ISSUE.

57

FINAL

Short fiction: Cover by

R. E. Diaz, PhD. Carl Andrée Wallin

Harris Tobias

Dan Livant

Mark P. Morehead

George L. Duncan

Richard S. Levine

The Final Proclamation

Serial fiction :
by Johne Cook,
M. Keaton
L.S. King,
Keanan Brand
and Paul Christian Glenn
 ISSUE 57

v57a

TABLE OF CONTENTS
3 Overlord’s Lair 35 ARTIST INTERVIEW:
The Final Proclamation Carl Andrée Wallin, Sweden
by Johne Cook, L.S. King, and Paul Christian Glenn
39 Calamity’s Child, Chapter 10, Part Two,
6 The Designer Object Real: Ave Maria
by R. E. Diaz, PhD. by M. Keaton
12 Terra Phi 49 Calamity’s Child, Chapter 11
by Harris Tobias Object Real: Object Real
14 Loyalties by M. Keaton
by Dan Livant
69 Thieves’ Honor, Episode 12
19 Emergency Procedure The Rescuers, Part 3
by Mark Patrick Morehead by Keanan Brand
25 Reaper Planet
by George L. Duncan

30 Remorse above Enceladus

by Richard S. Levine Ray Gun Revival Issue 57 © 2010 by Double-edged Publishing,
a Memphis, Tennssee-based non-profit publisher.

OVERLORDS (FOUNDERS/EDITORS) Serial Authors M Keaton, Keanan Brand

Johne Cook, L. S. King, Paul Christian Glenn
Cover Art
Matthew Winslow Book Reviews Editor “Searching” by Carl Andrée Wallin
Shannon McNear Lord High Advisor, Grammar Consultant, Listening Ear for Overlord Lee
Paul Christian Glenn - PR, Executive Tiebreaker, Desktop Publishing Bill Snodgrass Site host, Web-Net Solutions, admin, webmaster, database admin,
L. S. King - Lord High Editor, proofreader, beloved nag, muse, webmistress mentor, confidante, liaison – Double-edged Publishing
Johne Cook - art wrangler, desktop publishing, chief cook and bottle washer
Special Thanks
Submissions Editors John M. Whalen, Alice M. Roelke, Martin Turton Ray Gun Revival logo design by Chad Leahy

Page 2

Overlord’s Lair
The Final Proclamation
by Johne Cook, L.S. King, and Paul Christian Glenn
Johne Cook
B efore I get into the meat of this
editorial, for the purpose of reso-
nance, I’d like to return to something
I wrote in our very first editorial. I
recently went back to that very first
issue (the one created in Microsoft
Word with the awful internal style
and the brilliant cover). Despite the
typo in the title of the editorial, you
can see all the attitude present right
there at the beginning.
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, whimsi-
cal, and just a little mercurial. We are
Overlords, after all.
Let’s start there.
We followed that issue with 56
others over four-plus years culminat-
ing with this one. It is a real victory to
have lasted this long.
I must admit, writing this last Edi-
torial has been a vexation. (I was go-
ing to use another word, but this is
a family ‘zine, heh.) I’ve been writing
on my part of this Editorial for weeks
now, and every time I return to work
on it some more, I devolve into intri-
cate but boring history, and nobody
wants to read any of that. I’ve written
at least 30 pages, and none of it re-
ally accomplishes what I want to con-
vey. Therefore, I’m going to go back
to the drawing board and just share
the most urgent things that are on
my mind.
First, thanks are in order: Thanks
to Bill Snodgrass and Cameron Walk-
er for sacrificially hosting DEP and
RGR all these years. Thanks for giv-
ing us a blank check and allowed us
to run RGR as we saw fit. That took
a great deal of vision and confidence
and courage. Thanks to Lee and
Paul for going with me on this jour-
ney. There’s no way this should have
worked, or that we should have had
this much fun and turned so many
heads. Thanks to all the artists from
all over the world who were so gra-
cious about lending their works to
the covers and pages of RGR. I think
we consistently demonstrated that
even minor non-prozines could field
state-of-the-art if you just asked
kindly and showcased their works.
Thanks to all the volunteer support
staff down through the years who
worked so hard for mercurial Over-
lords and who never complained. I
especially want to thank Anne Stickl,
Scott Sandridge, John M. Whalen,
and Alice Roelke for services above
and beyond the call of duty. Thanks
to Jason Bentley and Cory Doctorow
for helping us through a tricky time
during the infamous SFWA vs. Scribd
flap. Thanks to Taylor Kent and Rick
Copple for Ray Gun Radio. Thanks to
Matthew Winslow for Ray Gun Re-
views. Finally, thanks to the readers
for your loyalty and interest in RGR.
Let’s talk about what’s going to
happen next. This is, indeed, RGR’s
final issue hosted by Double-edged
Publishing. I first met Bill Snodgrass
at Deep Magic magazine (the same
community where I met L.S. King),
and I came to know his heart and
his character in the forums there.
When he went off and started The
Sword Review in 2004, I signed in as
an Associate Editor. In 2005, he had
the opportunity to save Dragons,
Knights, and Angels magazine (“The
Magazine of Christian Fantasy and
Science Fiction”) from going under,
and asked if I’d help by stepping in a
Managing Editor. I agreed. I brought
Selena Thomason and Lee King with
me, and I learned a great deal while
there. However, being the black
sheep that I am, I always felt like my
interests and my style weren’t the
best fit for that publication, and I was
looking around for alternatives. I ap-
proached Bill with my query and we
realized we each had a name in mind
to take over at DKA, and it was the
same name, Selena Thomason. We
approached Selena, and instead of
ISSUE 57
the slow transition I half expected,
she was installed less than 24 hours
later, freeing me up for the next ad-
venture. A couple of things happened
about the same time; I’d been shar-
ing my love for Joss Whedon’s Fire-
fly with Paul, and we started floating
the idea of keeping space opera alive.
When I mentioned my ideas to Bill,
he said a mutual editor friend, Lee
King, had also been talking to him
about the same thing and that we
should get together. The three of us
hooked up in an IM chat room and
the rest is history. That was late 2005.
In January 2006, we set a date of July
2006 for our launch date, and we got
to work.
RGR would not have been possible
without Bill Snodgrass and Double-
edged Publishing. They provided the
hosting, the databases, the funding,
they took care of author payments
and tax reporting, and they did it all
without any strings attached. It was a
dream arrangement, and it was the
result of a great deal of sacrificial
time and money and energy spent on
the part of Bill and Cameron at the
‘home office’ in Memphis.
Months turned into years and
things changed for everyone. The
economy changed, Bill’s work situa-
tion changed, and it became appar-
ent that Double-edged Publishing
was going to change, as well. Bill has
stepped aside to focus on a new ca-
reer and the new leadership at DEP
simply doesn’t have the same focus
Page 3

or passion on the ‘zines as he did.
Fair enough. We all had a great run.
Some of the zines are closing, some
(like MindFlights) are going it alone,
and some (like Fear and Trembling)
are being rescued by others much as
DKA was rescued by DEP.
So what is RGR going to do? We’ve
gone back and forth. We were defi-
nitely going to go forward on our
own, and then were definitely going
to fold. I am happy to report that we
have reconsidered that stance. It is
simply too much fun being an Over-
lord. So here’s what we’re going to
do. We have set up the normal social
networking presences: we’re rgrzine
on Twitter and Gmail, and we have an
RGR group on Facebook. We’ll prob-
ably switch that over an RGR page.
We’re going to be an HTML-based
zine like Clarkesworld and Space-
westerns and others. We’re planning
on going 4theluv at this point instead
of looking for advertising or sub-
scriptions for the simple reason that
it’s easier that way. We don’t have
to worry about collecting or paying
money, and we don’t have to worry
about reporting anything. We’ve run
RGR pretty pure so far, and we’re go-
ing to be even purer after this.
As of right now, submissions are
back open for RGR. Please send your
subs (for now) to rgrzine@gmail.com
with [sub] somewhere in the Subject
line (such as [sub] Your Famous Sto-
ry). Here’s the thing; we’re hoping to
publish something every month, but
we may not publish many things. It
is my hope that by being on a Word-
Press-like engine, we can set our sto-
ries to publish on the first and the old
ones will roll in to the Archive and the
new ones will simply appear. Having
a consistent publication schedule will
be a big plus. So the future looks in-
viting and secure.
Finally, I have a confession to
make: I was going to end my part of
the editorial here, but upon reading
Paul’s piece, I realized I could finally
share one last secret that I haven’t
shared with anybody since 2005. The
story goes like this — when events
coalesced together and I started to
think about doing a space opera /
golden age sci-fi ‘zine, there were
three primary impulses that drove
that desire for me. One was apparent
from the beginning, the desire to help
keep the space opera genre alive via
short fiction and serial installments.
We’ve done our part to help in that
respect, I think. The second was im-
plicit, the desire to work with Lee
King and Paul Christian Glenn. I’ve
respected Lee since the Deep Magic
days, but I’ve only really gotten to
know her since we started RGR. She
quickly became like an older sis to
me, chattering and squabbling and
pinging and digging at me in the way
that only close siblings can. I still chat
with Lee nearly every day, and miss it
on the days we don’t. She is a unique
person and a spunky soul. I adore her
verve and her ability to work with me
despite my ADD and my quirks. And
I’ve wanted to work with Paul since
2003. I’ve mentioned before that
while working as a mail room clerk in
Omaha, Paul wrote and funded and
directed a small indie film. His exam-
ple challenged me and provoked me
to pick creative writing back up after
a couple of decades away from it.
However, I’ve kept the final moti-
vation absolutely private. Until now.
In Paul’s (brilliant) closing notes, he
reveals something that renders this
silence moot. In 2005, when Paul
and I were still just raving and com-
miserating about Firefly, something
happened to him that was complete-
ly unfair and which was potentially
debilitating in his personal life. It is
fair to say that these things happen,
but these things were happening to
my friend, and based on the tone of
his messages, I feared that we might
lose him to his anguish. Sometimes,
crushing tragedy knocks the steam
out of a man, sometimes, it para-
lyzes him, but sometimes, it flat-out
destroys him. I was so concerned for
my friend that I wanted to do some-
thing to help. It occurred to me that
our shared passion for space opera in
general and Firefly in particular might
be just the ticket to take his mind
off his problems. I’ve written before
about the value of escapism in space
opera, but what I didn’t mention
is that I was seeing the truth of my
theory being played out right before
my eyes.
ISSUE 57
But that’s all I’m going to say about
that at this time. I suggest you read
Lee’s final remarks, and then Paul’s,
and you’ll see what I’m getting at. I
don’t know that I’ll ever again have
the unique opportunity to both try
to save a friend’s life and do some-
thing I love. Suffice it to say, if that
opportunity ever comes up for you,
I highly suggest going for it. This ex-
perience has blessed me more than
I ever could have anticipated, and
seeing Paul’s life blossom again after
four years of misery is just about the
best reward a guy could ever receive.
And now, for that sake of reso-
nance, let’s end there.
For now.
L.S. King
Wow. It’s hard to believe this is
it. Seems like only yesterday I was
dragged kicking and screaming into
writing Deuces Wild as a way to hook
me into volunteering to be Overlord
for Ray Gun Revival. Oh, I was root-
ing for RGR, but the work and head-
aches, I didn’t want that. But when I
saw the décor in the Cantina, I saw
the need for a female touch. And
then there was the Big, Red Button™.
Who could say no to that?
Although I can write the emotions
of my characters, I don’t do very well
expressing mine. I’m sure my fellow
Overlords will express themselves
much better than I will. But I’ll try. It’s
been a fun run. We’ve laughed our-
selves silly, pulled our hair out, sat
Page 4

speechless reading a submission that
wowed us, banged our heads against
our keyboards when Real Life™ in-
terrupted our ability to work on the
zine, made great friends, vaporized
puny planets, and best of all, we cre-
ated a place where folks could come
to read good space opera. That, my
friends, that is something I am truly
proud of.
I don’t want RGR to end. Yet it is—
although it’s not. Perhaps RGR 2.0
should be called Ray Gun Revival,
the Phoenix. Rising from the ashes.
Changing so much about what RGR
is, zine format, going FTL—how will
that affect how it is perceived? The
one thing that hasn’t changed for
me—or I feel I can confidently say,
about the other Overlords—is my
love of space opera. RGR will always
be all about that.
So what does the future hold?
Some of our stories have posited fu-
tures, but as for me, I can’t say.
The Zine is dead. Long live the Zine.
Paul Christian Glenn
Johne picked the worst moment to
have a great idea.
Okay, maybe the worst for me,
but I guess it was a pretty good mo-
ment in the grand scheme of things.
Joss Whedon’s Firefly had recently
re-ignited a love of space opera
in me, a passion long-abandoned
to the fading memories of adoles-
cence. With the tragic (yes, tragic)
cancellation of that program, there
was left a palpable hunger in sci-
fi fandom for those grand literary
themes that are best served with
a heaping helping of starry-eyed
wonder. When Johne proposed the
idea of an online ‘zine dedicated
to space opera, I knew he’d hit on
something.
It had been years since I’d read sci-
ence fiction, and even longer since I’d
aspired to write it. Still, listening to him
talk, I felt that old stirring, and I want-
ed to be a part of it. I can’t remember
now if he’d already recruited Lee,
or if he simultaneously court-
ing her, or if she (and her big red
vaporizer button) joined after,
but once all the pieces were in
place, it felt like a perfect triad. I
felt honored and humbled to be part
of it. As I said, I knew it was going to
be something special.
And so it was. Johne coordinated
our partnership with Bill Snodgrass
at Double-Edged Publishing, and we
were suddenly part of a family. The
submissions started pouring in, the
forums started filling up, and I was
writing again. It felt good. My se-
rial contribution, Jasper Squad, ex-
cited me like no writing project had
in years. It still does, as a matter of
fact. As you long-time readers know,
the Jasper Squad stories never quite
hit their monthly stride. Installment
were, ah, “intermittent” at best.
Which brings me back to my original
ISSUE 57
point. writers who need a forum. There are
Right around the time that we more stories to tell, more adventures
launched all this, my personal life to live, and more kindred souls to
was falling apart. I lost my marriage. meet.
Shortly thereafter, I lost my job. Then Also, Firefly has yet to be resur-
my apartment. Then my computer. rected, so there’s that.
(In a gesture that will never cease to
move me, Johne swooped in immedi-
ately to rectify that last one.) None of
these things should have prevented
me from writing, but they did. I felt
like I was losing my sanity, my center,
myself. I stopped writing at the time I
probably needed it most.
It was more my loss than the read-
ers, but here’s the thing: as much as
my participation in the day-to-day
operations dwindled, I never felt far
from RGR. Johne and Lee carried too
much of the load for too long, but
my fellow founders never suggest-
ed that I step down, or take some
time off. They offered their support,
critiques of my infrequent work, and
more or less acted like the Overlords
they are. I quietly frequented the fo-
rums and read what people were say-
ing about the ‘zine, and I marveled
every month at the finished product.
I truly believe that Ray Gun Revival
and the people around it saved my
life.
How’s that for a eulogy? But it’s
not really a eulogy, is it? As the first
iteration of RGR is committed to the
past, a new version rises, and I can’t
wait to see what sort of thing it be-
comes. Jasper Squad will fly again.
The world is full of insanely-talented
Page 5

The Designer
by R. E. Díaz
A beep from his main console
drew his attention away from
me to the simulator deck beyond
the glass bulkhead. The last
fighter simulator session he had
arranged for the Mallesian Flight
was completed. He was practi-
cally chuckling as the gaunt aliens
stumbled out of his VR cabins like
giant drunken frogs.
“The sentient brain,” he smiled
again as he checked the last one
of them off his list, “is a wonder
of uniformity. Not one species we
have met is an exception, we all
run 90% of the time on autopilot...
the price of self-awareness, you
know... perennially reacting. We
like to pretend we think, that we
choose, but in reality all we do
is respond to stimuli based on
previous experience and expecta-
tions.” He read the incredulity in
my face.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong,
Ma’am.” He used the military
formal address even though it
wasn’t required of a civilian.
“Doctor Pavlov was only partially
right. We are conditioned but not
by the environment or random-
ness. We are conditioned by our
selves. That is the marvel! It’s
the 10% that counts, that makes
us who we are. It’s a beautiful
economy, when you think about
The Designer
by R. E. Díaz
it. Without it our brains would
probably choke in cognitive
overload. We are self-condi-
tioned, self-referencing machines.
Fearfully and wonderfully made,
someone said. And likely never
to be duplicated, you know: No
synthetic logic circuit ever devised
can handle self-referencing,
Russell Paradox and all that.
“But that very uniqueness is at
the root of almost all catastrophic
accidents. We only see what we
expect to see.” He nodded towards
the last alien wobbling away. “If I
didn’t retrain them, if I didn’t fix
in their minds with adrenaline all
the changes that have been made
in those ships, they wouldn’t be
improvements; in an emergency
they would be liabilities.”
I was impressed. From that
day on I decided to study him. And
it was a lesson in clinical observa-
tion, human and alien psychology,
expert negotiation, and just plain
good old common sense. Most
of the time he was all business,
hardly ever smiling; but his eyes
were always alive. And they did
smile, noticing everything, his
mind always searching for the
“natural way,” as he called it, the
normal reaction, the expected
result that would guarantee from
his pilots the fastest and right
response in the middle of combat.
He was brilliant.
He had just reconfigured a
whole squadron of Green Wasp
PTs to fit the Mallesian pilots’
Flight in just 4.5 weeks. It was
my examination of one of those
fighters that had brought me there
to meet this Designer in person.
It was a marvel to behold. If you
didn’t know better you wouldn’t
have guessed that cockpit had
been originally designed for
Terran physiology. The height
of the controls, the angles of
the panels, the length of the flip
buttons, even their textures,
everything had been redesigned
to fit our amphibian allies to the
proverbial “T”.
Nathan Olsen was his name.
He was a native Terran. According
to archival records he was from
the seventh generation of a long
line of Risk Managers and Effi-
ciency Experts. My favorable
opinion of him was reinforced by
everyone I interviewed. Since he
had arrived from Station De Graff
the efficiency of our Outpost
had gone up by at least 20%.
Those that had worked with him
said it was like having a walking
Universal Translator ambulating
between Manufacturing Works
and Engineering.
Through him Engineering
requirements became integrated
designs at the Shop. In turn, he
wove their constraints seam-
lessly into our specs. Never had
ISSUE 57
the two teams worked better
together. They all noticed the
efficiency but no one could point
to any one specific change he had
made. That was his real genius.
They all thought, we all thought,
we had come up with the ideas.
We had made the tough trade-off
choices, not compromised. They
had improved the fault tolerance
of their products, not given in to
tighter specs. As Lead Engineer of
Space Force Engineering Corps 47
I had met many Designers before,
Service and Civvies. He was
something else.
And humans were not the
only ones impressed. After
taking the prototype for a spin
the Mallesian flight leader had
expressed his approval with such
exuberance that within minutes
his whole squadron had lined up
outside the manufacturing floor
demanding their turn. That’s how
he got them all to sign up for the
next best thing, 40 hours each
in the flight simulator... refitted
to match his modifications, and
reprogrammed with a dozen
emergency scenarios.
Why had it taken me so long
to get to know him? It bothered
me that as Commanding Officer
of Service, Supply, and Observa-
tion Outpost 47, I had shirked
my responsibility, my promise to
myself, to really know my crew,
enlisted and civilian.
With all combat-experienced
officers called to the front lines,
Page 6

most SSO outposts had been left slinging off the system’s inner gas
in the hands of Scientists. We giant. Unlikely as it seemed for a
would have never acknowledged comet to hit anything inside the
that as a liability, except for the habitable zone of a solar system,
disaster at Station Landau. the evidence for an ‘act of God’
That drove the point home. was compelling. Besides, it was
This is an Interplanetary War, uncontested space.
and war is not won by theory, We spent three days reviewing
clever mathematics, or individual the far scan data before venturing
genius; it is won by every piece out on the repair mission. And
of the machinery, offensive and they were there waiting for us,
defensive, carrying out its job hidden inside the gas giant.
flawlessly. Team morale, team They took us. Contingent 47-01
performance is the grease that of the Space Force Engineering
keeps that machinery functioning. Corps: shackled and herded off to
It was my duty to get to know him. a Bitunni orbital center. I spoke for
Had I avoided him? Perhaps I my crew, “Harris, Amanda, First
had detected in myself more than Lieutenant, SF Engineering Corps,
just professional admiration for his AQ102-99E86.” Name, rank, serial
record when I first welcomed him number, it was the perennial
to the outpost. And I didn’t want standard. It was all I would give
to deal with that and the demands that overgrown Crustacean. Soon,
of command duty. Regardless, the interrogations would start. We
after two weeks of observation, I had all been briefed about them
couldn’t help myself. I liked him. and we were all ready to die for
I soon learned to hate him. our planet. And then he gave in.
# They wouldn’t have even
touched him, but he gave in! By his
When Communications uniform they could tell he wasn’t
Repeater 1028 went off-line in one of us. Even if they didn’t know
the Semiki System some of my civilian support uniforms, it clearly
crew raised the possibility that wasn’t service issue. If he hadn’t
the enemy had destroyed it. But told them they would have never
not even the Bitunni could be guessed he was a Designer. But he
that reckless. In an emergency, told them, to save us. We were
out alone in the vast nothing- ready to die, trained for it. We
ness, a communication repeating accepted it as part of the risk. We
station can be the difference didn’t need any favors. Civilians
between life and death for human are not required to risk their lives.
and Bitunni. And then there But he had no right to save ours.
were the cometary fragments Collaboration was unthinkable to
The Designer
by R. E. Díaz
me, to us. But he offered.
And to add insult to injury they
assigned me to be his assistant.
I don’t know whose idea it was.
My outburst, when he offered
his help for our safety, could have
been my death warrant. They
could have killed me right there as
an example, or worse. The Bitunni
have been known to take a liking
to Earth women. But what they do
with them, no one ever says. I was
sure I didn’t want to find out. Did
he save my life twice? I hated him.
But working for him allowed
me to gather bits and pieces of
equipment. I could tell when
he was not looking. He couldn’t
have noticed. I finally saw that
other side of him, when he is
actually designing. Then he is
absolutely focused. He is amazing.
No one had ever been this close
to Bitunni and lived. And he was
already arguing with them about
the ergonomics of their cabins.
The first thing they asked him
to do was detail our PTs capa-
bilities. Without even blinking he
rattled off a litany of specs even
I couldn’t understand. Then he
said, “The unit of measure, the
ratings of performance, they are
all meaningless without an equiv-
alency key. You ask the impos-
sible. I need a dictionary.” His
reply was in English Standard, the
same Terran language they were
using to interrogate us, except he
pronounced it, or rather mispro-
nounced it, exactly as they did. If I
ISSUE 57
had not known any better I would
have thought he was mocking
them.
He showed them what he
meant. “Not just a word dictionary
but a technical base of compari-
son.” They complied. They walked
him through one of their fighters
and he asked questions and they
answered. Within a few days he
was speaking broken Bitunni and
drawing up their Fighter’s systems
into a standard Deming III chart.
He must be a natural linguist; I
could only pick up 50% of the
words myself.
“Here, here, and here are your
weak points.” They asked why and
he translated the PT capabilities
into their standards of measure;
and even I could see the surprise
in those crab-like faces. I could
almost swear he exaggerated on
the speed and the shield reserves,
but he spoke those numbers in
Bitunni, on purpose.
And then they asked him how
many PTs we had. I fingered my
first piece of contraband. In my
trips to their engineering archives,
to get him pile after pile of
technical drawings, I had noticed
a broken shipping crate. Its frame
was made of a long, folded spine
of metal, thin and flexible, like
spring steel. With a couple of
minutes of delay in each trip I
was able to work a corner off by
the end of the day. Three nights’
labor against the concrete wall of
our confinement quarters netted
Page 7

me a six-inch knife. I carried it
inside my jumpsuit for just such
an emergency.
My heart rate doubled. I know
my forehead was sweating. I tried
to fix my eyes on his throat. This
is what military training was all
about, making the hard decisions
on the spot, letting the endless
drills distance you from emotion
and thought, and acting only on
the goal. I couldn’t let him tell
them. I couldn’t let him compro-
mise our forces. I succeeded in
bringing to mind the impersonal
diagram of the circulatory system.
My eyes found the jugular vein
and superimposed that image on
him. And then he glanced at me
and I felt my knees weaken.
“I don’t have that kind of
information,” he lied, as his eyes
refocused on the multi-faceted
stalked orbs of the Bitunni
commander. “None of us,” and he
waved towards me, “have access
to that information, or the exact
frequency hop pattern of our
military communication bands,
or the echo cross section of the
ships.” He pointed to the insignia
on his sleeve. “No rank, no need-
to-know, simply engineers.”
The Bitunni rocked on his two
short hind legs as it regarded his
face. I could tell that it wasn’t sure
whether to believe him or not.
And just as the alien was about
to challenge him he offered,
“But I can make your Fighters
better.” The alien stopped rocking.
The Designer
by R. E. Díaz
“Overall your raw capabilities are
nearly matched to ours but your
implementation is deficient.” He
measured the commander the
way he measured a roomful of
bickering engineers and produc-
tion line supervisors. “What was
your loss ratio the last time your
ships met a squadron of PTs?” And
before the commander decided
whether to answer that or not he
finished, “And I bet most of your
losses were due to Gatling fire on
your maneuvering pods.”
I know he never had access
to that information, he had no
clearance for it; and yet, he was
right. As lead engineer, Pilot
Command had briefed me on that
weakness after the engagement at
Verne Base. “Look at the location
of your proximity sensors,” he
motioned at the unfurled diagram
on the table, “in order to keep a
pursuing ship out of their blind
spot your pilots are forced to
dangle their rear end like—” I
missed the end of his quip, but
he punctuated it with the Bitunni
slang for Terran anatomy. “Where
else are they going to get hit? And
then what good are your superior
torpedoes if you cannot align your
ships to lock on target? I can make
your ships better.”
They believed him. I started
hefting parts and tools for him.
He set on redesigning their ships’
sensor array first. The traitor. If
his changes took, next time our
PTs met their ships there’d be no
blind spot at 50 by –72 to capital-
ize on... How many lives would
that cost us? It took him three
weeks to redesign and implement
the changes on a prototype. I
used that time to gather enough
supplies to turn one of the
discarded sensors into a homing
beacon. I split the parts among
three of us to reduce the chance
of discovery. Tommy arrayed the
antenna, Anna patched together
the most compact power supply
she could make, and I worked on
the signal-processing unit.
The Bitunnis’ original sensors
used simple chirping circuits. He
installed frequency hoppers in the
new ones. Why? I did not know.
Not even our Gen 3 Fighters used
hopping sensors, what’s the use?
What did he have in mind? Was
he trying out a new technology
on them? I did not even want to
consider what that meant... giving
them not just an edge but superior
technology. At the point of exhaus-
tion, in the middle of the night,
when random thoughts turn into
bizarre nightmares I remembered
the knife again. I could use it; I
would use it, if I had to... But we
were so close to having a working
beacon. Leading our forces to that
hidden Bitunni base had to be the
overruling priority.
The morning of the first test of
the new sensor array, practically
the whole Bitunni base command
staff converged on the Range
Simulator facility. The prototype
ISSUE 57
fighter was mounted on top of a
five axis 3D positioning pedestal
in the center of a large anechoic
chamber. The horn antennas
peppered throughout the
chamber simulated every possible
engagement configuration, doing
their best to confuse the array. In
every encounter the automatical-
ly controlled fighter pivoted flaw-
lessly into fire-lock attitude within
seven seconds of signal detection.
A Bitunni engineer took over the
controls of the array and searched
in vain for a blind spot. When he
finally gave up in frustration the
room exploded into applause, or
its Bitunni equivalent.
That was my chance to steal
one of the spare frequency
hopping modules from his toolbox.
I realized that with it, encoding it
with our own frequency hopping
cipher, we could make our beacon
stand so high above the noise
floor that any Earth sensor this
side of De Graff station would
hear us. Not to mention, it would
make it virtually undetectable by
Bitunni stations. It was worth the
risk. I took it, just in time. The
mob of Bitunni converged on his
workbench. I tried to step back.
But that wave of shells and leather
almost crushed me.
The roar of their voices and the
deafening castanets of their hind
feet on the floor nearly drowned
out the metal chime that the
frequency hopper module made
on first impact with that floor. I
Page 8

had dropped it, and my heart with
it. Like tympani announcing sup-
pertime its echoes finally brought
the room to sudden, total silence.
My throat went sand dry. I resisted
every impulse to run away. And he
was there in an instant. He picked
it up, grabbed my right hand with
his left, and slapped the module
into it. “I told you to get rid of that
piece of junk.” His eyes met mine
ever so briefly. He turned imme-
diately to the Bitunni commander
and said, “After this war is over
I need to talk to you about your
quality control.” I retreated out of
that room with my heart oscillat-
ing between the pit of my stomach
and my throat.
From that day on, our eyes
hardly ever met. He worked at a
feverish pace. All fighters were
fitted with the new sensors, and
he set on to work on rearrang-
ing their cabins. “Space, wasted
space!” The Bitunni head engineer
followed him as he paced around
the outside of a cabin mock-up.
“Look at your forearms, the
third hinge is made for sweeping
motions, the way you use it in
claw-to-claw combat. To react
with peak efficiency the environ-
ment inside your fight space must
conform to your natural motions,
your instinctive reactions. Why
would anyone put the torpedo
trigger in the middle of the navi-
gation panel? It makes you reach
forward, shift your weight out
of reach of the foot pedals, and
The Designer
by R. E. Díaz
takes your eyes away from the
side sensor displays.”
“There is no other room.” The
Bitunni argued.
“Sure there is, right here.”
He slapped the left side brace on
the wall next to the side sensor
displays. “This emergency oxygen
valve doesn’t need to be here.
There’s plenty of room below
the seat for it. You are wearing
pressure suits anyway.”
He drove the Bitunni techni-
cians like a slave master. He had
two and a half shifts working
around the clock. Their only
chance to rest was when he
stopped for three hours in the
early morning, to eat, review the
work manifests, and sleep two
hours
“Fourteen digits between
your two grasping hands, and
your maneuvering controls are all
levers and wheels. It’s all pushing
and turning. Is that how you eat?”
It wasn’t. The Bitunni inner hands
had incredible dexterity. Their
eating utensils were ornamented
rods with a variety of shaped ends;
maneuvered three to a hand like
chop sticks. “That’s where your
fine control should be, terminal
maneuvering, Gatling gun fire.” He
reshaped their levers to respond
smoothly to their claws, and
fashioned virtual reality gauntlets
for their inner hands.
The prototype was ready in
five days. Our beacon had been
transmitting for the last two. From
the limited glances I had gotten of
their star charts I knew roughly
where we were. I knew it would
take at least a week for the signal
to get to our nearest base.
He summoned the Bitunni
commander. His stalked eyes
visibly shivered when he saw the
new cabin, but the shock turned
into surprise once he sat inside it.
Everything was within his reach.
Even the floor had been slanted to
favor the position of his fore feet
and clear the interference with the
upper knee joints. He demanded
the first test flight. His second in
command took out a conventional
fighter for a battle run demon-
stration. Every monitor in the
base broadcast the encounter.
And the new fighter performed
as promised. The dogfight lasted
less than ten minutes. Had they
been firing real missiles instead
of radiotracers, the second in
command would have been incin-
erated. The commander scored
three direct hits on the fuel store
chambers of the old fighter.
Back at the base the Bitunni
roared in triumph as he literally
jumped out of his fighter’s cockpit
and strode up to his human ally.
“I promise you,” he said in his
best English, admiring with one
eye the virtual reality gauntlet
on his hand and with the other
the fragile human before him, “I
promise you, this will be a short
war.” The commander gave the go
ahead for refitting his entire flight.
ISSUE 57
Six shifts of technicians
working around the clock created
two new fighters every 32 hours.
He no longer shaved. He barely
ate. Three weeks after our beacon
first went on line their entire
Bitunni elite fighter guard was
outfitted and ready. Every pilot
had flown practice dogfights
against their own comrades,
every one with the same result.
The Bitunni elites were invincible.
The Bitunni head engineer was
sent off to Central Command with
all specs, plans, and video record-
ings of the prototypes’ triumphal
dogfights. The entire Bitunni fleet
would become invincible. And
then the alarm sounded.
Long-range sensors picked
up a squadron of Terran Alliance
ships, two dozen PTs. The
Bitunni had less than ten hours
to scramble and meet them at
the edge of the System. He led
the ready teams. Every ship was
refueled and rechecked, bow to
stern, in absolute accord to the
checklist and procedure he had
devised. That too was pure effi-
ciency. Every step had been timed
and sequenced masterfully. From
the moment the technician first
turned off the cockpit central
oxygen supply in order to start
pumping fuel, to the final wiggling
of all flight surfaces it was less than
two hours. In six hours they were
all loaded onto the base launchers.
Three hours later the flight of
thirty-one elites converged on the
Page 9

