu-
ally 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 cir-
cular walls became invisible. Vee-
dle jerked in his chair, having been
unprepared for the sight of being
completely surrounded by glow-
ing water. Veedle had the immedi-
ate impression that he was floating
within a large soap bubble.
“Pressure status,” Melkins said.
“Pressure is within acceptable pa-
rameters, 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, rug-
ged-looking metal ship that coasted
through the water without creat-
ing 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 com-
pletely 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 assh-
ole 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
ISSUE 53
to calculate the expected odds of
just such an occurrence. But ulti-
mately, 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, ex-
ploiting the natural undercurrents
of the ocean to create an underwa-
ter 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 person-
ally,” 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 radi-
ated from the very core of the city,
all the way to a barrier that, without
the light’s reflection, would have
Page 16

been 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 ground-
level. 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 sur-
rounding 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 ap-
pear 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 re-
vealed other dissimilarities, but
Melkins had seen them before and
was not surprised.
“Ugly little bastards, aren’t they?”
Veedle huffed.
Melkins nodded in silent agree-
ment 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 com-
puter, “Weapons release. Security
code: Tidal Devil.”
Melkins’ seat slid upward to re-
veal a hidden compartment filled
with weaponry. Hunched over, Vee-
dle 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 ex-
ploded outward, leaving Melkins
and Veedle standing directly over
ISSUE 53
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 stand-
ing, 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 doc-
tor, 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 activat-
ed in a digital readout. The wires ran
from the box to the strangely glow-
ing stone upon which he stood.
“We all died...” cough, “the sec-
ond they let us inside the barrier,”
Melkins sputtered. “The whole god-
damn 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 atten-
tion 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. “Bet-
ter make it count, then.”
He steadied both of the enormous
weapons and charged forward to-
wards 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 Reg-
gie’s ship safely through the Confed-
eration blockade. Tristan now had to
face Reggie—where the true danger
loomed.
T he two guards behind Reggie,
flanking his chair, raised their
PBRs. Pursed lips gave away Reggie’s
uncertainly despite his smug expres-
sion. “Kudos. I see your skill is no
less than it used to be. You seem to
have aged well, like a fine wine. I as-
sume 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 in-
creased 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 some-
one who didn’t know Reggie, it
might seem genuine, but to Tristan,
it was feral.
“No.”
Give in to the inevitable, wait for
ISSUE 53
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 lift-
ed 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 ir-
replaceable, 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 Lie-
bestraum played softly. Three ser-
vants—from their carriage and the
fact they bore weapons, they dou-
bled 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 cap-
tain? How many people did Tristan
need to worry about?
At the table sat Tristan’s compan-
ions. Slap and Addie both glowering,
were seated to the left of the empty
host’s chair. Carter, on the right, ap-
peared 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 indi-
cated 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 det-
rimental 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 sniff-
ing the cork, to swirling it his glass,
and the final show of tasting.
When he gave the nod of endorse-
ment, 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, espe-
cially the wineries on the west coast
of the main continent in the eastern
hemisphere. But not all, as this un-
imaginative 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 gar-
bage scow?”
ISSUE 53
“Is that supposed to be an in-
sult?” Addie shot back. “Try harder
you pretentious, low-brow gang-
ster.”
Fighting a smile, Tristan leaned
back. This could unexpectedly good
entertainment.
Slap, sitting next to Addie, pat-
ted 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 mere-
ly 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 in-
structed 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 mis-
placed effort to be what he feels is
helpful to his friends.” Reggie’s feral
smile returned as he turned to re-
gard 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 ba-
con was set before Tristan. He cut
his gaze to Reggie, whose expect-
ant 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 disap-
peared beneath his cool demeanor,
and he picked up his fork. After sev-
eral 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 dra-
matic 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 sup-
posed to trust you?”
“Kidnap?” Reggie gazed upward,
considering, and gave a shrugging
nod. “I suppose, technically. Mon-
sieur Lefevre merely wants to bury
the hatchet, but your friend”—Reg-
gie nodded at Tristan—”being stub-
born, 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 discus-
sions 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 Ad-
die 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
ISSUE 53
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 Reg-
gie 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 luxuri-
ous, from the polished, dark wood-
en panels on the bulkheads to the
thick, carpet Slap sank into. The fur-
niture 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

bartender 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 nod-
ded 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 Grang-
er, but instead decided to be more
vocal in his rejection of the conver-
sation. 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 expres-
sion changed from amazement to
irritation to disgust. Finally, he lift-
ed 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 un-
derstand 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 edu-
cation Tristan did, but he wasn’t stu-
pid. 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, think-
ing 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 re-
ally know about the man? Granger
probably knew more than any of
them. An irrational twinge of jeal-
ousy 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.”
ISSUE 53
“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. “How-
ever, 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 sus-
pect something himself. Sifting Reg-
gie’s words might shed some light
on his own ideas.
“That girl disappointed her Con-
federation 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 origi-
nal boors who kidnapped her, but
that’s when she decided to stop co-
operating. So,” Reggie paused to sip
his wine, “they used her as bait to
get you and Donegal.”
Addie spying made sense. Her fa-
ther 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 ex-
traordinary. 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 an-
swer, 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
by Raz Greenberg
N
iatti 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 birth-
day.”
“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. “Niat-
ti, 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
ISSUE 53
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 Lunar-
ian, 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 perma-
nent position on the ship.”
