Professional Documents
Culture Documents
July 2006
Flinteye’s Duel
by Sean T. M. Stiennon
Star Pilot’s Grave
by Marcie Lynn Tentchoff
Deuces Wild:
Part One: Reluctant Allies
by L. S. King
Jasper Squad:
Episode One: Exile!
by Paul Christian Glenn
HTTP://RAYGUNREVIVAL.COM Issue #1
Page 2
Table of Contents
Overlord’s Lair ................................................................................................................................. 3
Short Fiction: Flinteye’s Duel ................................................................................................. 4
Space Verse: “Star Pilot's Grave” ....................................................................................... 9
Ray Gun Revival Serial: “Deuces Wild” ........................................................................ 10
Featured Artist - Sidharth Chaturvedi........................................................................20
Ray Gun Revival Serial: “Jasper Squad” ..................................................................... 22
The Jolly RGR ................................................................................................................................ 34
Overlords (Founders)
Lee S. King
Paul Christian Glenn
Johne Cook
Serial Authors
Sean T. M. Stiennon
Lee S. King
Paul Christian Glenn
Johne Cook
Senior Staff
Mike Loos: Proofreader, Technical Lead – PocketRGR
A.M. Stickel: Proofreader
Paul Christian Glenn: PR
Lee S. King: Copyeditor
Johne Cook: Chief, Cook, and Bottle Washer
Special Thanks:
Ray Gun Revival logo design by Hatchbox Creative:, http://www.hatchbox.com
Website: http://raygunrevival.com
Forums: http://raygunrevival.com/Forum/index
About RGR: http://raygunrevival.com/about
Contact Ray Gun Revival: http://raygunrevival.com/contact
Submissions Guidelines: http://raygunrevival.com/guidelines.html
Cover: “Grand Space Opera Entry,” by Sidharth Chaturvedi
All content copyright 2006 by Double‐edged Publishing,
a Memphis, Tennesee‐based non‐profit publisher
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
Page 3
Overlord’s Lair
Well, hello there. There’s no telling how you found us, but here you are, and I’m sure you have
questions. Let’s cut to the chase and I’ll anticipate some of the obvious questions and then leave out
some others. This is going to be that sort of place ‐ informal, whimsical, and just a little mercurial. We
are Overlords, after all.
Let’s start there.
Q: Who and what are the Overlords?
A: The Overlords are the (currently) three co‐Editors of Ray Gun Revival. We are, in no
particular order, Lee S. King, Paul Christian Glenn, and Johne Cook. We picked that title because
'Overlord' evokes a certain throwback charm à la Ming the Merciless from the Flash Gordon era, a
venerable pulp fiction adventure and precursor of what we consider classic space opera.
Q: Pulp Fiction? With Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson and the glowing suitcase?
A: Not the Tarantino film of that name, no, but to fiction from the years when marginal science
fiction was printed for cheap on inferior pulp paper, leading up to the arrival of the fabulous Lensman
series by E. E. “Doc” Smith, commonly‐accepted as the first grandmaster of space opera.
Q: What is space opera?
A: Before I tell you what it is, let me start by defining what it is not.
Opera. In space.
Space opera spans everything from high fantasy to hard sci‐fi, and is generally considered a sub‐
genre of speculative fiction that emphasizes clear‐cut enemies, romantic or swashbuckling adventure,
exotic settings, a vast scale, and colorful, larger‐than‐life characters. Two examples you may recognize
are the original Star Wars film and Joss Whedon's Firefly.
Q: So why this magazine, and why now?
A: Because space opera has fallen on hard times, and we intend to revive it.
One of the definitions of ‘revival’ is “a restoration to use, acceptance, activity, or vigor after a
period of obscurity or quiescence.” We used to see a lot more space opera, but the genre has fallen by
the wayside in recent years. Something is missing, a sense of adventure, a sense of wonder. So we got
together, grabbed our cheesy ray guns, and created this magazine.
Q: Ah, good point ‐ where did the ray guns come from?
A: One of the iconic elements of early space opera was the hand‐held laser pistol. When casting
about for the name for the new publication, one of us blurted the name out, and the others snickered,
and it just sort of stuck.
What else is there? Ray Gun Revival is a free electronic magazine (e‐zine) published bi‐weekly in
the .PDF format, which can be viewed online, locally via Acrobat Reader, or printed. We will publish
original short stories and articles and ongoing serial stories (like the old episodic Saturday matinee
films with cliffhanger endings).
For the record, the whole 'arrogant Overlord' schtick is a comedic posture. Nobody around here
takes it seriously for one split second. Trust me on this.
With that said, we now expect you to go and tell ten people about Ray Gun Revival or we will
ruthlessly vaporize your pathetic planet.
I’m not even kidding.
Johne (Phy) Cook
Overlord, Baron of Outlandish Ideas, Scourge of Grammar
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
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Jax Callam had a new pair of ion pistols strapped to his hips as he came off the
transport. They were fine weapons, decorated with the purest violet gold, and their
butts were studded with pressure gems from the depths of the Devil’s Nebula. Each
was capable of putting out enough power to shatter a ton of uranium. They had cost
several million SEUs. Guns worthy of the greatest gunman in the galaxy.
He walked with a swagger through the streets, and beings cowed before him. He
gleamed with splendor befitting his station, a cape of microscopic golden scales thrown
over his shoulders with a brooch of red sapphire holding it in place. His boots were
sewn from the hides of snap‐snakes and his head was wrapped by a force circlet. It was
only fitting that he should look his best on this day. Today, he was going to kill Jalazar
Flinteye. That deed would ensure that his name was enthroned forever in the galaxy’s
underworld.
The streets of the city were clean enough, with just enough dust to stain the soles
of Jax’s boots. The only patrol stations visible were abandoned–the Alliance had
removed its presence from Erbatess years ago, and now a local ruler held limited sway
over most of its lands. The perfect place for a man like Jax to ply his trade and establish
his name among the stars. High towers of light‐colored stone soared above him, and
the streets were paved with the same material. Beings of many species walked the
streets–salesmen, tourists, native Erbatessols, lowlifes, an occasional beggar, and many
others. The weather was bright and warm, much like it always was at Jax’s carefully
weather‐controlled home. His decadent home where only money mattered.
The place he was looking for was sunk into the shadows of a back alley, with a
bright neon sign above the door. An insectoid bouncer with two and a half meters of
thick exoskeleton stood in front of it, but he let Jax pass with a nod and a click of his
mandibles. The sign read “Star Plasma Bar” and fluctuated between several different
colors and spectrums. Jax, a human, could see only some of them–the rest looked like
gray or brown, and sometimes the light even seemed to be off. The Erbatessols could
see more than most beings in the galaxy.
It was dark inside. The only real brightness came from a spotlight in the center of
the room, beneath which a band was playing on some sort of reed instruments and
drums made from animal shell. Their wailing pierced Jax’s ears, making him cringe. A
few dim blue and violet lamps were scattered about the room, and by their light Jax
could see beings sitting at tables, gliding through the darkness, and conversing in
hushed tones. The bar was at the far side of the room, lit up with an eery green color.
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
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Jax’s golden cape rustled as he went in. He moved through the room, scanning
each booth. It was one of the tamer bars on the planet, but that wasn’t saying a lot.
Some beings growled, some leered, some smiled suggestively. He ignored them all—he
could deal with any trouble easily.
A voice came out of the dark. “Looking for someone?”
Jax turned, startled. There, in a booth he hadn’t even noticed, far from any light
source, was a single being. But the voice–the voice was right.