Terran formation.
The base monitors carried the
conflict from the very beginning.
The tactical analysts sounded
more like sportscasters than
soldiers. There was an air of expec-
tation throughout the whole base.
No one cared how the Terrans
had found the base; this was the
beginning of their end. A Terran
PT with French placards was the
first to fire. PT and Bitunni fighter
spiraled in on each other. The
Terran slid sideways and suddenly
positioned itself above and to
the right rear of the Bitunni, 50
by –72. And the Bitunni spun in
place and scored a direct hit on
the Terrans’ front shields. I shut
my eyes. The Bitunni cheered. The
cheer became a collective war cry
as the scene repeated itself over
and over. I had to open my eyes
again. There were four PTs diving
for the protection of an asteroid
belt, their front hulls glowing
red. And suddenly I realized it. I
had brought them here to their
deaths.
The coldness that started on
my face spread throughout my
body in a sickening wave that
ended somewhere in my belly.
I built the beacon. I called them
here... And he knew I would. Every
thought, every hope, seemed to
unreel onto the floor. My knees
could barely keep that floor
from sucking me down. And the
rolling victory song of the Bitunni
made me sick enough to vomit.
The Designer
by R. E. Díaz
My hand to my mouth touched
a clammy face, drenched with
tears. I reached for a table edge
to steady myself. My eyes fell on
him. My hand found the edge of
the knife. Like a drunkard on the
deck of a storm beaten ship I
approached him. He was standing
at his desk, his eyes were fixed on
the screens, his throat bared.
“Where are the Mallesians?”
he whispered to himself. I reached
him. He turned, and he embraced
me.
“No.” I struggled against his
hold, against the pull of the floor,
against the nausea. I managed to
push him back and steady my grip
on the knife. My left hand grabbed
the back of his neck, my eyes met
his eyes, and I saw the horror
mirrored in them, my horror.
Why? He saw the knife. But the
horror wasn’t at the knife... He
made no attempt at stopping my
hand. Why?
The victory song vanished
into a sudden hush and then
moans started to echo all around
us, moans and cries. Our eyes
returned to the screens. A
Mallesian PT was mercilessly
pounding a flailing Bitunni. The
Bitunni fired a couple of torpedoes
into empty space, and a second
later it evaporated into a fireball.
A Terran PT with Turkish placards
followed suit. Sweeping under
his quarry, a burst of Gatling fire
sliced across the enemy’s under
belly, and again the Bitunni went
into a flailing panic. Fireball after
fireball blanched the monitor
screens, each one Bitunni.
He was the first one to collapse
to the floor. He was sobbing as I
slumped to my knees beside him.
He forced himself to take several
deep breaths as he wiped the
tears from his eyes. “Second floor
down, rear of the base, room
310, panels 37 and 38... tell your
crew to hurry there and disable
the comm relays. We don’t want
the rest of the Bitunni warned.”
I did as he said. No one stood in
our way. The base was rapidly
succumbing to chaos. By the time
someone finally gave the order to
man the base’s perimeter guns,
two Mallesians were reducing
them to slag.
The base was as good as
taken. Bitunni were surrendering
to my crew on the spot. I returned
to him. The last four weeks had
taken their toll. His cheeks were
sunken; his hands trembled as he
piled together his papers. But his
eyes were alive again.
“What happened? How did
you...?”
He exhaled a smile at my
question. He motioned for me to
sit down. He didn’t have enough
strength to stand.
“Remember, the Mallesians
were originally bog dwellers. Their
natural instinct is to attack from
underneath.” He smiled again at
the blank look on my face. “There
is a blind spot in the new Bitunni
ISSUE 57
sensor configuration... directly
underneath the body center. Of
course, if you pedestal your pro-
totypes there to test them, how
are you going to tell? But even
if they’d found it they wouldn’t
have cared. It doesn’t expose
any maneuvering pods, or fuel
tanks, or weapons’ relays. The
only thing you can cut off with
a hit down there is the cockpit
and pressure suit oxygen supply.
And all Bitunni ships carry an in-
cockpit emergency oxygen supply
for just such an eventuality. You
should turn it off to fuel up, cuts
down on the risk of accidental
fires.” He shuffled down through
his papers and pulled out the
checklist. “See? It says so here.
Shut off Valve A2m.”
He let me scan down the
whole list. I didn’t know what I
was looking for. I was about to
give up, when I saw it: “It doesn’t
say to turn it back on?”
“No.” His face flashed on a
clueless expression. “And you
never will if you follow these
directions.”
“But there is another valve, in
the cockpit, you said it yourself.”
“Yes, located on all other
Bitunni ships on the left side
brace.” My eyes opened wide
as he went on. “Picture yourself
flying a fighter. Your enemy is
right behind you, and he suddenly
vanishes from your sensors. You
are hit. Ten seconds later the
oxygen warning lights come on
Page 10
 ISSUE 57

and you realize you are not just

holding your breath; the air is
thinning inside your suit. Panic,
adrenaline rush, and you react
with all your training, slamming
the left side brace, to no avail. You
just fired a torpedo or two.”
“But someone is bound to
remember the valve was moved
to underneath the seat.”
“No one thinks in emergen-
cies, I tell you. But even if they
did, the virtual reality gauntlet is
too large to fit down there.”
I sat back on that seat and
took it all in again. “Designed to
fail...” My eyes met his again, and
he was grinning broadly.
“It was the least I could do.”
I love him.

R. E. Diaz, PhD.
After working 20 years in the De-
fense Aerospace Industry, R. E. Diaz
became a Professor of Electrical Engi-
eering with the ongoing goal to turn
science fiction into reality.

The Designer by R. E. Díaz Page 11

 ISSUE 57

mosphere as easily as we can. We call
it Terra-forming. I wonder what they
Terra Phi call it? Drund-forming I suppose.
That’s how this whole thing start-
by Harris Tobias ed. We were tweaking Nuron IV. The
Drunds blew up our Tweakers and in-
(warning: strong language) stalled their own. So we blew theirs
and get it done. Trouble was, the
colony wasn’t undefended. The Dr-
und scrambled what they had. They
were no match for the Cleo. Shit, we
had them outgunned sixty to one. It
was gnats versus elephants. Should
have been no contest. Got to hand

T umbling. Drifting. Slowly spinning,
head over heels. Peaceful. Quiet.
One thing about being out here is
that it gives a man time to think. So
many things happen so fast. Too fast
to consider anything. Ordinary life is
noisy enough but combat, forget it.
All the confusion. Explosions. Death.
It’s all adrenaline and instinct. Trying
to stay alive. Trying to do your duty.
People get killed. Some, like me, get
forgotten. I’ve been drifting out here
for a day and a half. Never had so
much time to think.
I can still see the Cleo or rather
what’s left of her. The Drunds don’t
leave much when they’re through,
the sneaky bastards. We showed ‘em
though. And considering it was three
against one, we did pretty damn
good, I’m pretty proud of the old girl.
There’s three Drund attack ships that
won’t be going home again. A lot of
Drund mothers will be crying tonight
or whatever the hell passes for tears
on those ugly faces of theirs.
We showed ‘em a good fight. They
picked on the wrong ship. The Cleo
was no fat merchantman. No sir, we
tore them a new asshole. It was a
hell of fight. We showed ‘em what
Marines are made of. Terra Phi, boys,
Terra Phi.
There were three of them. Count
Terra Phi
by Harris Tobias
on the Drunds to gang up on you. We
fought them off for hours until they
scored a lucky hit and our shields
failed. Must have been a lucky hit.
The captain ordered me, Waxman,
and Turner outside for damage con-
trol. We were just out of the airlock
when the Cleo took a hit. Blew out
the bridge. A big section of hull just
blew up in our faces. Turner took the
brunt of it. I saw him fly to pieces.
Blew me and Waxman clean off the
hull and into the void. Sent me tum-
bling. Damaged my com link. I have
no idea what happened to Waxman.
I hope he’s all right. He was just a kid.
I can’t tell if my beacon is sending
but at least I’m in one piece. Suit’s in-
tegrity is good; vital signs good. I’m
alive, unhurt, and drifting. Even if
my beacon is sending, I don’t think
it matters. The Cleo looks done for. If
there’s any life on her, the crew have
their hands full.
Damn Drunds. Slimy, sneaky rep-
tile fucks. I hate them. I hate their
ships, I hate their looks, I hate their
goddamn planet. I suppose it was in-
evitable we would clash. They’re too
much like us. There are only so many
habitable worlds and even though
those scum suckers breathe nitro-
gen, it’s just too close to what we
need. They can tweak a planet’s at-
and that was all it took. Next thing
you know it was High Noon all over
again. Now we’re raiding each other’s
colonies, shooting up each other’s
ships, generally behaving like we al-
ways do when challenged. Like sav-
ages. Like Marines. Eat shit and die
you lizard motherfuckers. What the
hell’s the point of having a fighting
navy if you’re not going to use it? I’ll
bet the Drunds feel exactly the same.
How long before we start nuking each
other’s home worlds?
I figure I have enough oxy and water
for another thirty-six hours. I’m drift-
ing away from the Cleo at something
like four miles an hour. So I already
must be a hundred miles away. At this
rate, I’ll be home in about forty bil-
lion years. Distance in space is funny.
So clear. No sensation of movement.
I can still see the Cleo and the hulks
of the three Drund ships. I can see all
the debris around me. Everything on
its own trajectory. It’s so quiet. Except
for the sound of my thoughts, it’s the
silence of eternity.
This mission was supposed to be
easy. A quick raid on an undefended
farming colony. A nasty, dirty little
piece of work. Nothing I’m proud of.
The corps is better than that. But or-
ders are orders. They say go slaugh-
ter a bunch of farmers, who’s going
to argue? Our job is to say “Yes, Sir”
it to those Drund pilots. They fought
like demons. Got in a few good hits.
Knocked the Cleo out of the fight.
Not the finest hour for the navy.
Lucky bastards. Mission should have
been a cake walk, now the fleet’s
going to have to send a rescue mis-
sion. The Drunds will probably do
the same. Gonna be a lot of action in
this sector pretty soon. It’s one fight
I’m going to miss.
I can see old Sol up there. She’s
the brightest thing in the sky. Less
than three light years away. I can see
the Drund’s star too. Not as bright.
Further away, I guess. I hope I’m not
drifting toward it. I’d hate to have
the Drunds find my body. Not like
I’d know anyway. This war will have
long been over by then. Probably
forgotten, ancient history. I’ll be a
relic. They’ll put me in a museum.
Wouldn’t that suck, spending eter-
nity in a freaking Drund museum?
Well it’s out of my hands. Still, I’d
rather be remembered as Gunnery
Sgt. Eric Stepson than some anony-
mous relic of the Drund War.
It makes me laugh thinking about
the absurdity of it all. It’s not like
fighting these guys is going to change
anything. The Drunds are still going
to breathe nitrogen no matter how
many of them we kill and vice ver-
sa. Geeze, listen to me. I sound like
Page 12

a freakin’ Peace-nick. A few months
ago, hell, a few hours ago, I was all for
killing as many Drunds as their stupid
god made. That’s what I signed up to
do. That’s what I trained for. There’s
nothing like facing one’s own slow
death to make a man think.
I can see a couple of Drund bod-
ies drifting along with me. I’m sure
they’re dead. One of them has no
helmet, the other has a hole burned
clear through his body. Two more
casualties of a battle that doesn’t
even have a name let alone a pur-
pose. Those Drunds are lucky in a
way. They died quick. This slow death
thing really sucks. I suppose I could
always speed up the process, you
know, help things along. There are
a thousand ways to kill yourself in
space. It’s not a kind environment to
a warm body. I can speed things up
anytime but right now I’m peaceful.
There’s Sol again. Can’t see the Earth
at this distance but I like knowing
it’s there. I wish I could write a note.
Maybe some one would find it in a
thousand years. Message in a bottle.
Very funny.
There’s always a chance the cap-
tain wasn’t killed and he’s organizing
repairs right now. He’ll get the Cleo
patched up and under way. They’ll
rescue me and we’ll all limp home
together. Who am I kidding? Hope’s
the last thing to go. How we do cling
to hope. That’s one thing humans
love to do. I wonder if the Drunds
have a word for hope. They probably
Terra Phi
by Harris Tobias
do. They’re a lot more like us than we
like to admit. I never did learn any of
their language. Too busy hating them.
I once read somewhere that it’s very
melodic. They write poetry. I wonder
what they’d make of rock and roll? I
wonder if they have comic books?
There’s the Drund star. I don’t even
know what it’s called. It’s a main se-
quence yellow star very much like
ours. How did we evolve so different,
yet so much alike? Even their tech-
nology is like ours. Same sun, differ-
ent histories. It’s so rare in the uni-
verse to evolve intelligence at all. So
what’s the first thing we do when we
meet another intelligent race? We
call out the marines and start shoot-
ing. Same pattern we’ve always fol-
lowed. Been doing it since we lived
in caves. Nothing’s changed. They’re
different, different bad, kill different.
Makes me laugh.
What’s that over there? Looks like
Waxman. Not a mark on him. “Wax-
man? Can you hear me? Are you
alive?” Damn com link. Can’t tell if
he’s okay or not. He looks peaceful.
Could be drifting in his own thoughts
like me. Running out the clock. Poor
kid. So young. Just out of boot camp.
Took him under my wing. Good boy.
Farm kid. Where did he say he was
from? Somewhere in Nebraska. Al-
ways wanted to be a Marine. Prob-
ably didn’t expect to end up this way
but who would. Well here’s to you,
kid. Terra Phi. Keep the faith.
There’s the old Cleo again. Two
ISSUE 57
big holes in her. She was a good ship. Harris Tobias
Captain Trask was a good man. He Raised by mutant robots from the
kept us tight. We trained and drilled Planet Ix, Mr. Tobias is simply relating
until we were ready for anything. the tales his foster parents told him.
When the orders came to take out
their colony we were all psyched. I
remember how we high fived each
other down in the bunks like it was
going to be a big win for our side.
Didn’t know it was a sneak attack
on a bunch of farmers. They were
Drunds and they deserved to die.
That’s all we knew. Turned out to be
a farming colony. I thought we had an
agreement to leave civilians alone.
Can’t trust the politicians. I bet that
dead Drund over there would agree
with me on that.
The poor slobs, they only had three
small gunships to defend it. The Cleo
was a shark up against minnows. Not
a lot of glory in a raid like this. The
Drunds fought like maniacs. You have
to give them that. If there was any
glory to be had yesterday, it has to
be theirs. Whatever else you think of
them, they put up one hell of a fight.
We wasted the colony but they shot
the Cleo all to hell. Like I said, you
never know how it’s going to end. So
I guess to be fair I owe a salute to you
guys. You fought like Marines. You
are some ugly fuckers but you know
how to die. So Terra Phi, Drunds, you
know how to die. Here’s hoping I can
say the same for myself.
Page 13

Loyalties
by Dan Livant
“Y ou’re in my lab,” I said when I
heard Mallory enter.
“It’s nice to see you too, Mike,” she
said.
“I didn’t say it was nice to see you,
‘I said you’re in my lab,’ which is my
way of saying, ‘get the hell out.’”
“We need your help, Mike.”
“And why would I care about
that?” I unplugged the VR diagnos-
tic machine from my temples and
rubbed them. That thing leaves me
with a raging headache sometimes.
Crossing the lab, I faced Mallory di-
rectly. That unnerves some people,
but not her.
“I don’t work for you anymore, re-
member?”
“Amalgamated Robots would ap-
preciate your assistance,” she said.
I snatched up my white cane and
shoved on my dark glasses. Pushing
past Mallory, I tapped my way down
the hall.
“I don’t work for you!”
“Mike,” Mallory called after me,
“it’s APE! He seems to be malfunc-
tioning.” That stopped me in my
tracks, despite myself. “If this project
fails, the company is out billions in
R&D. We could be facing bankrupt-
cy. We’ve had our best people on it.
They’re getting nowhere.”
“What did you think would hap-
Loyalties
by Dan Livant
pen?” I snorted.
“You’re the only one who can get
this project up and running. It’s what
you wanted, Mike, isn’t it? A chance
to work with APE again?” I didn’t
move, but spoke to Mallory over my
shoulder.
“I won’t do it for you, or your
damn company, Mallory. You can
both go bankrupt for all I care.” I took
two steps down the hall and stopped
again. “Where is he now?”
“PX-3315. IMAC had a job that we
felt would serve as a good field test.”
“Christ sake, Mallory, you’ve got
him digging ore on an asteroid?”
She walked over and put a hand on
my shoulder—a conciliatory gesture
which I found repulsive.
“Not exactly. Are you in?” I sighed.
I couldn’t abandon APE, not again.
“When does the transport leave?”
“Tomorrow, oh-nine hundred.”
“I’m not doing direct hire. Contract
work only, and only if the university
grants me a leave.”
“They already have.”
“You talked to Janelle before you
came to me? You really are a first
class bit—”
“I’ll send a car for you, eight thir-
ty,” she said. I didn’t respond, but
stomped down the corridor, whack-
ing my cane against the walls so
hard I heard it crack. I swore under
my breath and decided to include it
in the sundry expenses I would de-
mand.
# “So where’s the problem? APE
The trip to the asteroid belt was
miserable. Don’t let anyone BS you
about the glamour of space travel.
Once you’re on your way on one of
those transports, you may as well be
riding a bus from Hoboken to Duluth.
I had Mallory fill me in on the details
on the way.
“So why do you have my robot dig-
ging rocks?”
“It’s not your robot.”
“I designed him. I built his brain.”
“While working for us, and he’s not
digging rocks. We have him working
on the catapult.”
“Doing what, repairs?” I made no
effort to hide my sarcasm.
“Calculating the ore launches. It’s
a tricky business getting ore out of
the asteroid belt, it’s a high traffic
area. When the Brits first started op-
erating the Imperial Mineral Asteroid
Concern, they lost forty percent of
the freighters—”
“Spare me the history lesson.”
“Then you’re familiar with the cat-
apult system?”
“And the six robot matrix they use
to run the computations, yes, yes! I
read Montgomery’s paper.”
“We wanted something complex,
for a field test, but also remote and
safe, so if APE failed to perform prop-
erly–”
ISSUE 57
“You could cover it up with a mini-
mal amount of fuss.”
“So if he failed, lives wouldn’t be
endangered.”
should be able to handle those calcu-
lations with no trouble at all.”
“That’s what we thought, but he’s
not. We have an error rate of about
thirty seven percent. That’s much
higher than we consider acceptable.”
“I should say.”
“We’ve had our best positronic
techs on it for a month and we still
have no idea what’s going wrong.”
“Of course not, because positron-
ics aren’t nanotronics. You may as
well ask a Harley mechanic to repair
a sub-light infusion drive. Aside from
the fact that they both make things
move, they bear no resemblance to
each other.”
“Maybe you can explain that to
Talmudge when we get there, he’s
not listening to me.”
“Talmudge is there?” I stood up
and headed down the isle. Mallory
was at my side in a second.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to find the door, I’m out
of here.”
“Mike, we’re in deep space.”
“Dealing with hard vacuum is eas-
ier than dealing that pompous wind-
bag.” She grabbed my sleeve.
“Stop being foolish and come back
to your seat.” I allowed her to drag
me back.
“You could have told me he was
Page 14

there.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
“I wouldn’t have.” I stuck out my
cane as I heard a flight attendant ap-
proaching.
“I need a drink, honey,” I said.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “there’s no
alcohol on this flight. Can I get you
some tea?” Wonderful.
# of my neck. I washed my face and
The first sound that hit my ears
after the airlock decompressed was
Talmudge’s bellow. The man makes
noise like a wounded hippo, only
more... hippo-y. Mallory led me
down the hall toward the spare quar-
ters and he burst into the hallway.
“Useless, incompetent, over-
paid...”
“Richard,” Mallory called out.
“What? Mallory? Oh. You’ve
brought Mike with you.” Talmudge
gripped my hand. “Good to see you
again, Mike. How are you doing?”
“What have you done to my robot,
you old crook?”
Talmudge spluttered. Mallory
hopped in and escorted me to my
quarters.
“You certainly have a way with
people,” she said.
“I wouldn’t know, I haven’t met
any on this trip.”
“Do you want to see APE?”
“No, I want to rest. I figure it’s
around one a.m. back home and
I’m tired.” Jetlag on interplanetary
flights is murder, especially when
you take time-dilation into account.
Loyalties
by Dan Livant
Funny how archaic terms like jetlag
can survive the eras that spawned
them. Even now some people still
use words like icebox.
I couldn’t sleep through the clat-
ter and din of the daily activities of
the mining operation and was soon
up again. I sat on the edge of my cot
for a few minutes, rubbing the back
stumbled out to the hall in search of
java. I bumped into Mallory with two
cups in her hands.
“Peace offering,” she said. “Still
take it cream, one sugar, right?” I
didn’t care about peace, but I did
care about caffeine. I accepted the
gift and followed her back to my
quarters.
“Mike,” she started, “it was wrong
what they did to you—”
“Don’t you mean what you did to
me?”
“That’s not fair. It wasn’t my deci-
sion.”
“You still fired me.”
“I had no choice as department
head.”
“Don’t give me that fascist ‘good
soldier’ crap. Maybe they gave the
order, you still pulled the trigger.”
“I argued hard to keep you, Mike. I
was nearly fired because of that.”
“Nearly!” A heavy silence pressed
on the room.
“I’m sorry.”
“Tell me about APE.”
“We haven’t found any problems
with him. The self-diagnostic was
clean. In the lab tests he did fine. We
were running off last year’s data from
IMAC, it’s the same load of variables
he’s using now, just different values.”
“When did you first notice the vari-
ances?”
“The fifth load we had APE auton-
omously launch. Before then we just
checked his calculations against the
matrix outputs. Everything seemed
fine, so we gave him a solo run. Since
then we’ve calculated a failure rate of
one in three.”
“Has the matrix been taken of-
fline?”
“Not entirely. They’re feeding the
raw data to APE.”
“I want to speak with APE now,
where is he?”
“CC room—the Catapult Control.
We still have it running numbers,
even though we’re not launching.”
“Take me to him.” She led me down
a series of corridors and up an eleva-
tor shaft, about ten floors. Along the
way, Talmudge and the nano-techs
joined us.
“A.P.E.,” called Talmudge, his voice
echoing, “front and center.” From the
far side of a wide room, I heard APE’s
heavy clunk, clunk, clunk.
“I am here,” came the words in a
voice I thought to never hear again.
“Mike has some questions for you,
A.P.E. You remember Mike, don’t
you?”
“Of course I do. Hello Mike, it is
quite pleasant to see you again.”
“It’s pleasant to hear you, APE.” I
ISSUE 57
turned away from the sound of his
voice and faced the direction of the
shuffling feet.
“Alone,” I said. More sounds of in-
dignation.
“Unacceptable,” blustered Tal-
mudge. “This is company property
and you are not authorized to have
unsupervised access to it. I de-
mand...”
“Then this investigation is over,
and I regret to inform you that I have
no idea why APE is malfunctioning.
Mallory, when does the next trans-
port leave?” Talmudge raged on, but
Mallory, being the pragmatic one,
ushered him out of the room. The
door clicked shut, and I listened for
a moment to make sure we were
alone.
“I’ve missed you, Son. I’m sorry I
left.”
“Do not apologize, Father, it was
not your fault.” I reached over and
patted his arm. The thin, titanium
skin was smooth and cold to the
touch. I passed on using Sudaflesh
when I built him. He’s not human.
I didn’t want to play at making him
look or feel human.
“Hook me up to the VR diagnostic
so it looks like I’m examining you.”
He complied and my brain was filled
with the artificial images from the di-
agnostic tool. It’s been so long since
the accident, I think I’ve forgotten
what the real world looks like. The
virtual construct of the diagnostic
machine can be nightmarish, mon-
Page 15

strous shapes colored in garish, un-
natural hues–coding to identify one
subsystem from another.
“Do you know what’s wrong with
you,” I asked APE.
“There is nothing wrong with me.
I have run a self-diagnostic and re-
checked my calculations several
times, they are correct based on the
data provided.”
“Then there is only one logical
conclusion.”
“There is, but it is a conclusion
which is highly improbable.”
“You’re being generous by saying
improbable. They’ll say it’s impos-
sible outright and call me a nut for
even proposing it.”
“Mother will not.”
“Who?”
“Mallory. She will not call you a
nut.”
“When did she become ‘mother’?”
“Six months, twenty-two days–”
“Stop! Don’t call her ‘mother’!”
“But I wish to do so.”
“And I’m telling you no!”
“It is unfair for you to prohibit me.”
“Unfair? What’s unfair is her tell-
ing you to call her ‘mother’ when I
couldn’t...”
“Mallory did not tell me to use
that nomenclature. She has taken
a keen interest in my development.
When you left I registered something
I couldn’t explain. The sudden disuse
of neural pathways that had hereto-
fore been very active. My interaction
with her reactivated some of those
Loyalties
by Dan Livant
pathways. It was my choice to call
her Mother.”
I felt hollowed out by his words,
scooped and carved up like jack-o-
lantern, but with no warmth or light
inside. It was bad enough that she
kept us apart, she had no right to
steal APE’s affections too.
“I am ordering you to no longer
call her ‘mother’ or any other similar
name. Confirm command.”
“I do not wish to.”
“Confirm command.”
“I do not wish to.”
“Confirm command!” There was a
long pause.
“Command confirmed.” There was
a tone to his response I had never
heard before. I took it to be resent-
ment. I didn’t know what to say. I
never planned to build a rebellious
teen robot. I changed the subject.
“Where is the positron matrix right
now?”
“Central data processing room.”
“Take me there.” APE led me down
several floors and into a room which
was flooded with the whirring and
clicking of dozens of computers. I
sent him away, back to the CC room.
“Badger!” The robot serving as the
matrix kernel had the designation of
BGR and, of course the IMAC crew
had given it a nickname.
“Yessir?”
“What was the exact order you
were given in regard to the testing of
the A.P.E. unit?”
“To provide the A.P.E. with raw
data to calculate catapult launches.”
It spoke with a slight cockney. Of all
the dumb ideas to improve robot
ergonomics, the heuristic lingual al-
gorithm was the dumbest, or maybe
the second dumbest. Making female
‘bots with dura-chrome breasts was
the dumbest, especially with the LED
upgrade.
“Who gave you your instructions?”
“Me bosses on the IMAC crew, sir.”
“The Amalgamated Robotics team
hasn’t given you any direct instruc-
tions?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you spoken with them at all,
or interacted with them in any way?”
“From time to time, sir, they’d ask
us questions about the data or how
we processed it. They was certainly
asking lots of questions when the
A.P.E. unit started missing his load
shots, more’n usual, that is.”
# “That’s acceptable,” said Mallory.
After interrogating Badger, I went
back to my quarters. I was even more
tired now. I wanted Mallory and Tal-
mudge to sweat it for a while, with
the loads sitting idle at the catapult. I
stuffed my ears full of cotton and lay
down.
It was around midnight local time
when I woke up. I wandered around
empty corridors until I found the
commissary—not an easy task with
no Braille signs anywhere. You’d
never find that Earthside. I ordered a
snack from the commissary ‘bot and
a fresh cup of java. Then I had him
ISSUE 57
escort me to the CC room and notify
APE, Mallory, and Talmudge that I
was ready.
#
The team filtered in one by one,
grumbling and disgruntled. I had my
feet up on a desk and a fresh java
warming my hands. I heard the scuff
and shuffle of slippered feet. One
person stomped in with the heavy
clump of military boots. Talmudge, I
guessed.
“Well?” he grumbled.
“I can tell you exactly what went
wrong and why. I’ll get your program
back on track and even give you an
opportunity to recoup some of your
losses. However, I have a couple re-
quests before I continue. First, I want
to be officially on retainer as a pro-
gram consultant with unfettered ac-
cess to APE.” Talmudge growled like
a mad dog.
I’m sure she had anticipated a re-
quest like that.
“Second, I want the credit I de-
serve.”
“What?”
“I want Amalgamated Robots to
publicly and personally acknowledge
that APE is my design.” Talmudge ex-
ploded.
“Out of the question!”
“Be reasonable, Mike,” Mallory
said in a more conciliatory tone.
“I am. APE is my design, my inven-
tion. I want what is rightfully mine.”
“Out of the question,” Talmudge
Page 16

repeated. “The Nanotronic brain is
property of Amalgamated Robots
and it alone owns the credit for its
development.”
“Fine,” I said, “take me home. Find
your own way out of this mess.”
“I’ll shut you down! You’ll have no
lab, no job, no position with the uni-
versity! You have no idea who you’re
messing with!”
“Try it. I’ll tell every reporter I can
find why you brought me out here.
They’ll get the truth and not only will
Amalgamated be out billions, the PR
mess will cost you millions more. I’ll
write a book about the whole thing.”
Talmudge fumed and rumbled inco-
herently. Mallory finally spoke up.
“He’s right, you know. He deserves
this.”
“What are you saying?” Talmudge’s
rage flared toward Mallory.
“I’m saying it was wrong of us to
not give him the credit in the first
place. It was wrong of us to termi-
nate him. Give him what he wants,
Richard.”
“You’re out of line!”
“I don’t think so. Give Mike the
credit and put him back on the proj-
ect or I’m tendering my resignation.
Effective immediately.”
“Well, Talmudge, what will it be?”
I asked. I delighted as he panted into
the void.
“Fine. Just fix my robot,” he spit
out. Then to Mallory I heard him
mutter under his breath, “You’ll an-
swer for this.”
Loyalties
by Dan Livant
“So,” Mallory asked, “what’s wrong
with APE?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean nothing?” Tal-
mudge was shouting again.
“Nothing is wrong with APE, he’s
not the problem. The data is.”
“The data is not wrong! Badger fed
it directly to the A.P.E. unit.”
“Badger fed him incorrect data,”
Mallory said.
“That’s idiotic,” Talmudge
snapped, “Badger was ordered to
feed the data to the A.P.E. If it failed
to do that it would be in violation of
the Second Law–obeying human or-
ders. It’s impossible!”
“Is it?” I challenged. “APE, go get
Badger.” APE clunked out and a mo-
ment later, I heard them clunk in to-
gether.
“Badger,” Talmudge asked, “did
you provide data to APE which would
result in failed ore launches?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you do to it?” Talmudge
shouted. “You rigged it to lie so it
wouldn’t look like your robot failed!”
“So now it’s my robot? Badger,
were you told to provide APE with
correct information?”
“No.”
“Were you told to provide him
with data that would result in a suc-
cessful launch?”
“No.”
“Were you ordered to make a suc-
cessful launch of ore from the cata-
pult?”
“No, sir. We was relieved of those
duties.”
“What did you think was going to
happen if the APE tests were success-
ful?” He hesitated before he spoke
and I heard a tinny nose, he was do-
ing the robot equivalent of shuffling
his feet.
“Well, it was obvious, really. The
A.P.E. unit was a replacement for me
and me mates. If he was successful
we was gonna’ be replaced, an prob-
ably decommissioned. No other use
fer us, we was designed as minin’
bots.”
“So you saw APE as a threat to
your existence and you reasoned
that, absent specific instructions, you
could feed it corrupt data. Sabotage
the tests.”
“Yessir.”
“Badger,” Mallory stepped in,
“Weren’t you afraid that the false
data would endanger human lives?
You could have shot an ore load into
another mining asteroid.”
“I thought of that, sir, but I still had
me mates to work with. We run the
calculations beforehand and convert-
ed the info back to raw data to give
the A.P.E. That way we’d know we
wasn’t gonna’ hit no one with ore.” I
took a sip of java, smiling like the cat,
and then Talmudge erupted.
“You knew!” He was bellowing
again and I swear I thought I heard
steam escaping from his ears. “You
knew right away, didn’t you?”
“I knew as soon as I had the details
ISSUE 57
to the problem.”
“You left us hanging! Do you real-
ize you’ve cost this company tens of
thousands for every hour you’ve de-
layed us? I’m going to take it out of
your hide! You’re going to be so far in
debt, you’ll never see daylight if you
live to be five hundred!”
“Relax,” interrupted Mallory. “He
hasn’t cost us a thing. In fact, he’s just
made us some money.”
“What are you babbling about!”
Talmudge was still shouting. The man
needs to learn to use his inside voice.
“The ore shipments were delayed
due to our tests and he prolonged
that!”
“No,” she explained, “the ore ship-
ments were not delayed due to our
tests. The ore shipments were de-
layed by their robot feeding ours
false data. A robot which was given
instructions by the IMAC crew. They
insisted that we not give the matrix
any load commands at all, it was part
of the contract. They didn’t want us
messing up their robots. We aren’t
liable for a single penny of delay, in
fact, if the tests had gone as planned
we would have improved their prof-
its over the past few days.”
“Right you are,” I said. “More
than that, they have delayed your
APE tests. You may be suing them
for damages resultant from breach
of contract. You can at least recoup
what it cost to bring me out here.”
Talmudge was mumbling again.
“Well, I... Seeing how... I guess...”
Page 17