Niatti leaped on her father, hug-
ging 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. “Hap-
py birthday, Niatti.”
***
Page 22

Niatti ran into her mother’s of-
fice. “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 ap-
peared 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 or-
ganization calling themselves ‘Spac-
ers for Fair Trade.’ Representatives
of the organization claim since the
Coalition does not intend to act ac-
cording 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 agree-
ments, with the full knowledge and
support of the Coalition. After refus-
ing the demands not to continue in
its course...”
Niatti stopped listening to the re-
porter’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 terror-
ism, and promised that a strong re-
sponse 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 compas-
sion, “We’ll have your birthday cel-
ebration 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 want-
ed so much? Barely making a living
in space, looking for trouble?”
“Yes!” Niatti screamed. “You al-
ways lied about him, tried to con-
vince 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 fanta-
sies, and leave you heartbroken at
the end?” She pointed at the screen
again. “Can’t you see that this is ex-
actly 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 moth-
er called spaceport guests who
brought many ships with them and
paid a lot of money. In such recep-
tions, 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 Ni-
atti 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 hom-
eowner, 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 for-
ward, dragging her feet, trying to
make as much noise as possible—
ISSUE 53
”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 prod-
ucts illegal after learning that they
employed people in slavery condi-
tions. 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 some-
thing 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 char-
acter with expansive, respectable
clothing. Antoine, with his unshav-
en 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 pro-
duction, 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 famil-
iar about his uniform—it was the in-
signia 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 run-
ning 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, strug-
gling 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 uni-
form! It’s the same one that ap-
peared on those ships that—”
The slap on Niatti’s face wasn’t
strong, but it was enough to si-
lence 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 im-
pressively 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 occu-
pied.”
“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 re-
served 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 ‘para-
sites,’ ‘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 car-
go?”
“I just did.”
ISSUE 53
“I mean, physically. Board our
ship, see if we’re not hiding any-
thing.”
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 problem-
atic 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 peo-
ple, 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 of-
fice, wearing a Coalition Patrol uni-
form. 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 with-
out 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 com-
bination 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 space-
port. 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 Co-
alition is about to approve national-
ization 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 mean-
ingless 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 ri-
diculous 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 bit-
ter smile. “You don’t have to believe
everything you hear in the news,
Niatti. Seward’s people aren’t ter-
rorists—”
“I said criminals, not terrorists.
Terrorists at least pretend to work
for some noble cause. Seward and
his gang don’t even do that any-
more—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, run-
ning 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.
ISSUE 53
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 An-
toine—”
“Sending Antoine to do anything
is a bad idea, period.”
“You’re being unfair, Niatti. An-
toine had a very hard life, and still
managed to get far. He’s a talented
young man, and unlike some peo-
ple, 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 birth-
day. 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 low-
er 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 un-
limited budget for anything you
want—clothes, residence, transpor-
tation—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, ruth-
less 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 play-
ing by the rules. How far did it get
him?”
She left her mother’s office, say-
ing 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 or-
der 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-mar-
tialed 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 disap-
proving 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 threat-
ening silence spread in the room.
A familiar voice broke it, just as Ni-
atti 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
ISSUE 53
want both of you to come out with
your hands raised.”
“Screw you, Antoine,” she shout-
ed back.
A short laughter came in re-
sponse. “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 mercenar-
ies 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 of-
fer. 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 An-
toine. 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 any-
thing stupid—not when she herself
gave such a bad example. But sur-
prisingly, he came out almost im-
mediately 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. An-
toine’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 stub-
bornly across the floor. Antoine was
about to shoot again, but instead he
paused, his look fixated on the tor-
tured 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 re-
maining 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-vi-
tal areas in her body to prolong her
suffering.
Her body stopped moving a min-
ute later.
“Take him to one of the cells,” An-
toine 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 imita-
tion 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, Ni-
atti 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 sym-
pathy 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 Ni-
atti forced herself to wait while
the guard punched the code that
opened the door. When he reluc-
ISSUE 53
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, scream-
ing. 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 sur-
prise 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 pris-
on section, and watched a group of
guards running in. When the last
guard passed, they both began run-
ning in the opposite direction.
Niatti remembered how, as a
child, she ran through similar cor-
ridors 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 es-
cape, 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 dark-
ness 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 deci-
sion, she thought as she recalled the
knife she managed to smuggle out.
Then a memory of the guard she
stabbed flashed, and she felt con-
sumed 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 assess-
ment 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 or-
der, 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 do-
ing?”
“Noise, Niatti. They’ll be coming
here to get me soon, so you’d bet-
ter run.”
He kicked the wall again, hard-
er—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 Co-
alition 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 ciga-
rette, and brought it to her mouth
ISSUE 53
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 fin-
ished the cigarette. She needed an-
other one. She sent a nervous hand
toward the pack on the desk. It fell,
and all the cigarettes rolled in dif-
ferent 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 curios-
ity as to why you don’t get up and
salute a senior officer when he en-
ters your office.”
“Funny, I expected you to be wor-
ried 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 respond-
ed with a disgusted look.
“I’m sick of it. All of it. All this cir-
cus 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 repre-
sentatives 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 ser-
vice of the Coalition Patrol.”
The General gave her a cold look.
“Captain, you seem to be under the
wrong impression that you are do-
ing 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 to-
day joins many other orders you dis-
obeyed 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. Every-
one in the high ranks has run out of
sympathy or patience for your be-
havior.”