He dropped his hands down to caress the jeweled butts of his pistols. “Jalazar
Flinteye?”
The shape nodded. “That’s me. You’re not here for a drink or a female.”
“No. I’m here to kill you.”
“You’re more candid than most beings who want to do that.”
“I’m better than them too,” Jax hissed.
The shape nodded. Jax’s eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to make out his
basic form and color–it was Flinteye, all right. Light colored fur, dark clothing, and
empty black eyes. There was a faint hint of fangs and claws too–but Jax didn’t let that
unnerve him.
“So,” Flinteye said, “are you going to do it here, and make yourself pay for the
clean‐up?”
Jax found the mercenary’s gaze unnerving. He stood rigid and held his head up,
allowing his hands to loosen the pistols in their holsters.
“I can see you are,” growled Flinteye.
He froze. Flinteye could see infrared–how could he have forgotten? This room
must be like day to him with all the body heat in it. Jax wouldn’t forget that twice.
Jax’s hands jerked away from his weapons, and he slipped into the booth
opposite Flinteye, in a place where Jax could see what his adversary was doing, but not
the other way around. That would even things up.
“You’re friendly for an assassin,” said Flinteye, drinking from the glass he had in
front of him.
“I’m a gentleman. I’ll give you six hours to prepare.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“You’ll meet me on the Plaza of Tears after that time has elapsed, or the whole
galaxy will know that Jalazar Flinteye is a coward who can’t face a worthy opponent.”
Then Jax stood up and started to leave. Behind him, he heard Flinteye chuckle
and say, “Who is this ‘worthy opponent’?”
“I am!” Jax snapped, drawing the attention of a few nearby patrons. “And
someday the whole galaxy will know my name as they do yours!”
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
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Suddenly, Jax heard noises behind him, and before he could react both his arms
were locked against his body in an unbreakable grasp. He struggled, but was held tight
by unwavering hands.
He heard the voice of a ‘bot close to his ear. “Is this one threatening you,
Jalazar?”
“I can take care of my own problems, Axten,” Flinteye growled.
Jax cursed his lack of caution. Of course Flinteye would have his ‘bot a little ways
off, ready to defend him.
His arms were freed, but Jax didn’t try to go for his guns. “Six hours, and if you
have any honor, leave the ‘bot home,” he said.
Then Jax left, anxious to get back out into the light.
#
He visited a restaurant for a light meal and a drink, then went to a bathhouse to
cleanse himself and his clothing before the duel. Finally, with half a standard hour to
spare, he went to the Plaza of Tears on foot with his ion pistols freshly charged. He
wore the same clothing as he had earlier in the day. It was late afternoon, and the sun’s
heat was beginning to fade. Truly an excellent time for a duel, with a cool wind blowing
through the streets and the sky gradually darkening.
He didn’t know how the plaza had gotten its name, but he had visited it before.
Featureless cobblestones covered its hundred meter expanse, and in the center was a
single fountain that, rather than spraying upwards, flowed gently over an elaborate and
very abstract sculpture.
Flinteye hadn’t arrived, and the sun sank lower. Jax checked his chronometer.
Only a few minutes were left before the appointed time. He growled to himself, pacing
around the fountain and glaring at the surrounding streets and towers. There were no
pedestrians around–it was the perfect time for their encounter. Would that craven
mercenary rob him of his victory?
The time Jax had specified came and went. Another half‐hour passed, and Jax
sank down onto one of the stone pedestals surrounding the fountain, balling his hands
into fists. Frustration welled up inside him,
Then he felt a warm body at his back and a cold blade pressed against his throat.
“Don’t move, boy, or I’ll have some cleaning up to do,” Flinteye hissed.
“You! We agreed to a time, and you missed it!” Jax said, afraid to move his throat
much because of Flinteye’s dagger.
“I was here. You didn’t say I had to be in plain sight, did you?”
“Scum! Now get your knife away and let’s have a proper duel.”
“Proper? You’re even more of a brat than I thought. I’ve already won the ‘duel.’
You lost.”
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
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The word echoed in Jax’s ears. Lost. Now a blade was about to plunge into his
neck, a blade every bit as deadly as plasma when it was this close. Defeat.
“Very well, claim your victory,” he said, trying to keep his voice from breaking.
“You really want me to?”
A moment later, Jax felt his pistols slipping free of their holsters. Then the dagger
was lifted away. “Now get up,” said Flinteye.
Flinteye shoved him, and Jax scrambled to his feet. His ion pistols were both
clutched in one of the mercenary’s hands, and the other was aiming a heavy plasma
pistol at his forehead. “Why did you want to kill me, boy?”
“There are bounties on your head.”
“You don’t need money if you can afford clothes and weapons like this. And the
bounties aren’t too serious–you can’t be after me out of a sense of justice. Tell me
why.”
“I wanted people to fear me!”
“You’ve got a long way to go before they’ll do that. You wouldn’t scare a Sophite
farmer.”
Jax sank to his knees, shaking all over. He felt as though his universe had cracked
and was now falling to pieces. “I would have been famous if I had killed you. Everyone
would have known my name. Jax Callam!”
“You’re wealthy? Maybe I could get a good ransom for you.”
“Beyond the dreams of trillions. But what good is money, SEUs sitting in
accounts, metal and gems from all across the galaxy, without a name? An earned
name? Nothing!”
There was silence then. Flinteye seemed to be thinking, although he never
stopped covering Jax with his pistol. Twilight was spreading over the Plaza of Tears. Ah,
that name seemed appropriate now. Jax could feel sobs welling up despite his best
efforts to restrain them.
At last, Flinteye spoke. “I’ve got a lot of options. I could kill you now. I could hold
you for a massive ransom. I could just rob you of what you’ve got and send you off
without even enough SEUs to get off planet....”
He trailed off threateningly. Then he grunted. “Too much trouble. Go home.”
“No! I’m nobody there–only money! I’m only a bag of money!”
“Instead of only a killer? Seems like a good trade‐off.”
Flinteye holstered his plasma pistol and got up. “Bye, Jax. Good luck getting back
home. Don’t try to kill any more mercenaries. You’ll get worse luck next time.”
His ion pistols were still on the ground. Jax lunged for them with a cry.
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
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Just before he reached them, two bolts of flaring violet plasma struck them and
turned the jeweled guns into heaps of smoldering wreckage. Scorched parts scattered
across the plaza.
Then Jax knelt down and cried freely, no longer caring if anyone saw him. The
golden cape weighed heavily on his shoulders, crushing him. Flinteye would have
beaten him easily even if it had been a straight draw.
“Flinteye! You said I’d be just a killer–so what are you?” he howled.
He turned. Those eyes–perfect black orbs–regarded Jax carefully. Then Flinteye
said, “I didn’t kill you, did I?”
Then he vanished down a side street without a backwards glance, leaving Jax
huddled in the dust, shaking softly with his weeping. The stars rushed out overhead,
sweeping up from the south to light the sky with a thousand pinpricks of brilliant light.
At last, Jax Callam stood and walked over to the remains of his weapons. He went
straight to the space port and chartered passage back to his homeworld on the next
starship to leave Erbatess.
Sean T. M. Stiennon
Sean is an author of fantasy and science fiction novels and short stories with many publications under
his belt. His first short story collection, Six with Flinteye, was recently released from Silver Lake
Publishing, and he won 2nd place in both the 2004 SFReader.com Short Story Contest and the Storn
Cook Razor‐Edged Fiction Contest with his stories “Asp” and “The Sultan’s Well,” respectively. “The
Sultan’s Well” has been published in the anthology Sages and Swords.