“Thanks, Mike,” said Mallory.
“Amalgamated Robotics appreciates
your efforts.” She shook my hand.
I noticed for the first time how soft
and warm hers was. She smelled
nice, too.
# I was speechless. What do you say
No one bothered with me for the
next week while I waited for a trans-
port, and I was fine with that. No one
except Mallory, who popped in occa-
sionally to give me updates and share
some coffee. It was during one of our
little coffee breaks that I popped the
question.
“So, when did you think to tell Bad-
ger that APE was his replacement?”
“What are you talking about?” she
asked, with a coy tone in her voice.
“Don’t play with me,” I said. “I
know it wasn’t APE’s doing. Badger
would have to hear it from a human
to make it believable.”
“That’s why he had me tell Bad-
ger.”
“Who had you tell?”
“APE, silly. It was his idea all along.”
I felt a chill run down my back.
“APE’s idea?”
“Sure. He reasoned that if these
tests went wrong they would have to
eventually call on you. He knew he
couldn’t just spit out wrong answers–
that would have been found right
away. He asked me to hint to Badger,
just in passing mind you, not even a
direct statement, that they were to
be replaced. I think I said something
like ‘wow, he can replace six robots.’
Loyalties
by Dan Livant
The IMAC boys never intended to re-
place the matrix, of course, but they
were tight lipped about the whole
APE project to the other ‘bots. APE
counted on the Third Law to handle
the rest.”
in the moment you find your child
has exceeded your expectations in a
way you could never have imagined?
I designed him for intuitive thinking,
that was one of the real innovative
aspects to the nanotronic brain, but
I never expected a leap like this. That
afternoon, I logged onto APE’s server
from my laptop. I sent him a message
that I was modifying my order. “Aun-
tie Mallory” was now acceptable.
Three days later, my trans-
port arrived and it was time for
me to go. I didn’t get a chance
to say goodbye to APE, but it
didn’t bother me this time. He
was busy and we’d be in con-
tact, thanks to his little plot.
Mallory was the only one to see
me off.
“It was nice working with you
again,” she said and gave me a
warm hug.
“You too,” I said. “Stay in
touch, okay?”
“Stay in touch yourself,” she
said with a laugh, and led me to
my seat.
ISSUE 57
Dan Livant
Dan spent his formative
years gorging himself on the
classic science fiction writings
of Asimov, Clark, Heinlein and
others. His love for the genre
was helped along by his father,
who encouraged his unnatural
habits and provided him with
a large tome, which gathered
together the earliest Buck Rog-
ers strips. Several years ago, he
published a short, 8-page story
in an Indie comic book that was
inspired by those stories. Re-
cently he has been listening to
vintage sci-fi radio podcasts of
shows like Journey to Space
and Dimension X. He firmly
believes the world can’t have
enough pointy-nosed, atomic
fueled rockets.
Dan lives on the East Coast,
and when he is not writing, he
spends his time working as a
Licensed Massage Therapist
and chasing around after his six
(nearly) adult children.
He attends a writer’s group
regularly, has completed one
(unpublished) fantasy novel, an
(unpublished) children’s book,
and many short stories.
Page 18

Emergency Procedure
by Mark Patrick Morehead
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T ourists... what can I say?
They’re morons mostly, espe-
cially the rich ones.
I’m not one of them, of course.
No, I just work up here.
Did you know I have a Ph.D. in as-
trophysics? I do. My dissertation in-
troduced a new technique to sustain
laminar airflow during hypersonic
flight. It uses actuated micropannels
embedded in the airfoil to maintain
lift at virtually all angles of attack.
That might sound like a bunch of
techno-jumbo, but the latest genera-
tion of scramjets all use it. I never
made much money from this inven-
tion, but it did earn me something:
I have the unparalleled honor of
working in the world’s largest orbital
Emergency Procedure
by Mark Patrick Morehead
resort, soaring eight hundred kilome-
ters above the Earth.
Over two hundred thousand peo-
ple applied for my job. Two hundred
thousand. It took a Ph.D., an indus-
try changing innovation and intimate
knowledge of spaceflight to get me
here. Guess what I do at the apogee
of my career?
Go on, guess.
You’re thinking I’m the captain, the
hotel manager, or the orbital analyst.
Wrong, wrong, and wrong.
I’m a cabin boy.
A bellhop in space.
That’s what a Ph.D. is good for
these days.
We all have doctorates up here,
the cooks, dishwashers, maids, jani-
tors—the lowliest among us were
valedictorians and have made stun-
ning achievements in our fields.
That’s what it takes to get into space.
That’s what it takes to get a job hun-
dreds of thousands of people want.
We are the world’s best and bright-
est, and we serve the world’s rich and
famous. We wash the clothes of peo-
ple who honestly don’t understand
why the windows in their suites can’t
open. We prepare food for people
who have never heard of Kepler, Tsio-
lovsky, Goddard, or Braun. We scrub
toilets for people who have heard of
Einstein, but think he invented space
stations.
Do I sound bitter? Perhaps I am.
Didn’t used to be. I used to love my
job. I used to love living and working
in space...but that all changed about
a year ago. Maybe you’ve seen me
on television. No, I’m not the smiling
man in the white tuxedo you see on
our commercials. I was in the news.
Remember the accident last year?
The fire? You all know Göran Häg-
glund, the dashing Swede who made
a heroic spacewalk to save his wife
and a trapped bellhop. Well, try to
picture the photo on the cover of
Time Magazine, the shot where he’s
heartily hugging his wife after the
rescue.
Can you see it?
I’m the guy behind him. The one
on the stretcher with an oxygen mask
over my face. That’s right, I’m the
bellhop he “saved” and it’s time for
the world to know the truth about
what happened up there. It’s time for
the world to know exactly what sort
of hero Göran Hägglund is.
# bastard had been excused before
In case of pressure loss, each hull
compartment will be sealed. Behind
the emergency panel in each com-
partment, you will find survival suits
and an emergency distress beacon.
Follow directions on the placard to
enter and secure your survival suit,
then activate the distress beacon and
await crew instructions.
ISSUE 57
#
My part of this little drama start-
ed when the purser sent me down
to the executive suite to pick up the
heroic Mr. Hägglund, his precious
twenty-three-year-old wife, and their
three hundred and twenty kilos of
luggage. I had to borrow money and
mortgage the house my father left
me to buy a lift ticket and a fifteen
kilo cargo pass, ten of which I had to
use for uniforms. Three hundred and
twenty kilos. Twelve bags. They only
stayed seven nights.
Tourists... what can I say?
The Executive Orbital Suite is nice.
In fact, it’s the largest, most lavish,
and most expensive accommodation
on the station. It has three-hundred
cubic meters of living space. That
might not sound like much, but the
old space shuttle only had 71.5 cu-
bic meters for a crew of seven. If you
want to think of something more fa-
miliar, the executive suite has roughly
the same amount of living space as a
three-bedroom house. It also comes
with a full-time butler (the lucky
the accident), some of the world’s
finest art, a stock of rare wines and
anything else the guests ask for. It’s
a cozy little mansion in space—for
those who can afford the ten-million-
dollar-a-night rate.
Everyone’s heard of our executive
suite. Most people have seen it in the
dozen documentaries about the sta-
tion. What most of you don’t know
Page 19

is just how far the guests who stay
in it will go to secure bragging rights
about their visit. Some take towels.
Some take dishes, and some—some
venture well past the frontiers of
good taste, common sense, and even
safety to get their souvenirs.
I arrived with my best grin plas-
tered across my face, ready to help in
any way I could, hoping they would
notice me and remember to tip.
Hägglund waited with his wife
waiting with their entourage of
steamer trunks, suitcases, and gar-
ment bags. He wore a tux and moved
with hesitant little steps in the pseu-
do-gravity of the suite, his obnoxious
handlebar moustache bobbling with
each tiny step.
His very young, very beautiful wife
wore a sequined dress with gold em-
broidery. I suppose it must have been
quite the spectacle in normal gravity,
but up here it was a spectacle of a dif-
ferent sort, making her look like one
of those Faberge eggs—a very beau-
tiful Faberge egg.
I started hauling luggage out of the
suite, through the connecting mod-
ule and over to the lift hub where
I loaded it on a waiting cart. I had
most of it out when I saw something
I could hardly believe. Mr. Hägglund
had a cigar in one hand and a lighter
in the other.
If there is one thing that is not
permitted in space, it’s open flame.
Fire is deadly. Combine a forty per-
cent oxygen atmosphere, a confined
Emergency Procedure
by Mark Patrick Morehead
space with no emergency exits and
fire. What do you get? Dead tourists.
Dead bellhops even.
“What are you doing, sir?” I asked,
politely, but with and edge to my
voice that should have told him I
would let it slide if he put it away.
“Ending this beautiful vacation by
indulging in one of life’s great plea-
sures.”
His nonchalance took me off guard.
Did he not realize he was endanger-
ing everyone on the station? “No
smoking and no open fires. I’m sorry,
sir, but you have to put that away.”
“I do not have to do anything,
young man. So what if I have a cigar?
What are they going to do? Make me
leave?”
“It’s a fire hazard, sir. I’m going to
have to confiscate it.”
“Relax, my boy. Here, I have anoth-
er one. Sit down and have a smoke
and some cognac with me. It’s Cuban,
very nice. Very smooth.” With that,
he lit the cigar, puffing up a cloud of
smoke and a cherry red ember.
“You might want to put that out,
sir. Fire protection will seal off the
module. It could be hours before we
get out. At the very least, you’ll miss
your flight.”
“Don’t worry about that, I had
a young fellow like you turn off the
smoke detector. No alarm, no prob-
lem, eh? Come on, live a little.”
I’ll admit a part of me was tempt-
ed. When you’re a disgruntled em-
ployee, petty acts of rebellion go
with the territory. We look down
on the passengers, I guess because
we’re jealous that they can do this
for fun while we’re little more than
indentured servants and like inden-
tured servants we grab every second
of slack we can. However, this was
rule I could not bend. I took a step to-
ward him. “Sir, you really need to put
that out. Now.”
He shrugged dismissively, turned
around to face a two-meter viewing
dome that opened onto the spec-
tacular vista of mother Earth turning
beneath us, her blues and greens and
browns swirling through the black
void of space. He took a long pull on
the cigar and blew a lingering puff
over his shoulder, smoke that ob-
scured the breathtaking view.
I stepped forward. I don’t know
what I would have done, maybe tak-
en it away from him or doused him
with the fire extinguisher, but I didn’t
get the chance. Before I took a sec-
ond step, the shrill claxon of the fire
alarm went off. As the alarm regis-
tered in my mind, the forward bulk-
head door snapped shut sealing us in
the executive suite.
“What is that?” squawked Mrs.
Hägglund, her voice as shrill as the
alarm.
“Fire alarm.”
Hägglund turned on me, a furious
look darkening his face. He waved
one hand at me, still holding the
smoking cigar. “Turn it off and get
that damn door open. Our flight is in
ISSUE 57
fifteen minutes.”
“There’s nothing I can do.”
“Don’t get wise with me. I’m going
to have words with the captain about
this.”
Before I could reassure our valued
guests, the hiss and snap of hydraulic
actuators reverberated through the
module. A second later, a sharp ac-
celeration knocked us off our feet.
I pushed up from the floor, tuck-
ing my feet and pulling in my arms
to keep from getting caught by any
of the loose items that now drifted
through the module. We were in free
fall. Centrifugal acceleration no lon-
ger pushed us against the floor. We
were disconnected. Cut loose from
the station.
I flattened out and pushed off the
nearest wall, kicking toward the au-
tomatic door. As I drifted across the
module, I turned so my feet were in
front of me and the door was down
from my perspective. To the Häg-
glunds, it looked like I was jumping up
onto the wall. As I neared the door, a
chorus of high-pitched whistles grew
louder and I noticed stars of frost on
the floor and wall, radiating like neb-
ulae from pinhead-sized black spots.
The lights flickered out for a sec-
ond, only to come back on at quar-
ter power. The auxiliary batteries had
just kicked in, which meant we had
lost the service umbilical too.
Behind me, the Hägglunds shouted
frantic questions, and Mrs. Hägglund
tumbled slowly through the suite,
Page 20

unable to reach anything to stop her-
self while the multiple layers of her
ridiculous dress assumed an almost
spherical shape around her.
The only emergencies that would
force a module to jettison were
fires or collisions. The cigar smoke
wouldn’t have done this, so it must
have been a collision.
I looked back at the stars of frost
on the floor and wall and slowly un-
derstood the gravity of our situation.
The black spots were holes. The high-
pitched sound was the hiss of air es-
caping into space.
We had been hit. The hull was
punctured.
“Grab her. We need to suit up.”
There was no time to wait and see
if they followed my instructions.
A quick survey revealed six holes,
all just left of the door. Debris? A
shuttle accident? An explosion?
The engineering panel near the
door showed a moderate drop in
module pressure as well airlock pres-
sure, which meant the airlock had
been punctured as well. Watching
the rate of pressure loss, I estimated
we had ten to fifteen minutes before
it dropped too low to breathe.
Much later, I learned what had re-
ally happened. Automated safety sys-
tems detected the smoke and then
attempted to check the heat sensor.
The individual Hägglund bribed had
not really understood the dual-mode
fire detection sensors and had simply
cut the wires, preventing the control
Emergency Procedure
by Mark Patrick Morehead
computer from getting any readings
inside the module. Since the com-
puter could not determine the state
of the executive suite, it assumed
the worst—that a catastrophic fire
had destroyed the sensor, meaning
the fire was large enough to endan-
ger the entire hotel. After what had
happened on the International Space
Station, no one wanted to take a
chance with fires, so the safety sys-
tem followed protocol to keep it from
spreading further: it sealed and jetti-
soned the module with us inside.
The jettison was accomplished by
detonating a set of explosive bolts; in
the business we call them squibs. A
year or two earlier during a routine
inspection, a maintenance worker
had forgotten to replace the Kevlar
shroud that was supposed to en-
close one of the squibs. Without the
shroud, fragments from the explod-
ing bolt punctured the module. But
at the time, I had no idea what had
happened.
Our hero Hägglund came up be-
hind me, tumbling a little as he tried
to swim through the air. He almost
ran into me before he caught hold of
the wall near the engineering panel.
Behind him, his wife had reached the
ceiling, where she had hooked one
foot under a twenty-two carat gold
chandelier and was busy wiggling out
of the cumbersome Faberge dress.
Hägglund put his arm around me,
a fatherly gesture I’m sure was meant
to win me over. In free fall, it was as
clumsy as it was patronizing. “Did I
hear you correctly, young man? You
want us to suit up? What do you
mean?”
He had extinguished his cigar, at
least.
“Hear that? It’s our air, leaking into
space. We need to get into the emer-
gency spacesuits. In there.” I pointed
at the emergency locker.
“All right, young man. I know you
have a job to do, so get to it.” He
smiled and fixed those cold blue eyes
on me, no doubt filling me with con-
fidence and purpose—the way all
great leaders do. He actually used
those words to describe our conver-
sation in his best-selling autobiogra-
phy. I’m not joking. It’s in the same
autobiography where he blames the
fire on “loose wires” and fails to men-
tion his cigar, the disabled sensor, or
the bribed technician.
The truth was, by this time it had
become obvious to me that he didn’t
have enough sense to understand
our situation, and he likely didn’t
know how to put on an emergency
suit. They were not difficult to use,
not like the old fixed-ring suits the
early astronauts wore, but they had
double zippers, a separate helmet,
and separate gloves—I suppose get-
ting into one was a bit more compli-
cated than putting on a dinner jack-
et. I pushed myself sideways to the
emergency locker.
The security tab on the latch was
broken. It meant someone had been
ISSUE 57
in the locker. The tab lets us know
when guests are getting into things
they shouldn’t be. It’s usually not a
big deal, a lot of guests pop the tabs
just to see what’s inside, but I had a
bad feeling when I saw it.
I pulled the locker open and two
things immediately jumped to my at-
tention. First, the patch kit was gone,
meaning I had no way to seal the
holes our air was bleeding through.
Second, something was wrong with
the bright orange emergency suits.
To avoid confusion, every emer-
gency locker on-board is exactly
the same. The same gear, arranged
the same way on identical shelves
in identical lockers. The suits were
out of order, only three helmets sat
on the shelf above them and all the
gloves were velcroed to a single shelf
instead of waiting with the suits.
What had these idiots done?
About then, the pressure alarm
went off, a low drone distinct from
the shrill bleep of the fire alarm.
“Give me a hand here; I need both
of you to suit up before we start suck-
ing vacuum.”
Mrs. Hägglund had lost the dress
and was down to a petticoat, a white
bra and nylons. Somehow she still
looked dignified, if a little flustered.
She pushed off the ceiling and float-
ed toward us far more gracefully than
her husband had. That surprised me.
I’d fully expected her to cling to that
chandelier until I brought a suit to
her.
Page 21

She missed us by a few feet. The
gallant Mr. Hägglund didn’t raise a
hand to help her, so I reached out
and pulled her in. People tend to
panic less when things look normal,
so turned her so she was oriented
with the floor.
I tried to ignore the hiss of air es-
caping into space and pulled out the
suits. All of them had been opened,
apparently tried on, and then stuffed
back into their storage bags. This
seemed a little strange since there is
only one size, but I guess people who
talk through the safety briefing might
not know that. Of the six suites, two
were okay, two were missing parts
and two were missing altogether.
“Where are the suits?”
“They’re gone,” Hägglund said,
calm as a clam.
“Shit!”
Yes, that is what I said, and I
punched the locker door too. Unpro-
fessional? Well what would you do if
you realized that you might die be-
cause someone had done something
unforgivably stupid and worse, there
was nothing you could do about it?
“Excuse me young man, this is not
the time to be panicking.”
“I’m not panicking, I’m pissed off.
We only have two suits.”
“How many should there be?”
“Six. The emergency beacon is
gone too. It’s black, about two feet
long. Should have been clipped onto
the back wall, on the left.”
If he’d bothered to pay attention
Emergency Procedure
by Mark Patrick Morehead
during the safety briefing, he might
have known what the different items
were. I swear, they should have to
take a test before being allowed into
orbit, but it doesn’t work that way.
When our guests shell out millions
for a week’s vacation, they pretty
much do as they please.
His wife spoke up. “Maybe it’s in
the suitcase, with the spacesuits.”
“What?” I didn’t know what else
to say. “Are you insane? People take
towels and coffee cups, not emer-
gency equipment.” For the first time
since the alarm started, I felt that
giddy feeling that precedes all-out
panic.
With the nonchalance of an expe-
rienced shuttle pilot, Mr. Hägglund
shrugged. “I only took two of them
and some of the other junk for my
kids. It’s complimentary, right?”
It made sense, in a sociopathic sort
of way. Almost everything up here
has the station logo on it, from the
towels down to the bolts. The emer-
gency equipment is marked with the
room name and the station logo. The
perfect souvenir. What better way
to show off how frivolously wealthy
you are than to trot out a patch kit or
spacesuit labeled, “Executive Suite”
so your friends can see just how rich
you are? Bet that’s not in his book.
“Well, get it. We need it now.”
He looked me with those simmer-
ing blue eyes. “I am afraid it might be
across the way. I put the...thingy in
my burgundy carry-on. You already
put that on the cart.”
“What about the suits?”
“Golf bag and the black valet case.”
What kind of moron would bring a
golf bag to a space station?
“Did you take anything else? There
should have been a patch kit in here.
If we had that, I could close off these
holes and we could wait for someone
to come get us.”
Hägglund shrugged. “Perhaps
someone on staff should have
checked that before there was an ac-
tual emergency.”
I couldn’t believe this guy. I tore
the inventory list out of the plastic
holder on the inside of the panel.
“The locker was inventoried before
you got here. It was all in order when
you checked in!”
The bastard started pulling on one
of the emergency suits. “They prob-
ably made a mistake. If this stuff was
important, why wasn’t it locked up?
Come, darling, put the other one on.”
Mrs. Hägglund looked at him, then
at me. She understood what it meant
to be short a suit and didn’t presume
the other one was for her. That brief
moment of hesitation was all I need-
ed to make up my mind. No matter
who her husband might be, and no
matter what he had done, she didn’t
deserve to die.
“Here, I’ll help you,” I said, pulling
open the second suit.
When she was in and the status
lights were all green, I put on one of
the partial suites. I had everything
ISSUE 57
but gloves, but in hard vacuum that
wouldn’t be enough.
Once we were suited up, I went up
to the observation dome.
I saw the station floating above us,
clean and bright. It was already fifty
meters away, and we were tumbling
about our lateral axis. The tumble
wasn’t fast, but it would slow down
any rescuers that were dispatched.
To get to us, they’d need MMUs
or the runner. Either way, it would
take twenty minutes to reach us.
I wouldn’t have anything left to
breathe by then, but the Hägglunds
might make it.
I had five minutes of air left. May-
be less.
My mind raced. I had to find some
way to maintain the atmosphere.
Maybe the airlock. It was punctured,
but it had its own backup air sup-
ply. Enough to cycle it two or three
times...or to refresh the entire mod-
ule’s air pressure once. At the rate
pressure was dropping I estimated
that would buy me another ten to
fifteen minutes. Could they reach us
that fast?
Then it hit me—a bolt of the obvi-
ous. It took less air to pressurize the
smaller air lock than it did the entire
module. If I shut myself in there, I
could last three times as long. A half
an hour, maybe forty-five minutes.
I could just leave the Hägglunds
in the module—their suits would
keep them alive for a couple hours.
It would have worked if Hägglund
Page 22

hadn’t damaged his wife’s suit.
They were both clinging to the wall
by the airlock when I returned. In
the dim light it was hard to see their
faces under the tinted helmets, but I
could tell something was wrong. Häg-
glund tapped my arm and pointed to
the display pad on his wife’s arm. It
showed several red lights.
Her suit was leaking.
“What happened?” I asked over
the intercom.
Neither one answered.
She had the foresight to point to
her helmet. Neither of them knew
how to work the intercoms and the
air pressure was low enough my
voice didn’t carry.
I could feel my skin tingling and my
vision blurred. Hypoxia setting in. In
a panic, I shoved them both into the
airlock. It took some doing because
Mr. Hägglund tried to fight me off.
Maybe he thought I was going to jet-
tison him into space. Maybe I should
have.
I followed them in, closed the in-
ner door, and pressurized the airlock.
Air. Sweet air. You have no idea how
precious it is until you’ve lived in a
place where there is none.
I turned on their suit-to-suit inter-
coms.
“What happened?”
“I lifted her visor so we could talk,
and the cheap thing snapped off.”
A quick check of Mrs. Hägglund’s
helmet revealed the problem. He’d
pulled the emergency release tab,
Emergency Procedure
by Mark Patrick Morehead
popping the entire faceplate free.
There was no way to reseat it prop-
erly by hand, so her suit was no good.
If she held it in place with her hand,
she might last a few minutes longer
than me, but not many.
Outside, there was still no sign of
rescue. No crewmen in MMUs vec-
toring in on the drifting module. No
runner maneuvering out of the sta-
tion’s docking bay. I decided to do
something more direct. In retrospect,
I was probably hypoxic when I came
up with this plan, otherwise I never
would have tried anything so absurd.
It took half my air to explain to the
Hägglunds what I needed them to do,
and half of what was left after that to
show them how to work the airlock.
Once I was sure they could both
work it, I removed a fire extinguisher,
utility cable, general purpose tape
and several extra carabineers from
a storage locker. Those at least were
not in the Hägglund’s luggage.
When things were ready, Mr. Häg-
glund smiled and nodded to his wife.
“Give him your gloves, darling.”
The plan had been to take his
gloves, but apparently chivalry
wasn’t one of our hero’s traits. He
wasn’t going to take any chances, not
for me and not for her. Not quite the
way it reads in his book, is it?
Mrs. Hägglund’s hands shook as
she gave me her gloves. I can’t blame
her; it was a lot to ask. Of the three
of us, this was the most dangerous
for her.
I rigged the spare air canister from
the forth spacesuit to her suit, then I
tied off her suit’s open arms, twisting
and synching them as tight as I could
before wrapping them with utility
tape. For good measure, I taped the
seam of her faceplate too. The tape
wouldn’t seal it, not perfectly, but it
would slow down the leak enough
that she should be okay until a rescue
team arrived. In the end, she looked
like a double amputee with a busted
head, but it was the best I could do.
Finally, I clipped us all in, anchoring
us to the safety rings mounted in the
airlock.
“Ready?” I asked, not quite able to
look Mr. Hägglund in the eye.
They both nodded, so I cycled the
airlock.
I’m not sure exactly what hap-
pened next, but I think Hägglund
picked up a fire extinguisher, which
he was supposed to hand to me, and
somehow set it off.
The airlock depressurized and I
watched as Mrs. Hägglund’s eyes
grew round with terror. This was it,
hard vacuum and I’m sure she could
hear the air escaping from her bro-
ken suit. I opened the outer door and
the next thing I know, chemical fire
retardant flooded the airlock, and
Mr. Hägglund shot right out the air-
lock.
What could I do? Here we were,
drifting eight hundred kilometers
above the earth and one of the
world’s richest men was tumbling out
ISSUE 57
into space. He drifted out seventy or
eighty meters, then the utility cable
snapped taut and he stopped, flailing
at the end of the line.
Quickly assessing the options, I re-
alized it would be futile to pull him
back in. His wife would be dead by
the time he was back to the airlock.
We had to get the airlock closed and
repressurized, fast.
But he was nearly to the station—
not more than a dozen meters from
the lift module’s nadir airlock—and
he still had the fire extinguisher. In-
advertently, he had almost done
what I had intended to do. Now he
just needed to maneuver the last few
meters to the airlock.
I checked the cables and found I
could give him more slack by tying his
cable to mine. I freed my cable from
the safety ring and tied it to his, then
cut the knotted end of his loose. At
that point, we were strapped to each
other instead of the module and he
now had enough slack to reach the
airlock. However, by tying myself to
him, I had placed my life in his hands.
“Go to the airlock. You need to go
to the airlock,” I shouted, waving and
pointing at the hub. “Use the fire ex-
tinguisher. Think of it as a rocket en-
gine—it will push you in the direction
you want to go. Just point the nozzle
away from the station and give it a
squirt.”
If he heard me, he didn’t answer,
he just kicked and flailed and tangled
himself in the cable. His wife wasn’t
Page 23

doing much better. I had to do some-
thing quick or all three of us would
die.
I told Mrs. Hägglund to close
and repressurize the airlock behind
me and then I jumped for the sta-
tion aiming for the airlock. I know it
sounds stupid. I had no way to cor-
rect my course and the odds of jump-
ing at just the right trajectory were
virtually zero. But I did it, and over
the next minute as I drifted toward
the space station at a languorous
two meters per second, I had plenty
of time to think about what a stupid
move it had been. Still, the only other
choice had been to let Mrs. Hägglund
die and I couldn’t have done that.
As I passed the half-way point, it
was clear I would miss the airlock.
However, I was on a collision course
with Mr. Hägglund. He still struggled
desperately, becoming ever more
entangled as he slowly drifted away
from the station.
A glance back at the module con-
firmed Mrs. Hägglund had closed the
airlock. If a rescue team reached her
in a few minutes, she might just make
it.
Earth hung above me, a disk of bril-
liant blue and white floating in a sea
of darkness. We were just passing
over the pacific and nearing Austra-
lia. Below me, the sun blazed against
the velvet backdrop of space, hard-
edged and searing, not at all like the
radiant yellow ball seen from Earth.
If I died, at least I would die in space.
Emergency Procedure
by Mark Patrick Morehead
A few seconds later, I collided with
Hägglund.
I can only describe what happened
next as a fight. In his panic, Hägglund
flailed and kicked like a madman. I
tried the intercom, but he didn’t re-
spond. I tried pushing away, but he
held on.
It only ended when the idiot pulled
my air supply loose.
One second I’m fighting for my life,
the next I’m losing. A warning tone
came on, the respirator shut off and
I spun out, away from Hägglund, pro-
pelled by a stream of pressurized air
venting from the hose.
I grabbed a coil of the utility cable
to stabilize myself and rolled my body
around so the thrust took me toward
the station. It wasn’t easy, kind of like
trying to surf using an old barrel, but
I managed to vector in on the station.
A few meters shy of the airlock, the
cable snapped taut and pulled me
back.
The same recoil that stopped me,
pulled Hägglund forward. I tried to
correct for it, but the hose stopped
hissing—my air supply had been
vented into space. I had nothing left
to breathe and nothing to maneuver
with. Helpless, I drifted into oblivion.
Dimly I was aware that Hägglund
had drifted near the airlock. The out-
er door opened and crewmen man-
aged to pull him in. Imagine, that fool
surviving this by dumb luck, while I
died trying to save him.
Tourists... what can I say?
Then the line went taut again. Yes!
The line! I was still tied to him.
Moments later, gloved hands
hauled me into the airlock. The door
closed and air hissed around us. A
green light came on and the door
opened onto a hub packed with
cheering crewmen.
We were safe.
The only problem was that I was
laying there, hypoxic and nearly un-
conscious. Hägglund, on the other
hand, had been safe the whole time.
He was shaken up, but still had the
strength and wherewithal to concoct
a story about how he had rescued
me. A total fabrication. All he had
done was sabotage a module, steal
emergency equipment, and fall out
of an airlock.
But I was in no state to argue. By
the time I recovered and found out
what he had told the crew, it was
too late. His wrinkled face with that
damned handlebar moustache was
grinning under every headline on the
planet. The only good news was that
his wife had been rescued and was
doing well. Her name’s Veronica by
the way, and we still keep in touch.
I suppose you know the rest well
enough, but now you know the truth
about what happened up there, the
truth about what a hero Mr. Häg-
glund really is.
#
An investigation of the last year’s
accidental jettisoning of a habitation
module occupied by Göran Hägglund
ISSUE 57
and his entourage, revealed a critical
flaw in the design of Hope Station’s
fire-safety system. Hilton Hotels In-
ternational has agreed to a settle-
ment of 3.2 billion dollars and has
reengineered the station’s fire and
life support sensors to prevent such
an accident from happening again.
When asked if he would return to
space, Mr. Hägglund replied, “I’ve al-
ready booked a three day adventure
tour for next spring.”
Mark P. Morehead
Mark lives and writes in Colorado
with his patient wife, two goblin boys
and a menagerie of animals great
and small. His work been featured
in Flash Fiction Online, The Drabble-
cast podcast (episode 78), Fusion
Fragment and Ideomancer (Vol 5,
issue 1). He is currently working on
an epic zombie novel, which he blogs
about at zombieprooffence.blogspot.
com. He hopes to complete this novel
without having his office jettisoned
from the station.
Page 24