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 Coali-
tion. Discharge me from service? It
will look even worse once I’ll be a
civilian, and have some juicy, heart-
breaking stories to tell the media.”
The General was equally unim-
pressed. “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 commit-
ted. They’ve been dreaming of a
patient like you for years—someone
they can test all their new trauma-
treatments 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 prom-
ise 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 sys-
tem 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
ISSUE 53
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 possibil-
ity 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 as-
set 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 oth-
ers?”
“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: fight-
ing, commanding—”
The General laughed. “Sure, Cap-
tain. Anything you say.”
“Sir—”
“Captain, you’ve been a wreck
ever since you returned. You’re very
lucky to have enough useful infor-
mation 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 front-
line job.”
“And if you won’t, Captain?”
She stared into his eyes. “Then
you can call the Mental Health De-
partment, and tell them to start
trying all their new treatments on
me.”
A moment of silence followed, fi-
nally 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 commu-
nicator. “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 communi-
cator. General Matsumoto’s voice fi-
nally came on-line. “That’s enough,
Major.”
“Sir, I don’t understand why the
delay in the permission to attack.”
“Headquarters still isn’t con-
vinced 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 complain-
ing.”
“Major, the objective in this at-
tack 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 merce-
nary surrenders, he or she is taken
ISSUE 53
prisoner. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
There was a pause. “Very well.
I’m authorizing your platoon to
launch the attack. Call another pla-
toon for backup. Good luck, Major.”
The communicator went silent.
Niatti switched it to speaker mode.
“This is a message to all mercenar-
ies in the prison section,” she called,
her voice echoing beyond the sec-
tion’s shuttered doors. “The Coali-
tion 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 weap-
ons 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 mo-
tioned the soldiers in her platoon
to start moving, and called the fifty-
first 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 corri-
dors 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 sec-
tion’s management offices. The of-
fices’ 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 mer-
cenaries 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 ac-
curate shot by Niatti caused one of
them to drop his weapon. Two oth-
er 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 Ni-
atti’s orders, a soldier in her squad
cuffed him.
There wasn’t any time for vic-
tory 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 sol-
dier 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 ex-
plosion collapsed their cover on
them. Didn’t the idiots realize what
would happen if they threw a gre-
nade?
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 to-
ward the last office. The squad’s
leader tried blocking her way, talk-
ed 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 merce-
nary. 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 sym-
pathetic looks. The same guard she
stabbed in the eye.
She leaped toward him in a des-
perate 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.
***
ISSUE 53
The tense silence onboard the
bridge drove Niatti crazy. Finally, a
voice was heard through the speak-
ers.
“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 ap-
proached her.
“We have all the outer space-
ports. And it’s largely thanks to you,
Colonel.”
Niatti smiled. “The really tough
job is still waiting for us with the in-
ner 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 re-
ally 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 celebra-
tions, 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 your-
self. 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 ev-
eryone 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 wid-
ened 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 se-
curity 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 pen-
alty 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 play-
ing my knight in shining armor, at
least do it all the way through. And
it will also help the general impres-
sion 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 argu-
ment 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.
ISSUE 53
“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 but-
ton, and the display zoomed on the
wall. Hanging on it were heads. Hu-
man 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 cap-
tive...
“Samir, leave me here with An-
toine.”
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. “Ev-
eryone else in this section is still cel-
ebrating 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 conscious-
ness.
“I’m not like you, you son of a
bitch,” she whispered. “I’m not like
you.”
Then she fired a single shot di-
rectly 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 vio-
lent, 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 author-
ity 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 Colo-
nel 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 unpleas-
antness.”
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 commu-
nication 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 perform-
ing 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, hon-
ey?”
“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 space-
port under your control is surround-
ed by Coalition ships, and my good
mood is the only thing standing be-
tween you and a marine platoon or-
dered to capture you and drag you
to a war-crimes tribunal.”
Seward did not sound impressed.
“Your good mood, plus the dozen-
hundred 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-
ISSUE 53
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 an-
other voice that remained just as
Niatti remembered—cold and no-
nonsense. “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 re-
covered quickly when she noticed
the General’s worried look. “Seward,
you have no idea how happy I am to
hear that my mother finally under-
stood who she went into business
with. Too bad it took her so long.
But if you think a few more mur-
ders won’t have any effect on your
already-bad balance, you are mak-
ing a big mistake.”
Seward laughed. “I hope to im-
prove my balance, honey, by avoid-
ing 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 hos-
tages 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 re-
alize how many people in the sys-
tem 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 of-
fer me much, Niatti.”
“Actually, I can offer you quite a
lot. The Coalition agreed to get you
the best lawyers the system’s tax-
payers’ 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 an-
nounced. Or maybe cancer—if it
helps, I can give you my stock of cig-
arettes. 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 com-
pany 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 diffi-
cult—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 pro-
posal 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 rep-
utation 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 pic-
ture, 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
ISSUE 53
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 re-
signing.”
“Colonel, you’ve been through a
lot, but you’re still too young for re-
tirement.”
“Who said anything about retire-
ment? I want to stay here and keep
managing the spaceports. It’s non-
stop 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 sol-
dier when it becomes a civilian job.
There’s a procedure, the Coalition is
examining candidates—”
“I know. I’ve registered to be-
come 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 space-
ports.”
“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 repeat-
ing her mistakes.”