Sean’s work tends to contain lots of action and adventure, but he often includes elements of tragedy
and loss alongside roaring battles. A lot of his work centers around continuing characters, the most
prominent of whom is Jalazar Flinteye (Six with Flinteye). He also writes tales of Shabak of Talon Point
(“Death Marks,” in issue #9 of Amazing Journeys Magazine), Blademaster (“Asp,” 2nd place winner in
the 2004 SFReader.com Contest), and others who have yet to see publication.
Sean loves to read fantasy and science fiction alongside some history, mysteries, and historical novels.
His favorites include Declare by Tim Powers, the Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn trilogy by Tad Williams,
Stephen Lawhead’s Song of Albion trilogy, and King Solomon’s Mines by H. Rider Haggard. He has
reviewed books for Deep Magic: The E‐zine of High Fantasy and Science Fiction, and reviews books
currently at SFReader.com.
To contact the author, send an e‐mail to flinteye@gmail.com . The author is always glad to receive
reader feedback.
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
Page 9
Space Verse: “Star Pilot's Grave”
by Marcie Lynn Tentchoff
My birth father left us to fight in the wars,
An insult Ma never forgave,
He went seeking glory, or so my aunt says,
But found just a star pilot's grave.
As I grew up dirtside my eyes sought the stars,
I dreamed of myself strong and brave,
and just like my father, while Ma sat and sighed,
“You'll end in a star pilot's grave.”
But when my Ma sickened I gave up my dreams,
Of glory and planets to save,
I worked a small freighter to pay doctors' bills,
Far worse than Pa's star pilot's grave.
And then came the Creepers, those alien slime,
Who wanted to make us all slaves,
I wished I could fight them, but just wasn't free
To seek out a star pilot's grave.
But when the word reached me my mother was dead,
Blown up in the last Creeper wave,
I joined the rebellion and sent all I could
To rot in a star pilot's grave.
And now I lie dying, my last mission done,
With only one boon left to crave,
Just point my ship starward and let her drift free,
And grant me my star pilot's grave.
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
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Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
Page 13
Tristan ground his teeth. Complications irritated him. Granted, he owed that hick
for stepping in, but why didn’t he mind his own business in the first place? Now he
owed that local his life. And Tristan always paid his debts. He had to get back before
those men got there.
#
Slap yawned and stretched. The bed was comfortable and, surprisingly, clean.
That off‐worlder had good taste, that was certain. But was he crazy? Assassins, danger,
having to leave—leave the planet? Yeah, Ol’ Black Vest was gaga all right.
He rolled up under the covers and tried to sleep. The creaks and groans of the old
building kept making him jump awake. This was ridiculous. He rose with a grumble and
snatched in the dark for his clothes. What he needed was a few stiff drinks to help him
relax. He dressed, slid the sheath for his old‐fashioned steel knife into the back of his
vest, and donned his hat.
Halfway to the door, it slammed open and three men entered. Slap could see
their outlines in the dim light of the hallway but knew they couldn’t see him. He drew
his knife and aimed—by the thunk and groan, he knew he hit his target. With a growl, he
charged the other two and knocked them back. He picked one up by the neck and
crotch and threw him across the room, then grabbed the other by the throat and
squeezed before tossing him as well.
He felt along the floor with his foot until he found the body and retrieved his
knife. Using the man’s shirt, he wiped it clean, then straightened. He returned the knife
to its sheath with a sigh. Black Vest might have been right.
“I see you did all right without my help.”
Slap spun, hand on his knife, to see the slender silhouette in his doorway. Black Vest. He
relaxed. “I guess so. These your friends again?”
“The local gangdom doesn’t seem to like me. Or you, now that we are known to
be acquaintances.”
“The Mordas?”
“Yes.”
Slap scowled. “I don’t like them either. But I can take care of myself.”
“So I see. But I think you’re mistaken in your assessment. You’re vastly
outnumbered. Your best bet is to leave with me. My ship is docked on the southeast
side of the port. We can be there and off this planet before dawn.”
“And then what? I don’t want to go anywhere else. This lousy rock is my home.”
Home—home was ashes, dead and desolate. No laughter, no life. Maybe another planet
would be a fresh start.
But what did he know about this man? He had assassins after him, and the
Mordas. He had money. And a ship. But—he’d come back to help when he thought Slap
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
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was in danger. That was enough. Slap grabbed his pack from the floor by the bed. He
took a deep breath and gave a nonchalant shrug. “But who says folks can’t leave home
for an adventure or two? Let’s go.”
#
“This way,” the local said when they got to the bottom of the stairs. Tristan
followed him, then stopped in the doorway and hissed, “The kitchen?”
“My breakfast is paid for and fighting makes me hungry.”
Tristan sighed and leaned against the wall while the hick gulped down food.
Young this one was, barely a man. He was very tall—a full head higher than Tristan—and
muscular, broad‐shouldered, but lean. Physical laborer, definitely. Probably a farmhand
from his old‐style denim pants and the felt, open‐crown cowboy hat. He certainly could
throw bodies around. What planet could Tristan safely leave him on?
“Are you done yet?” Tristan asked as his unwanted companion wiped the plate
with a piece of bread. “The Mordas could send more men.”
Mouth full, the man stood, nodding. “Ready,” he mumbled.
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Tristan headed for the back door.
“Hey, wait.”
Tristan pivoted back around. “What now?”
“What’s your name?”
He peered at the tall man in the glow from the niche‐lights. It couldn’t hurt to
share the alias he used now. “Tristan.”
The man nodded, and stood, as if waiting for something. Tristan turned to leave
and felt a touch on his shoulder. “Folks call me Slap.”
Tristan stopped and twisted to look up into his face. “Slap? That’s it?”
Slap shrugged. “It’s all I need.”
Tristan sighed and continued toward the back door. It could be worse. His name
could be Lennie.
#
Slap followed quietly. He didn’t try to talk, which relieved Tristan. They wound
through the streets toward the space port, past open air markets, but the vendors were
closed and beggars slept in the street.
“Which one is yours?” Slap asked as they neared the gate for private ships.
Tristan pointed through the fence to a small craft at the far side of the dockyard.
“Beyond the Falchion, between the two yachts.” Not the best he’d ever owned, but it
was a good ship.
Slap whistled through his teeth. “Cutlas class? Sweet.”
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
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Tristan nodded, but before he could say anything a flash made him close his eyes.
An explosion thundered in his ears. A body knocked him to the ground, and he gasped
for breath. More explosions shattered the air.
“Get off me, you lug!” Tristan shoved at Slap who rolled over and sat up.
“Just trying to protect you.”
“I don’t need it.” Tristan brushed the dust off his clothes and rose.
“Brago’s Bands,” Slap said in a hush.
Tristan looked through the fence to where Slap gaped and bit back a groan. He
stared at the flaming wreckage that had been his ship. All the supplies he’d stolen from
the Mordas, and his way off this planet—gone. “You know,” —Tristan rubbed his
forehead— “since I first laid eyes on you, it’s been one thing or another.”
Slap snorted. “If I hadn’t wanted to stop and eat, we’da been aboard her.” He
turned, his eyes narrowed. “The Mordas really must want you bad.”
Tristan gave him a grim smile. “Not as badly as I want them, now.”
#
“So what are you going to do?” Slap asked as they hurried away from the gate.