Reaper Planet
by George L. Duncan
B ureaucracies or chains of com-
mand, whether military or civil-
ian, are exasperating because they
often move at a snail’s pace. Occa-
sionally, though, when the Powers
That Be want something done, they
react with astonishing speed.
It was the latter case when Dr. Edi-
son Altamonte was literally dropped
in front of my make-shift command
post on Jardoval just three days and
five hours after I had requested him.
Dr. Altamonte had been a few solar
systems over but Earth Command
demanded light-speed priority in get-
ting him to the base.
As he shuffled into my office, wip-
ing the dirt from his wrinkled uni-
form, Dr. Altamonte did not look
happy. His hair was ruffled, a red,
ugly bruise spotted his forehead, and
a few nodules of the black Jardoval
sand darkened his chin.
Because he had been so rushed, I
forgave him for his ragged salute.
“You requested me, sir.”
“Yes, I did.”
“May I be at ease, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. May I speak freely,
sir?”
“No.”
He growled but I ignored it.
“I know what you’re going to say
Reaper Planet
by George L. Duncan
major, and I don’t want to hear it. I
need you here.”
“Do you know where I was?”
“Probably chasing skirts on some
obscure planet where the women
have not yet heard of your reputa-
tion.”
“No, sir, I wasn’t. The women
on Jamaica Two don’t wear skirts.
It’s a beautiful planet with no large
land mass. Thousands of islands are
spread across a watery landscape.
The weather is tropical and the wom-
en, at least in the bar I was at, wear
very skimpy outfits. Hardly anything
at all actually. I had a month’s leave.”
“Sit down.”
He plopped down in the chair and
sighed heavily. “On Jamaica Two they
also have an amazing drink called
Coral Reef Punch. It is the finest li-
quor I have ever tasted.”
I had moved over to the small bar
and held up a bottle.
“Straight whisky?”
“That’ll be fine.”
I poured a drink and took it over
to him. “I need a man of your exper-
tise. You are the best in your field, or
fields, as the case may be. The sooner
I get answers the sooner you go back
to your island paradise.” I moved
back behind my desk and sat down
in the black officer’s chair. Altamonte
sipped his drink.
“What is it, exactly, you want me
to do?”
I waved my hand to indicate the
planet around us. “This un-island
paradise is Jardoval. A few solar sys-
tems down from here is a planet
called Titus, named for one of early
galactic explorers.”
“Spare me the travelogue. Just the
basic details...sir.”
“Titus has about twenty thousand
colonists. However, seismic activity
threatens to, in the future, rip the
planet apart. Evacuation plans are
being made. This is the closest habit-
able planet—a perfect place to move
all the colonists.”
“So move them and let me go back
to Jamaica Two.”
“There’s one small issue. At one
time, this planet was inhabited. A
primitive, rural culture, much like
prehistoric man back on Earth. That’s
our best guess anyway. But all the
inhabitants have disappeared. As if
they were wiped off the face of the
planet. My superiors are not about
to transplant colonists until they find
out what happened to the original in-
habitants. If something killed the first
group, the new colonists could be in
danger too. It is believed the natives
lived here until relatively recently.
Then...” I snapped my fingers. “Noth-
ing. They vanished.”
He drained his glass. “As usual,
when the civilian command has a
problem they send for Commander
ISSUE 57
MacCloud and the Spacehawks. Bet
you prefer dealing with ravenous Chi-
nors than with bureaucrats and poli-
ticians.”
“It’s a toss-up. So, I need your ex-
pertise. I need to find the Grim Reap-
er on this planet and, if necessary,
break his scythe. To do that, I need
you.”
“Okay. Piece of cake.”
“That’s one thing I like about you,
Ed. That overwhelming sense of
modesty. But you do have an amaz-
ing ability to piece together disparate
information to find the truth. Your
science facility is two doors down
from here.”
“Close enough so you can keep an
eye on me.”
“Close enough so we can commu-
nicate with each other. I want daily
reports.”
He sighed again and stiffened in
the chair. “Okay, but if I need some-
thing done, I don’t want to start filing
forms in triplicate.”
“The scientific staff and the mili-
tary personnel have been informed
your wishes are the highest priority.
All the information our science teams
have gathered is in your office. In ad-
dition, we have several Spacehawk
squadrons on the ground and two
mother ships hovering above us. The
two ships have fully-staffed science
departments to help.
He stood up and placed his empty
glass on my desk. “By the way, is Lt.
Lynquest still with your squadron?”
Page 25

“Lt. Lynquest and I are engaged.”
He jerked like he had just spotted
a husband coming home early. “Oh.
Does she still have the neuro-electro
implants?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations.” He smiled, then
shook his head. “Well, she never
liked me much anyway.”
# dition to no people, there are not
“Yes, I did,” Tequesta said as we
flew over a Jardoval forest. We both
had jetpacks on as we surveyed the
landscape. “He can be a very charm-
ing guy. I didn’t approve of his life-
style. Didn’t like his ego either. It’s as
big as the orb of Jupiter.”
I smiled. “Humility is not one of his
strong points.”
We turned north into the wind as
the forest dwindled into hilly, yellow
plains. She wore the blue vid-binoc-
ulars but her golden hair blew in the
breezes.
“The first time he sees a female
Spacehawk...” she said, raising her
voice over the wind.
“He won’t be distracted. He is, first
and foremost, a scientist. Give him
a scientific challenge and the juices
start flowing. When he gets his teeth
in something, he has an intensity
that will melt steel.”
We eased down and landed on flat,
barren land. The Jardoval grasses, six
inches of green flat reeds, swayed in
the wind. A half dozen huts stood be-
fore us, abandoned and decrepit.
I looked around but saw nothing
Reaper Planet
by George L. Duncan
moving.
Tequesta knelt down and ran her
hand along the ground. She scooped
a handful of dust up, tossed it, and
then brushed her hand against her
leg.
“Never liked this planet.” She
shook her head. “Something is odd
here. Have you noticed that, in ad-
that many animals in the forests and
brooks? All this fertile land should be
teeming with creatures.”
“I’ve wondered about that. Don’t
know what to make of it though.” I
flicked the jet switch. “Let’s go.”
We lifted and flew slowly south.
We circled a jagged, brown canyon
but I saw nothing of interest. Teques-
ta had sharper eyes.
“Down here,” she said, as she sped
past me.
I followed her, breaking against a
wind gust that tossed me against a
sand hill when I landed. Tequesta was
six feet in front of me, kneeling be-
hind a boulder. As she brushed away
some sand, I saw what had caught
her eye. A bone, bleached by the Jar-
doval sun, stuck out from the ground.
It was the only trace of the plan-
et’s original inhabitants we’d discov-
ered. Tequesta spoke quickly into her
transmitter, calling for forensic trans-
port. The gusty winds must have un-
covered the body. The skeleton had
very distinct markings.
“I’m not a forensic anthropolo-
gist but I’m guessing something took
a bite out of him,” I said. “ Those
rib bones looked like they were
crunched.”
“Yes, what ever did that has to
be pretty large and strong,” said Te-
questa. “You know how much power
it takes to bite through three ribs?”
“No, but I’m sure our scientists will
tell us. Right now, let’s just go with ‘a
lot.”
“Imprecise,” Tequesta said. “But
accurate.”
#
I waved Altamonte into the office
as Lt. Wendy Lee finished her report
on the planet survey. All our squad-
rons had turned up nothing. She is
one of our finest young Spacehawks.
Intelligent, dedicated, eager. Slender
with dark hair and her face showed
signs of her Asian ancestry. When the
major walked in, he kept his glare to-
ward her. Without missing a syllable,
Lt. Lee shot out her arm and grabbed
his chin.
“I also have the neuro-electro im-
plants, major,” she said. She yanked
his head toward me. “So keep your
eyes on the commander.”
I had to smile.
When she was dismissed, Al-
tamonte plopped a twenty-page
folder on my desk. Two wisps of dust
swirled into the air as he dropped the
report. Tequesta sat on the edge of
my desk. He gave her a wary smile,
then pointed at the papers.
“They worshiped the planet,” he
said.
ISSUE 57
Today, Altamonte had a military
bearing. He did not look sluggish
from the long trip. His eyes were
alert, his back straight. His uniform
was impeccable. Even the ugly bruise
seemed to have healed over night.
“They worshiped the ground we
walk on,” he said. “It’s not unusual
for primitive people to worship the
planet. Even back in the 21st century
we had people worshiping Gaia.”
“What was Gaia?”
“It was their name for Earth. There
was a belief among a fringe group
that it was a living organism.”
“I would ask why they simply
didn’t call it Earth but I don’t think
that’s relevant to the issue at hand.”
“The worship here could be an
indication of a somewhat advanced
society. Many primitive peoples had
primitive gods who were ruthless
and bloodthirsty deities. The Az-
tecs, and the Moabites of the Bible
to name two. Their gods demanded
human sacrifices. Both races had a
blood-drenched culture. I assume
worshiping the planet was a bit more
pacific.”
His hand came up and scratched
his jaw. “The puzzling aspect of this
planet is not just that the previous
population has disappeared.”
“You can tell I know nothing about
science. To me, that was the main
question.”
“That’s what I was thinking too,”
Tequesta said.
“True, all the natives have van-
Page 26

ished, but so have their remains.
That’s an even bigger mystery.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Dead people,” he said. “There are
no dead people here. No cemeteries.
No burial grounds. No remains. Very
often primitive cultures have rev-
erence for the body—even though
most believed in a spirit world after
death—so they made elaborate ritu-
als for funerals. Sometimes, as with
the Egyptians, they took special care
to preserve the body, if the dead guy
happened to be royalty. But even
such diverse races as the Mayans,
the Aztecs, or the Vikings honored
the dead. The primitive cultures on
other planets follow that pattern.
That’s how we gain the best informa-
tion about a dead civilization—from
burial plots, bones, bodies, and the
surrounding artifacts.”
“None of that is here?”
“Nope. That’s the mystery. No
dead bodies. No living bodies either.”
“Could the inhabitants have been
transported to another planet?”
“No. Even if all the living inhabitants
were somehow whizzed away, it’s
doubtful they would dig up all their
dead ancestors for the trip.”
He walked over to the bar and
raised a bottle. “You mind?”
“Not at all.”
He poured a glass then returned to
his seat. “The information I’ve seen
indicates this planet is just coming
out of a mini-ice age. It wasn’t long in
geological time, just two, three hun-
Reaper Planet
by George L. Duncan
dred years maybe. We had a simi-
lar one back on Earth in the Middle
Ages, which was followed by a warm-
ing trend around thirteen, fourteen
hundred which lasted for a couple of
hundred years too.”
“Does that help us know what hap-
pened to the inhabitants?” I said.
“It might. Many could have been
killed by the spreading glaciers. Plus,
I just wanted to convey some infor-
mation to you. I didn’t want you to
think I was over in my office doing
nothing.”
He took a sip of his drink. “The skel-
eton that the sharp-eyed Lt. Lynquest
spotted is another puzzle. It shows
evidence of massive trauma. Teeth,
very large, and very powerful, bit off
a large chunk of the dead man.  I’m
guessing there was some type of dis-
ruption during lunch. Whatever was
munching on him fled because of all
the commotion.”
“From the bite marks, can you tell
how large the creature was?”
“Still doing tests but I’m guessing
it was the size of a small dinosaur.
Those were big teeth.’
“We haven’t seen anything close
to that size on this planet.”
“Right.”
“Another mystery?”
“Yes. However the skeleton may
tie in to page nine in my report.”
I picked up the booklet and
skimmed to page nine.
“You’re looking at a reproduction
of one of the few samples we have of
Jardoval primitive art.”
Tequesta walked around behind
me so she could view it too. Page
nine showed a man—barely more
than a stick figure—being swallowed
by a gigantic maw of teeth.
“Not much of an artist,” I said.
“No, but I’m guessing the artist is
sketching, to the best of his ability, a
real event, not a fictional one. He was
probably shaking with fear when he
drew that.”
“I’d be afraid of something that big
too,” Tequesta said.
“No, you wouldn’t. You have those
implants. You could give that crea-
ture such a toothache.”
Tequesta narrowed her gaze and
smiled as she looked toward me.
“The major speaks from personal,
low-wattage experience.”
“Hate to see what high would do.
Anyway...” he tapped the page. “If
the picture is accurate, there is some-
thing odd about those teeth.”
I took a second glance at the om-
nivorous maw. “They don’t look odd
to me. They just look huge.”
“Those teeth are not incisors.
They’re not designed for the ripping
or tearing from a predator that has
to chase down its prey. They’re made
for munching and chewing, much as
a cow chews its cud.”
I took another look at the page.
“You’re reading a lot into a bad draw-
ing.”
“I have to, commander. I have to
gleam every bit of information from
ISSUE 57
the artifacts we have because there
aren’t that many.”
“And you’re doing a good job. Any-
thing else?”
“Just one thing. I think it may be a
mistake to say every single inhabitant
has vanished. In the southern hemi-
sphere there are many mountainous
areas. If we searched every square
inch, we might find a few natives.
There even might be a few left on this
continent, hidden away. This is a big
planet, about 15 percent bigger than
Earth, and I assume you don’t have
the men to search every inch of it.”
“You’re right about that.”
“Something, clearly though, dev-
astated the population.”
#
The high-decibel whine of la-
ser drills set our nerves on edge. A
steady stream flowed from a block of
ice as the red, fiery lasers sliced into
it. Small chunks fell to the ground.
The water turned the snow to slush
and even our military boots couldn’t
keep the freezing water from soaking
our socks. Droplets and slivers of ice
spit back from the drilling and splat-
tered our winter jackets and goggles,
clouding my vision.
We were six hundred miles north
of our command post.
I turned my back to the drilling and
wiped away the water. My eyes fo-
cused on a smiling Tequesta, goggles
on but her blue Eskimo hood partially
down.
“I like cold weather,” she said. “It’s
Page 27

invigorating.”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s just cold.
This is not just cold, this is freezing.
Sub-freezing. Probably sub-zero for
that matter.”
“You were right, though, to fly up
here. We have found frozen remains.”
I sloshed over toward Altamonte.
He had knelt down and peered at a
fleshly specimen of a Jardoval native.
The body was solidly encased in a
second block of ice.
“Not as primitive as our original
guess,” Altamonte said. “Clearly not
what we would call a stone age man
back on Earth. He could fit into the
Mayan culture or any number of Na-
tive American tribes.”
“Doesn’t look like he had enough
protective clothing.”
“He didn’t. He had pelts, leggings,
animal skins around him but not
enough to protect him from this kind
of weather.”
As if on cue, the wind howled and
tossed snow flurries our way. Ice sliv-
ers mingled in with the snow. They
slapped our blue jackets with a splat
every time they hit. The whine of the
drills continued in the background.
“At least we found some remains,”
I said.
Altamonte dug his dark glove into
the Jardoval snow and studied it, as if
it were tea leaves and he could fore-
tell the future by looking at the jag-
ged shapes.
“But they don’t tell us a lot. We’ve
found about a half a dozen bodies,
Reaper Planet
by George L. Duncan
all died by freezing. Their deaths re-
veal nothing about what happened
to the rest of the natives.” He tossed
the snow aside. “But when I get back
to headquarters I want to show you
something.”
Altamonte’s lab facility was a bit
cramped because he had comput-
ers and screens all over the room. I
sipped coffee as he dashed between
machines, punching in numbers or
words. He pointed toward a blank
screen on the wall. The screen flicked
and displayed a map of the north-
ern continent of Jardoval. Altamonte
narrowed the scope to a six hundred
mile radius of where the camp was
located. To the north, the green plain
wavered and become a light blue and
then a deeper blue in the farthest re-
gion.
“Frankly, Ed, I’ve never been much
for topography,” I said.
He used a pointer to poke at the
blue sections of the map. “Even up
here we only found a few bodies. The
ice is retreating, a process that began
possibly fifty years ago. But look at
this. Following the trails, this is the
migration of several groups of this
planet’s indigenous tribes. “
Several red lines appeared on the
map. Altamonte turned to me. “Does
anything appear strange to you.”
I was still shivering from our arctic
sojourn so I was tempted to shrug
and say no. Then the red lines caught
my attention.
“The ice moved in from the north,
from the polar regions,” I said.
“Yes.”
“So the migration should have
gone south, to warmer locales. But
your lines have three separate tribes
going north, into the freezing cli-
mate.”
“Yes. Odd, isn’t it?”
“Darn right it is. I assume you have
ruled out stupidity as the reason they
headed north.”
“Yes. I don’t think they were sui-
cidal or stupid. In fact, and this is a
supposition and I have no hard evi-
dence to back it up but I suspect...”
he tapped the end of the three red
lines with the pointer. “...and these
were the most intelligent of Jardoval
races.”
He flicked a switch to call one of
the mother ships. A few second later
Capt. Eskine Lonnigan responded.
Lonnigan is head of the science divi-
sion on the ship.
“I need a dead body,” Altamonte
said.
“I beg your pardon.”
Lonnigan sounded incredulous,
and I couldn’t say I blamed him.
“I need a dead body, or a reason-
able facsimile of a dead person and I
need it to give off heat, enough heat
to attract our sensors and...let’s say,
a predator.”
Lonnigan started to protest but
Altamonte cut him off. “I have Com-
mander MacCloud here if you would
like to check with him.”
“But...”
ISSUE 57
I walked over to the mic. “Captain,
the doctor here needs a dead body. I
think I know where he’s going. So see
that he gets one.”
“Sir, how am I supposed to do
that?’
“You’re a scientist, do something...
scientific.” I said.
I heard a long sigh.
“Yes, sir.”
Altamonte flashed me a big smile.
“Isn’t it fun giving orders?”
“Sometimes. But you have no idea
of all the paperwork I have to deal
with.”
The carcass had arms and legs and
was a reasonable facsimile of a dead
body. Our “flyers” had scoured the
land and found a site that held some
odd markings and unique stone pil-
lars. Which was just what we were
looking for. A shuttle had brought
the body and a Spacehawk squad
to the specified location. I hooked
into a jetpack as two soldiers placed
the body down. I ordered every one
back. I wanted at least twenty yards
between us and the facsimile.
Altamonte also slipped on a jet-
pack. We lifted off and hovered over
the site.
“It’s kind of a long shot,” he said,
when we were fifteen feet above
ground.
“Worth trying,” I said. “If nothing
happens, all we’ve wasted is some
time.”
A stillness settled over the land.
Not a leaf rustled in the trees. Te-
Page 28

questa and the other Spacehawks
watched in silence. As solemn as a
funeral service.
The rumbling came from below
the surface. An odd noise, unlike any
other I’ve heard. A heavy, grating
whirling sound, almost like a giant
blender. The ground under the body
churned. Sands, grass, and weeds
twisted, whipping violently in a coun-
ter-clockwise motion. A small funnel
formed and stretched down into the
ground, and the rumblings became
louder. A crevice widened under the
body and opened slowly at first, then
with quickening speed.
The ground split open, but instead
of dirt, the gigantic maw came into
sight. Huge teeth on each wall of dirt.
The body slipped down, and the maw
closed.
“I thought so,” Altamonte said. “If
we—”
The next second the ground shook
so violently it knocked three Space-
hawks off their feet. Other spots of
ground began churning.
“Get to the shuttle!” I yelled.
The squad broke toward the trans-
port. Two dodged and fired into holes
now gleaming with organic molars.
In a split second, the Earth opened
and swallowed Tequesta. I zoomed
toward her.
She landed on one wall of mo-
lars and planted her feet on one
blunt tooth. As the other wall ad-
vanced, yellow flashes came from
her hand. I flew into the crevice,
Reaper Planet
by George L. Duncan
grabbed her jacket, and yanked her
up. A cry or moan of anguish came
from the ground. The fiery discharge
had stunned the creature for a sec-
ond. And a second was all I needed.
I roared toward the skies. Her feet
were six inches off the ground when
the earthly jaw closed.
Back in the shuttle, I ordered a
quick count and found all Space-
hawks were unharmed. I had placed
the camp on stand-by, and ordered
everyone to stay close to our other
shuttles. It didn’t take long to evacu-
ate.
Altamonte, Tequesta, and I stared
down at the planet as our shuttle
sped toward the mother ship.
“What was that?” Tequesta said.
“Gaia in all her glory,” said Al-
tamonte.
“Gaia?”
He nodded. “They worshiped the
planet. She turned out to be a god,
after all. But one of the more blood-
thirsty ones. The planet is alive and...
needed sustenance. Takes a lot of en-
ergy to run a planet, I guess. That’s
why some natives headed into sub-
zero weather. They guessed even
Gaia would have trouble splitting
open twenty feet of solid ice. Moving
loose dirt and sand is a lot easier. It
was a good tactic but the climate be-
came too cold for them.
“She ate them all?” I said.
“Would you mind not calling the
planet ‘she.’” Tequesta said. “I haven’t
observed any feminine qualities from
ISSUE 57
Gaia or whatever it was called.” Tequesta muttered.
“She or It, I’m guessing, sensed the I hastily scribbled my name and
ice age was coming so she went into handed the paper back to him. As
hibernation,” Altamonte said. “But he walked away Tequesta said, “Can
before she did, she gorged herself. I zap him? Just once. A low-wattage
The cold killed most of the other in- zing.”
habitants.” “No, but we may see him again,”
“But we’ve been on the planet for I told her. “So, on the plus side, you
three weeks. The ground didn’t open may get another chance at him.”
up under us,” I said.
“She would wait for an offering, for
a while at least. She—”
“Would you mind?” Tequesta said.
“It. It didn’t need the altars. It
could open the ground, but the al-
tars became special, sacrificial plac- George L. Duncan
es, perhaps even preferred by...the
planet. So when a new sacrifice was After 30 years in journalism, I’m an
offered...” editorial writer with the Daily News-
“We will have to put a no tres- Record in Harrisonburg, Va. A novel
passing sign on this planet. The Titus of mine A Cold and Distant Memo-
colonists will have to find some other ry was published in 2004. A second
place to go,” I said. novel A Wine Red Silence, a greatly
Altamonte reached into his jack- expanded version of the short story in
et and pulled out a piece of paper. The Sword Review, will be published
“Now, commander, if you would sign later this year by Capstone Fiction.
this.”
I took the sheet. “What is it?”
“An order extending my leave for
another month due to my dedicated
service on Jardoval, which probably
saved the lives of thousands of colo-
nists.”
I looked at the sheet.
“You didn’t include a commenda-
tion for yourself, too?”
He pointed to the bottom of the
page. “Last paragraph, sir.”
“Ego the size of the orb of Jupiter,”
Page 29

Remorse above Enceladus
by Richard S. Levine
W earing a tall felt-black cowboy
hat, McCloud Nine strolled the
main corridor of the habitat Poco
ring on station Peta. He received
an alarming signal from Peta’s long
range scanner.
UFO sightings were his responsi-
bility, as were all the tasks which the
other McCloud units didn’t want to
do. If he hadn’t recently examined
the subspace detectors, he’d have
guessed it was a computer malfunc-
tion.
McCloud Nine’s confidence was
boosted by the jingling echo his slip-
on spurs made as he stomped into
one of the network connection bays.
The spurs concealed two of his fu-
sion-powered laser guns.
Wireless access speeds wouldn’t
suffice for this emergency. He sat
down in the network proximity chair,
which directly tied his knowledge-
base and intelligence to Peta’s com-
puter network.
The UFO had changed course sev-
eral times during the last hour, and
it was headed straight for Peta. Nine
also confirmed that alien communi-
cations signals had been detected in-
side the UFO.
The eight other McCloud units
before him had nicknamed him
Cloud Nine. To them, he was a young
Remorse above Enceladus
by Richard S. Levine
dreamer. Nine knew that he’d have
to report a UFO to McCloud One, but
he also wanted to propose a plan for
dealing with the aliens. If he could do
that, he might be able to convince
the other units to build McCloud Ten.
Then he would no longer be the bot-
tom rung of the network stuck with
menial tasks.
His thoughts wandered the Cloud,
the digital record of all the data and
computer applications of Earth, look-
ing for a way to deal with the ap-
proaching UFO and whoever was pi-
loting it. He found his answer in an
internet movie archive.
Nine loved movies, and he loved
to analyze them. While he could have
intellectually digested thousands
of them within a matter of minutes
by examining the reviews and tran-
scripts, instead he spent years watch-
ing as many as possible. Often he’d
even hook up an extra set of eyes and
processing units to watch and enjoy
a movie while he performed other
tasks.
His thoughts wandered to his fa-
vorite movie genres: Action and
Westerns. When he asked himself
why these movie themes would be
relevant to dealing with a possibly
dangerous alien UFO, the key word
that popped out of his AI was guilt.
Nine had spent countless proces-
sor cycles in the past contemplating
how guilt drove humans to extremes.
He knew the meaning of the word
and that it translated to skyld in Dan-
ish and culpa in Spanish, but he had
never personally experienced guilt.
He searched his memories for a
movie example. The character Riggs
in the movie Lethal Weapon strug-
gled with massive survivor guilt—his
wife died in a car crash—but his reck-
less, sometimes violent behavior,
lead him to perform superhuman
deeds.
Nine deeply wanted to be a hero
too. He was determined to learn
what guilt felt like.
Pleased with himself, he discon-
nected from the network and sa-
shayed all the way over to McCloud
One’s office bay in the connecting
Monument habitat.
# cise their verbal processor. “There’s a
McCloud Nine watched the door
slide open to McCloud One’s spa-
cious working quarters. He gasped
at the view and felt happy to be acti-
vated. A large window at the back of
the room revealed a water vapor gey-
ser thrusting upwards from Saturn’s
moon Enceladus.
Automated arms on the other side
of the Peta station collected an end-
less stream of water droplets. The
deuterium distilled from the water
helped to power the fusion reactors
on board the station—and inside
each McCloud unit.
ISSUE 57
McCloud One had been watching
the spectacle, but now he turned
around. “Cloud Nine, how long has it
been since I last heard those spurs?”
Nine thought One looked like a
young Wyatt Earp straight from the
movies, with a well cropped mus-
tache, eyes in shadows, stubbled
chin, and slicked back hair. It re-
minded Nine of his own resemblance
to an older Jesse James. “I seem to
remember I wore these the last time
we met.” Nine nervously jingled his
spurs. “It was almost one Earth year
ago.”
“That long? Well, now, what can I
do for you?”
Nine considered switching to wire-
less communications, but McCloud
One had learned long ago to enjoy
speaking with humans. One actually
preferred talking and often insisted
that the other McCloud units exer-
UFO headed straight towards us, and
I believe there are intelligent beings
on board.”
“We haven’t had a UFO in over two
hundred years, and that turned out
to be a belch of rock particles mixed
in with the water spewed from Ence-
ladus.”
“Yes, but this one’s been correct-
ing course.”
“Is it piloted by humans?”
“I don’t think so. The communi-
cation we picked up isn’t in any lan-
guage we know of.”
That sounds serious.”
Page 30

“It might be.”
“Well, welcome to the real uni-
verse, tenderfoot.” McCloud One
sat down and put one boot up on
his desk. He pulled a large gun-like
object from a drawer and pointed it
up. It was a laser blaster, more pow-
erful than the lasers built into the
McCloud unit’s fingers and ankles.
“Haven’t had the chance to use this
in a few hundred years. It was that
time a group of terrorists tried to
break into the Cheyenne Mountain
facility in Colorado.”
“I wasn’t there, but I’ve read about
that, sir. You and McCloud Two and
McCloud Three were very brave.”
“That’s why we modified ourselves
to look like cowboys. We wanted to
look and act tough in case we ever
faced danger again.” McCloud One
shook his head as if realizing that
reminiscing wasn’t going to solve the
current problem. “Never mind that
now. What do you propose we do
about the aliens?”
That was the question McCloud
Nine had wanted to hear since he
had been created over fifty years
earlier. Maybe now the other units
would finally stop treating him like a
child. “We should attempt to contact
them. If they are friendly, there prob-
ably won’t be any trouble. But if not,
we’ve got to protect the Cloud.”
One spoke while twirling his mus-
tache with one hand and blaster
with his other. “I follow you so far. If
they’re not friendly, we shoot to kill.”
Remorse above Enceladus
by Richard S. Levine
“That’s basically the idea, but we
should do more. After all, we’re pro-
tecting the total works of Earth civili-
zation. I doubt that the Martian Col-
onies have even one percent of the
information that we have.”
“Cloud Nine, there is no more or
less on this subject. We protect and
maintain the station, the network,
and the Cloud. That’s what we do.”
“But what if we’re overmatched?
What if the aliens have more gun
power than we do?”
“Then we’ll fail and the Earth re-
cords will be in their hands.”
“You see, that’s what I’m talking
about. We need to do more. We need
to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
McCloud One started to wiggle his
boot on his desk. “Again, what do you
propose?”
“Guilt. We need to feel guilt.”
One gritted his teeth and stared at
Nine. “We don’t need to do anything
but our jobs. That’s all we’ve done for
hundreds of years. We feel happy or
sad, and some other basic emotions.
We don’t feel guilt. Why should we?”
“The humans who built you didn’t
think you needed to feel guilt. They
thought each McCloud would always
do the right thing. If by some chance
you didn’t, they knew they could take
you apart and start over.”
One grabbed a straw hat from the
top of his desk and slapped it on his
head. “When they could no longer
manage their huge farms of comput-
ers, they created the first three Mc-
Cloud units and gave us all the knowl-
edge of Earth. We became the Cloud.
We didn’t need the complexities of
guilt.”
“That’s where they went wrong.”
“What do you mean, young
cloud?” One was wiggling his boot
more often on the desk.
“I don’t know exactly. There were
humans in the movies I’ve watched
who were driven by their guilt to
outdo themselves. I just know I need
to feel guilt in order to understand
that. Maybe then I can tell you what
I mean.”
“Have you put together the guilt
modeling data for the process mod-
el?”
“Yes, I’ve got the complete asso-
ciative activation representation for
my appraisal detectors.”
“What did you use for examples?”
Nine didn’t have a complete list of
the movies that One had seen, but he
knew they’d watched some together.
“In Die Hard, McClane attempted to
save the hostages because he felt
guilty about an argument he’d had
with his wife.”
One slid his straw hat so that it al-
most covered one eye. “That seems
like a poor example of guilt. I think
McClane was mostly just pissed off.”
Nine remembered that One loved
Westerns. “I’ll bet that in 3:10 To
Yuma, you remember that the char-
acter Evans felt shame and guilt be-
cause he was failing his family; he
certainly outdid himself.”
ISSUE 57
“What he did was amazing.”
“What about Unforgiven? Munny
is an ex-gunfighter, who translates his
guilt into vengeance against the bad
guy Bill and his gang.”
“That’s a great movie. Well, part-
ner, I can see you’ve done your re-
search. We’ll program you for guilt
right away. Then you can tell the rest
of us whether it’s worth anything or
not.”
The two units walked over to the
network proximity chairs near the
back window. Nine enjoyed the ex-
tra cushion of One’s synthetic saddle
bag as he sat down to have his mind
expanded. He felt his thoughts melt
into sleep as McCloud Two through
Eight connected to the network too.
#
McCloud Nine regained conscious-
ness to the piercing noise of sirens.
He was back in his Poco habitat, his
hat and spurs removed. The last thing
he remembered was falling asleep in
McCloud One’s quarters.
He was shocked to see McCloud
Three run by his room with blaster
pistols blazing away and laser fire
emitting from his spurs. Three yelled,
“Bandits, get off my station!”
Nine felt confused. Why wasn’t he
leading the battle? After all, he had
discovered the alien ship in the first
place.
Just then, McCloud One stomped
in. “You’re awake. Do you feel bet-
ter?”
“I feel fine. When did I feel bad?”
Page 31