The General nodded. “I under-
stand. 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
ROP: Rodeo Bull Ballet, Part Two
by M. Keaton
“D one yet?” Graves asked. The
air-conditioned office build-
ing was surprisingly hot. “The se-
curity guard is due in,” he paused,
checking the time again, “four min-
utes 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 termi-
nals at night while Red Dog stalled
the Senate committee below.
Frustration did not help. File after
file, database after database had re-
fused 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 sus-
pects, but the complete lack of any
information and the risk that the en-
tire endeavor had been a wild goose
chase was enough to push Graves to
the edge.
Priest rolled out from under a
desk. “Got it.”
ISSUE 53
“Too slow.” Graves killed the
lights and dropped to the floor next
to the hacker. “Red,” he whispered
into the microphone that cherry-
stemmed 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 perma-
nent 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 compli-
ments.”
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 al-
ready 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, fro-
zen in the darkness.
“Red Dog thanks fool human for
soda and watches fool human re-
turn 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 plat-
form 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 ask-
ing permission to engage.”
“No. Negative.” With his salvage
claim being tossed around as a po-
litical baseball, House did not dare
commit the cruiser, did not dare
draw more attention to it. And
somebody out there knew it. “Any-
thing heavier than a fighter?”
“Two escort-bombers,” Max an-
swered. “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 on-
line. 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 con-
trol. 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 be-
hind 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 be-
fore 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 sec-
ond 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
ISSUE 53
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. Fiend-
ishly, the escort’s pilot kept it steady
long enough to fire its remain-
ing missiles before one of its own
fighters slewed out of control and
crashed into the ship, both evapo-
rating 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 con-
fident 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 consider-
ably safer, and more lethal, if he al-
lowed 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. Put-
ting the plot in the tank.” The holo-
gram 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 at-
tackers 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, listen-
ing to the disembodied voice in his
ear. “Rain says our mystery ship is
back and wants to play. Asks for per-
mission 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 fight-
ers 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 any-
thing 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 at-
tack. 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 an-
nounced 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 activat-
ing the screen.
“Hello, Sam.” A conversation in
two words. House’s cheek twitched
at the memories behind them,
schooled his face into a poker play-
er’s mask.
“I’m called House.”
“So I hear.” Unlike House, Casey
was not a big man, nor an especial-
ly 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 inch-
es higher but otherwise unchanged.
ISSUE 53
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 genu-
ine. “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 under-
stand it. And you can’t abide what
you can’t understand and can’t con-
trol.” 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 lec-
tures.”
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 un-
til 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 under-
stood 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 fur-
ther, 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 sat-
isfaction 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 bot-
tom 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 play-
ing.” 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 part-
ner, Sam.”
“I’ll make a worse enemy.”
Casey tapped the ridge of his eye-
brows with his forefinger in mock
salute. The connection fuzzed to
static.
***
Priest sat on the beige office car-
pet 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 cer-
tain 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 secu-
rity 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 nervous-
ly.
“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 dur-
ing 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 exter-
nal encryption, we could be looking
at, I don’t know, a week maybe be-
fore it hits the right code. The only
other way I can get past is brute
ISSUE 53
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 some-
body uses the terminal, they’re go-
ing to know.”
Graves scratched the stubble un-
der his chin as he thought. It was
not a total surprise; he had half ex-
pected 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 cheer-
fully, 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 cloud-
less 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, follow-
ing 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 es-
caped 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 housekeep-
ing 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 cab-
in. “I think you’ll like this. Go slow
though. It’s a little hot.” As if to em-
phasize 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 press-
ing the matter at hand, a certain lev-
el 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 sick-
ness 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. “Mak-
ing 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 smug-
glers Graves would never arrest,
ISSUE 53
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 let-
ter. ErSec agents were expected to
employ a certain amount of discre-
tion; in Graves’ case, he exercised it
toward men like Wu Lung.
Wu handed Graves a pair of
chopsticks, lifted his own and be-
gan to eat. Graves lifted a curl of
meat, sniffed it, popped it into his
mouth, chewing slowly. “This is re-
ally good, Wu. You missed your call-
ing; 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 some-
thing.”
Graves smiled and nodded. “You
do the same with me.”
“True,” Wu said amiably. “That’s
why we have such a good relation-
ship. 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 liv-
ing thing in this wonderful universe,”
Wu replied expansively. “I think I’m
a Buddhist.” At Graves outburst of
laughter, he amended, “In a previ-
ous 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 de-
termine how angry they are. Assum-
ing 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 cer-
tainly 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 to-
ward 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 him-
self, 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. Appar-
ently the bug’s finally had enough to
drink.” Graves forced a laugh.
Red Dog and Priest were playing
cards when he stepped into the of-
fice. “I finished decoding what we
had,” Priest said. “Added the in-
formation you took from the hard-
copies 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 ta-
ble. “About two years ago, the Sen-
ate approved a grant to develop the
infrastructures of Frontier worlds.
Turns out, every bit of it went to
Casey instead of the local govern-
ments.”
“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 equip-
ment 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 ce-
ramic 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. Espe-
cially with breakaway heat shields.”
He laid his cards on the table. “They
wouldn’t even need their own pow-
er source, just dump them out of a
cargo hold.”