“Never mind. Just follow me.”
Slap hunched his pack higher onto his shoulder. “You know, that’s getting
irritating.”
“What is?”
“You treating me like I’m a kid and don’t know nothing. I’m in this with you, like it
or not. Why can’t you tell me what’s going on?”
Tristan stopped and stared with those penetrating black eyes. Slap glared back,
not willing to let this man get the best of him.
Finally Tristan turned and continued walking, saying over his shoulder, “When we
get there. I want to move fast, and talking would slow us down.”
Slap made sure his answering sigh was loud.
They left the spaceport and wove through the streets. The way grew dirtier—if
one went by the reek of sewage, and the buildings, from what he could tell in the faint
light of the nearly full moon, older.
Finally they arrived at the edge of a property that contained the burned‐out
remains of a factory. Several outbuilding remained on the lot. They crept closer and
hunkered behind a pile of charred timber.
“What’s your plan?” Slap whispered, squinting over at his new friend.
“Since I stole that one shipment, they’ve gotten paranoid and moved their
supplies out here.” Tristan nodded toward a structure on their far left as he pulled on
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
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gloves and flexed the fingers. “I’m going to take care of the rest of their inventory. That
should hamstring them long enough to suit me.”
“So what are these supplies that are so all‐fired important?”
“Munitions.”
“Munitions?” Slap scratched his chin. “The Mordas are thugs, I know, but what
would they need to stockpile munitions for?”
“They have buyers off‐world. One of them is a nasty group of mercenaries. Makes
the Mordas seem like peacemakers.”
Slap frowned. “So what are you, some sort of space cop?”
Tristan stared at Slap for a moment with a look of astonishment and gave a silent
chuckle. “No. I just don’t like the buyers.” Tristan rose slightly and peered over the top
of the lumber. “Keep on the look‐out. I’m going to sneak past the guards.”
Slap lifted his eyebrows at the bold‐but‐insane plan. “That easy? What do you
have, some invisibility screen?”
“Don’t I wish.” Tristan’s eyes crinkled in a slight smile. “I have to use a more old‐
fashioned method. Stealth.”
Slap watched in awe as his new buddy faded into the night, his dark clothes and
hair making him almost unseen. He held his breath and chewed a ragged nail while
waiting.
#
The few guards were easy to slip past. The property had enough piles of rubbish
to cover much of Tristan’s movement. If only that dratted moon would go behind
clouds. He glanced up. Clear sky scattered with stars. Not even a wisp of haze. He crept
around toward the back of the targeted outbuilding. Broken windows badly boarded up,
the grate hanging by one hinge off an exhaust vent—they might be traps instead of easy
entrances, but Tristan wasn’t going in.
He lifted the vest to reveal the retooled ammo belt around his waist and set the
timers for all the detonators. Fifteen minutes should be enough. He crept close to the
wall. One through a crack between two boards at one window, another shoved past a
broken pane of glass—on Tristan went, crouching and running from place to place,
inserting his little devices.
Three to go.
A scrape—a boot on gravel. Tristan froze.
“Don’t move,” a voice from behind said.
The irony that Tristan had already stopped any motion faded into a chagrined
grinding of teeth that so much kept going wrong. Was it bad luck? This planet? That
yokel?
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
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Fire bolted through Tristan’s body—pain ripped through convulsing muscles. He
dropped to the ground, unable to even scream. Then all went black.
#
His body thudded on a hard floor. Trembling. Nausea. Tristan opened his eyes. At
the sight of Slap’s face he closed them and shuddered. A nightmare.
A foot prodded his side.
“Is he awake?” asked a gravelly voice.
The detonators! Tristan’s eyes flew open. How long had he been unconscious?
“Yeah,” a second voice said.
“Get him up. The other one too. Search them for weapons and get something to
tie them up with. You others, shoot them if they try anything.”
Hands hauled Tristan to his feet, and he saw they were inside a dimly lit building.
From the size, probably the ones where the munitions were stored. Great. More bad
luck.
Slap stood, face pale, eyes unfocused. Tristan glanced down and saw the belt still
around his waist. Not much time had passed, or no one would be here. What now?
Hands pawed him, removing his hidden stim‐blade and the ammo belt.
Slap scowled as he was searched, and his steel knife taken away. He shook his
head as if to clear it.
“Well, if it isn’t our old friend, the homesteader. So, cowboy, we meet again.”
Slap’s head jerked up, and he spun to face a pale, slightly overweight man.
“Lyssel! You murdering lizard! I’ll kill you! I swear I’ll kill you!”
Two men grabbed his arms but barely held him back. The ones holding weapons
on him jabbed the air, yelling for him to be still as he lunged toward their boss.
Tristan took in the sneering man’s sheened trousers and matching jacket—no
standard pack‐vest, the usual garb on this warm‐climed planet. He watched Slap with
interest, yet part of his brain tried frantically to figure out the time.
“Now, now, my oafish friend.” Lyssel pulled a slender file from inside his jacket.
He pointed it at Slap then began to clean under his nails. “You can’t blame me that you
lost your ranch and family. I offered you a chance to leave peaceably and you chose to
stay.”
“It was my home!” Slap yelled, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You burned it
down. You made me watch them die, you murdering—”
One lackey punched Slap in the stomach with the butt of his weapon, making him
double over. Anger boiled up in Tristan. These men had taken everything from Slap. His
own losses were nothing in comparison. If only he had a chance to break free—
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A low growl grew into a roar and Slap straightened, fists smashing out to the
sides. The men holding his arms hit the ground. He swung around and knocked one
guard down—Tristan didn’t wait to see more. He smashed the kneecap of the man to
his right with his heel. His left arm snaked around his captor’s, and he twisted to bring
the elbow over his shoulder. He yanked downward and the man screamed.
Tristan dropped to a squat as a body flew overhead, then jumped into the air and
shot a foot out to catch a guard aiming at Slap. The man tumbled, and Tristan scooped
up the gun. He fired quickly, taking out the rest of the men.
His weapon and Slap’s lay on the floor near an unconscious man. He sheathed his stim‐
blade and grabbed the steel knife, then took the ammo belt and slung it back toward
stacks of boxes further inside.
Lyssel lay on the floor, trapped under a body, moaning in pain.
Slap stood, silent and shaking, face wet, gazing about him as if lost. Tristan had to get
them away. If they didn’t leave now, they’d be in orbit without a ship. He called the tall
cowboy’s name.
Slap turned, and Tristan pointed at the door. “Get out! Hurry!”
His friend grabbed his pack from the ground and joined him running for the exit.
“Don’t stop,” Tristan called.
They raced across the property, only able to distinguish outlines because of the
moon. Tristan expected guards or the blast to knock them down, but nothing happened.
Had Lyssel called all his men inside when he caught the trespassers, or did the dark
cover their escape? A rover sat near a gate; Tristan veered toward it and jumped
aboard. Slap dove inside as Tristan pressed the ignition.
The explosion rocked the rover as it rose, lighting up the sky. Tristan gripped the
controls and fought to stabilize the craft. His lips thinned and his knuckles turned white.
The vehicle responded and he sighed with relief. A glance at the navigation console
almost made him chuckle. He looked over his shoulder to see Slap wiping his face on his
sleeve. He held out the steel knife, hilt first. Slap took it with a nod.
“I found our way off the planet.” Tristan pointed at the console. “This has an auto‐
direct to a private pad at the space port. I don’t think we’ll have much trouble acquiring
Lyssel’s yacht. What do you think?”