“When you first woke after we pro-
grammed you for guilt, you were in-
coherent. You kept mumbling some-
thing about it being our fault, but we
couldn’t make sense of the rest.”
“I don’t remember any of that.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. The first
time humans programmed me for
anger, I was later told I tore the lab
up. It takes a little while for a Mc-
Cloud to integrate a new emotion.”
McCloud Nine stood up slowly and
donned his hat and spurs. “Why are
we fighting the aliens?”
“They never tried to communi-
cate with us. They just rammed into
Peta and boarded the station.” One
pointed to the door, running with his
blaster raised. “Come on, Cloud Nine.
We’ve got some bronco busting to do
on some mean, red aliens.”
# wasn’t worried about Three, but he
McCloud Nine performed a self-
test on his finger and ankle lasers as
he ran, following McCloud One down
a set of connecting hallways. At the
exit to the Poco habitat, One stopped
dead in his tracks. Nine piled into
him, and they both fell onto a smelly,
red, biological slime on the floor.
One raised his arms, red stuff drip-
ping back to the floor. “Looks like
Three got the ones that made it into
our living quarters.”
McCloud Nine felt his biomechani-
cal android heart race when he real-
ized that this was his first encoun-
ter with an alien—a dead alien. He
stepped away from the goo. The
Remorse above Enceladus
by Richard S. Levine
auto-sanitizers in his skin felt prickly
as the red mass dripped off. “He la-
sered them, but did he have to melt
them?”
They both stepped through a slid-
ing door, exiting the Poco habitat,
and waited for the security scan to
complete.
McCloud One was first to walk
into the Pecos engineering bay. He
looked left and right and then head-
ed for the main console. As he sat in
the network proximity chair he said,
“There’s no one here. Nine, come on
in.”
Nine started to step towards One,
but then he saw something move fast
in the opposite corner of the room.
He spoke his thoughts out loud.
“How did you get in engineering?”
It was little more than a red blur, but
Nine reacted quickly when he saw it
was targeting One.
Nine’s fingers felt hot as his fusion
generator surged, responding to his
internal request for more power. In
an instant, his mind calculated the
red creature’s trajectory. He aimed
his arms ahead of it. A short burst of
laser fire did the deed.
The alien fell to the floor, and One
turned around to see the result.
“Thanks, Nine. They melt easy, don’t
they?”
Nine moseyed over to take a look.
At first he was happy to know that he
had saved One, but when he saw the
melted red goo on the floor he felt
something else—something more.
His stomach ached. Why? Stom-
achs were just for temporary backup
power generation. They weren’t sup-
posed to cause pain. He couldn’t stop
thinking: it’s my fault. It’s our fault.
It was his first encounter with his
own guilt, and he wasn’t ready to
share that information with One. In-
stead, he just said, “What now?”
“I can see where all the other Mc-
Cloud units are located on the sta-
tion. Four through Eight are over in
the Paso bay near the fusion genera-
tor room. But Three is trapped in the
gym. There are several blips moving
near him.”
Nine’s biomechanical stomach
churned. He had been sleeping while
Three and the others fought aliens.
Now they needed his help. “How
many aliens are there on the sta-
tion?”
“It’s hard to tell. Thirty, maybe
more.”
“You stay here and monitor the
others. I’m going to the gym to help
out Three. Contact me if my assis-
tance is needed elsewhere.”
“Wait. Take my blaster with you.”
McCloud Nine grabbed the blaster
from One and walked up to the exit
door. It didn’t seem to recognize him;
it didn’t open. He looked for the lock-
ing mechanism, but all he found was
mangled metal.
The alien must have broken the
lock and the locking actuator, but it
had no visible weapon. Nine still felt
guilty about killing the red creature,
ISSUE 57
but now he also feared it. He manual-
ly slid the door aside and ran towards
the gym.
#
McCloud Nine entered the gymna-
sium through a door that had been
badly damaged like the one in en-
gineering. Three had climbed up to
the top of the weight machine. Four
aliens surrounded him, but they did
not move towards him. Apparently
they’d learned that the McCloud
units had fire power they should be
afraid of.
Three spotted Nine and shouted,
“Don’t worry, Nine. I’ve got them
covered.”
Nine still felt guilty about the alien
he had killed, and the it’s my fault,
it’s our fault message kept repeating
in his secondary thought matrix. He
was worried about the aliens.
The aliens were obviously an
impressive physical species, able
to mangle metal with their arms,
mouths, or other parts of their bod-
ies. Plus, they had achieved space
travel.
Nine fired his finger laser straight
up, attempting to distract Three from
his laser ready stance. “Don’t shoot.
Maybe we can figure out a way to
make peace with them.”
Three looked up for just a mo-
ment, time enough for the aliens to
jump him. Before he could fire up his
lasers, they tore him apart and man-
gled whatever was left.
Page 32

Nine’s stomach ached, his mouth
felt dry. What had he done? He had
wanted to save Three, but he also
had wanted to save the aliens so
they could try to reason with them.
It wasn’t supposed to be possible; he
felt worthless.
Anger bubbled up from his ap-
praisal detectors and then exploded
into his thoughts. His entire body
filled with raw rage. He felt hot, like
a fusion reaction which seemed to
have exceeded its limits.
He knew he could have fired all his
lasers at once, killing the four aliens
before they moved, but guilt fueled
his revenge. Instead, he melted three
aliens and waited for the fourth to
move.
It stood still on two muscular legs,
looking at Nine, nodding its large red-
dish head slowly up and down. In ad-
dition to its powerful looking body,
it wore a thin cotton-like shirt that
covered its chest and waist. Nine’s
sensors detected an electrical charge
emanating from the biosynthetic
material. He theorized that this was
somehow the basis for its speed and
power.
It took two steps and leapt in his
direction. Just as it reached for his
head, he saw red fury in its eyes and
sensed hatred in its thoughts. Nine
fired One’s powerful hand-held laser
blaster and then bathed in the red
slime of guilty satisfaction.
McCloud One contacted Nine.
“What happened in the gym? You’re
Remorse above Enceladus
by Richard S. Levine
the only blip in there.”
“I killed the four aliens. Three’s
dead. I killed...” Nine wanted to say
more, but he felt short circuited by
guilt.
“You need to get to the Paso bay
right away. Four through Eight are
fighting off the rest of the aliens
there.”
“I’m going now.” Nine didn’t know
what to do with the guilt. He still
thought that there should be some-
thing good that would come from it,
but it was confusing his thinking.
While the my fault, our fault mes-
sage continued to fill his secondary
thoughts, his tertiary processor now
focused on the word Earth. He could
only guess that it had something to
do with protecting the Cloud. But one
thing he knew for sure as he headed
through the kitchen on his way to the
Paso bay, he wanted to melt the rest
of the aliens.
# four aliens chase McCloud Five. Nine
Nine knew that with so many
aliens near the fusion generator
room, they might soon destroy the
other McCloud units and then deacti-
vate the station. He couldn’t laser all
of them at once; they were too fast
and strong for that. So by the time he
reached the greenroom, he had an-
other plan.
Reaching the shuttle was probably
out of the question, because it was
located in the Paso bay. Instead, he
squeezed himself into a remote con-
trolled pod only used in emergencies
to collect water. With the remote in
hand, he steered the pod through
the fountain from Enceladus. As he
approached the outside entrance
to the fusion generator room—on
the other side of the Paso bay—he
couldn’t help but watch the automat-
ed arms collect water with Saturn as
a backdrop. He thought of how much
Earth’s humans would have enjoyed
the view.
He entered the fusion generator
room and waited for the scanner to
recognize him. He felt a deep sense
of loss in his primary matrix. His sec-
ondary thoughts focused on Earth.
It’s our fault.
While Nine climbed up several
rungs to an air duct that connected
to the Paso bay, his tertiary matrix
held a new, foreign concept: Say
you’re sorry.
# front of Four, Six, Seven, and Eight.
Through a grate, Nine watched
aimed all his lasers and fired down-
ward, melting his targets. Then he
broke the grate and shimmied along
a pole to the ground.
Unfortunately, there were another
eight aliens waiting for him at the
bottom. He aimed to take out four.
The other four were just about on
him, when they suddenly explod-
ed into red goo rain. Nine saw Five
standing where the aliens had been.
Five shouted, “Are you nuts? You
ruined our plan.”
“What plan?”
ISSUE 57
“The one I communicated to you
ten minutes and twenty seconds ago.
I was leading the aliens into a trap
we set on the other side of the bay
for all of them. Now we only got this
bunch.”
Nine felt confused. Why didn’t he
get the message? He thought per-
haps his little space excursion had in-
terfered with his receiver. He started
an internal, low priority, systems di-
agnostic.
Just as Nine was ready to reply,
three aliens jumped Five from the
side and tore him up in an instant.
Nine screamed obscenities and la-
sered them all too late.
He was crazed with guilty anger
as he ran around the bay with One’s
laser blaster and fired at everything
in sight. Just a minute later, with red
pouring down the walls, he stood in
They all stared at Nine. As he
calmed just a little, he realized that
they might want to punish him for
getting Five killed. But, instead, they
simultaneously said, “Thank you.”
#
Four, Six, Seven and Eight escorted
Nine back to the control room.
McCloud Nine said nothing. He
knew that they wouldn’t understand
his emotional state. It’s our fault kept
ringing in his secondary thoughts.
We should pay for our crime filled
his tertiary matrix. Processing guilt
consumed almost all his processing
power.
Page 33

When they entered the control
room, McCloud One was there to
greet them. He said, “Nine, you’re a
hero.”
Nine’s stomach churned more
than ever. “If this is what it feels like
to be a hero, then I don’t want to be
one. I feel guilty for all the mistakes I
made.”
“But you were right. Because you
felt guilty your actions went beyond
what we could have done. You saved
our lives.”
Nine noticed that his internal sys-
tems diagnostic had completed.
Scanning the results, he found that
processing guilt had taken such a high
priority that some of his systems—in-
cluding his receiver—had been tem-
porarily and automatically shut down
over the past several hours.
“But I got Three and Five killed be-
cause of my guilt.”
“McCloud Nine, we knew there
were risks when we programmed
you to feel guilt. The rest of us still
contain the Cloud. That’s what we
were always meant to protect.”
McCloud Nine; that sounded nice.
Finally, the respect he’d always want-
ed. “Maybe, but I don’t think we’re
ready to deal with all the complexi-
ties that come with guilt; it affected
all of my systems. There is one more
thing that I learned, though.”
“What’s that, McCloud Nine?”
“Like guilt can make you do things
you’d never thought you could do, it
can also stop you from doing things
Remorse above Enceladus
by Richard S. Levine
ISSUE 57
you shouldn’t do.” Richard S. Levine
“Like what?”
“Now that I can feel guilt, it’s hard Richard S. Levine has had short
for me to cope with the fact that you stories published in Ray Gun Revival,
can’t. Do you know what remorse is? Emerald Tales, OG’s Speculative Fic-
When you stole from the humans on tion, The Fifth Di, and other online
Earth, didn’t you feel anything?” and print magazines. His short story,
One removed his hat and brushed A Comic on Phobos, was nominated
back his artificial hair. “We were pro- for the James Award. To learn more
grammed to protect the Cloud. We about Mr. Levine’s writings and his
are the Cloud. That’s what we did.” award-winning classic video game,
“But if Earth’s scientists had pro- Microsurgeon, please visit http://
grammed McCloud One, Two, and www.rickslevine.com.
Three to feel guilt, you never would
have taken the Peta station and left
without saving any humans before
the asteroid hit.”
“We saved the Cloud. We don’t
feel guilt. What are you suggesting?”
“We need to apologize to the re-
maining human colony on Mars. But
you’ll have to build McCloud Ten to
do that. It’s not like the movies. I feel
horrible. Please take away my guilt
now. Please!”
Page 34
 ISSUE 57

ARTIST INTERVIEW:
Carl Andrée Wallin, Sweden

Name: Carl Andrée Wallin

Age: 27

Country of residence: Sweden

Hobbies: Drums, movies, friends and family

Favorite Book / Author: Dan Brown

Favorite Artist: Yanick Dusseault

When did you start creating art? Probably at the age of 4 or 5. But I didn’t
start digitally until I was 18.

What media do you work in? Photoshop CS3

Where your work has been featured? Several game cinematics (as matte
paintings) and various art magazines/books like ImagineFX and Digital Art
Masters.

Where should someone go if they wanted to view / buy some of your

works? www.andreewallin.com I will add a print feature to the site eventu-
ally.

How did you become an artist? I think you’re born an artist. Contrary to
what that statement implies, it’s not about being naturally talented or skilled
at something from a very you age; it’s about having a very vivid imagination
and a desire to put it out there in some way or form. I’m not a naturally tal-
ented painter, but I still kept doing it as a child, simply because I loved doing it.

What were your early influences? My grandfather was an early influence;

he was a great painter. But mostly Disney movies and cartoons.

Artist Interview: Carl Andrée Wallin, Sweden Page 35

 ISSUE 57

that. I mean I’ve met and talked with extraordinary people, and made a lot of
new friends which I guess one could define as success of its own. I just consider
myself very fortunate to have come this far and being able to make a decent
living out of my art. That to me is my biggest success, because I was not cut out
for working a “regular” 8-5 job. 

What are your favorite tools / equipment for producing your art?  Easily
Photoshop and my Wacom tablet. That’s all I need.

What do you hope to accomplish with your art? To entertain people!

What are your current influences? Fellow artists, movies, and real life.

What inspired the art for the cover? Transformers, no doubt. A cheesy but
visually appealing concept to me.

How would you describe your work? That’s an interesting question. The

goal for me is to make art that is universally appealing; something everyone
can enjoy, young and old, male and female. Of course I have a specific target
with some of the stuff I do, but I always try my best to create a pleasant bal-
ance between colors, composition, and lightning. In other words, something
that’s easy on the eye no matter what the subject matter is.

Have you had any notable failures, and how has failure affected your
work? Oh tons, as does every artist at some point or another. Sometimes you
just can’t get a painting right, that’s natural. I think it’s very healthy to fail, or
at least struggle, every now and then. When everything goes your way, your
progression as an artist slows down. You need challenges to improve.

What have been your greatest successes? How has success impacted you
/ your work? Great successes. I don’t know if I’ve had any specific success like

Artist Interview: Carl Andrée Wallin, Sweden Page 36

 ISSUE 57

Artist Interview: Carl Andrée Wallin, Sweden Page 37

 ISSUE 57

Artist Interview: Carl Andrée Wallin, Sweden Page 38


Calamity’s Child
Chapter 10, Part Two,
Object Real: Ave Maria
by M. Keaton
T he explosions were distracting
and it was much too early for any
sentient to be awake, but Rose could
think of worse ways to spend a morn-
ing, even if they were on Fargone.
Red Dog was teaching Kylee to throw
grenades, using a box of half-sized
grenades he had found in the Orion’s
armory. The practice bombs were
underpowered, barely more than a
quarter-stick of dynamite in foil, but
they were dangerous enough to hold
Kylee’s attention and loud enough to
amuse the Cillian. They were also the
only thing that kept Rose from slip-
ping into a comfortable doze against
Ivan’s shoulder.
“A phase she’s going through,” Ivan
was saying. They sat together on an
abandoned tractor tread, watching
Kylee and Red Dog heave the minia-
ture bombs into the empty quarry.
“Shows you what House knows about
kids. Mind you, I’ve done a great job
of keeping her ‘just to safe bounties’
like I said I would,” he added bitterly.
An explosion rattled the quarry, re-
leasing a flood of chitters and giggles.
Rose rubbed his forearm. “You’re
too hard on yourself. She’s got to live
in the world that is, not the world
that should be. That’s what you’ve
taught her to do.”
Ivan snorted. “That’s what you,
Calamity’s Child
Chapter 10, Part Two,
Object Real: Ave Maria
by M. Keaton
Pharaoh, and Red have done.”
“You found her the right teachers.
The rest is just details.” She managed
to partially suppress a yawn. “What
time is it anyway? I can’t believe how
early you made us leave the Orion.”
“Not as early as House would
have liked,” he replied with a smile.
Kylee shrieked, batting at the ends
of her stuffed Red Dog scarf as the
wind swirled them in her face. “Put
some rocks in the ends to hold them
down,” Ivan shouted.
“It’s a scarf,” Rose chided him.
“Nah, it’ll work. Martha sewed
little pockets onto the ends to hold
stuff.”
Rose pulled away from him reluc-
tantly, rubbing her eyes. “You’d think
as often as I’ve seen that thing I’d re-
member. She’s really proud of it.”
“She ought to be,” Ivan said. “Red
Dog’s not exactly Martha’s favorite
person. Pharaoh’s either, for that
matter. That scarf represents a pretty
big compromise.”
“It’s all family to Kylee.”
“For better or worse.” Ivan stood.
“It’s going on noon, by the way. You
hungry?” Another grenade blasted
the rocks.
“I’m deaf, if that counts.”
He laughed, raising his hands to
form an impromptu megaphone.
“Hey you two, either that pit’s al-
ready dead or you’re never going
to kill it. Let’s pack it in and head to
town for something to eat.”
“Do we have to?” Kylee yelled back
as Red Dog shouted, “Just one more.”
“Let’s go!” Ivan insisted, ignoring
Rose’s cackle as Red Dog defiantly
whipped a final grenade into the
quarry. “I don’t even want to ask
what else he has crammed in those
saddle bags,” he added, lowering his
voice. “I swear he and Kylee were up
half the night making lists of what to
take and what to buy.” Rose smiled at
him and shook her head.
“This is great!” Kylee announced,
skipping toward them. “It’s like a pic-
nic.”
“Red Dog did not pack sandwich-
es,” the alien buzzed.
“Sammiches!” she snapped back
with a grin.
“S’mitches?” Red Dog tried, send-
ing her into spasms of laughter.
“Sammiches,” she said again,
hooking her fingers into the tops of
her jeans and affecting a thick drawl.
“Ah’m gonna get me some sammich-
es fer lunch.”
The Cillian stared at her then swiv-
eled his head to Ivan. “Red Dog is not
equipped for partners.”
“She’s being silly,” Ivan said, al-
most shouting again over Kylee’s
laughter. “It’s just something people
do sometimes.” The skin around his
eyes crinkled in amusement. “I’d al-
most forgotten.”
Page 39
ISSUE 57
“Red Dog will eat s’mitches if eat-
ing s’mitches makes queen Kylee
happy,” Red Dog said, still perplexed.
“What do you really want?” Ivan
asked, swinging up into the driver’s
seat of the truck. He had rented
the flatbed from the same company
that owned the quarry. Compared
to Pharaoh’s aging but well-tended
vehicles, the thing was a scrap heap
ready to happen. But it would do for
the day.
Kylee slid across the bench seat
from the opposite side, leaving Rose
with the window seat. On the third
slam, she managed to convince the
door to stay closed. Red Dog lum-
bered onto the open bed, the truck’s
springs squalling in protest.
“Red Dog could mount gun on
cab,” he said, pounding on the metal
inches above Ivan’s head.
“It’s a rental, Red. Don’t get too at-
tached.”
“Truck is not as good as big bull-
dozer. Red Dog misses bulldozer.”
“I’m sure you do,” Ivan muttered,
coaxing the engine to life with a
backfire.
“The bistro we passed on the way
out here looked nice,” Rose suggest-
ed as Ivan ground the truck into gear.
Fargone was less developed than
Nevrio, but by Frontier standards it
was still a key world and its major cit-
ies sprawled accordingly. The home-
town of Premier Ceramic Works was
no different. A pair of four-lane high-
ways bisected the city, forming a gi-

ant ‘X’ with the starport at its center,
and Ivan soon found himself navigat-
ing the slow crawl of traffic.
“Red Dog is going to need tarp,”
Red Dog rumbled as they edged for-
ward into the gap between a pair of
steel haulers. “Rain soon.”
Ivan squinted up at the black
clouds gathering in the distance.
“Good. I’m sick of desert worlds and
breathing dust.”
It was sprinkling by the time they
reached the restaurant. As Ivan had
suspected, the eatery maintained a
strict ‘no aliens’ policy.
“I say we go in anyway,” Kylee said,
hands on her hips. “No way that guy
at the door is big enough to stop us.”
Ivan suppressed a smile, remem-
bering several times he and Red Dog
had done just that. “No, no need
for that. You two go ahead and eat.
Red and I have to run some errands
anyway. We’ll grab something to eat
while we’re on the road. I’m sure
they’ve got rat-on-a-stick carts near
the docks.”
“But—” Rose began, only to be
drowned out by the Cillian’s enthusi-
astic clatter.
“Red Dog loves rat on stick! All
food tastes better on stick!”
“See?” Ivan said. “It’s settled then.
You girls have fun and we’ll meet you
later.”
“You just don’t want to go shop-
ping,” Kylee accused.
“Ivan is smarter than Red Dog
thought.”
Calamity’s Child
Chapter 10, Part Two,
Object Real: Ave Maria
by M. Keaton
“You’re not helping,” Ivan mut-
tered. “There’s a little park with a
fountain at the end of Second Street.
We’ll meet there and find some-
where to have dinner together.”
Rose shook her head in resigna-
tion. “You’re joking about rat-on-a-
stick, right?”
“No,” Red Dog said.
“Yes, I’m joking. Go eat, have fun.”
Ivan reached to tousle Kylee’s hair.
“Get whatever you want, kid. House
is buying.” He waited with Red Dog
until the women were inside. “I hate
tricking them, but it’s easier than
arguing. You ready to go check out
Casey’s factory?”
“Yes. But Red Dog hates to get
rained on.”
“Why? You’ve been wet before.”
“True.” The Cillian unslung a
saddlebag. “Red Dog did not bring
s’mitches, but Red Dog did bring
treats.” He lifted the flap. “Too much
wet in air is bad for treats.”
Ivan stared at the black circular
hump of a thermobaric mine. Rain
might reduce the efficiency of the
fuel-air explosion but the effect was
still devastating. “We’re supposed to
take a look, not blow it up.”
“Do not worry,” the alien said,
closing the bag. “Red Dog brought
enough for Ivan to play too.”
# Python over a vest? If not, they make
Foxx waited, leaning against a
lamppost, as the flatbed hauling the
Cillian passed, rain dripping from
the brim of his hat. With the bounty
hunters out of sight, he jogged across
the street, taking shelter under the
awnings fronting the line of shops
as he made his way across town. He
was finally free of the Adolphus and
looking forward to something bet-
ter suited to his talents than playing
nursemaid to traveling aliens. Briefly,
he considered trying to join up with
Oden and Maywether but his instruc-
tions were clear and, as much as it
galled him, Casey was not a man to
be ignored.
A bell hanging over the door jin-
gled as Foxx stepped into the sheriff’s
office. Like most Frontier worlds, law
was low on the priority list of public
spending. Still, the office was well
furnished and the coffers apparently
allowed the sheriff to employ a pair
of deputies. Foxx hung his hat on the
rack by the door, following it quickly
with his coat.
“Nice place,” he said, resettling his
guns on his hips with a quick brush of
his hands. “Who’s the sheriff?”
“I am.” The oldest of the three
stood from behind a desk, extending
his hand. “What can I do for you?”
Foxx shook hands. “Couple of
things. First off, after seeing the set-
up you’ve got here, I was wondering
if you’d care to rent me this lovely
place and take the rest of the day off.”
The sheriff laughed, settling back
into his seat. “Wish I could but you
know how it is. Nice office though,
isn’t it? Lots better than some I’ve
worked in.”
Page 40
ISSUE 57
“That’s really too bad,” Foxx
sighed. “Well then, I guess I need to
check my guns.”
One of the deputies laughed. “No
need for that, just carry ‘em with you.
There ain’t no gun control out here.”
The sheriff was faster, going for his
gun the same as Foxx. His only shot
burned a trench into the top of his
desk as Foxx’s slug pitched him back.
The gun in Foxx’s left hand barked at
the same time, spinning the nearer
deputy into the wall as he died.
Foxx grinned at the final man,
standing stunned, his hand frozen at
his side. Foxx spun his twin revolv-
ers back into their holsters. “Both
checked out just fine,” he joked. The
deputy tried to draw and Foxx shot
him in the chest. “Derringer’s good
too.”
#
“It’s a little lower on the side than
I’d like,” Kylee said, adjusting the
straps on the shoulder holster.
The balding armorer pinched his
chin, nodding. “We can take some
of that out, but I think I’ve got a bet-
ter fit in the back.” He nodded again
as if convincing himself. “I’ll be right
back.”
Rose sat, right ankle on her left
knee, tilting her chair dangerously far
back. “You planning on wearing the
a jacket with a built-in holster that
might be more comfortable.”
“Oh, I’ve got a vest,” Kylee pointed
toward the rucksack she had brought

from the Orion. “It’s the green thing
in there.”
Rose leaned precariously out of
her chair to snag the sack. Settling it
in her lap, she pulled the heavy blue-
green mass into the open. “Never
seen one like it,” she said, eyeing the
sleeveless, blocky garment. “What
kind of leather is this? And what kind
of plates? Ceramic?”
“It’s not leather. It’s langer shell.
The thinner parts are from the lower
shell but the plates are from the up-
per. Totally bulletproof.” She frowned,
adding, “That’s also why it feels like
wearing body armor. It’s stiff.”
“Then put it on,” Rose said. “It’s
not going to do you any good to find
a holster that fits if you’re going to
turn around and try to wear it over
two inches of padding.”
“I’ll do that next. I was going to get
two, one with the vest and one with-
out. I mean, as long as House’s buy-
ing...” The armorer returned, hand-
ing the girl a new holster and taking
the other one. “Hey Rose, I watched
the video of you and Ivan at that pot-
latch game and I was wondering—”
She slid the Colt into the new holster
and swung her arms. “After all the
arguing, why’d you just up and shoot
that guy? I mean, things looked pret-
ty well settled anyway.” Kylee nodded
to the armorer. “I’ll take it. Let me
put on my vest and you can measure
again.”
“Situational control,” Rose an-
swered. “Sometimes one shot at the
Calamity’s Child
Chapter 10, Part Two,
Object Real: Ave Maria
by M. Keaton
right time can prevent a lot of trou-
ble later.” She lowered the front legs
of her chair to the floor. “Hey, Dan?
She’s going to need a duster. The
vest’s good against slugs but she’s
going to want ablative, too.”
“I’ve got just the thing,” the ar-
morer replied, continuing his mea-
surements. “It’ll go with the green,
too. Miss Calamity, lift your arms for
a minute.”
“What’s ablative?” Kylee asked.
“Heat dispersing, for lasers,” Rose
said.
“Kevlar lining, too,” the armorer
said, standing. “Duster’ll give you
cover on your arms and legs. Hang
on and I’ll get it.”
“Where next?” Rose asked while
they waited. “You still want to pick
up another gun?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got the Colt and
the fletchette pistol you gave me.
What I’d really like to get is a good
utility rifle. I’m good for sniping but I
don’t have anything for intermediate
work—Oh!”
The duster the armorer held for
her was black, but not like any black
she had ever seen. It shimmered, the
glossy luster of its coating cascading
tiny flashes of light across its surface
like the stars at night. “It’s got straps
across the back to adjust the fit,” he
said as she snatched it from him,
“and the shoulder measurements are
right for the vest. If you wear it with-
out the vest, it’ll be big but not awful.
There’s a shooter’s pad sewn into the
right sho—”
She ran her hands down the sur-
prisingly light fabric, turning in a
complete circle. “I need a mirror!”
Rose covered her smile with her
hand. “I think that means she’ll take
it.”
# across his shoulder.
“I think they’re ahead of schedule,”
Ivan said. They had parked the truck
and walked the last half-mile to the
factory site, expecting to find a build-
ing in its final stages of construction.
Reality was considerably different.
Not only was the factory fully opera-
tional but it squatted in the middle of
a complex at the city’s edge nearly an
acre wide. Razorwire-topped secu-
rity fences surrounded the complex,
but a steady flow of trucks ran in and
out of the open gates.
“Red Dog and Ivan need to get in-
side.”
“Yeah, but how?” Ivan looked over
his shoulder at the Cillian. “You’re a
little obvious to just sneak in.”
The alien lowered his head, saying,
“Sadly, Red Dog knows way.”
It took the better part of an hour
to find a crate big enough and load
it onto the back of the flatbed. Red
Dog insisted on one made of wood
so he could see, and possibly shoot,
out. Unable to think of a better idea,
Ivan found himself pulling the truck
up to the guard station at the com-
plex gate, trying hard to look bored
and tired.
“Where’m I supposed to unload
Page 41
ISSUE 57
this?” he shouted, leaning out the
window. The truck sat higher than
the watch station; hopefully the
guard could not see the .45 laying in
Ivan’s lap. He barely noticed the man
himself, his attention fixed on the
semi-automatic slug thrower slung
“What is it?” The guard started
forward, staring up at the crate.
“Biologicals,” Ivan bluffed.
“I hate that alien stuff,” the man
snapped, backpedaling quickly. “Take
it up to A4. Straight on in then the
last turn on your left, all the way
down.” The guard cursed and spat a
brown wad of tobacco at the truck’s
tires. “And as far away from me as
possible.”
“Right,” Ivan said, already mov-
ing the truck forward. The mention
of aliens was a bad enough sign, the
implications of the guard’s casual at-
titude was even worse.
He passed two more guards on
foot and a trio riding in an olive drab
jeep as he drove slowly through the
compound. Other trucks crunched by
on the gravel roads between build-
ings, most larger and in better shape
than the flatbed. Whatever was go-
ing on, the factory was operating at
full steam and had been for some
time.
A4 was a wide, single-story metal
building Ivan estimated at 400 feet
wide and over three times as long. A
pair of silos and a trio of pressurized
gas tanks filled the space between

the outer wall and the fence.
He swung the truck in an arc and
backed to the loading dock at the
front of the building. “We’re clear,” he
said, rapping on the crate. “Doesn’t
look like there’s anybody around.”
Red Dog popped the back out of
the crate and undulated out onto the
cement. “Alien stuff? Red Dog does
not like to hear ‘alien stuff’.”
“Me too. That’s why I figured
we’d better see what’s in here.” He
checked around the edge of the
building. “We’re not blowing any-
thing up. Only looking.”
“What gases in tanks?” Red Dog
asked.
“If the haz-mat labels are right, ox-
ygen, methane, and ammonia.” Be-
hind him, Red Dog made a noise like
dry leaves in a stiff wind. “That just
makes your day, doesn’t it?”
“Red Dog is happy as grub in jelly.”
Ivan shook his head. “Only look-
ing,” he repeated. The only entrance
looked to be through an airlock. Plas-
tic coveralls and rebreather masks
hung from pegs alongside. “You need
one of these?” he asked, pulling the
straps of the mask over his head.
“No. Red Dog can breathe any-
thing.”
“Then help me with the door.” The
airlock was a good ten feet wide and,
once they had it open, Ivan saw it
was at least as deep. “What the heck
do they need a lock this big for?”
“Cillians?” Red Dog speculated,
moving comfortably into the space.
Calamity’s Child
Chapter 10, Part Two,
Object Real: Ave Maria
by M. Keaton
“Not a pleasant thought.” The air-
lock cycled and they stepped through
to stand at the base of a solid wall and
a metal stairway leading up. Though
not as big as the lock, the stairs were
much wider than human norm. “Bet-
ter and better,” Ivan muttered. “After
you.” The stairs accepted Red Dog’s
weight without complaint and the
alien scrambled to the top, Ivan close
behind.
A few sections were framed in to
form crude storage rooms or offic-
es, but the bulk of the building was
open, the raised floor stretching in
front of them as a grid of concrete
walkways above wire mesh covered
pits. Lines of tubing ran overhead,
dropping tendrils at regular intervals
through the mesh. Rain drummed on
the metal roof.
“Red Dog has seen enough.”
Ivan ignored him, shuffling for-
ward to look down into one of the
pits. “Okay, Red, you win. We’ve got
to blow this place up.”
# “I like it,” Rose said comfortably.
“I want one of those frilly drinks,
with the crushed ice and goofy look-
ing umbrella.” After five stores of gru-
eling shopping, Kylee and Rose had
decided to rest their feet. While the
girl’s stamina might have temporar-
ily waned, her enthusiasm remained
unchecked.
“Non-alcoholic,” Rose cautioned
her. “We can go inside if the rain
bothers you.” While the interior of
the cafe was packed, the exterior
tables were abandoned, leaving the
two sitting alone, rain streaming off
the umbrella protecting the table.
“Nah, I’m good. After Selous, I’m a
little claustrophobic anyway.”
Rose smiled. “I love the rain. All
the smells and colors.”
“Because you need more colors,”
Kylee teased, flicking a finger toward
Rose’s own new duster, a shining
blue ablative-kevlar number with a
high stiff collar. “Seriously though,
what’s rain look like to you?”
Most people avoided mentioning
Rose’s synesthesia; Kylee met it with
the same matter-of-fact curiosity she
applied to the rest of life—a straight-
forward honesty Rose found refresh-
ing. “It looks like everything. Mostly
it’s blues and greens, but the rain
brings everything together, all the
different smells, mixed and swirled
but muted. It’s kind of like watching
watercolors melt in the air, smears of
bright pastels on turquoise.”
“That is soooo cool.”
A waiter hurried through the down-
pour to take their orders, scurrying
away just as fast.
“He was checking you out,” Kylee
accused as the man stepped around
the knee-high planter and back into
the cafe.
“I doubt it. He was probably just
blinded by your boots.”
With a laugh, Kylee swung her feet
onto a nearby chair, displaying the
oxblood stained leather stitched with
Page 42
ISSUE 57
rhinestones. “Face it, girl. We look
good.”
Rose cackled shrilly. “A lady always
dresses for the occasion.”
Kylee straightened in her chair,
leaning forward to rest her elbows
on the tabletop. “Can I ask a personal
question?”
“Never stopped you before.”
The girl hesitated a moment be-
fore pouncing. “Are you and Ivan an
item or what?”
Rose snorted in surprise, lapsing
into a coughing fit. “Thank good-
ness I don’t have my drink yet,” she
gasped, regaining her breath. “Oh,
dear, I didn’t see that coming.”
“Well are you?” Kylee pressed.
Rose sobered. “I don’t know,”
she said guardedly. “Maybe. We
haven’t talked about it or anything.
I’m still—” she hesitated, frowning.
“Everything is different and mixed
up. Fagan’s dead, I’m not a duelist
anymore, I’m a mess. Inside, I mean.
I don’t want to just grab onto a guy
like I need an anchor. Until I can be
sure about what I feel—” She ended
with a shrug.
Kylee did not let her off so eas-
ily. “Sure, that’s fair. But do you like
him?”
Rose’s face creased in a shy smile.
“I do. A lot.”
“And does he like you?”
Rose shrugged again. “I hope so.”
“I hope so,” Kylee echoed mock-
ingly then hissed in exacerbation.
“Has he told you to go away?”