“Red Dog said so already,” the Cil-
lian rumbled, raking the chips into
ISSUE 53
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. Some-
body 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 termi-
nal 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, fin-
gers 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, shuf-
fling 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 dis-
tracted. “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 im-
portant 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 de-
tection, Priest surprised Graves by
physically cutting through the side
of the terminal and attaching his
hardware directly to the internal cir-
cuitry. Minutes later, a bar of green
lights flashed across Priest’s equip-
ment.
“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 en-
countered 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 termi-
nal’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 com-
mittee?”
“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 de-
tails but still no clear answer. Graves
was not even certain that he knew
what he thought he knew; the en-
tire mess was a piecemeal of suppo-
sition 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 proceed-
ings. This seems to be it then.” He
smiled warmly at Graves. “Don’t be
concerned, Agent. I shall of course
ISSUE 53
maintain the polite fiction of my ig-
norance 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 rep-
resent you. I suspect you’re cleverer
than even your companions give
you credit for. Should you ever re-
quire 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. “Shy-
ster 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 un-
usually dark; at least half of its
overhead lights were either out or
flickering. That alone was enough
to tell Lumley the situation was un-
usual, 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 some-
thing. 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 courteous-
ly. “Glad you could join us.”
The head of ErSec nodded po-
litely. “The Secretary of Defense
sends his regrets. He was unavoid-
ably 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 plead-
ing. “With Casey in charge, we can
bring real government to the Fron-
tier, 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 Di-
rector. “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 undercur-
rent 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, shak-
ing his head. “I didn’t expect most of
the Senate to be in on it.”
“Not most,” contradicted the Di-
rector. “Just two sub-committees.
That’s the biggest security risk.
ISSUE 53
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 hang-
ing 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 usu-
ally 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. Con-
trol them and you control the Fron-
tier.” 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 admit-
ted. “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,” Lum-
ley 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 un-
leash an alien species on multiple
planets, kill tens of thousands—
maybe millions—just to scare inno-
cent 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, mak-
ing 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 escap-
ing quarantine on the other.” The
Director smiled, raised his shoul-
ders 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 any-
one who doesn’t go along with him.”
Graves closed his eyes, his lips curl-
ing 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 pro-
nounced.
“We’ll see.”
“No, we won’t,” Graves said stub-
bornly, 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?”
ISSUE 53
“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 in-
volved 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’ sar-
casm. “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 nev-
er 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 cau-
tiously. “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 re-
sponsibility.”
“I can rescind the warrant. That’s
the best I can offer. You’re really not
in a very strong position to negoti-
ate.”
“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 ques-
tion,” 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
ISSUE 53
give you a warrant.” others he had not.
“As simple as that?” Graves lifted Lumley’s comm unit,
“As simple as that.” punching in the final number on the
Graves nodded slowly. “We have list then the access code that ac-
a deal,” he said, wondering if the companied it. Hearing the voice that
Director had forgotten or was only answered, he broke the link. He had
pretending to forget: all warrants on wondered how high the conspiracy
the Frontier were ‘dead or alive.’ stretched.
“You are a good agent, Hyland. Now he knew.
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 Calamity’s Child © 2009 by M. Keaton.
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 re-
flexively, 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 gag-
ging to answer.
In his pocket, he carried the list
of codes and numbers he had found
in Senator Hazel’s files, his last bar-
gaining chip. Priest had not been
able to make heads or tales out of
the list. Graves, veteran of Earth bu-
reaucracy, had chosen not to inform
him. Some he recognized, like the
number and code for the Director of
ErSec and the Secretary of Defense,
Page 44

FEATURED ARTIST: MARTIN STEIL
Name: Martin Steil
Age: 17
Country of residence: Germany
Hobbies: 3D-, 2D-Art, web design-
ing, badminton, Stargate
Favorite Book/Author: Harry Potter
Favorite Artist: Chris Diston
When did you start creating art?
2007
 main subject is Stargate/Atlantis-
What media do you work in? PC:
Cinema 4D, Photoshop, ZBrush
Where your work has been fea-
tured? deviantART.com, SciFiMesh-
es.com, SG-21.de, stargate-project.
de

 What are your current influences?
Where should someone go if they
wanted to view / buy some of your
works? deviantART.com

 tionist so I want to improve my skills
How did you become an artist?
When I was 14 or 15, I started to cre-
ate art on my PC. My first steps had
been with Photoshop to create wall-
papers, 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
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.
My friends and my fans motivate me
very much. And I want to become a
better artist; I’m a bit of a perfec-
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 ac-
ceptable.

 great! But then 2009-05-15 my fa-
Where do you get your inspiration?
Stargate and the work at devian-
tART give me a big part of my inspi-
ration.
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. Of-
ten, I have to do something three
or four times until it looks good or
even works.
What have been your greatest suc-
ISSUE 53
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
vourite artwork (RealAirForce) be-
come a Daily Deviation. It was very
amazing, and I have been very hap-
py 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, web-
designing, 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:
The Ties That Bind, Part Two
by Justin R. Macumber
“W hy do I get the feeling this
isn’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 some-
thing to help get her fixed?”
“No, that’s not it. I need you to
pick up some cargo for me and de-
liver it before the contract time ex-
pires. It’s really important.”
“Then call for an extension. I’m
sure whoever your contract is with
ISSUE 53
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 be-
gan, but Jessica cut him off.