Slap gave a shaky sigh and a slight smile.
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L. S. King
A science fiction fan since childhood — reading Heinlein, Asimov, Clarke, Dick, Bradley,
Pohl, Vonnegut, Anthony and many others – L.S. King has been writing stories since her
youth. Now, with all but one of her children grown, she is writing full‐time. For the last
four years, she has worked on developing a sword‐and‐planet series tentatively called
The Ancients. The first book is finished, and she has completed a rough draft of several
more novels as well.
She serves on the editorial staff of The Sword Review, is also their Columns Editor, and
writes a column for that magazine entitled “Writer's Cramps” as well. She is also one of
the Overlords, a founding editor, here at Ray Gun Revival.
She began martial arts training over thirty years ago, and owned a karate school for a
decade. A mother and grandmother who lives in Delaware with her husband, Steve, and
their youngest child, she also enjoys gardening, soap making, and reading. She has
homeschooled her children for over fifteen years, and maintains two homeschooling
websites. She also likes Looney Tunes, the color purple, and is a Zorro aficionado, which
might explain her love of swords and cloaks.
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Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
Page 21
Media you work in: Mainly pencils, but a lot of
digital as well.
Where your work has been featured:
http://chagan.deviantart.com/
Where someone can buy your work or contact
you professionally:
My email is sidchagan@gmail.com.
How did you become an artist?: I've actually
been on the pre‐medicine track for as long as I
can recall. Art was only a hobby until my
sophomore year at college. Guess I figured it’s the one thing I truly enjoy doing, I kind of
lost interest in being a doctor as a freshman without realizing it.
What are your influences?: Artistically? Anything that blows me away. It's
never a question of my saying “I could never do that,” I just keep working
so that one day I can do it better.
What inspired the piece on the cover?: I'd originally done it for a CGNetworks contest
entry as a scene from a story I was writing at the
time.
What do you dream of accomplishing with your art
during your lifetime?:
Becoming a great comic book artist. Probably not
possible to become adept in all kinds of traditional
art, but I'd definitely like to touch on as many of
them as possible.
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
Page 22
Spill wiped the cold black condensation from his visor and squinted into the
darkness. It was impossible to see more than a few paces in front of him, and he
expressed his frustration with a seething sigh.
Melendez' voice crackled in his right ear. “I heard that, sir.”
“Mines were a bad idea,” he growled. “Can't see a thing down here.”
“We didn't choose the location, Captain. The bad guys did.”
Spill grunted and shuffled forward. Thirty years since the mines had been
abandoned, and the air was still thick with black quor dust. Perfect kind of rat hole for
the vermin he was chasing.
The radio crackled to life again. “You should be coming up on a cross line,” said
Melendez. “Take a left, then go all the way to the end. And be careful. There was a
collapse on this line about ten years ago. It was cleared out, but the supports may be ...
fragile.”
Spill reached out with his left arm and ran his gloved fingers along the roughly‐
hewn wall. “You going to be able to find me down here, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“Don't fret, Captain,” she said. “I know these tunnels better than anyone
breathing.”
“Yeah, you would, wouldn't you?”
Silence.
Spill smirked to himself. He figured that would shut her up.
The wall vanished from beneath his fingers and he realized he'd reached the cross
line. As quietly as possible, he stepped forward and peered around the corner. At the
end of the tunnel, no more than fifty paces ahead, a small lantern dangled from a hook
in the ceiling. Quor dust fogged the fluorescent blue light emanating from the orb, but
there in the eerie glow stood three distinct silhouettes. They were hulking figures,
wrapped from head to toe in protective airsuits, and their helmets bore the familiar
black rose insignia of the Hissen crime family.
“Lieutenant,” whispered Spill, “Stand ready. I'm going in.”
“Roger.”
Spill fingered the shooter on his belt. It made him nervous. His own piece couldn't
be clipped to these lousy airsuits, so he was making due with a standard Patrol Force
shooter. It was a powerful weapon, but clunky for an experienced marksman. He much
preferred the finesse of his old EM‐Blaster.
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As he passed beneath the tunnel's makeshift support beams, the three figures
noticed him approaching. They turned to face him but didn't raise a hand in greeting.
They don't trust me any more than I trust them, thought Spill.
He stepped into the circle of light, and the man in the middle of the triumvirate
held up three fingers. Spill reached for the wrist pad on his airsuit, tapped the number
three and heard a click in his left ear as he locked into their com channel.
A second later he heard Melendez' voice in his other ear. “Got it. Recording ...
now.”
The man who had signaled stepped forward. “Where's the shock?” he asked,
dispensing with formality.
“Stashed in a cross line about a hundred paces back,” replied Spill. “Three crates. I
can lead you to it as long you've got my money.”
One of the other men took a step forward and spoke in a quiet, deliberate voice.
“It ain't your money until we see the goodies, Mister Boulder. You know how it works.”
He tilted his head back, allowing the pale blue light to illuminate his ugly face behind the
visor. He was smiling.
Spill's stomach twisted. He knew this man. More to the point, this man knew him.
Without breaking eye contact, he replied, “Just want to make sure we're agreed on the
amount. Keep things equitable.” He stressed the last word, and instantly heard
Melendez' voice in his ear.
“Roger that,” she said. “On our way.”
The ugly man took another step toward Spill. “Equitable,” he echoed. “Now that's
kind of an unusual word, ain't it? Equitable?”
Spill stood his ground and said, “You're getting a little closer than I generally like.”
The ringleader stepped forward, his hand rising toward the shooter on his belt.
“Stamp, what's going on?” he asked.
The ugly man called Stamp didn't take his eyes off Spill. “I have a feeling this
tunnel's about to get a little more crowded,” he said. “But if I know our buddy 'Mister
Boulder,' I think we can work—”
A brilliant red laser blast erupted from Spill's shooter and hit Stamp squarely in
the chest, knocking him backward into the darkness. The other two gangsters
immediately drew their weapons and fired wildly, but Spill had already rolled out of the
light and taken position behind a slight jut in the tunnel wall. He jumped up to one knee
and trained his shooter on the ringleader. He fired, but the kick knocked his shot wide
and his target jumped clear. The two remaining gangsters dropped to the ground and
began firing in Spill’s general direction. In the darkness of the tunnel, he knew they
couldn't see him, but he felt the heat of the deadly bolts as they flashed overhead.
Melendez' voice crackled from his ear piece. “Situation?”
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Spill ignored her and instead focused on finding a new hiding place. He fired twice
at the gangsters to give away his current position, then leapt backwards. The gangsters
fired at his abandoned position and Spill used those seconds to scramble to the opposite
side of the tunnel.
“Captain!” shouted Melendez. “What's happening?”
“It's a party,” he barked back. “Tell the cadets to hold position at the cross
section. You and I can handle this.”
A shooter blast exploded over his shoulder and kicked up dirt inches in front of
the two gangsters.
“Too late,” said Melendez. “We're already here.”
Spill twisted around to find Melendez standing only a few feet behind him. The
two cadets flanked either side of her, their shooters drawn.
“You two, fall back,” said Spill. “Keep your eyes open and for God's sake, don't
shoot unless I tell you.” The cadets reacted immediately, dropping back further into the
tunnel.
The two remaining gangsters had taken to their feet and were warily advancing.
Spill motioned to Melendez and she ran for the opposite side of the tunnel. If the bad
guys were foolish enough to start firing again, they'd find themselves caught in a
crossfire.