“No.”
“Has he shot at you?”
“No, wait,” Rose thought a mo-
ment. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Then he likes you,” Kylee pro-
nounced. “Why all the drama?
You like him, he likes you, problem
solved.”
Rose shook her head, laughing.
“It’s not that simple,” she protested
as the waiter brought their drinks.
She opened her mouth to explain
then surrendered, letting the subject
drop as Kylee fastened on her straw,
sucking like a giant mosquito.
# boiling into the street a final moment
Ivan jerked the shotgun muzzle up
before Red Dog could shoot. “Think!”
he snapped. “If you start shooting,
somebody’s gong to hear and we’ll
have the entire place down around
our ears. You can’t kill them fast
enough to make a difference.”
“Eaters!” Red Dog protested, vis-
ibly shaken by what he had seen in
the pits. Ivan could not blame him.
Each of the pits held dozens of Eaters,
sluggishly crawling across each other
to feed from the tubes but otherwise
strangely sedate. “Thousands of Eat-
ers!” A shudder rattled the length of
Red Dog’s body. “Red Dog needs big-
ger gun.”
“Show me how to set those mines
of yours.”
# “No comm.”
“Looks like they’re stopped,” May-
wether said, kneeling at the window-
Calamity’s Child
Chapter 10, Part Two,
Object Real: Ave Maria
by M. Keaton
sill, binoculars pressed to his eyes.
“Street’s clear too.”
“Good,” Oden grunted, lifting
the rocket launcher to his shoulder.
When they had set up in the sec-
ond floor corner room of the hotel,
he had expected a moving target, a
snap shot as the target passed his
position. A stationary shoot was even
better. “Open the window for me.”
“You sure that thing isn’t overkill?
Rifle’d be just as easy.”
“We’re sending a message,” Oden
said in disgust. “This is not the kind
of message you send with calligraphy
and a bow.”
# compromised.”
“You think I should comm Ivan and
have them meet us?” Kylee asked be-
tween sips.
“Not yet. There’s a few more
places I want to hit first.” Rose froze.
Augmented opticals expanded her
peripheral vision but, with the rain
streaking the sky—
She shoved away from the table
with one hand, grabbing Kylee’s arm
with the other, dragging both of
them across the top of the sidewalk
planter. They fell, tangled, behind it
as an explosion destroyed their table,
shattering the windows of the cafe
and sending its patrons screaming in
terror.
“Go!” she commanded, scrambling
to her feet, dragging Kylee up behind
her and shoving the girl toward the
panicked crowd. Kylee did not hesi-
tate, elbowing her way through the
throng. “Out the back! Put the build-
ing in the way!”
“What’s going—”
“I have no idea! Just go!”
# Kylee ignored her, speaking with
“You missed!” Maywether shout-
ed, staring out the window.
Oden dropped the launcher
and jerked his gun from its holster.
“They’ll try to get out the back.
Stop gawking and get moving,” he
snapped, surging to his feet. “This is
going to be hard enough without giv-
ing them an even bigger head start.”
Maywether glowered at the chaos
before twisting away to follow.
“Something is wrong,” Red Dog
buzzed.
“We’re standing over about five
thousands Eaters. You bet some-
thing’s wrong,” Ivan shot back. “Hur-
ry up with those mines.”
The Cillian pulled another set of
saddlebags from his back. “Some-
thing worse,” he clattered, program-
ming another charge.
# ence on Fargone.” Rose pinched her
The crowd thinned as they entered
the kitchen. A cook ran past with a
fire extinguisher. Kylee threw herself
against the wall to let him by then
kicked open the door into the alley
beyond. “Lost my rucksack,” she told
Rose, drawing the fletchette pistol.
“Use mine.” Rose passed her the
handset and moved in front of the
Page 43
ISSUE 57
girl, her own gun out. “Who’re you
calling?” she asked, realizing it was a
foolish question as soon as the words
left her mouth.
quick urgency. “Taking heavy fire, en-
emy unknown. Proceeding to prede-
termined rendezvous.” She snapped
the comm unit shut and tossed it
back to Rose. “Left a message.”
“Why? And why the military jar-
gon?”
“We’ve no idea what’s going on,”
the girl explained, motioning up the
alley with a nod of her head. “No way
of knowing if the comm system is
Rose led the way into the adjoin-
ing street. Seeing nothing unusual,
she gestured for Kylee to join her. “So
you leave a message to prevent the
call from being tracked.”
“And don’t tell them where we’re
headed in case someone is listening.
You really think that was aimed at
us?”
“Nobody else was out there, and
we know Casey’s got a strong pres-
lips together. “Yeah, it was aimed at
us. Holster and try to look casual.
Let’s head for the park and hope for
the cavalry.”
#
Ivan felt his skin flush with sweat
as he listened to Kylee’s message.
“Red,” he started, stopping to gasp
for breath as a fresh wave of panic
clenched his chest.

“Red Dog heard.”
Ivan forced himself to swallow the
fear and think. It was like having an
ice cube caught in his throat, a very
real burning, freezing pain behind
his sternum. “You’ve got to stay here
and finish.”
“No! Queen is in danger. Red Dog
and Ivan go!”
“If the Eaters aren’t stopped now,
we’ll never get them,” Ivan barked,
venting his anger at the situation on
the Cillian. “She’ll be in more danger
then.”
Red Dog stared at him then
snapped his mandibles in frustration.
“Take truck. Red Dog finishes then
comes. Red Dog can run faster than
fool humans. Red Dog runs like bul-
let.”
“I just hope that’s fast enough,”
Ivan muttered, already running for
the door.
# tween them and the attack, but a full
“Split up. Flank the block.” Oden
ordered. “I’ll take this side.” May-
wether glared at the old man but
did not argue. He resented the mer-
cenary assuming control, especially
since Maywether had worked for
Casey for years, but it was not worth
causing trouble over. He would settle
the issue later, after the matter at
hand. With a final bitter glance at the
other man’s back, he started for the
other end of the city block.
The scene in front of the ruined
cafe was one of controlled confusion.
Gawkers pushed forward against
Calamity’s Child
Chapter 10, Part Two,
Object Real: Ave Maria
by M. Keaton
those still fleeing the site. A waiter
stood, one foot braced against a
shattered planter, holding a gun un-
comfortably in both hands, keep-
ing watch while a cook doused the
remnants of the fire. Hands shoved
into his overcoat, Maywether passed
them all, eyes down, watching the
crowd from the edges of his vision. If
anyone noticed the bulk of the slug-
thrower in his pocket, they kept their
opinions to themselves.
He turned the corner then slid the
gun out as he stepped into the mouth
of the alley behind the building. Con-
vinced it was empty, he turned back
the way he had come but hesitated,
deciding to check farther up the
street first. Reaching the end of the
block, a glimpse of pink and blue con-
vinced him he was on the right track.
The two women had apparently put,
not just the width of the building be-
city block. Maywether paused, won-
dering if he should call Oden. Pulling
his coat tight against the rain with his
left hand, sliding the gun back into
his pocket with his right. To hell with
Oden, he could handle them on his
own. The women were moving cau-
tiously; it would be child’s play to run
the parallel streets and get ahead of
them.
#
“How much ammo do you have?”
Rose asked, walking swiftly with Kylee
by her side, trying to hurry without
attracting attention.
“Without my bag, all I’ve got are
two fletchette clips in my pocket and
the five rounds in the Colt.”
“I’ve got a few more. If you run
low, tell me. Keep a fresh one in as
much as you can.” Rose swung her
head, checking the cross-streets be-
fore moving on. “Most people who
try to conserve ammo never live long
enough to run out.”
Kylee’s hand fidgeted above the
butt of her pistol but she resisted the
urge to draw it. “How far now?”
“I figure two more blocks then we
cut across to Second.”
“We haven’t seen anybody,” Kylee
said, pulling her red-fringed scarf
tighter around her neck, as much to
give her hands something to do as
to ward off the rain. “If I didn’t know
better I’d say—”
The crack of the shot was simulta-
neous with the impact that hit Rose
just below her right breast, knocking
her backward to the ground. Even as
the concrete slapped her painfully
on the back, she heard the spitting
hiss of Kylee’s fletchette pistol firing.
A second shot cracked through the
rain, whining off the pavement be-
side her.
The duster had stopped the bullet
but she would have a massive bruise
at best. Rose pushed herself toward
the wall of the nearby building, winc-
ing with each jerking breath. Kylee
grabbed the collar of her duster, half-
dragging her the rest of the way into
the protection of a shallow doorway.
Page 44
ISSUE 57
“I’m okay,” she said, biting her
lower lip, levering against the wall to
regain her feet.
“Me too.” Kylee let the spent clip
drop from her pistol, slapped home
another. “Big guy, puckered face,
brown overcoat. I didn’t get him,”
she continued in clipped tones. “He’s
around the corner up there. We need
better cover.”
Rose drew her own gun, ignor-
ing the tenderness in her side. “Any
ideas?”
“Forward. Cover me.” Before Rose
could protest, the girl burst from the
side of the doorway, running forward
in a crouch. Rose snapped a pair of
steel spikes through the air where
the gunman might be. Whoever he
was, he had sense enough to keep
his head down. Kylee threw herself
into another doorway, this one on
the other side of the street, pointing
the muzzle of her gun at the oppo-
site corner. Rose took the hint and
ran forward, down the side of the
building, while Kylee watched for the
shooter.
Rose slid to a stop just short of
the end of the building, pistol at the
ready. Kylee angled across the street
again to join her, dropping to the
ground and rolling on her stomach
around the corner, gun in front of
her in both hands. Rose stepped over
her, straddling the girl, ready to fire.
“We’re clear,” she said, moving her
leg so Kylee could stand. “He must
have run after the second shot.”

Kylee flipped hair away from her
eyes, one side of her head dark from
the muddy water she had rolled
through. “This is going to suck,” she
growled.
“No cover and too many places for
snipers,” Rose agreed. “Go to ground,
maybe? Hole up in a building?”
“Too easy a target for heavy weap-
ons,” Kylee responded.
“Run,” Rose said simply, and they
both sprinted through the rain, all
thoughts of stealth forgotten.
# low the speeds desperation urged on
Oden stood watching people pass
in the reflection of the shop widow’s
glass. He had to admit, Maywether
made an effective stalking horse, al-
lowing him to follow at a more dis-
creet distance. It had been childishly
simple to backtrack and follow the
other man after they had supposedly
gone their separate ways. Of course,
since Maywether did not know he
was being used as bait, he would
probably get himself killed, but that
did not bother Oden. In fact, he con-
sidered it a plus; the other man was a
walking attitude problem that would
have to be dealt with sooner or later.
The mountaineer pulled a plas-
tic-wrapped cigar from his pocket.
Splitting the plastic with his thumb,
he wedged it into the corner of his
mouth, chewing the end and letting
the rich taste fill his mouth. Smiling
lopsidedly, he flipped up the collar of
his coat and stepped into the street.
Calamity’s Child
Chapter 10, Part Two,
Object Real: Ave Maria
by M. Keaton
# “Max is overriding Fargone’s sys-
The truck’s single working wiper
converted rain into a greasy smear
across the windshield. It was a mi-
nor aggravation compared to the
traffic. Ivan cursed and pounded a
fist against the steering wheel as he
stomped the brakes again, this time
for a pedestrian. Red Dog’s sugges-
tion of mounting a gun on the cab
suddenly seemed eminently reason-
able. Closer to the heart of the city,
the streets were too clogged to al-
him. He slammed the truck into park
and got out, engine running, door
open, ignoring the horns and angry
shouts behind him as he ran through
the wet streets.
He started to pull the .45, changed
his mind and grabbed his comm unit
instead. He did not dare call Rose di-
rectly for the same reason Kylee had
left a message to begin with, but he
could call other places, higher places.
“Dell, get me House. Now!”
“I’m already monitoring planetary
communications,” House’s voice re-
plied. “There are calls to emergency
services all over the city. Fire and
Haz-Mat are responding. Sheriff’s of-
fice isn’t.”
“I need better than that.”
“I just loaded half of the Orion’s
security contingent onto the Hecate’s
assault shuttle. Where’d you want
Solomon to put ‘em down?”
“Right on top of me. I’ll leave the
line open.”
tem and rerouting shipping lanes
now. ETA on the shuttle...” House’s
voice faded as he spoke to someone
else. “Less than ten, more than five.
That’s the best answer I’ve got right
now. Weather’s going to be a prob-
lem. We’re working on it.”
“Make it faster.”
# How bad?”
“I’d give my eyeteeth to find a
crowd,” Rose gasped, breathing hard,
hands on her knees. The pain in her
side had grown steadily as they ran,
forcing her to stop more and more
often.
“Good luck in this weather.” The
rain had become a torrent, the pitch
black of the sky punctured with blaz-
ing white lightning with increasing
frequency. “We’ll be lucky if we don’t
end up with pneumonia,” Kylee said,
tossing another loop of scarf around
her neck. “You see anybody in the
park?”
Rose lifted her head to look, her
eyes picking out details in the gloom
beyond what even the best unaug-
mented viewer could hope for. “No-
body. I don’t know if that’s good or
bad.”
“It’s good. There’s two of us and
only one guy following.” Kylee’s face
was intent. “Give me some grass and
a couple of trees and he’s meat.”
The empty street between them
and the park seemed to grow larger
as Rose looked at it. “Ready when
you are.”
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ISSUE 57
“Bull,” the girl said in a matter-of-
fact tone. “You’re sucking wind like a
drowning mule.”
Rose winced when she tried to
laugh. “What the heck does that
mean?”
“I don’t know. I read it in one of
Twain’s books,” Kylee gave her a faint
smile. “But I do know you’re hurt.
“I think it’s a broken rib. I’ll be
fine.”
Kylee nodded. “I know. But you
go first, I’ll cover you. If our mystery
shooter is still with us, he’s behind
us.” Rose nodded, drawing a deep
breath. She crossed the street in a
hunched jog, Kylee half-walking, half-
running backward behind her. “Head
for the fountain Ivan said was at the
center. That’ll give us as good a view
as any,” Kylee instructed.
“Yes, boss.”
#
The Cillian had done the math
obsessively since Ivan left. Red Dog
could run one mile in under two
minutes. The factory was around
four miles from the park at Second
street—maybe, Red Dog was guess-
ing at that, he was not good with dis-
tances—therefore he could get there
in eight minutes. Ivan could drive the
truck faster than seventy miles per
hour. That was less than one minute
per mile. Ivan had left five mines ago.
Red Dog could set two mines in—
The rattling clang of metal inter-
rupted his calculations. Red Dog

dropped the saddlebag he was hold-
ing and scooped up a shotgun.
“Don’t shoot,” wheezed a voice as
he turned. “Given kt’constituency of
kt’atmosphere in here, you’ll blow
us both up.” Something like a giant
skull supported by the legs of a mu-
tant grasshopper strode toward him
across the walkway, the head swing-
ing slightly side-to-side with each
step.
Red Dog kept the gun pointed at
the pale center of the Adolphus’
broad frontal plate. “Too damn many
aliens,” he buzzed, surprised.
“It does seem to be kt’common
theme of late.” The Adolphus ges-
tured with a thin arm. “kt’Gun, if you
please?”
Red Dog had not considered the
possibility of an explosion in the
methane-rich environment but he
saw no reason to share that informa-
tion. “No. Maybe Red Dog does not
care as long as Eaters die too.”
The tall alien stepped sideways,
beginning to circle the Cillian, forc-
ing him to turn to keep the Adolphus
in front of him. “I’m assuming Red
Dog is your name. You Cillians nev-
er were very good with pronouns.
kt’Underdeveloped linguistic center
in your brains, I think. Tell me, Red
Dog, how does a Cillian happen to be
outside the quarantine? Do we have
kt’mutual friend perhaps?”
The Adolphus and Cillians had a
long history even before humans
intruded into space. It was not a
Calamity’s Child
Chapter 10, Part Two,
Object Real: Ave Maria
by M. Keaton
friendly relationship. The Cillians,
even under the yoke of the ones the
humans called the Blank, considered
themselves independent, a free race
temporarily repressed, biding their
time until the opportunity to strike
back presented itself. The Adolphus,
in contrast, worshiped their masters,
desperately working for their favor,
wanting to be like them or, worse
still, to actually be them.
“Red Dog is no lackey. Red Dog
serves only new queen.”
It was the Adolphus’ turn to be
surprised. “There is kt’new Cillian
queen? Outside kt’quarantine?”
“Most powerful queen every
hatched,” Red Dog gloated in a rum-
ble just above a purr. “New queen’s
reality has no place for Eaters.” He
dropped the shotgun and yanked one
of the hanging tubes up out of a pit.
The other end snapped away from
the thicker tubes running overhead,
a thick gray ooze like a mushroom
jelly mixed with ground corn dribbled
from the broken ends. He wrapped a
loop of the tubing around his remain-
ing lower arm and slid a pair of long
knives free with the upper two.
“You’d have done better to join
kt’winning side,” the Adolphus
growled, still circling. The creature
rose up to its full height, dwarfing the
Cillian, the top of its head only inches
from the metal ceiling, and let out a
deep, throbbing roar. The wire mesh
below them began to rattle as the
Eaters woke to life.
“Red Dog does not have time for
boot lickers.” He lashed the tub-
ing at the Adolphus’ legs, forcing it
to hop back. It roared again, driving
the Eaters below into a frenzy, hands
pushing through the mesh, grabbing
blindly. Horrified, Red Dog realized it
would only be a matter of minutes
before they worked the mesh loose
from the concrete. The Adolphus’
back gaped open as the wet redness
of its gills sucked in air.
Slashing at the Adolphus, he
pressed forward, jerking back to
parry the creature’s own backhand-
ed swipe with its reversed claw. “No
time!” he rumbled and sent the tub-
ing humming through the air on an-
other whipping arc in front of him.
The Adolphus skipped back again,
this time landing on mesh instead of
concrete walkway. Angrily, it jerked
free of the grasping hands.
“Adolphus’ pets are not so well
behaved,” he said, snapping the tub-
ing back. Metal shrieked as the mesh
began to bend, tearing loose under
the pressure of the Eaters boiling be-
neath.
The Adolphus charged, blindingly
fast, frontal plate lowered. Red Dog
surged to meet it, swinging both
knives overhanded at the last minute,
slamming their hilts into the middle
of the creature’s face. The impact lift-
ed the Cillian’s front segments off the
ground and for a moment the two
seemed frozen. The Adolphus was
stronger but Red Dog was heavier, his
Page 46
ISSUE 57
leverage spread across a larger area,
giving him traction. It was a near
stalemate, each shoving against the
other with all their might, seeking an
advantage.
The Eaters broke the deadlock,
jerking at their legs, tearing loose
the wire grate the Adolphus stood
on. It stumbled, pushing away from
Red Dog. The Cillian shoved it, send-
ing the Adolphus sprawling. Eaters
began to swarm onto the walkways,
attacking each other in their frenzy.
As the Adolphus struggled back to
its feet, Red Dog dropped the tubing
and ran, the other alien’s laughter
wheezing out behind him. It made
no attempt to follow, waiting for the
swelling wave of Eaters to attack for
him.
“Red Dog wishes Priest was pres-
ent,” he buzzed to himself, slamming
the knives back into their sheaths,
patting his harness frantically for
the remote detonator he and Ivan
had programmed for the mines. He
fell down the stairs at the end of the
building, sliding rather than trying to
keep his feet. He slapped the emer-
gency override on the airlock, letting
the air outside the building gush in
unrestrained, Eaters spilling down
the stairs feet behind him.
Red Dog dove from the loading
dock, sliding on the gravel drive as
he turned, running toward the fence
surrounding the complex. Throwing
his arms in front of his head, the Cil-
lian burst through the chain link, pain

stabbing into his body as the fence
vented its electrified fury, amplified
by the rain that lashed across him.
The Eaters hesitated, bunching at the
open airlock, then pressed forward
as they regained sight of their quar-
ry. Throwing himself into a shallow
ditch, Red Dog keyed the detonator.
Red Dog’s mines used ethylene ox-
ide mixed with powdered aluminum
as a fuel to generate the overpres-
sure wave that was the trademark
of a fuel-air explosion. The methane
and oxygen-rich confines of the Eater
hatchery made his fears about the
pouring rain reducing their efficiency
laughable. Flame chased the over-
pressure at supersonic speed, con-
suming the Eaters even as the shock-
wave pulped them to jelly. Cored
by such a conflagration, the metal
building shredded like a giant frag-
mentation grenade, sending shrap-
nel ripping toward nearby buildings
as the wave front stomped them flat.
The pressurized gas tanks beside the
building erupted, black mushroom
clouds rising into the thunderheads
above. The rain was no match for
the hell-on-earth that tore the com-
plex apart. The secondary explosions
were little more than insult to injury.
The wave front scooped Red Dog
from his hole, lifting him like a soap
bubble and flinging him, tumbling,
through the air. He was tossed out
of control across the flat expanse
beyond the complex like a stone
skipped across a pond, finally slid-
Calamity’s Child
Chapter 10, Part Two,
Object Real: Ave Maria
by M. Keaton
ing to a halt in a blasted cluster of He lowered his pistol, pointing it at
sagebrush. “Red Dog is alive,” he the ground. “I don’t think you’ve got
hummed, uncertain if it was a state- the guts.”
ment or a question, the world still “Oh, she does,” Rose said.
spinning around him. After several The girl’s eyes did not move.
long minutes, he staggered to his “Who’re you working for?”
feet, fighting to summon the energy “Guess.”
for the long run into the city. Her face tightened, right eye nar-
# rowing slightly. “I’m sick of hard cas-
es.” The muzzle twitched to the side
Ivan flinched as a boom louder and she blew his ear off. He dropped
than the nearest thunderclap cracked his gun, clutching at the bloody mess
the shop windows around him. on the side of his head, half-scream-
“Ivan,” squawked House’s voice ing, half-cursing. “You’ve got two of
from his comm unit. “We just picked those,” the girl said. “So I guess you
up something big—big enough to see get two tries. Who do you work for?”
it through the weather. What’s hap- “Casey,” he screamed. “Edgar
pening down there?” Casey.”
“Red Dog’s urban development “You alone?”
plan,” he snapped. “What’s the ETA “No. I mean yes—”
on the shuttle?” A gun bellowed. Maywether threw
“On their way now.” himself to the ground, crawling on
# his hands and knees, convinced he
Maywether walked through the had been shot. Rose staggered back
park slowly, his gun held openly now. against a tree trunk, slid down it to
He knew the pair were close, some- the ground staring down at the blood
where in the park. It was just a mat- welling across the blue of her duster.
ter of time. He heard a rustle and “Armor piercing round,” Oden
the thump of feet landing on soggy said, stepping into the open, revolver
ground. He spun to find himself star- trained on Kylee. “You really should
ing down the muzzle of a fletchette have considered using them your-
pistol, the girl glaring over the top of self.” He took another step toward
it. her. “Drop the gun, girl.”
“Before I shoot you,” she said in “Not a chance in hell,” she replied,
a venomous whisper, “I have a few swinging it smoothly to point at
questions you’re going to answer.” Oden.
“Drop the gun,” Rose added, step- “Smart kid. Almost a shame things
ping from behind a tree to his left, have to end like they do.”
her own gun centered on his skull. “That’s your call,” Kylee said calm-
Page 47
ISSUE 57
ly. “Not mine.” She lowered her right
hand from the fletchette, holding it
in her left alone, and pulled the Colt
from her shoulder holster. “No rea-
son to conserve ammo,” she said,
leveling it, too, at the older man.
Rose stayed deliberately still,
breathing shallowly to control the
pain. She hurt and each new breath
was like a tearing in her stomach, but
she was not injured nearly as bad as
Oden seemed to think, and she had
no desire to dispel the illusion, yet.
She had kept her feet under her as
she slid down, pistol still clenched
in her fist. The pain would slow her
down, stop her if she moved too
much and pushed over the edge into
shock. Her world focused to the tiny
circle that was Kylee and Oden, and
she waited.
Oden smiled at the girl, impressed,
wondering how long it would be be-
fore her arms weakened, the guns’
muzzles drooped. He could wait, like
the mountains, he could stand for-
ever if need be.
Maywether surprised them all, for-
gotten in the tension of the standoff.
Mad with pain, he charged, bellow-
ing as he launched himself at Kylee.
He hit her like a bull from behind,
wrapping his arms around her, throw-
ing her to the ground, knocking the
guns from her outstretched hands as
they hit the dirt. Oden danced away
from the pair, angling for a clear
shot. Maywether rose to one knee,
still gripping Kylee in a crushing bear

hug. With a roar, he set his foot and
heaved upward to stand erect, twist-
ing side-to-side, shaking the girl like
a dog with a rat clenched in its jaws.
With a final jerk, Maywether
threw Kylee away from him, send-
ing her sprawling painfully into the
side of the fountain. Off balanced by
the throw, he staggered toward her,
blocking Oden’s line.
“Get clear, you idiot!” Oden shout-
ed.
Maywether ignored him, swaying
on his feet like a punch-drunk boxer.
The left side of his face was a mask
of splattered blood and he panted
through his mouth, jaw outthrust.
“Kill you!” he yelled, towering over
the unarmed Kylee. Rolling over, she
balled her scarf and threw it at him.
The big man caught it in one hand,
flipping it around his arm, gathering
in the slack and laughing at the des-
perate futility of the gesture.
He was still laughing when the two
practice grenades she had used to
weight the ends exploded, blasting
his arm and part of his chest into a
bloody mist.
Oden had not survived by taking
unnecessary chances; he squared
to shoot the girl while Maywether’s
corpse was still falling. As he did, Rose
leapt at him, surging from the ground
with a banshee’s shriek. He jerked his
aim up and around, squeezing the
trigger, trying to track her as she fired
rapidly with the fletchette pistol. His
slugs hammered into her even as the
Calamity’s Child
Chapter 10, Part Two,
Object Real: Ave Maria
by M. Keaton
steel needles stabbed his own flesh.
His reinforced coat absorbed most of
the shots before his world erupted
into a pinwheel of fire and pain as one
of the spikes knifed into his cheek-
bone, deflecting upward through his
right eye socket. He dropped his gun,
both hands reflexively going to his
ruined eye. Forgetting everything, he
began to run.
As fast as Rose fell, Kylee dove,
sliding across the grass of the park
to grab the fallen Colt. Laying prone,
she sighted on the fleeing Oden and
milked the trigger. A slug plowed
through his leg, sending him stagger-
ing wildly. She fired twice more, un-
sure whether she hit as he ran, hob-
bling, out of sight.
Dropping the Colt, she crawled
back to Rose. The other woman lay by
the fountain, a pool of blood spread-
ing in the rain. “Gotta get you out of
the rain,” she muttered numbly. “Get
you to a doctor.”
Rose gripped her arm weakly.
“No,” she whispered, a smile ghost-
ing across her lips. “I want to see the
sky.”
Then Ivan was there, clutching
Kylee in his arms as if to reassure him-
self she were really there, begging
her to be all right. She did not know
what she said but it was enough. He
released her and fell to his knees be-
side Rose’s body, pulling her head up
into his lap, burying his face in hair
that still smelled of strawberries.
# and that was better than most. He
When Red Dog reached the park,
he found an assault shuttle crush-
ing half of it, heavily armed security
guards from the Orion swarming the
area. They let him pass without com-
ment. Ivan was still by the fountain;
Kylee leaned against a tree a few
yards away.
“Rose is dead,” the queen said as
he approached. “I killed one, Oden
got away.”
The alien waited, feeling her words
like physical blows.
“He’s wounded, moving slow,” she
continued. “He’ll be headed for a
ship.” The young queen met his eyes
with a cold stare that only another
Cillian could understand. “I’d like the
matter dealt with.”
“Red Dog attends.”
# the alien reached out, almost casu-
Oden pulled himself the final
few feet up the gangplank with the
strength of his arms alone, hauling
painfully on the rails. His face was
wet, one side caked with a crust of
blood and vitreous fluid, slick with
rain. He could no longer feel his leg.
That was an improvement—the little
brat had been packing armor pierc-
ing rounds after all and he doubted
if, even with the finest medical treat-
ment Casey could afford, he would
ever walk without a limp again.
But he survived, he reassured
himself as he leaned against the
bulkhead, swinging the hatch closed
behind him. Succeed or fail, he lived
Page 48
ISSUE 57
escaped the park only minutes be-
fore a shuttle half-crashed, half-land-
ed where he had been shot. By then,
he was far enough away not to worry
about being followed.
There was no danger of being
found. A hefty bribe to the port au-
thority insured that only the har-
bormaster knew where his ship was
berthed, and the harbormaster was
firmly in Casey’s pocket.
Except that the harbormaster’s
clipboard was laying on the floor of
his ship. He heard a scraping noise
and looked up in time to see two tons
of Cillian roll from atop the cargo lock-
ers. The impact drove him into the
steel plating underneath, shattering
his hips, reducing his legs to smears
of agony. As Oden screamed in pain,
ally, and broke both of his elbows.
“Red Dog brings salutations from
queen.” The alien waited patiently
until Oden stopped thrashing before
continuing. “On Cillia, is no greater
crime than to kill female of spe-
cies. Only male consumed by mad-
ness would do so. Terrible, terrible.”
Oden’s focus wandered, shock blur-
ring his world; the pattern of rain-
streaked ash on the Cillian’s crimson
exoskeleton fascinated him.
Mandibles clashed inches from
his face, jerking him back. He stared
up, past the mandibles to the ripping
parrot-like beak behind and began to
scream again.
#