“No, you listen! The Gorawnies
are not people you want to get in-
volved 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 les-
sons 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 cor-
rectly, the last time the Guild came
up in conversation, it was said in the
same breath as words like ‘corpo-
rate 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 mak-
ing 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 ar-
mor-capillary system. She’s sprung a
leak, and the weight shift has com-
pletely 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 Ship-
yards 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 thrust-
ers if anything gets too close. Trust
me, it’s safe enough. There’s a pas-
sive 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 un-
wavering. “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 glow-
ered 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 reason-
able, I assure you.”
Nodding once to the screen and
then once to her second in com-
ISSUE 53
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 de-
serve that.”
“I’ll call you when the dust set-
tles.”
“I’ll be waiting, Jessie. Thanks
again.”
Jessica and Boo gave their fare-
wells. Once the call window faded
to black, she downed the remainder
of her drink and pulled up a bank-
ing 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 Break-
ing Dawn grunted and sat back to
mull over what she’d told them. Af-
ter 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 sur-
prises.”
Everyone filed out of the room,
some going fore and some aft. Jes-
sica and Boo made immediately for
the bridge. The Kleeetan lowered
himself into the pilot’s seat while
his captain went to a command sta-
tion above and behind him. As he
strapped himself in and began pre-
flight checks, she put on a headset
and brought her communications
display online.
“Traffic control, this is Breaking
Dawn requesting immediate clear-
ance 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 read-
ing 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 en-
tire 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 Prox-
ius 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
ISSUE 53
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 pay-
ment. 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 count-
ing, the medicine Zen had given her
kicked in, easing her stomach and
frazzled nerves. Going through a Co-
ven 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 sys-
tem. 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 autopi-
lot program, she sprang from the
piloting chair and exited through
the aft hatch to make her way to-
ward 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, Cap-
tain?” 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 re-
moving the adhesive cover, she set-
tled 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 stom-
ach.
“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 bare-
ly 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 shuf-
fled 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. “Be-
cause, 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 start-
ed walking toward the aft passage-
way 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 re-
cycling 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 wrin-
kle 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 per-
sonal lockers, but as the captain of
the ship she had a room all to her-
self, 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
ISSUE 53
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 drunk-
en 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 acci-
dent 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 fin-
ished 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 in-
stead she collapsed onto her bunk
and sank into several hours of much
needed sleep.
***
“Are we ready to broadcast?”
Boo asked from the command con-
sole as the Breaking Dawn reached
the outer edge of the Proxius aster-
oid 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 sec-
onds 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
ISSUE 53
too crowded out that way, but I’m they possibly could be, Jessica nod-
not taking any chances, so get Cam ded and hit a button that activated
to man the guns. I want him ready the ship’s intercom system. “Every-
to fire on any stray rocks that get too one, we’re about to go swimming
close. And then go get some sleep. with the rocks. Start praying to
We’re nearly on the home stretch, whatever gods you find comfort in.
and I want you frosty.” Bridge out.”
Nodding, Boo stepped back from With that done, she grabbed the
the command station and said, “I’ll throttle and slowly pushed it for-
have him right up.” ward. The ship’s engines throbbed
She waved her hand and yawned. to life, and into the asteroid field
“I’ll call if an asteroid hits us.” they flew.
The Kleeetan laughed as he exit- To be continued...
ed the bridge. Once the door closed
behind him, Jessica tapped her nav
screen and set up a series of check-
points that formed a route through
the asteroid belt to their target. The
navigational computer checked her Tales of the Breaking Dawn © 2009
course against the drift of all the as- by Justin Macumber.
teroids 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 sta-
tion 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
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 en-
emy to destroy it from within. When
they arrive at the base, they discov-
er dozens of Chinese prisoners des-
tined 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 Em-
pire universe, a fascinating alternate
history where fifteenth-century
China, instead of closing itself off
from the world, continued its pro-
gram 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 expedi-
tion 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 enjoy-
ment. 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, Ban-
nerman Yao, is Zhuan’s opposite.
Career military from a military fam-
ily 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 enor-
mous 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 hap-
pened 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 mis-
sion.
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-Quar-
ters Dozen.” So much could have
been done with the voice of the nar-
rative, 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 sci-
ence 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
ISSUE 53
engaging. I would not say I was sur-
prised by anything that happened in
the story, but I consider it a page-
turner. And I do want to read more
of Roberson’s Celestial Empire sto-
ries.
Lovers of military SF and a good
action-adventure story will definite-
ly 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, ca-
pricious 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 sched-
uled for release later this year in
North America.)
The Stormcaller presents Isak
finding his way in his new environ-
ment, 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 inde-
cisive the way an eighteen-year-old
youth can be. I often found it un-
clear what motivated him, his deci-
sions often seeming to stem from
mere impulse.
Fortunate for Lloyd, the charac-
ters around Isak are extremely en-
tertaining 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 re-
venge for crimes against his nation
and his queen. Princess Zhia, an an-
cient 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
ISSUE 53
lover and unbeatable soldier, who best when a human story wrestles
now finds himself falling in love and with human values. Lloyd has a very
hating war. human story, and I look forward to
And this is all setting the stage for see how it continues.
a cosmic battle of good versus evil.