Melendez took position and addressed the criminals from the darkness. “You are
hereby detained by the authority of the Galactic Patrol Force. Abdicate your weapons
and stand down.”
Spill aimed his shooter at the approaching ringleader and waited.
“Abdicate your weapons,” repeated Melendez.
The gangsters suddenly bolted past Spill and Melendez and rushed headlong into
the darkness, hoping to make an escape. They were heading straight toward the cadets.
“Rey! Jackaby!” shouted Spill. “Take cover!”
Too late. Five bursts of light flashed through the murky darkness and Rey's voice
echoed over the com channel, “Jackaby's down!”
Spill and Melendez charged toward the fray. “Rey,” said Spill, “Give me a flare.
Now!”
Seconds later a hazy light illuminated the tunnel. The dust was thick, but the
silhouettes were clear enough. Spill and Melendez simultaneously opened fire and the
two menacing figures crumpled to the ground.
The flare slowly faded, and Spill turned to see Melendez crouched in the lantern
light behind him. “Captain,” she said, “This one is still breathing.”
“I'll handle it,” he replied. “Go see to Jackaby.”
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Melendez nodded and disappeared into the darkness. Spill walked slowly back to
the lantern light, knelt down and regarded the wounded man. “Tannen Stamp,” he said.
“What are you doing so far from home?”
Stamp had been wearing a merc vest, so the chest wound was superficial. Of
greater concern was the ragged hole in his airsuit. Stamp was doing his best to clutch
the fabric together, but too much of the material had burned away, and the poisonous
subterranean atmosphere was slowly choking him. Gasping and retching, he glared at
Spill.
“We'll just wait here a moment,” said Spill. “Let nature run its course.”
A deep groan echoed from the earth above them. Spill looked up in time to see a
large chunk of chalky black quor plummet from the ceiling and smash into jagged shards
on the tunnel floor.
“You know, on second thought,” said Spill, “I don't feel like waiting. Sleep tight,
Stamp.”
Melendez materialized out of the darkness. “The cadets are on their way back to
the Jasper,” she said. “I'll help you carry this man.” She squatted to get her arms under
Stamp's legs.
“Leave him,” said Spill. “He's not going to make it.”
Melendez looked up and fixed her eyes on his. “With all due respect, Captain, that
would be a violation—”
“Lieutenant—” interrupted Spill. The earth groaned again and the support beams
made ominous creaking noises.
“We live by and for the law, sir,” said Melendez, quoting the Officer's Oath.
“Where are you?” asked Rey over the com. “What's going on?”
Spill stared at Melendez, but she didn't flinch. He should have known. “We're on
our way up,” he said.
With a disgusted grunt, he switched on his headlamp. Melendez did the same,
and together they lifted Stamp's body and stumbled out of the lantern light, into the
darkness of the tunnel. In the beams of their headlamps, hundreds of tiny quor chunks
dropped from the ceiling. A monstrous snap echoed through the tunnel and the central
support beam crashed down into splinters behind them. In quick succession the
supplementary beams gave way, and crushing boulders rained down around them.
“Faster!” shouted Spill. Melendez was straining against the massive weight of
Stamp's body, and Spill realized they wouldn’t make the cross section before the tunnel
collapsed. In a quick motion he spun around, grabbed Stamp's feet from Melendez and
swung the dying man's body up over his shoulders. “Go!” he said.
Melendez ran forward, dodging certain death with every step. She reached the
cross section and turned into the more stable tunnel. An instant later Spill appeared,
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Stamp’s lifeless hulk dangling around his neck. He shot her a look of exasperation as the
tunnel behind him collapsed with deafening thunder.
“Let's get back to the Jasper,” he said.
#
The GPS Jasper was a small, fast, state‐of‐the‐art patrol ship that had just come
out of prototype and into active use. The design was based on the antiquated “double‐
cookie” models, so called because of their simple, circular two‐level design. The bottom
cookie housed the ship's engines, while the upper cookie housed bunks, holding cells
and a conference table all in an open area no more than fifty paces across.
Spill's favorite innovation in the Jasper was the cockpit. In the original cookies, a
helm was built into one side of the upper deck, making that the “front” end of the ship.
The Jasper's cockpit was built on a hydraulic rail system, which circled the exterior of the
upper cookie, allowing the pilot complete freedom to slide back and forth around the
perimeter of the ship. The freedom to pilot from any vantage point, coupled with the
thrusters’ unique ability to instantly shift in any direction, made the Jasper one of the
most maneuverable ships in the galaxy.
Thanks to his many years of service on the Force, Captain Spill was the first squad
leader entrusted with this flashy new model. Most officers with twenty‐five years of
patrol under their belt were punching perp codes behind a desk somewhere, but Spill
preferred active assignment.
Spill and Melendez emerged from the mouth of the mine shaft and onto the rocky
desert plain. The sun was setting, and the wicked nocturnal sandstorms for which
Candlevar was infamous were beginning to stir. Small whirlwinds of sharp sand whipped
around them, peppering their airsuits in tiny torrents. The Jasper hovered thirty paces
away, its tubular boarding lift lowered and waiting.
“Jackaby, prep for takeoff,” said Melendez. “We'll be up in less than a minute.”
Spill heaved Stamp's limp body further up on his shoulders, and they ran for it.
Within seconds they were under the ship. They reached the lift and Melendez punched
in the boarding code. The door hissed up, and they tumbled inside. Spill carelessly
tossed Stamp's body to the floor where it landed with a dull thump, and he smacked the
'ascend' button with the butt of his palm. The door hissed down, the pressurization
locks clicked, and manufactured air filled the compartment. Seconds later the tube
receded into the bottom of the ship.
Inside the lift, Melendez twisted her helmet off and knelt over Stamp's body.
“He's going to need oxygen and a couple of jabs,” she said. Spill said nothing.
The lift slowed to a halt and the door opened. Spill stepped out into the boarding
chamber, which was simply a small room with two exits. One was a solid metal door
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Page 27
that led into the engine bay, the other was a circular staircase leading up to the deck.
The walls were lined with hooks on which to hang the airsuits and helmets.
Spill and Melendez quickly unzipped their suits and tossed them aside. They
grabbed Stamp's body and climbed the staircase together, swinging the gangster
between them like a two‐hundred pound ham. As they emerged on to the deck, Rey
rushed over to assist them.
“Jasper's ready to go, Captain,” she said. Looking down the stairwell into the
receiving station, she began to ask, “The other two suspects ... “
“They received a proper burial,” said Spill. “How's Jackaby?”
“I'm all right,” called Jackaby, stepping out of the cockpit. “The blast fried my O2
processor and I fell down dizzy before I realized what happened. Once I switched on my
auxiliary unit, I was fine.”
“I switched on your auxiliary unit,” corrected Rey.
“In either case, you made out better than this guy,” said Melendez. “Jackaby, get
the med kit. Rey, help me get him to a bunk.”
Spill walked toward the cockpit. “I'm going to get us off this rock,” he said. “I want
that scumball secured in a holding cell. Do not revive him until he's locked down,
understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Spill ducked through a small access port in the wall and stepped into the cockpit.
Through the glass, the landscape of Candlevar spread out in front of him. The sun was
just disappearing over the horizon, and sand and rock assaulted the ship’s shiny new
hull. Couldn't get out of here soon enough.
He closed the access port behind him and plopped down into the pilot's seat. He
set the nav coordinates for Galactic Patrol Force Headquarters and pressed the
intercom. “Brace yourselves,” he said, and hit the thrusters.