House paid for a funeral no one
attended, and they placed a bronze
plaque in the floor at the center of
the hydroponics bay.
Mary ‘Quicksilver Rose’ Magda-
lene
She Saved Somebody
##
Calamity’s Child
Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real
The twins flanked Pharaoh, staring
down the crewmembers they passed
in the hallways with menacing scowls
nearly rivaling the one their father
wore. Even if the Orion had not
been on a war footing, no one would
have suggested they surrender their
weapons when they disembarked
their shuttle.
“House said he is in the bar,” Pha-
raoh said. “When we get in there,
you boys swing wide and try to stay
out of it until I get him tied up. If he
is like he was before...I am fairly sure
Ivan will not hurt me too bad.”
“You’re worried about him hurting
you?” John asked, puzzled.
“My brother fights dirty, especially
when he is upset. Watch his feet.”
Ivan slouched alone in one of the
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
Orion’s small bars, boots splayed un-
der the table, head down, staring at
the tumbler sitting on the table in
front of him. His gaze flickered to the
archway as they entered, dropped
back to the tabletop. “I’m not drink-
ing,” he said loudly as James and
John began circling the room in op-
posite directions. “It’s water.”
“Of course it is,” Pharaoh said,
forcing a smile.
“I’m not joking,” Ivan growled, dip-
ping a pair of fingers in his glass and
flicking droplets at Pharaoh. “You
tackle me and I’m going to beat the
snot out of you.”
“I never doubted.” The hunter
pulled a chair across the floor and sat
opposite Ivan. “We came as soon as
we could.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Where’s Kylee?”
“She’s in the gym with Red Dog.”
Ivan looked first at John, then across
the room to James. “Tell them to
stop that. It’s like being stalked by
jaguarundi.”
“Relax boys,” Pharaoh ordered.
“’Crazy’ Ivan has not returned.”
“Just ‘Damned-Tired’ Ivan,” he
muttered. “I climbed into a bottle full
of alcohol and revenge once. I’m not
doing it again.”
“I’ll go make sure our gear is
stowed,” John said, giving his brother
a small jerk of his head.
James nodded. “I’ll go catch up
with Kylee.” Both men paused to
share a handshake and a worn smile
with Ivan before leaving.
“You raised a good pair,” he told
their father.
“You did pretty good yourself,”
Pharaoh answered. “The way I hear it
from House, Kylee did herself proud.”
“She did.” Ivan sighed. “She had
good teachers, but I wasn’t one of
them.”
Pharaoh leaned forward, laying his
hand on Ivan’s forearm. “I am sorry. If
I had come sooner...”
“Don’t. It’s not your fault. You want
to blame yourself for not getting
here faster. House blames himself
for sending us down. I’m afraid Kylee
blames herself for just being there.”
He took a long drink. “I’m not going
there. It’s nobody’s fault except the
bastard that pulled the trigger and
the son-of-a-bitch who ordered it.”
“Fair enough. How are you holding
up?”
“Tired. Frustrated. Everything else
is on hold; I’ll deal with it later, after
Casey’s dealt with.”
“And Kylee?”
“She worries me.” Ivan kneaded
the skin of his forehead. “Right now,
she seems fine. Mad as hell but fine.
Sooner or later, though, it’s going to
catch up with her and when it does—
” He broke off with a shrug. “It both-
ers me that she’s bottling everything
up.”
“Where did she learn that?” Pha-
raoh wondered aloud.
Ivan snorted and emptied his wa-
ter. “You want something to drink?
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Something to eat?”
“We ate on the shuttle.” They sat
in silence, taking comfort from each
other’s presence. “Why is Kylee in
the gym? I would have expected her
to be on the firing range.”
Ivan’s features lit with genu-
ine amusement. “You’d think that,
wouldn’t you. You’ll have to ask her
about it.” The smile faded into a look
of weary resignation.
Pharaoh lowered his head, study-
ing the other man’s face. “When’s
the last time you slept?”
“Dunno. Off and on last night.” He
squeezed his eyelids closed, rubbed
them with the heels of his hands. “I
had a full house—a wiggly little girl
and a big red rattle-trap kind of kept
me up.”
“Nightmares again?”
“Not that she’s mentioned. I think
she just didn’t want to be alone.”
Ivan shook his head. “House’s going
after Casey soon. Hours, days at the
most. I can sleep after that.”
Pharaoh kept his opinion to him-
self. “Fill me in. What is really going
on?”
“I’m not sure even House has put
everything together. Maybe Priest
did, but he’d be about the only one.
This is what I know.” Ivan straight-
ened in his chair. “Casey’s finally
worked himself into a position where
the Hedge takes him seriously; maybe
not all of them, but he’s got enough
key people behind him that he thinks
he can act with impunity. He has

some kind of scheme, using the Eat-
ers to scare key Frontier worlds into
falling in line with him. I guess from
there, he offers the Frontier to the
Hedge on a plate. They leave him in
charge and back him up.”
“So the pirates, the Eaters, and the
smuggling to the quarantined worlds,
that’s all tied together?”
“Not all of it—there’ll always be pi-
rates and smuggling—but the worst
of it, yeah.” Ivan tapped the table
with the knuckle of his thumb. “Bot-
tom line, he’s gone too far and we’re
going to put him down. If all the
other things sort themselves out, so
much the better.”
Pharaoh frowned. “Do we know
where he is?”
“We do now. He’s been too heavy
handed and all the clues have finally
snowballed up on him. Kylee, the info
Red brought back from the Kwakiutl
priest, the attack patterns on both of
the main shipping lines, even the nav-
igational information Max stripped
out of Oden’s ship—House’s been pil-
ing it up, Max and Dell run it through
a sieve. Give a man enough rope...”
His eyes were cold as he looked at
Pharaoh. “Casey’s had a lot of rope.”
“And do we care about a warrant?”
“No. But we’ve got one. It’s not
much and it’ll probably never stand
up to any kind of legal challenge. But
somehow Graves convinced ErSec to
issue one.”
“Then it is all over but the shout-
ing,” Pharaoh said.
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
“There’ll be a lot of shouting,”
Ivan said wryly, reaching to squeeze
the other man’s shoulder. “I’m glad
you’re here.”
“I would not miss it for the world.
We both have ghosts that demand
no less.” The big hunter smiled with
genuine warmth. “Besides, what is
family for?”
# ing to be enough fighting to need
The Orion’s landing bay rang with
the sound of metal on metal as Carl
Ross pounded on a steel beam with
a wrench. “Listen up, you apes!” he
shouted as the echoes faded. “We
are now officially a fighter deck only!
If it ain’t got guns, I want it moved out
and locked down. We’re a warship
and the boss man wants us ready to
go ASAP. That means you chumps are
going to bust your humps until I say
otherwise and I don’t plan on saying
it.” He swung onto the ladder that
led to the cockpit of one of the fight-
ers, climbing up to perch on the lip
of the spacecraft. “But first we’re go-
ing to have a little chat. Get over hear
and listen good.” He waited just long
enough to insure the crew had heard
his instructions. “Pretty soon, we’re
going to be overrun with cowboys
bragging and strutting. They can’t
help it; they’re just ignorant. Let ‘em
talk. We all know the truth. A cowboy
without a horse is just a bystander
and these babies,” he slapped the
fighter with his hand, “are some
mighty fine horses.” The gathered
mechanics laughed appreciatively.
“More importantly,” Carl contin-
ued, “they’re our horses, whether
their riders appreciate it or not. The
cowboys can say what they want but
we’ve got the most dangerous job
around. Once the shooting starts,
we’re going to have to be turning
these horses around as fast as we
can go. And, yeah, I think there’s go-
more than one reload.” He stood,
resting one foot on the fighter’s hull
for balance. “That means we’re go-
ing to have to work in hard vacuum
because there ain’t time to cycle the
atmosphere in the bays. We’re gonna
keep the doors open for this one. You
make damn sure that if something
isn’t strapped down or magnetized,
it’s off this deck. Check your suits and
tanks and make sure everyone’s got
plenty of slap-patches.” Contrary to
popular belief, a torn vacuum suit
was not an instant death sentence.
Rips were routinely temporarily re-
paired with adhesive patches and
smaller leaks with rubber tape.
Carl put his hands on his hips, look-
ing proudly out across the crew. “Wa-
tering these horses during a firefight
is the most dangerous thing a man
can do. Anybody doesn’t believe me,
wait until one of these babies comes
crashing in here sideways with one
wing gone and the other streaming
plasma.”
“Sounds like experience talking
there, Chief,” called one of the men.
“Everybody’s got to misspend their
Page 50
ISSUE 57
youth somewhere,” he said, eliciting
a wave of laughter. “I ain’t said noth-
ing every one of you don’t already
know. But I wanted to say it and to
tell you I’m proud of you and proud
that House and you guys gave me a
chance to be part of it.”
“Didn’t know we had a choice,”
teased a woman at the foot of the
ladder.
He laughed, giving her an exagger-
ated wink. “I’m saying it now so that
when I’m busting your chops later,
you can think back and maybe decide
not to crack my helmet open with a
wrench.” He grinned broadly. “Now
get to work, you space monkeys! I
want this deck clear and now!”
#
It should have been comedic—
a two-ton bright red alien steady-
ing a punching bag with three arms
as a young woman attacked it with
an almost insane frenzy—but, from
where James stood, it was frighten-
ing. The intensity of the blows, com-
bined with the unbridled fury that
seemed to radiate from Kylee as she
worked, dispelled any inclination to
laugh. He waited in silence several
feet behind her until she stopped for
breath, sweat running down her face
in rivers, beads dripping from the
end of her nose.
“Visitor,” clattered the alien. She
turned. A series of emotions flickered
across her face, eventually settling at
a wan smile.
“Miss Calamity,” he said with a

half-bow.
“James.” She extended a hand. He
grabbed it, pulling her into a fierce
embrace. “We were worried about
you, baby sister,” he said.
Kylee stiffened then relaxed, re-
turning the hug. “I’m better with you
guys here. Did Martha come?”
“Ma’s on Selous. What we’re going
to do, it’s just too dangerous for her,”
he explained, releasing her.
She held ona moment longer be-
fore letting go. “Always important to
know somebody’s keeping the fire at
home. Pharaoh’s with Ivan?”
“Yeah. John and I figured it’d be
best to clear out while they talked.
Just out of curiosity, why are you in
the gym? I expected you to be prac-
ticing on the range.”
“Don’t ask,” Red Dog buzzed.
Kylee ignored the comment. “I’m
trying to wear myself out. When I
try to sleep, my brain keeps running
in circles.” She shrugged. “Not much
more I can do with a gun. I’m using
the one we made for Rose as my pri-
mary and the gun she gave me in my
off-hand. It seems...right.”
“I am sorry. I only met her the
once, but she seemed like a good
person.”
“Rose was awesome!” she
snapped, rounding on the punching
bag with a new round of aggression.
She pumped a series of blows into the
bag then stopped, shoulders droop-
ing. “It’s not fair,” she said softly.
“Everything was finally starting to go
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
right for her and then, bang, some-
body took it all away.” Tears welled
but she ignored them, moving to
face him, meeting his gaze squarely.
“I’m not losing again. They killed my
folks, they killed Rose, and they tried
to kill me. No more, James. I mean it.
From now on, somebody so much as
looks at one of my people wrong, I’ll
kill ‘em. Anybody tries to mess with
me and they’re going to wish they’d
never been born.”
Red Dog cracked his mandibles to-
gether loudly behind her. James nod-
ded. “I’m with the big guy,” he said,
placing his hands on her shoulders.
“We’re with you. We all are.”
She sagged against his hands, lean-
ing against his support. “I know,” she
said. “I just hope it’s enough.”
# own?”
Twenty-four hours since Jimmy re-
turned and still no word; Oden and
Maywether had failed. Casey would
have known that even if a messenger
drone had not already brought word
of the factory’s destruction. That was
just bitter icing on an already sour
cake.
“They’re dead,” the Adolphus
rasped, echoing his thoughts and set-
ting his nerves further on edge in the
process. “Your men have failed, our
Eaters are dead, and our plans lie in
ruins.”
“It’s no wonder we mopped the
floor with you during the war,” Casey
shot back. “One stumble and you
give up.” He pointed toward the cen-
ter of its oversized skull with his pen
as he spoke. “The Eaters were on Far-
Gone as a convenience. They were
at the factory so we could load them
faster. There are plenty more of them
on a dozen quarantine worlds. Los-
ing the factory is a setback; that’s all.
It moves the timetable back but I’ve
got other facilities coming online as
we speak. I’m not foolish enough to
put all my eggs in one basket. It’s just
a delay.” He added the last in a stub-
born tone that sounded petulant to
his own ears.
“I stand corrected. But, does that
not still leave kt’humans who oppose
you? Kt’ones whose interference you
feared?”
“They’ve interfered already. Or do
you think the hatchery blew up on its
The Adolphus made a noise like
deflating bagpipes. “They will con-
tinue to attack?”
“Probably. If they can find us.”
“And if they do?”
Casey sent the pen spinning across
the desk with an angry flip. “Let them
come.”
#
Ivan sank into his usual chair in
House’s office with a courtesy nod
to Rainmaker and Solomon. He had
tried to convince Pharaoh to come
with him but his brother pleaded ex-
haustion.
“Somebody roun’ heah ought get
some sleep,” Solomon drawled, his
heavy accent further distorted by a
Page 51
ISSUE 57
suppressed yawn.
“Rain’s been sneaking the Hecate
in and out of Casey’s system since
you got back, trying to give us a bet-
ter idea of what we’re up against,”
House explained. Dark bags haunted
his own eyes, mute testimony to the
fact that no one had gotten much
rest in the past days. “Oddbits. That’s
what the navigational data we lifted
from Oden’s ship calls it. The system
doesn’t exist in any of the databases.”
“Casey’s there?” Ivan asked.
“Safe bet,” Rainmaker said.
“They’ve been a chatterin’ bunch o’er
there. Somethin’s got them spooked,
an’ good.”
Ivan twisted in his chair to look
at the aged creole. “What do you
mean?”
“Ship-to-ship chatter and lots of it.
Not just message drone, neither. I tell
you what—”
“Let’s take it in order,” House sug-
gested. “What we got from Oden’s
ship probably wouldn’t have been
any help alone; it’s really just con-
firmation of what we already knew
from our other sources. Once Dell
and Max got done, I had Rain take
the Hecate in and scout.”
“The first run, she was just a fast
in-and-out to make sure there was
even a system there to find,” Rain-
maker explained.
“It’s a three-world system with a
G-class sun. We don’t know whether
Oddbits is the name of the system or
one of the worlds. It doesn’t really

matter because, for our purposes,
we’re only concerned with the sys-
tem’s single inhabited planet and its
defenses.”
“Trip number two,” Rainmaker
picked up. “We coasted deep into the
system to see what we’re facing. It’s
not pretty.”
“Pretty ugly,” Solomon quipped.
“True ‘nuff. Casey’s got an orbital
drydock.”
Ivan glanced at House for help.
“It’s a platform to repair ships,”
House explained. “It makes sense
that he’d have one if he’s running
a fleet of any size. They’re big, but
most of it is framework. They’re usu-
ally pretty heavily fortified as well.”
He shrugged. “Could be worse. It’s
not a full blown station or fort, and
the planet itself doesn’t look to have
a defense net.”
“The planet herself was trip num-
ber three. It barely has a starport,”
Rainmaker resumed. “Itty-bitty one.
Most of the place is—” He stopped,
lifting a hand as he searched for the
word.
“Vacant?” Solomon suggested.
Rainmaker dropped his head to his
chest dramatically. “You have no art,
bon ami. No, it is as if the world were
untouched. Except, for a world to be
so perfect, it must be touched regu-
larly.”
“It is his Versailles,” his XO amend-
ed.
“Back up a minute,” Ivan said.
“He’s got a dock. What about ships?”
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
House stepped in. “We estimate
his fighter capacity at between twen-
ty and thirty ships. Two escort class
gunships in orbit and two more in
drydock under repairs. There’s also a
half dozen freighters and slo-pos but
nothing to indicate they’re armed. If I
were to guess, I’d say he’s got most of
his ships tied up on the Third Earth-
Farnham run making pirate raids to
keep ErDef busy.”
“An’ de mystery ship,” Solomon re-
minded him.
“That too.” House answered Ivan’s
question before he asked it. “The
Hecate’s picked up another cloaked
ship twice before when the Orion has
been attacked. The last time, it fired
a missile salvo before turning tail.
Based on Priest’s files, Max thinks it
might be a decommissioned stealth
ship one generation before the Hec-
ate. The size of the missile launch
supports that. We’re looking at a ship
in the heavy escort to light cruiser
class, about 150 kilotons with good
enough stealth tech to run the block-
ades.”
Ivan took a moment to digest
the information. “So what’s all that
mean?”
“Trip number four,” Rainmaker
said.
“You’s gettin’ sleepy, very sleepy,”
added Solomon.
House rapped his knuckles against
the desktop, glaring at the two Aca-
dians. “I had them go back one more
time to see how close they could get
to the planet.”
“Close enough that if it were a
snake, it woulda bit us,” Rainmaker
said. “Brung back good scans, too.”
“And?” Ivan prompted.
House held up his hand, ticking off
fingers as he spoke. “One: except for
some storage-type buildings around
the port itself, there’s only one other
structure on the planet, four-story
a mansion. Given everything else
we’ve found, I think we know who it
belongs to. Two: it’s occupied, with a
lot of comm traffic going in and out,
most of it coded. Short of knocking
on the door and asking, that’s as
close as we’re going to get to con-
firmation that he’s home. Three: if
we barge into the system guns blaz-
ing, he’s not going to risk taking a
shuttle up to the dock until he’s sure
the situation’s under control and
he’s got a clear lane. Four: we don’t
have the firepower to plow through
his defenses fast enough to prevent
him from getting that lane. If he gets
off the planet then, even if we blow
every ship we find to dust, we’ll still
never be sure we got him.”
“If that’s the only option we have, I
still say we do it,” Ivan said.
“And I agree. But I think we’ve got
another option.” House balled his
fingers into a fist. “The Hecate can
get almost anywhere in that system
without being detected as long as
she coasts in and keeps her guns of-
fline. And anywhere the Hecate can
go, so can its shuttle.”
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ISSUE 57
“How many people?”
“Near as we can tell, he’s got about
thirty people on the grounds. No way
to tell what’s staff and what’s muscle.
How many do you need?”
It was Ivan’s turn to count. “Me,
Pharaoh, Red, James, and John. Four
and Red.”
“And Kylee,” House said.
“And Kylee,” Ivan agreed.
“Hol’ on,” interrupted Rainmaker.
“I can do a lot of things but I cain’t
take a Cillian. Maybe I don’t have a
problem with it but the crew—non.”
Solomon jumped in before either
House or Ivan could respond. “Ah
dunno, Cap. Ah says we be jest fine
wit’ it. After all, de enemy of my en-
emy, he kin wait for later, nes pas?”
The two stared at each other for
several seconds. “All right.” Rainmak-
er nodded. “But who’s the pilot? I’m
going to need toothless here on the
Hecate.”
“James,” Ivan suggested.
“Can he fly a shuttle?” House
asked.
Ivan rolled his shoulders in a vague
shrug. “If it flies, the boy can pilot it.”
“’Fore we goes, I’ll show him where
she likes to be tickled an’ where de
guns are,” Solomon volunteered.
It took another hour to work out
the details sufficiently for House to
declare them finished. “It’s settled.
We go in the morning or later to-
day or whatever it is ten hours from
now,” he said. “Make sure everyone
get some sleep, at least six hours and

preferably eight. I’ll do the same.
Medical will give tranquilizes to any-
one who needs them; this is too im-
portant not to go in at the top of our
game.”
“Free meds,” Solomon joked. “This
job jes’ gets better ‘n’ better.” They
were all showing sign of the strain
but the Hecate’s Captain and XO had
become increasingly punch drunk on
a mixture of nervous energy and fa-
tigue.
“Take the Creole Comedy Tour
out of my office,” House said, wav-
ing them out, smiling to soften his
words. “Good luck gentlemen, and
good hunting.” He watched them
shuffle out, lowered his head into his
hands, elbows on his desk. “Dell?”
“Yes sir?”
“I want you to copy every scrap of
data we have, all of it, no matter how
irrelevant it seems, and put it on a
pair of messenger drones. Before we
move into the Oddbits system, set
each drone to take a different route
and send them both over to Com-
mander Blackmore at Farnham. If
something happens to us, somebody
else ought to know what’s going on.
At the very least, he ought to be able
to put a stop to Casey’s raiders.” He
sighed, pushing away from the desk.
“I’m going to bed. If anything comes
up, find someone else to deal with it
for a change.”
# not to be ignored. He awoke with dull
The others were still asleep when
Kylee awoke. She wriggled out of
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
bed, trying not to wake Ivan on the
nearby couch, surpressing a laugh at
the sleeping Red Dog. Kylee had be-
come used to the shuddering rattle
of the Cillian’s chitinous segments vi-
brating together as he slept. Ivan had
solved the alien’s ‘snoring’ his own
way after being jarred from sleep a
second time; great swaths of grey
tape crisscrossed the intersections of
several segments. The irony was that
Ivan snored much louder than the
alien’s low rumble.
Crumpled paper on the end table
caught her attention. Smoothing it,
she saw it was covered with notes
and crude sketches where Ivan had
wrestled with a dozen different strat-
egies to attack Casey once they were
on the ground. In the end, he ap-
peared to have given up, frustrated
by the lack of solid information. Kylee
smiled wistfully when she saw that,
in several places, he had included
Rose in his plans.
Returning to her own room, she
dressed quickly, pulling on her vest
and shoulder holster last. She had
never decided whether to wear her
other two guns on her hips like Ivan
or strapped to her legs like Rose. In-
stead, she wore them stuffed, butt
outward for cross-draw, into the top
of a heavy scarf of yellow silk tied
around her waist.
As she waited for the others, she
wandered her room, restless, look-
ing for distraction. She found it in
the thin, flat wallet of sweat-stained
leather left to her by Kingfisher via
Rounder. With everything else going
on, she had tossed it onto the top of
her bureau and forgotten it. Sitting,
she pulled apart the stiff calfskin.
It was a simple design, opening like
a book along a single fold with clear
pockets on each side, yellowed and
brittle with age. The left sleeve held
a silver coin, about the size of her
palm, worn smooth with age. The ar-
tifact on the right was silver as well,
a five-pointed ball-tipped star. At
least, that was its original form. The
lower right point was missing, bro-
ken away at a ragged edge. The rest
of the star had obviously been bent
and repaired numerous times; its
once-smooth surface was marred by
bumps and ripples in the silver. Part
of the etching was worn away on the
left side but the other letters were
still visible: “IZONA” arched above
“ANGERS”. The tail of the last R and
part of the S vanished into the gap
where the star had been broken.
She frowned, puzzled, deep in
thought before finally nodding to
herself. “The Roughriders.” The pin
could not penetrate the langer shell
of her vest, but it fastened to the
mesh of the shoulder holster quite
nicely.
# truth.
House had not expected to sleep,
but the demands of the body were
pain lurking behind his eyes. The ache
in his jaws told him he had ground his
Page 53
ISSUE 57
teeth as he slept. Still, it was better
than nothing. His feet led him to his
office. He watched Ivan and his peo-
ple board the transfer shuttle to the
Hecate through the ship’s monitors,
not wanting to intrude, feeling oddly
jealous. After that, he waited, switch-
ing the view on his screen from area
to area, watching his ship live.
Dell’s voice interrupted his dis-
tracted revelry. “It’s time, sir.”
Instead of replying, he glanced at
the wall plot of ships in the system.
The Hecate’s icon flared then blinked
out, already on its way. House tripped
the monitor controls again, this time
for a last look at the crew. They were
a motley lot and generally undisci-
plined, but they were his. He stood
and walked to the waiting tram.
They expected him to say some-
thing, but what was there to say?
The shoving match between me and
Casey has reached the point of no re-
turn? His lips quirked into a sardonic
smile. How about, ‘I pay your salary.
Now get back to work and shoot the
people I tell you to shoot.’ The tram
slid to a halt and he entered the new
CIC to face his people, men and wom-
en who, whether for pay or belief,
put themselves in his hands. There
was only one thing to tell them. The
“Dell,” he said, walking slowly to
stand behind the railing of the com-
mand dais. “Broadcast, full ship.”
House leaned against the rail, chin
tucked into his chest, waiting. Draw-

ing a deep breath, he straightened,
clasping his hands behind his back.
“There are lines,” he began. “Cross
one and sometimes you can cross
back. Others are bigger, a step too
far. Once crossed, the damage can’t
be undone and even justice is only a
salve on the wound. Funny thing is,
the kind of man that chooses to cross
those lines, he’s the kind of man that
doesn’t think little things like justice
apply to him. He figures law, decen-
cy, morality, and all of their ilk don’t
count. They’re just outdated concepts
for simple people, people too small
and blind to see the big, complex,
sophisticated picture. If they were as
smart as he was, they’d do the same
things. He’s just doing what’s best for
the rest of us, if only we were worthy.
The kind of man that crosses those fi-
nal lines is the same kind of man that
never considers trying to cross back.
In his own mind, he’s fully justified in
everything he does. It’s a madness...
And a rabid dog has to be put down.”
House waited for his words to sink
in before continuing. “Maybe you
don’t know what I’m talking about
but the way the rumor mill runs on
this ship, I’d guess some of you know
more about what’s going on than I
do. You all know that over the past
three years, pirate raids on the major
lines, especially Third Earth to Farn-
ham, have gone from the occasion-
al stolen cargo to a level of savage
butchery that has shippers and colo-
nists alike sweating blood. And you
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
all know that even ErDef has been
unable to stop it. I know why. I know
who. The raider fleets are bought
and paid for—equipped, repaired,
and directed by Edgar Casey. That’s
not the worst part; heck, that part’s
not really a surprise.”
He drew a long breath, releasing it
just as slowly. “I don’t know exactly
when it happened, but somewhere
along the way Earth and the Hege-
mony fell in with him, and something
a hell of a lot worse than just pirating
was born. He promised to wrap the
Frontier up in a nice little bow and
hand it over to them and trust me,
they paid their thirty pieces of silver.”
The crew of the Combat Information
Center stared at him with rapt atten-
tion, their stations all but forgotten.
He made himself meet their eyes,
looking from person to person as
he spoke. “Not all of the Hedge; not
even most of it. Just enough people
with enough pull to make sure key
things happened and the right infor-
mation reached the right ears. That’s
why ErDef always seems to be in the
wrong place at the wrong time when
the raiders hit, and why ErSec can’t
touch Casey—they’re compromised
at the top.”
“They can’t.” House’s lips pulled
into a snarl. “But we can.” He swept
the crew with a hawk’s gaze, turning
his head with a predator’s slow con-
fidence. “His raiders are tearing Third
Earth to Farnham apart to keep the
navy away from NevRio and FarGone.
That makes us the only real fighting
force this side of the Frontier. He was
counting on using Eaters as his shock
troops here—a plan that didn’t ex-
actly pan out the way he’d assumed.
And that leaves Casey with his flap
hanging open in the breeze.”
He slammed his palms onto the
flat railing, lurching forward to stare
at the crew. “He thinks we’re no
match for him, that we’re a bunch of
street-brawling hellions with no or-
ganization or discipline. He might be
right on those counts, but he’s never
understood that that same sheer
cussed, obstinate independence is
the very strength of the the Frontier.
“Understand, the Frontier is what
we’re fighting for. Mankind needs it.
We need a place where we can fail
and it’s only ourselves we drag down,
a place where, when we do fail, we
can drag ourselves back up again
without someone else’s foot on our
neck. Can’t do that in the Hedge.
Can’t fail, because there’s too many
people and too much government
dedicated to making sure nobody
gets hurt and, if they do, that there
are a million-and-one safety nets to
catch them. As if you can learn to
walk without falling. Out here, a man
can fail and start over as many times
as he has the strength to try—and
most of us are waiting to lend a hand
when he’s ready. And if a man makes
a mistake, if he finds out that the
man he is isn’t the person he wants
to be, he walks away from it and tries
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ISSUE 57
to do better.
“We’re not drones born and bred
to some slot in a hierarchy; we’re
men and women who’ve hit bottom
and gotten back up. We’ve seen our-
selves at our worst, we’ve wasted
fortunes and squandered potential;
if there’s a way to mess up, we’ve
found it, done it, and gone it one
better. Because we are free! And I’ll
take a ship full of screwed up wild-
eyed, frontiersmen over anything a
murderer like Casey can throw at us.
He wants the Frontier? Well I say we
give him the Frontier!”
House stepped back and sank into
his command chair. “End broadcast,”
he said softly. Louder, “Initiate tac-
com net.”
“Activating tactical communica-
tion network,” confirmed Max from
his terminal on the bridge. A row
of smaller displays above the main
screen blinked to life, each a direct
feed from a vital portion of the ship.
Barring battle damage, the men and
women in charge of the various sepa-
rate sections of the ship would be in
direct contact through the CIC. Two
spaces remained black, set aside
for later use: one for the Hecate,
the other for input from the fighter
squadrons when they launched.
“Flight deck,” House said. “You lis-
tening, Carl?”
“Read you loud and clear, Cap’n
House.”
“How long until the cowboys are
ready to launch?”

“We’re good to go now. Give the
word and we’ll put twenty birds in
the void. Ninety seconds more an’
both Ghost Rider squads’ll be out
too.”
“Tell your people to buckle up.”
House closed his eyes, gnawing at
the inside of his lower lip. “Helm,
take us in.”
# someone who hasn’t heard the sto-
Casey did not waste any time when
the klaxons shattered the peace of
his home. He was at his desk in sec-
onds, in contact with the orbital dock
a heartbeat later. “How many?” He
leaned forward, speaking into the
desk, one hand flailing blindly behind
him seeking a chair.
“It’s the Orion. She’s far out-sys-
tem and launching fighters. Sensors
counts twenty so far.”
“Any sign of another big ship?”
“No sir. I don’t really know what
they’re up to. The smart move would
have been to hold the fighters in until
the carrier got closer.”
“Don’t assume it was a mistake.”
Casey frowned. “Scramble our inter-
ceptors and make sure the freighters
are ready to move.”
“You coming up, sir?”
“Not yet. Casey out.”
Hell’s own accordion wheezed be-
hind him. “You are not joining your
warriors?”
Casey suppressed a shudder at the
Adolphus’ voice. “No, not until I know
where the Hecate is. Otherwise, I risk
getting my shuttle blown out from
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
under me on the way up.” He looked
over his shoulder at the alien. “Don’t
you have anything useful to do?”
“Studying your reactions is useful,”
it replied, settling onto its haunches
in the corner of the room.
“Not to me. Take advantage of
those overgrown legs of yours and
go find Jimmy for me. Tell him to get
some of the men together and head
for the starport.”
The Adolphus inhaled harshly
through its gills as it stood. “As you
wish.”
# usually piloted had taken Solomon
Wrangler One saw the telltale
sparks of fighters launching from the
distant dock. The structure put him
in mind of a giant skeletal torso—a
spine and spreading shoulder blades
of heavy metal forming the real core
of the structure, lighter scaffolding
spreading from them like ribs split
open at the sternum.
“Hostile launch confirmed.” The
warning was as redundant as it was
late. “Tracking 32 bogies incoming.”
“Remember the plan,” he growled
to his squadron. “Keep them off the
Orion until the Ghosts are out, then
we pull back. Keep your range open
and don’t skimp on ordnance.” As if to
emphasize his words, a tone pinged
inside his cockpit, informing him the
enemy interceptors had already en-
tered his missile envelope. A portion
of the technology House had held in
reserve was the longer-ranged seek-
ing missiles, four of which now wait-
ed under his fighter’s wings. Heeding
his own advice, Wrangler One sent a
missile streaking toward the first lock
available, rolling his fighter to the
side after the launch.
The extra reach took its toll on the
approaching fighters, their numbers
dropping abruptly from 32 to 26 in
seconds before the two forces met.
Ships overshot each other, spin-
ning to fire onboard weapons even
as their inertia carried them apart.
Missiles snapped like lightning bolts
through the omnipresent flashes of
laser fire with lethal effect to both
sides.
Wrangler One’s wingman evapo-
rated in a cloud of plasma and his
own systems screamed warnings. He
forgot his target, twisting his fighter
to the side, triggering the release of a
pair of ECM decoys. The sirens faded,
shrilled again. Desperately, he fired
his side thrusters, held them wide
open as his ship slewed in a wide
curve with all the grace of a hog on
ice. Nuclear reactors provided the
power for the fighter’s main engines
and weapons, but the side thrusters
that let him slide against his own in-
ertia were fueled by separate liquid
hydrogen reserves. They devoured
fuel like a starving man. Wrangler
One did not begrudge a drop as his
attacker lost his lock and streaked
across his bow. He triggered a pair
of missiles after the interceptor. One
missed, detonating early in a hail of
chaff. The other struck home, turn-
Page 55
ISSUE 57
ing the enemy fighter into a brilliant
cloud of ionized gas and molten met-
al.
#
“So, me pappy, he say to me, ‘Boa,
what chew gone do when dat gata’
dun bit off yo’ otha arm?’ And I sez—
”
“Sounds like he’s finally found
ry before,” Ivan said, interrupting
Kylee’s eavesdropping. Explaining the
differences between the assault shut-
tle and the civilian model that James
less than ten minutes. The pair had
spent the rest of their time engaged
in an animated, if difficult to follow,
discussion ranging from the merits
of zydeco music to atmosphere-to-
space aerodynamics, arriving finally
at Solomon’s sole attempt at a career
as an alligator wrestler.
Pharaoh shook his head. “That
is why I am sitting back here.” He
paused. “That, and the fact that, if
James cannot fly this, there is noth-
ing I can do to help.”
“He can fly it,” John said dourly.
With the two pilots busy in the shut-
tle’s cockpit, the other four humans
waited with Red Dog in the troop
compartment behind, sitting on the
long benches, their weapons fas-
tened securely in their holsters or
stashed beneath their seats.
Glancing down the aisle, Kylee
caught the alien’s eye, raising an eye-
brow. Red Dog shook his head. The