Or perhaps better, order versus cha- Reviewed by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
os. Unlike a number of high fanta-
sies out there that I could name but
won’t, one feels there is a point to
all this. Lloyd is trying to tell a defi-
nite story, not writing tomes for the Donald Jacob Uitvlugt grew up in western
sake of writing tomes. Michigan and now lives in Arkansas with his
The style of Lloyd’s prose is rich, wife and dog. He can be contacted via www.
but not overly so. To use an image myspace.com/DonaldJacobUitvlugt
from architecture, if Tolkien is a par-
Matthew Scott Winslow has been a science
ish church in English perpendicular fiction and fantasy addict since he first
Gothic, Lloyd would be a chateau in discovered Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series
the French Baroque. He excels es- on his dad’s shelves at a young age. He can
pecially at the vivid description of be reached at reviews@raygrunrevival.
battle and other action sequences. com.
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. Ques-
tions of good and evil. Belief and
disbelief. The consequences of indi-
vidual choices. The roles of destiny
and free will. Speculative fiction re-
mains a literary venue where such
meaningful questions can be raised.
Space opera and fantasy are at their
Page 52

THIEVES’ HONOR: EPISODE 8
Endgame, Part One
by Keanan Brand
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 reluc-
tantly making the acquaintance of
a guard, Bosko, working for the ex-
traction team. However, there’s still
the matter of the carlinnian collar set
with explosives and locked around
her neck, and the voice of her long-
dead grandfather, Admiral Cunning-
ham, which only she can hear.
Sergeant Frank of the Port Henry
constabulary becomes Captain Krist-
off’s unexpected ally, and Captain
Zoltana and Lieutenant Mars of the
aerospace constabulary separately
arrive at similar ideas for investigat-
ing the crew of the Martina Vega,
only to learn that—once again—
they’re too late.
Sixteen-year-old Ezra unknowing-
ly sees something Zoltana and Mars
are trying to find: which Vega crew-
man has the IntuiCom implant. In its
civilian capacity, the device is used
for medical purposes, and law en-
forcement uses it to monitor certain
released criminals. In government
hands, however, it can be deadly.
And now, on Thieves’ Honor:
“W hat were you thinking,
Bosko? Talking up the mer-
chandise 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 court-
yard. “Vortuna not teach you noth-
in’?”
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 phras-
es 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 An-
dronicus Settlement when she was
young.
She lived there with her grand-
parents when she wasn’t aboard a
ship with her parents. It was sup-
posed to be a new hope for the col-
onies, a place where the differences
between the government and the
rebels could be resolved, a safe no-
man’s-land between armed forces.
Retired from the military, then
becoming a sky commander with
the constabulary, the admiral vol-
unteered as mediator. But he was
killed, the settlement burned, and
conflict still sent friction sparks skip-
ping through the tinder of border
towns and outback settlements.
Some of those sparks landed in cit-
ies, 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
ISSUE 53
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. “Waaater-
rr.”
“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 ser-
vants. A crone’s hand thrust through
the curtains. “No. He aided my en-
emy. He deserves no kindness.”
The house guard fanned out be-
hind the litter, their pale, sleeve-
less garments almost too bright in
the morning sun, and the brown-
uniformed 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 tribu-
taries into a bitter river. “Our busi-
ness 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 sur-
prise 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 frighten-
ing reputation, but my experience
so far has been less than satisfac-
tory. 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 em-
ployer.” 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 Tarqu-
in wants us?” Corrigan swigged a
frosty glass of buttermilk, chomped
on the corner of an egg-salad sand-
wich, 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 aba-
cus, and made a notation on a clip-
board. “Don’t know how you all
can eat so much, or so loud. Didn’t
no one’s momma teach ‘em man-
ners?”
“Didn’t your mother teach you
proper grammar?” Ezra didn’t look
up from his book, but reached to-
ward a plate of thick-cut fries slath-
ered in ketchup, and stuffed a hand-
ful 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 cof-
fee then slid the empty mug toward
the sink. He listened a little while
longer to the bickering, and he fid-
dled 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 hy-
drobacta-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
ISSUE 53
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 ar-
rest 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 acci-
dentally 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 al-
lowed. 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, soak-
ing the soil without flooding it—
common practice in the desert,
where water was traded like cur-
rency.
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 al-
most 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 en-
emy.
“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, Grand-
father. 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 abso-
lutely 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
ISSUE 53
stowed the last of the galley sup-
plies, 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 oth-
er 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. Mar-
tina was as battered as the ships in
their scrapyard, and no one gave her
a second glance. Good. If any colo-
nial troops passed through town,
she’d be outside their notice.
“I’ll radio Corrigan. Ez, grab Wyatt
and Sahir, and meet me at the for-
ward 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 al-
cove. 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 fre-
quencies: “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 car-
gos, 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 me-
chanic and a cook the approximate
shape and size of a small planet.
Once, Sahir had played the cap-
tain, and Kristoff acted a slavish
idiot. Ezra helped acquire both cos-
tumes; 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 tent-
like version of a captain’s signature
garment. The escapade ended in
the Martina Vega taking on a hold’s
worth of foul-smelling but expen-
sive 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 of-
ficer 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?”
ISSUE 53
Ezra shook his head, closed and
latched the first aid kit mounted on
the wall, and the pair strode for-
ward.
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 Mer-
cedes close behind.
“I’m only taking three,” said Krist-
off.
“I don’t hide behind anybody,”
rumbled Corrigan, and the engi-
neer 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 mo-
mentum 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; Krist-
off’s expression didn’t change. Ezra
looked around at the crew, and they
looked back, Mercedes with a small
frown that might be concern, Corri-
gan with a scowl that might be envy,
and Sahir with a glimmer of excite-
ment as if looking forward to see-
ing what the cabin boy could do in
a fight. Alerio smiled—he’d taught
Ezra how to shoot—and Wyatt nar-
rowed 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 thud-
ded down the gangway.