With a thunderous rumble the Jasper blasted straight up from the surface and
soared effortlessly toward the stars. As the ship prepared to break atmosphere, Spill
unlocked the cockpit and relaxed as it slid free, slowly at first, then faster, circling the
outside of the ship. He looked down at the receding planet, the distinct mountains and
valleys sweeping past him, blurring into faint shapes, then fading into formless patches
of brown and gray. He always felt a subtle melancholy as he watched a world disappear
below him. Every planet in the galaxy was utterly unique, a distinct and intricate place
filled with life and activity, civilizations, wars, art and history. Yet, from the cockpit of
the Jasper, you could watch it all disappear, swallowed into the vastness of space. It
became just another speck of light, indistinguishable among a billion others. In a matter
of seconds, you could watch the whole world become meaningless.
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The intercom buzzed. It was Melendez. “Captain, the detainee has been
stabilized. He's awake.”
“Be right there,” he said. He entered the return sequence and the cockpit swung
back around to align itself with the access port. It locked into place, and he was reaching
for the port door when it was suddenly opened from the other side. Melendez' face
appeared in the opening.
“May I have a word, sir?” she asked.
“What is it?”
She jumped down into the cockpit and closed the port behind her. “Are we going
to talk about what happened back there?” she asked.
Spill sighed. “Not now, Lieutenant. “
He stepped toward the access port, but Melendez moved to block his way.
“Captain,” she said, “you were going to leave that man behind.”
“A criminal.”
“Yes, and a possible witness. How long has it been since we've had anything solid
on a Hissen?”
“He won't talk,” said Spill. “They never do.”
“Fine,” she said. “Forget about that. He was unarmed. Helpless. Choking to death.
How could you just let him die?”
“What are you, a cop?”
“Yes, sir, and so are you.” She looked away for a moment, then continued more
respectfully. “Those two cadets are watching us. They're here to learn what Force life
looks like outside the Academy walls. We have a responsibility—”
“Are you, of all people, lecturing me about the law?” Spill stepped forward and
jutted his chin into her face. It wasn't a question, it was a challenge, and he wanted to
make sure she got the point.
Melendez' gaze turned to steel. “No, sir.”
“Take the controls, then,” he said. “Nav‐coord is set.”
With that, he pushed past her, opened the access port, and stepped up on to the
deck. Jackaby and Rey were sitting at the conference table entering reports into their
workpads. Spill remembered what it was like, that last month of Academy. He wondered
if they were as naive as he had been.
On the other side of the room sat Stamp. Except for the pallor of his skin, you
would never guess he had been in critical condition just moments before. Sitting on the
edge of his bunk, he looked every bit a thug: muscular frame, unkempt hair, features
apparently hewn from stone. He sat on the edge of his bunk and stared at Spill with dark
eyes. The silver bracelets on his wrists glowed with a soft blue light, indicating that the
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Page 29
holding cell had been activated. There were no visible walls around the bunk, but Stamp
couldn't move more than two paces in any direction.
Spill sauntered over to the cell and sat down on the bunk beside Stamp.
“Spill,” rasped Stamp. “I ought to wring your worthless old neck.”
Spill nodded. “You're probably right. Fortunately for me, you're not in a position
to do what you ought.”
“So what happens now?” asked Stamp.
Spill looked at the floor and shrugged. “You go to jail, Tannen. Didn’t you ever
play cops and robbers?”
Stamp smirked openly and narrowed his eyes at Spill. “Something tells me you
don't want them to send me up. Could be bad for your career.”
“I don't want a lot of things, Stamp,” said Spill. “I don't want to retire. I don't want
to eat another GPF outpost ration. And I certainly don't want you to be killed during a
failed escape attempt.”
“You don't scare me, law man,” said Stamp. “That Lieutenant of yours is a goody
two‐boots. Smoke my 'suit and she'd report you before the next dock.”
“Think so?” asked Spill.
“I'd bet my life on it,” said Stamp.
The intercom buzzed, and Melendez addressed them from the cockpit.
“Approaching Headquarters,” she said. “They'll be looking for your A‐code, Captain.”
Spill stood and walked away from Stamp's bunk. A few paces out, he stopped and
turned. “About that Lieutenant of mine,” he said, “She's seen things that would give you
nightmares, Stamp, and most of them were her own handiwork, so you might want to
hedge that bet.”
BLAM!
With a horrifying roar the Jasper rocked up on end. The cadets were thrown from
their table, colliding with the wall in a tangle of limbs and curses. Spill fell backwards
and slid toward the center of the room, catching himself at the stairwell. Before he
could scramble to his feet, the ship was thrown again, this time with louder thunder and
the unmistakable shudder of hull damage. Spill skidded on his hands and knees toward
the cockpit access port and stuck his head through the opening.
“Melendez,” he shouted, “what the hell?”
“I don't know who's firing,” she said, “but they've certainly got brass. We're just
outside of headquarters.”
Spill jumped down into the cockpit and sealed the portal. “Let's see them,” he
said. Melendez released the cockpit and Spill felt the familiar stomach‐drop as they
swung loose. He grabbed the com and dialed into the secure GPF channel. The bot on
the other end responded promptly.
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“Please enter your authorization code,” said the bot in its typical staccato. Spill
punched in his A‐code and didn't waste time on pleasantries.
“GPS Jasper requesting assistance,” he said. “We've got—”
His request was interrupted by a harsh demand from the other. “Captain Muriel
Spill and members of the Patrol Squad Jasper, you are hereby detained by the authority
of the Galactic Patrol Force.” It wasn't the bot this time, but a live Commander
broadcasting from one of the four Patrol Cruisers that had just come into view of the
cockpit.
Melendez locked down the cockpit and Spill gazed incredulously at the heavily
armed cruisers. “I've entered my authorization code,” he replied. “We're returning from
assignment on—”
“Disarm your weapon system and prepare to be boarded,” interrupted the
unseen Commander. “You will not receive this instruction a second time.”
Spill switched off the com and looked at Melendez. “Do it,” he said. “They’d
better be bringing an engraved apology.”
Melendez hit a button on the console to lower the boarding lift, then powered
down the weapon system. It was a symbolic gesture; the Jasper's moderate firepower
was practically useless against the cruisers. Its two light cannons were designed for
disabling runaway bugships, not battling cruisers.
Cadet Jackaby's voice came over the intercom. “Uh,” he stammered, “are we ...
okay?”
“Boarding pod is on its way over,” replied Spill. “Prepare to stand at attention.”
Spill and Melendez waited in silence, watching for a pod to jettison from one of
the cruisers. After a moment of inactivity, Melendez murmured, “What's going on?”
Spill was wondering the same thing, but when he switched the com back on to
inquire, the signal wouldn't connect. The speaker emanated a garbled mix of modulated
voice signals and white noise. Spill cursed and muttered, “This is no time for a signal
wash.”
He turned to ask Melendez for an integrity analysis, but she was staring intently at
the com speaker. “That's not a wash,” she said. “It's a scramble. I recognize the
pattern.”
“Can't be a scramble,” said Spill. “How do they expect us to signal compliance if
they've scrambled the...” The words fell from his lips and his insides slowly sank. How
long had it been since the command to stand down? Thirty seconds? Forty‐five? He
switched the com to internal. “Rey, Jackaby,” he said flatly. “Strap yourselves down.”
“Captain, you're not—” began Melendez, but before she could finish, all four
patrol cruisers fired their massive multi‐cannons straight at the Jasper.