***
Either the rebel servant was no
rebel, or the house guard had finally
arrived at the notion of checking be-
hind all the planters. Armed men es-
corted Finney past Bosko, lying sun-
burned 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 straight-
ened her shoulders.
“Your foray into freedom, brief
though it was, seems to have re-
stored your attitude.” A smile rear-
ranged 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 ex-
tent 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 shad-
ows 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 wom-
an slumped against the cushions,
her shoulders hunched beside her
head like a bird’s wings. “But one
ISSUE 53
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, rais-
ing her feet, and the block knocked
the mallet upward, catching him
under the chin, snapping back
his head. He collapsed like an air-
less 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 sep-
sis. And even more pain.” Tarquin
paused. “Why did I not consider it
sooner? Shoot her knees.”
***
In the shadow of a mud-and-tim-
ber 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 Sa-
hir, and after a little neck craning
and low-voiced consultation, the
other two followed Wyatt.
Squinting against the light bounc-
ing 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 nod-
ded.
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 identifi-
cation papers.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. C’mon.” Krist-
off 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 cor-
ner 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 prob-
lem. 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 un-
conscious 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 contin-
ued.
ISSUE 53
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. “Af-
ternoon, 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 think-
ing 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 fin-
ger, and smiled when the coins in-
side 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 gun-
man, 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 click-
click, 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 in-
telligence is apparently not requi-
site 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 pi-
rates.”
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 be-
long 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 be-
havior is what gets a body hurt.”
Olson grinned.
***
“Governor,” said one of the men
holding Finney to the floor, “shoot-
ing 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 pa-
tience.
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
ISSUE 53
spider.
“Great shot, kid,” said the cap-
tain, 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, any-
thing 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 Gover-
nor Tarquin.
“Yes, Miss Grace?”
The doorkeeper unlocked the
doors, and servants tugged them
open, admitting a greenish luminos-
ity, the strong sunlight mitigated by
more palm trees.
“If I go out that door, you can for-
get 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 waver-
ing 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, ser-
vants, 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 es-
cape for ye.
This doesn’t look like much of an
escape.
Ach, have ye no imagination?
The governor’s litter led the pro-
cession along the broad, arched
colonnade of trees. Built of quar-
ried stone probably hauled from
the Riva Mountains by the forefa-
thers of many rebels, the villa was
bounded by a low stone wall sur-
mounted 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 hori-
zon. Finney looked over her shoul-
der, 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 Grand-
father. 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.
ISSUE 53
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
by Scott Davis
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
by Brandon Meyers
Brandon Meyers has been writing fiction for two years. In that time, he has com-
pleted 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 cred­it.
When on the planet, this mother and grandmother lives in Delaware with her hus-
band Steve, homeschools their young­est child, and also works as a gymnastics coach.
In her non-existent spare time she enjoys gardening, soap making, reading, and on-
line gaming. She also likes Looney Tunes, the color purple, and is a Zorro afi­cionado,
which might explain her love of swords and cloaks.
Page 60
 ISSUE 53

22 Happy Birthday, Niatti 53 THIEVES’ HONOR - Episode 8

by Raz Greenberg Endgame, Part 1
Raz Greenberg is a PhD student at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. He has pub- by Keanan Brand
lished several short stories in Israeli science fiction magazines. More recently, a story Writing since age nine, when an English assignment required a short story, Keanan
based on his script Screaming With the Eagles appeared in the British comics maga- Brand dreamed of writing Westerns or books about history, or recording the crazy
zine Futurequake. He also works as a book translator, and his Hebrew translation of stuff of dreams. Late teens and early twenties witnessed the imposition of real life
John Scalzi’s Old Man’s War has won a Geffen Award (given by the Israeli Society for and the putting away of dreams. For a time, he dabbled in nonfiction and freelance
Science Fiction and Fantasy) for best translated science fiction book in 2007. 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.
35 CALAMITY’S CHILD - CHAPTER 7,
These successes led to freelance editing for other writers, and for a science fiction
ROP: Rodeo Bull Ballet, Part Two
small press.
by M. Keaton
Growing up in a family with a history of military service, M. Keaton cut his lin­guistic
His first story to be accepted by a Double-Edge Publishing, Inc., publication was At
and philosophical teeth on the bones of his elders through games of strategy and
the End of Time, When the World Was New, a short piece of speculative fiction that
debates at the dinner table. He began his writing career over 20 years ago as a news-
appeared in the final issue of Dragon, Knights, & Angels. History, mythology, folktales,
paper rat in Springdale, Arkansas, U.S.A. before pursuing formal studies in chemistry,
C.S. Lewis, Howard Pyle, J.R.R. Tolkien, William Shakespeare, Robert Louis Stevenson
mathematics, and medieval literature at John Brown Uni­versity. A student of politics,
and the Bible remain great influences, as do the family tall tales, pioneer stories, and
military history, forteana, and game design, his renaissance education inspired the
Southern gothic with which Keanan grew up.
short television series: These Teeth Are Real (TTAR).
His literary “mentors” are as diverse as his experiences. Most powerfully, the au-
thor 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:

The Ties That Bind, Part Two
by Justin R. Macumber
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.

Page 61