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Blazing blue blasts of destructive energy screamed toward them, but Spill was
ready at the helm. With focused precision he twisted the ship's handlebars inward and
the Jasper dropped straight down, narrowly avoiding annihilation. The cruisers fired
again and began to reform in an attack pattern. Spill reversed the drop and the Jasper
shot straight up into the airspace it had occupied only seconds before. The cruisers
anticipated the move, however, and the shock of impact was devastating as a solid bolt
of blue fire exploded against the Jasper's light armor. In the cockpit, every light on the
console flashed wildly, then began to blink out, one by one.
“That's our mainframe,” said Melendez. “Com's gone. Nav‐coord is out.”
“Not my first time flying blind,” said Spill. He hit the thrusters and sped directly
toward the patrol cruisers, weaving through space, dodging what was now a full‐blown
assault. In the flashing rain of missiles, the Jasper's true capabilities revealed
themselves. The small sleek craft veered nimbly in between the deadly blasts,
exhilarating Spill with its fluid responsiveness.
He zoomed up beneath the foremost cruiser and sped along the length of its
underbelly. The other cruisers ceased fire, waiting for him to emerge from the other
end, and the Commanders must have realized he was making a break for it. They
inverted their thrusters and prepared to reverse direction, but Spill was already nearing
the tail end of the cruiser above him. They weren't going to catch him.
The Jasper emerged at full speed. Spill released the cockpit and swung around to
face the cruisers. He engaged the Jasper's cannons and fired off a few token shots as
they sped away. The cruisers returned fire, but Spill was already out of range.
“They're going to send out patrol ships,” said Melendez.
“It won't matter,” said Spill. “Standard patrollers won't catch us.”
After a moment of silence, Melendez asked, “What now?”
Spill looked at her. “We figure out what's going on.”
#
The cockpit access port slid open and revealed chaos. Everything on the deck had
been thrown, smashed or upset. The overhead lights were flickering on and off, and the
integrity alarm blared. Jackaby and Rey staggered toward Spill, both their faces adorned
with scratches and lacerations.
Spill reached for a nearby access panel and silenced the alarm.
“Were we attacked?” demanded Jackaby. Spill nodded as he sized up their
wounds. Nothing serious, thankfully. All he needed was a negligence charge on top of ...
whatever else was going on.
“Where's Lieutenant Melendez,” asked Rey fearfully.
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
Page 32
“She's flapping our wings,” said Spill. “Nav sys was fried when the GPCs attacked.
We're on manual.”
It took a moment for the meaning to penetrate, but when it did the cadets’ eyes
grew wide. “Patrol Cruisers?” asked Rey slowly. “Why—”
“I don't have any answers,” said Spill, “but I do have a plan. There's an outpost in
Camber System, three hours from here. We'll patch up there and get this straightened
out.”
Before more questions could be asked, the room went black. For one terrifying
second, darkness engulfed the deck, the hum of the engines disappeared, and the
Jasper was drifting in the silent, utter void of space. In the space of a breath, the lights
flickered back on, the engines throbbed back into action, and they were moving again
“We may have to dock before Camber,” said Spill, mostly to himself.
Jackaby turned and began picking up the scattered contents of the cabin. Rey
looked at Captain Spill as a girl might look to her father for reassurance. He returned her
gaze with an even stare, and she understood. Her back stiffened and she set her petite
jaw. With a curt nod she turned and began to help Jackaby clean up the mess.
Spill turned back toward the cockpit to see Melendez standing beside him. He
gaped at her. “Get back to the helm!” he shouted. “Are you trying to get us killed?”
“I've got no control, Captain,” she said.
Spill stopped and listened. “Thrusters are firing,” he said.
“We're definitely flying, sir,” she said. “But I'm not the one driving.”
Spill spun around and looked at Stamp's bunk. It was empty.
Jackaby's mouth worked, but he couldn't make it say anything. Rey spoke for
them both. “We must have lost the containment field when the mainframe sputtered.”
Spill unlatched the EM‐Blaster from his hip. “Look for your weapons,” he said. He
glanced at the arms cabinet on the far wall and was relieved to see the lock indicator
still glowing. “Lieutenant, hold the deck.”
He crept to the stairwell in the center of the room and peered down. Nothing. He
drew his blaster and crept slowly down the staircase, searching the receiving station
below for any movement. Satisfied that the area was clear, he descended to the bottom
and moved swiftly to the engine bay door. With his weapon aimed at the door, he
tapped the release button on the wall. The door hummed for a second, then made a
grinding noise as the internal mechanism strained. When the mechanism gave up, Spill
opened the access panel on the wall and pulled the manual release lever. The latch
released with a loud click, but the door remained firmly in place.
Spill stuck his blaster back in its holster and climbed back up to the deck.
Melendez and the cadets were seated at the conference staring at Jackaby's workpad.
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
Page 33
“The good news is that Stamp has evidently fixed the nav‐coord,” said Spill. “The
bad news is that he's hotwired it and soldered himself into the engine bay.”
“Captain,” said Melendez, the glow of the workpad softly illuminating her face.
“We've got bigger problems than Stamp.”
Spill walked over and took the workpad from Jackaby. The screen displayed a
network broadcast notification. As Spill read the headline, he was overwhelmed by the
sensation that his entire life had just slipped away.
WANTED: Galactic Patrol Squad Jasper, for murder and for treason against the
United Galactic Systems. Captain Muriel J. Spill, Lieutenant Janet L. Melendez, Cadet
Jenna C. Rey and Cadet Corel F. Jackaby represent a physical and violent threat. Private
citizens are not to engage the fugitives, but are required to contact their local GPF
authority if they acquire any information to the fugitives' location or activities. This
notice is in effect for all systems.
Spill stared at the workpad, reading the notice over and again. “Doesn’t make any
sense,” he muttered.
“It looks they broadcast it this morning,” said Jackaby, “shortly before we landed
at Candlevar.”
“Strange that they didn't just call us back,” said Melendez.
Captain Spill tossed the workpad aside, walked to the cockpit access portal and
peered through. Out beyond the glass he saw an infinite field of stars. Thousands of
planets and yet suddenly, he had no place to go.
“Melendez,” he said, still staring out at the vast expanse. “Try to get into the
coordinates grid and see if you can figure out where Stamp's taking us. Wherever it is,
we'll need to be ready.”
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006
Page 34
• Overlord's Lair editorial
• Fiction short by Scott M. Sandridge, “Galaxy Store”
Working at Galaxy Store is no fun, so when Janell and Will arrive
to replace their drive systems, Gorguth sees his opportunity for
freedom.
• Fiction serial ‐ The Adventures of the Sky Pirate, by Johne Cook,
Episode #1, “The Assassin of Patience Bay”
Cooper Flynn, an orphan on a remote island, meets a visitor who
is more than he appears to be, and is thrown into a violent
encounter with another visitor who is exactly what he appears to
be.
• Featured Artist
• Fiction serial ‐ Memory Wipe Chapter 1, by Sean T. M. Stiennon:
“The Silver Sun”
Takeda Croster woke up in Greendome on the colony planet Belar
with no memory and nothing on him except a pair of pants and
an Imperial citizenship card with his name on it. Exceptionally
strong for his size, he works as a bouncer in the Silver Sun Casino;
however, when he defends an innocent man from two corrupt
policemen, he begins to manifest unknown superhuman abilities
and attracts the attention of powerful forces. Where do you run
when you don't know who you are or who's in pursuit?
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales Beyond the Ether July 2006