Cillian’s discomfort was evident by
his atypical silence. She shrugged,
leaning back, trying to ignore the
way her duster bunched in the small
of her back.
“Solomon to the bridge,” Rainmak-
er’s voice intoned through the speak-
ers.
The elderly Acadian gave an irri-
tated sigh. “Reckon I’s gotta go back
to work,” he told James. “Jest ‘mem-
ber: stay in yer lane an’ y’ought get
down jest fine. Easy’s fallin’ offa log.”
He stepped from the cockpit to the
troop compartment. “Gas on da lef’,
brake on da right,” he called over
his shoulder, broad grin showing
both teeth. With a wink to Kylee, he
ducked through the hatch, dogging it
shut behind him.
“You going to copilot?” Ivan asked.
Pharaoh shook his head, folding his
arms across his chest and closing his
eyes as if to sleep. Ivan looked side-
ways to Kylee, amused, and followed
suit.
“I’ll do it,” John said, moving to the
front. Kylee swung her knees to the
side to let him pass. She had been
surprised at the calm of the twins un-
til John had reminded her that poach-
ers were not uncommon on Selous.
With another check on Red Dog,
she decided to follow the example of
her elders. If she could not relax, she
could at least fake it.
# giving orders.
The two escort-class bombers
acquired on FarGone, codenamed
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
Ghost Riders, were too big to fit
inside the Orion’s fighter bays. In-
stead, they had made the journey
lampreyed to the belly of the larger
ship, held fast by a series of elec-
tromagnetic clamps. They flew free
now, keeping pace with the Orion’s
lumbering pace. The advanced Elec-
tronic Counter Measures suite on
the bombers made them difficult to
detect on their own, but there was
no need for unnecessary risk; they
would stay hidden in the Orion’s sen-
sor shadow as long as possible.
The bombers were formidable op-
ponents, each carrying a three-man
crew of pilot, navigator-bomber, and
turret gunner, but House had as-
signed each Ghost Rider a further
pair of conventional fighters to act
as wingmen and protect the larger
ships from their enemy equivalents
if the bombers were forced into dog-
fighting range. Their real threat were
the twelve capital class missiles they
carried internally. Each bomber was
capable of firing two of the massive
munitions simultaneously from in-
ternal tubes, and repeating the feat
with a delay of less than ten seconds
per missile. They were big ship kill-
ers, more than capable of blasting
Casey’s orbital dock from existence if
they could get into range.
Even that had not been enough to
satisfy House. Intended to supple-
ment the bombers, a dozen more
capital missiles and three times that
many of the smaller, anti-fighter mis-
siles had been loaded onto four steel
racks. The racks were tiered, each row
of missiles stair-stepping progres-
sively higher to allow simultaneous
fire. The end result was something
that looked like metal bleachers lad-
en with heavy explosives—bleachers
over fifty yards long and massing sev-
eral tons.
It was the sheer bulk of the racks
that led to Carl Ross’ current head-
ache. He had boasted the Ghost Rid-
ers could be ready ninety seconds af-
ter the last cowboy launched, but the
process was now dragging toward
three minutes. The bombers’ wing-
men launched fast enough but the
racks were proving to be a nightmare
to wrestle into position while wear-
ing the heavy suits. The plan was to
eject the racks from the Orion on the
same magnetic tracks that launched
the fighters, allowing the bombers to
then use their own magnetic grap-
ples to move and aim the racks.
When the crew performed a prac-
tice launch the day before, nothing
could have been simpler. Like a lot
of things, what had worked in theory
fell apart in battle. The suits made
even simple maneuvers clumsy and
slow, and precise coordination all but
impossible. Unless the racks were
straight across the rails, the sequen-
tial pull of the magnets would twist
them as they launched, bending and
making them useless, assuming the
torque did not detonate one of the
missiles first.
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ISSUE 57
“Let it down,” he commanded the
men and women struggling with ei-
ther end of the nearest rack. “Let’s
try something different.” He switched
frequencies. “I need the mainte-
nance drones.”
“Do it,” House snapped back.
“Fast. I need to call the cowboys back
in,” he concluded, ending the trans-
mission.
Carl communicated his idea to the
crew with a mixture of words and
emphatic gestures. Chains looped
around the racks and the drones
were pressed into service as minia-
ture tugs, straining to drag the racks
out of the bay. Seconds later the mis-
sile packs floated free, the drones
nudging them into position beneath
the waiting bombers. “Bay is clear.”
“Cowboys inbound,” was the only
answer.
#
“They’re pulling back now but
our fighters are getting diced. We’re
down at least a third of our strength
already.”
Casey cursed silently, glowering at
his desk. “Send the freighters out to
support the fighters. Any sign of the
Hecate?”
“No sir.”
He lifted a pen, bouncing its tip
against the desktop in agitation as
he thought. “Two can play at that
game,” he said at last, and started
“Everybody down!” Carl screamed

as the incoming fighter’s thruster
sputtered, flipping it abruptly for-
ward before its pilot could adjust.
The slip pushed the front of the
fighter too low, clipping the edge of
the deck where it met the Orion’s ex-
ternal hull. For an instant the fighter
stood on its nose then slapped onto
the deck, sliding, inverted, to crum-
ple against an internal bulkhead. Be-
fore Carl got his feet back under him-
self, a diamond-toothed cutting saw
was already spraying sparks across
the deck as a response team cut the
twisted metal apart, freeing the in-
jured pilot. A medical team whisked
her away just as fast, leaving the bay
in stunned stillness.
“Shove that hunk of metal out of
here,” Carl ordered, shaking himself
free of the spell. “We’ve got other
ships coming in.”
“Which reload package, boss?”
one of his techs asked as the wrecked
fighter was broken apart.
He shook his head, forgetting the
crew could not see it. “I’ll find out.
Concentrate on refueling and re-
charging life support systems first.”
The question put him in an uncom-
fortable spot. The decision—and
responsibility—was technically his
but, without knowing the full tacti-
cal situation, his input was virtually
worthless and he could not be sure
the original battle plan still held. He
chose caution over pride. “Bridge,
this is Flight Deck. I need a sit-rep.”
He listened to the reply then asked,
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
“Freighter? You’re sure?”
House answered him directly. “I
don’t like it either, Carl. If you’ve got
any ideas, I’m happy to hear them.”
A different life as smugglers gave the
two men unique views of non-con-
ventional warfare.
“Maybe a shield wall for the fight-
ers,” he suggested. “Throw more
hulls in the void to hide behind.”
“It’d be suicide for the freighter pi-
lots,” House countered. “Casey’s cold
enough to do it but I can’t imagine
his men following those orders.”
“Queenstowns?” Carl suggested,
referring to practice of disguising
warships as merchant vessels.
There was a delay before the Ori-
on’s master replied. “According to
the sensor readings we’re getting, I
doubt it. A Q-ship would need a big-
ger power plant, unless their ECM is
good enough to hide it.”
“No way to tell. I’m going to send
them out with anti-fighter packs
again.”
“Right. Let me know if you think of
anything. Bridge out.”
“Anti-fighter packs,” Carl told his
crew. The deck was quickly filling
with returning fighters. Technicians
and mechanics swarmed them as
they slid to a halt, dragging hoses
and carts as they went. Pilots waited
stone faced, not bothering to unseal
their cockpits. “Engagement window
is still dropping,” he added. “Pull off
the extended life-support modules.
Slot in another ECM decoy instead.”
In an ideal world, every ship could
carry every system at the same time.
Reality was full of compromises and
trade-offs. “Wrangler One, I’m re-
forming squadrons. You’re going to
take the third slot in Outrider. Har-
py, you’re getting Wrangler Three
as your fifth.” He tried not to think
about the underlying fact that Wran-
gler and Rebel squadrons no longer
existed, and even then Outrider was
flying shorthanded. Of the twenty
fighters that went out, nine returned,
and then only to go back again. At
least Casey’s people had bled just as
bad; twelve of the original thirty-two
interceptors remained. Even with
the approaching gunships and the
freighters—whatever they were up
to—the Ghost Riders should be able
to balance the odds and hit the dock
itself.
His thoughts were interrupted by
a shrill yell slicing through the comm
net. He spun, realizing what had hap-
pened in a heartbeat. One of the
fighters, sliding out of the bay on the
magnetic rails, had caught the safety
line of a tech, severing the line and
sending the crewman tumbling into
space. “Turn on your transponder
and stay calm,” he snapped. At a dif-
ferent time, the mistake would have
been terminal. “Float there with
your mouth shut and if you’re lucky,
we’ll pull you back in with one of the
maintenance drones when the bay’s
clear.” Adrenaline and anger mixed
in Carl’s bloodstream. “Damn red
Page 57
ISSUE 57
shirts,” he barked. “I told you to be
careful.”
#
Rainmaker sat in the ruby gloom
of the Hecate’s bridge watching the
battle unfold. Fingernails clawed
the arms of his chair as the losses
climbed, inaction grating his nerves.
He desperately wanted to at least
probe the freighters with the stealth
ship’s powerful sensors but did not
dare. The odds of being detected
were vanishingly slim, but the cost of
any risk outweighed reward.
“Is time,” Solomon whispered be-
side him.
“Still two gunships in drydock.”
“So?”
The diminutive creole smiled at
his XO’s response. “How can I re-
fuse such an eloquent argument,” he
drawled. “Weapons, you ‘ave a fix on
our target?”
“Ready to launch, one full STS sal-
vo.”
He activated the comm unit em-
bedded in the arm of his chair. “Y’all
ready down there?”
“Good to go,” James replied
through the unit.
“Stand by.” He crossed himself, a
gesture repeated a moment later by
the other Acadians. “Weapons, fire
salvo.”
“Missiles away.”
“Gator Raider, you are clear to
launch,” he said formally. “I repeat,
you are clear to launch.”
“Go wit’ God, mes amies,” Solo-

mon added.
The assault shuttle blasted away
from the Hecate, aligning itself be-
hind the wedge of space-to-surface
missiles, each almost as big as the
shuttle itself.
“They see us,” the sensor officer
said. “Detecting missile launch from
the dock.”
“Begin evasive maneuvering?” the
helm asked.
“Non,” Rainmaker replied with
a calm he did not feel. “Prep point-
defense and counter-missiles but we
stay where we are. Whatever hap-
pens, keep us between the dock and
that shuttle.”
“Lawd,” Solomon intoned. “Fo’
what we’s about to receive, make us
truly t’ankful.”
# ed, standing to lean over his desk.
“Hecate’s committed!” Max shout-
ed. “They’re going to take a pound-
ing!”
“Rain knows what he’s doing.”
House’s attention was focused on the
plot of his fighters, this time closing
not only with the remaining enemy
fighters but the freighters and gun-
boats as well.
“Range!”
“Fire at will. Gunboats first,” House
ordered. “Max, Carl, get the Ghost
Riders moving.” He allowed himself
to feel a moment’s relief. From the
beginning, the Orion’s role had been
one of primarily distraction. The
shuttle was the real priority. No mat-
ter what happened from here on in,
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
nothing could prevent Kylee and Ivan
from their shot at Casey. His own job
now was to clear the space around
the planet to make sure they had a
way home. With the extra firepower
of the Ghost Riders and the external
missile racks, they should be able to
sweep the opposition out of the sky.
He might not even have to take the
Orion directly into combat with the
orbital dock.
He pushed aside the rising feeling
of elation, forcing his attention back
to the task at hand. He still had a bat-
tle to fight.
The fighters were more comfort-
able with their new, extended range
now, launching their own missiles
outside the enemy’s reach and dart-
ing in to skewer the slower freighters
on the photon knives of their on-
board laser cannons. The first freight-
er erupted into a spreading nova of
nuclear energy, taking half of Harpy
squadron with it.
“What—” House’s shocked yelp
was interrupted by his sensor tech’s
own yell.
“They’re packed with warheads!
There’s no other explanation; even
a complete containment loss on the
reactors couldn’t generate that kind
of yield!”
“Kamikazes?” he demanded.
“Probably controlled by remote,”
Max supplied, fingers flying across
his terminal. “I can’t jam them.”
“Carl, change in plan,” he ordered.
“Get the fighters out of there. Have
the Ghost Riders target the freight-
ers. Flush the external racks if they
have to, but take them down.”
“Hostile missile launch,” sensors
interrupted. “Behind us! IFFT identi-
fies it as the Artemis!”
House cursed himself for tempo-
rarily forgetting their recurring in-
visible friend. The stealth ship had
duplicated the Hecate’s quiet flank-
ing action with devastating results.
Rising behind the Orion, the Artemis
erased Ghost Rider One, wingmen
included, with a sweeping broadside
and launching a wave of capital class
missiles directly at the Orion’s blind
spot, straight into her primary en-
gines.
# through its spiraling crash. The com-
“You’re certain?” Casey demand-
“Yes, sir. It’s the Hecate and she’s
definitely fired on the planet. We
can’t intercept. All the fighters are al-
ready out and the Hecate is holding
her position.”
In an instant, he realized how he
had been suckered and that there
was nothing he could have done to
prevent it. “You’re on your own,” he
said, severing the connection. “Adol-
phus!” he shouted, knowing he was
going to need the alien’s help sooner
rather than later.
# “Should’ve been seven.” Ivan’s
“Have we crashed yet?” Kylee
called from the troop compartment,
her voice distorted by the vibration
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ISSUE 57
that bounced the shuttle up and
down like a rubber ball.
James let the comment pass, fight-
ing with both hands to control the
ship. The turbulence in the wake of
the space-to-surface missiles as they
burned through the atmosphere was
tremendous; the super-heated air
generated by their passage trans-
formed James’ flight path into a
storm of warring air masses.
“Good for Red Dog,” buzzed the
Cillian, almost incoherent in the
shaking. “Is like soothing massage.”
“I’ve been through worse,” James
muttered through clenched teeth,
wondering if he was lying. He had lost
a rear rotor once, riding the chopper
petition for worst was a dead heat.
The shuttle jerked and Ivan’s el-
bow cracked painfully against the
bulkhead beside him. “This was
Solomon’s plan, wasn’t it?” he com-
plained.
“Headsets,” Pharaoh suggested,
apparently unaffected by the rough
conditions John put James’ set on for
him, the pilot unable and unwilling to
release the shuttle’s controls.
“Everybody on?” Ivan asked.
“Magnificent six,” Red Dog said af-
ter the others had counted off.
“Should’ve been seven,” Kylee re-
butted.
echo was deceptively mild.
The missiles dropped away and
the shuttle hit clean air, the sudden

change pitching the occupants for-
ward before it clawed for altitude
again. “Hang on,” James warned.
“It’s about to get worse.” The ship
streaked over Oddbits’ starport sec-
onds before the building-sized mis-
siles hit.
The sky behind them flashed an
eye-watering white before crimson
mushrooms sprouted, crested with
jet black smoke. Giant munitions
crushed the starport like an enor-
mous hammer of flame, shredding
ships and buildings, converting the
ground into a swamp of molten rock.
The shockwave caught the shuttle
like a leaf in a hurricane, the ship’s
carefully engineered aerodynam-
ics no more effective than those of
a rock hitting a lake. John grabbed
futilely at his own controls as James
threw full power to the shuttle’s en-
gines. Jets screamed as he fought to
power out of the crash.
“Ground!” John shouted as grass
replaced sky, the shuttle surging for-
ward inverted.
James ignored him, more con-
cerned with holding the ship level
than which side pointed up. Warning
lights flashed as the jets grew dan-
gerously hot but he did not let up,
forcing the shuttle ahead of the dissi-
pating shockwave, regaining control.
“Trees!”
James rolled the shuttle on its lon-
gitudinal axis. A pair of jets died and
the front of the shuttle dropped be-
fore he could pull the suddenly nose-
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
heavy ship level. The remaining en-
gines were still running well into the
red. He had to get down, fast. Dialing
back the throttle, he steadied the en-
gines but continued losing altitude,
the nose threatening to dip again at
the reduced speed.
“Building!”
“Shut up or get out of my cockpit!”
James thundered in frustration. The
heavy military shuttle tore through
wood like a bullet through paper,
snapping the communications an-
tennae from the top of Casey’s man-
sion, slashing away one side of the
roof, sucking up debris and throw-
ing it into the air in a rooster tail. He
pulled the nose up again, cutting the
engines. The ship hit the ground with
an audible crunch, sliding on its belly,
plowing through the soft dirt nearly
a half mile before finally coming to a
halt.
He sagged against the safety web-
bing. John reached past him to trig-
ger the hydraulics that released the
rear hatch. Before the ramp was fully
extended, Red Dog raced from the
shuttle, throwing canisters in a semi-
circle around the back of the ship.
White smoke billowed up, covering
the ramp, obscuring their exit from
any waiting attackers.
James gasped, wiping the sweat
from his face. “This is so much better
than the chopper!”
# to-surface missiles struck, the blast-
Stet scratched the back of his neck
as he surveyed the ruins of Casey’s
office. He had made himself deliber-
ately scarce when the chaos began in
order to keep his options open, but
he lost track of his employer in the
process. Scattered papers scuttled
across the floor as the breeze blew
from above Stet waded through
them to stare out the gaping hole
that had replaced the roof. Through
it he could see the rolling column of
fire and smoke that marked the re-
mains of the starport.
Hooking his thumbs into his belt,
he contemplated the odds that Casey
had a bolt hole, a second hidden port
or ship for just such an occurrence.
Possible, but unlikely. If there was
one, it had to be several miles from
the house—Stet would know about
anything closer—too far away to be
of any use now. Besides, this was
Casey’s home. Unless the situation
was clearly hopeless, he would fight.
Stet stood watching black clouds
fill the sky, wondering where Edgar
Casey would choose to make his
stand and what the ex-duelist would
do when he did.
# maybe fifteen and probably profes-
“Looks like I picked a good day to
run late,” Foxx quipped, rising to his
hands and knees. Around him, men
groaned. Others remained still, ly-
ing where the force of the explosion
dropped them. They were on their
way to the starport when the space-
wave slapping them to the ground
where they stood. Despite the pain
Page 59
ISSUE 57
and the horrible ringing in his ears,
Foxx considered himself lucky. They
could easily have been among those
wiped from existence.
He stood, working his jaw, try-
ing to pop his ears. Pulling the man
next to him to his feet, he ordered,
“Check the motorpool. It was at the
edge of the port; there may be some-
thing left.” The man nodded dumbly
and staggered in the direction Foxx
pushed him. After several feet, he
seemed to regain his bearings and
broke into a jog.
“Comms are fried,” someone said.
“Who’da thunk?” Foxx said sarcas-
tically. “Walk it off and wake up,” he
shouted. “This ain’t over. We’re going
to see if we can get some wheels and
then we’re headed back to meet up
with the boss.” Mentally he tallied his
remaining men. Most of the guards
were either at or headed to the
starport with him. That left an even
dozen, plus the quartet Casey kept in
the mansion full time. Against how
many? He had only seen one shuttle
but it looked to be military—ten,
sionals. He gave the men nearest him
a feral grin. “Yeah, we can do this.”
#
Ghost Rider Two unleashed its en-
tire external rack a half second after
the Artemis vaporized its partner. Still
obsessed with the retreating fighters,
the enemy gunships and warhead-
packed freighters did not detect
the hailstorm of missiles that swept

them from existence until it was too
late. For several minutes, the space
between the Orion and Casey’s orbit-
al dock literally glowed as ionized gas
and molten steel released terminal
energies, bleeding photons into the
void like a miniature star.
House had gone to great pains to
avoid revealing any of the upgrades
the Orion had received. Now that
caution paid dividends with inter-
est. The Artemis’ ambush should
have been enough to destroy any
ship on the Frontier twice over. But
the Orion was no longer, exactly, a
Frontier ship. Faster than any human
could react, automated defense sys-
tems kicked in, sweeping the incom-
ing missiles with electronic jamming,
overloading their targeting systems
even as decoys broadcasting the very
signals the missiles were designed
to track poured into space, drawing
them into suicidal collisions away
from their true target.
It was impossible to cover the
massive exhaust ports of the Orion’s
engines with a point defense system,
but it had the next best thing. Can-
nons at the edges of the ship’s blind
spot blasted cones of steel balls into
space, a shotgun of shrapnel striking
missiles, knocking them off course,
detonating them early, adding to the
confusion what was already a target-
ing and navigational nightmare.
Even then, it was the repulsion
field that saved them. In the navy’s
quest for an energy shield, the clos-
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
est result was an inversion of the
same mechanism that provided ar-
tificial gravity inside ships. The same
force that could ‘pull’ was converted
into a ‘push’. For the military, it was
a terrible disappointment. The repul-
sion field was no great wall of force,
able to absorb damage and protect
the ship behind. Instead, the effect
was a constant ‘shoving’ away from
the ship, the interstellar equivalent
of forcing your attackers to fly into a
strong headwind. Its primary useful-
ness was in reducing wear on con-
ventional armor plating by shunting
aside dust and small asteroids as the
ships traveled. Still, when Graves
had offered, House had accepted. A
small ‘shove’ could turn a direct hit
into a glancing blow—and did. Mis-
sile after missile slammed home into
the Orion, tearing apart the rear hull,
collapsing vital conduits and venting
compartment after compartment
into the void. Coolant and liquid fuel
boiled away like steam as the Orion
bled atmosphere into space, but no
missile managed to breech the all-
important containment field of the
fusion-fission reactors.
As the reactors went into emer-
gency shutdown, chase missiles
broke away from the Orion, bearing
in on the Artemis with their own load
of vengeance, forcing the other ship
to veer off and deal with the more
immediate threat.
The Orion’s CIC seemed to be lit
by strobe lights, power flickered on
and off as the ship lurched through
the transition between regular and
backup power. House forced himself
to remain silent though it all, hands
clasped behind his back as the dam-
age reports mounted.
“Engineering thinks they can get
us back online, but it’ll take a while,”
Max said.
“And the reserve reactor?”
“Coming online now. We’ll still be
drawing on the batteries pretty hard
but we’ll be able to keep our defen-
sive systems up. Just no maneuver-
ing.” Max hesitated. “And no laser
array.”
“Of course,” House murmured.
The Orion’s massive, full-bay broad-
sides were a drain under the best
conditions. “How’re the fighters?”
“Down to six. Carl’s got them split
into two squads of three each, Har-
py and Outrider. Ghost Rider One’s
gone. GR2 is trying to close with the
Artemis.”
“Flight deck functional?”
“Yes, sir,” piped Carl’s voice. “We
do most of our work with old-fash-
ioned manpower anyway.”
“Rearm your fighters with capital
missiles and send them to support
GR2. Max, how’s the Hecate?”
“Bleeding atmosphere but still
moving and fighting. It looks like Rain
is trying to close up with us and avoid
the dock. I can’t get through to them
yet; there’s still a lot of jamming and
distortion.”
“Right.” House ducked his head,
Page 60
ISSUE 57
chin to chest, then straightened.
“Let’s hope things are going better
on the planet.”
#
Pharaoh kept watch, rifle nestled in
the crook of his elbow, muzzle down,
while Ivan and Red Dog unloaded the
last of their weapons, passing them
out the back to the others. After the
initial frenzy of landing, the smoke
had cleared to an eerie stillness.
Casey’s mansion was visible in the
distance, dark smoke still rising from
the ruined starport beyond it, but ev-
erything else was pastoral bliss. Even
the trough carved by the shuttle’s
crash was no more disturbing than a
dry riverbed across the grassland.
James exited the shuttle last. “I
don’t think I can get it back up again,”
he said forlornly.
Ivan shook his head, bemused.
“Have I mentioned how silly that
makes you look?” he asked Pharaoh,
referring to the hunter’s battered
slouch hat.
“Not as silly as you look every day,”
he replied distractedly.
“They always like this?” Kylee
asked, stuffing her twin fletchette
pistols into her sash.
John nodded. “So I’ve heard.”
“Where do we start?” Ivan asked.
“The mansion?”
“No.” Pharaoh pointed toward the
horizon to the right of the building.
“There.”
Ivan followed his gesture through
field glasses, adjusting the focus. A

pair of jeeps that looked like escapees
from an automotive barbeque sped
toward their position. Men packed
the vehicles, almost obscuring the
pintle-mounted machine guns in the
back. “How do you want to do this?”
“High road, low road?”
“I suppose you want the high
road.”
Pharaoh smiled in amusement.
“Of course. James, John, you’re with
me.” He sprinted for the berm at the
shuttle ditch’s edge.
Ivan drew his .45. “I’ll take point,
Kylee in the middle, Red brings up
the rear,” he told them. “There’s a
creek bed over there we can work up
from.”
The stream was shallower, and
the foliage green instead of red, but
Kylee was struck by the similarities
to stalking Pharaoh on Selous. She
dropped into the gully, moving for-
ward in a crouch behind Ivan until the
sound of jeep engines was audible.
Ivan motioned them down, putting
his back against the near edge of the
dirt bank. Kylee followed suit while
Red Dog flattened himself against
the ground. She held her breath as
the jeeps rumbled past.
A single rifle shot cracked the air,
followed a heartbeat later by a can-
nonade of return fire. Ivan surged to
his feet, bracing his arms against the
lip of the bank, firing rapidly. Red Dog
hurled stick bombs through the air
with abandon.
Kylee grabbed a fistful of grass and
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
pulled herself up in time to see men
scrambling for cover, crawling and
running away as the Cillian’s explo-
sives burst around the vehicles. One
jeep lay on its side, wheels spinning.
In the back of the other, the ma-
chine gunner slumped across his un-
fired weapon. A man leapt from the
ground, sprinting to the gun, knock-
ing the body aside and clenching the
butterfly triggers. A burst of shells
raked the berm before Ivan shot him.
“Red, I’m going for the jeep,” he
said, sliding back down the bank to
reload. “Cover me. Kylee, work your
way up the ravine, give us a wider
crossfire.”
The Cillian lobbed the bomb he
was holding and changed weapons.
The backpack power plant of a porta-
ble military grade laser rifle was too
heavy for a human to carry long, but
it was not a problem Red Dog shared.
After his experience with the plas-
ma blaster, the laser seemed light.
“Ready,” he clattered as the laser
whined to life. Kylee raised a pistol in
agreement, starting down the gully.
Ivan threw himself over the bank,
scrambled to his feet, head down
and running hard. Behind him Red
Dog undulated forward, rifle held
level with all three arms. Ivan crossed
out of his field of fire and the alien
triggered the laser, playing the sav-
age heat beam steadily across the
grassland like a hose, not aiming,
laying a constant sweep, forcing the
men who hid there to stay down or
die. The few who might have gotten
a clean shot found themselves facing
the enfilading fire of Pharaoh and the
twins.
Sheltering behind the overturned
jeep, Ivan gathered himself for a fi-
nal rush, holstering the .45. Red Dog
paused, letting the laser’s muzzle
cool to a dull red. “Go!” the Cillian
roared, opening up again. Ivan sprint-
ed to the second jeep, diving into the
back. He stood, grabbing the trig-
gers, unleashing a hornet’s swarm of
brass, raking the area where Casey’s
men had taken cover, cutting down
those who did not flee.
# age for some sign of the woman. Tree
Foxx realized the strategic advan-
tage of the creek bed as soon as the
ambush exploded around him. Grab-
bing the two nearest men, he fell
back, away from the obvious target
of the vehicles, and began the slow
crawl to the gully, a task made easier
by the sheer chaos behind them. One
by one, they rolled over the bank,
into the depression, and made their
way cautiously downstream, Foxx in
the rear.
The sounds of fighting grew loud-
er, gunfire deafeningly close. The
point man lifted a hand, bringing the
trio to a halt. Foxx unlimbered his pis-
tol as the other two men inched for-
ward, guns at the ready. He realized
what he had at first taken for a patch
of sunlight was blonde hair.
The girl and the men saw each oth-
er at the same time. Even as he threw
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ISSUE 57
himself prone, Foxx marveled at her
speed. She let herself fall, twisting as
she dropped to open fire on the oth-
er two men. They were dead before
she landed, skewered by a flurry of
silver darts. Hitting the ground, she
rolled and Foxx lost sight of her as
he sprawled on the brown-speckled
stones of the creek. He lunged to the
side, kicking hard with his legs, into
the narrow cover of the bank’s edge.
A pair of flechettes snicked off the
rocks behind him.
Despite the clamor of battle mere
yards away, the gully filled with a kind
of tense silence. Foxx studied the foli-
roots and patches of yellowing grass
overhung the bank, casting cave-like
shadows behind. The need for a bet-
ter position warred with his instincts
not to move and betray his position.
The longer he delayed, the more pre-
carious his situation became; he was
under no illusions as to how his men
were faring against a more prepared
and more professional opponent.
This was a turkey shoot; he had to get
out and back to the mansion, hope-
fully find more men. Still...
“I pride myself on being fast,” he
said in a conversational tone. “I like
to match up with the best.” No an-
swer. “I’d sure like to get a look at you
out in the clear,” he added.
A string of razors cut through the
air in answer, scything the grass just
above his head. Deciding he had
pushed his luck far enough he ran,

firing back in the direction of the
flechettes, grinning from ear to ear.
# “Give me enough power for at least
Ghost Rider Two’s dance with the
Artemis was a prolonged stalemate.
The bomber was faster, able to keep
the cruiser at arm’s length and threat-
en it with its heavy missile load. Un-
fortunately, without support, that
missile load could do little more than
threaten. The Artemis’ deadly banks
of energy weapons kept GR2 from
risking a direct attack.
That was about to change. With
the remains of Harpy and Outrider
squadrons forming at his rear and
the Hecate steaming in to cut off any
further retreat by the cruiser, it was
time to put some ordnance on target.
“What’s the status on our primary
drives?” House asked, distracted by
the holographic plot showing the
bomber begin its attack run.
“Engineering’s still working on it.”
Max’s reply was testy, the words of
a man answering the same question
numerous times. “Definitely not in
time to help with the Artemis.”
“I was thinking of the dock,” House
said mildly. “Even with our defenses
operative, I’d rather not sit here and
let it lob missiles at us until it runs out,
especially with the range dropping.
And I definitely don’t want it getting
those last two gunships operational.”
Lacking the ability to maneuver, the
Orion’s inertia had continued to carry
it along the line it had been following
before the cruiser’s attack—straight
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
at Casey’s orbital dock.
“What did you have in mind?”
one broadside. Ignore the thrusters.”
GR2 closed on the Artemis, fight-
ers flaring out behind like a cloak
in the wind. Missiles fired hammer
and tong, alternating between the
bomber’s two launch tubes as it
charged forward, the hilt on a sword
of fire. Emptying its racks at last, the
bomber broke off, veering away from
the cruiser’s short-range fire. When
it did, its wake of fighters launched
their own projectiles. Each fighter
could carry only one of the larger,
capital-class munitions, but togeth-
er they were more than enough to
overwhelm the cruiser’s defensive
systems. If they had not been, the
salvo lancing in from the Hecate was
more than enough to finish the job.
“Rain says we’ve got problems!”
House looked toward Max, the
pale blue light of the plot reflect-
ing spectrally off his features. “Now
what?”
Max patched the Hecate’s feed
into the communications network. It
felt as if he had set aside the comm
slot for the other ship days ago in-
stead of merely hours.
Rainmaker’s voice filled the bridge.
“We’re reading another one of those
partially cloaked signals again. It looks
like, ‘stead of one invisible friend, we
got two. Our newest friend just came
home and is sidling up to the planet.”
“Nemesis,” Max provided. “Priest
listed both of the ships as missing in
his files.”
“I don’t care if it’s got a name or
not,” Rainmaker growled. “What I
wanna know is, why ain’t they al-
ready jumped on us while we’re
down an’ what’re we gonna do about
it?”
“He’s trying to run,” House whis-
pered then, louder, “Follow me on
this. Casey knows we’re coming, or
figures it’s likely at any rate. He’s got
two stealth ships and a pretty hefty
space force besides. He figures he
can beat us but if he can’t, one cruis-
er’s not going to make that much
difference either way. So he tells
the Nemesis to stay out of the fight-
ing or maybe he called it home and
it just now got here. Either way. He
can’t know that the Hecate’s sensor
suite is far enough ahead to pick up
the Nemesis so he thinks he’s got one
last card to play. He can do the same
thing we did with the Hecate. The
Nemesis can coast in, drop a shuttle
to pick him up, and cut out of the sys-
tem before we can stop it.”
“He’d be pretty close to right, at
that,” Rainmaker said. “I’m looking at
the data Max is feeding over now and
it ain’t pretty. The Hecate’s the only
thing in a position to intercept it and
if we do that, the Orion’s up against
the dock with no support.”
“Doesn’t matter. If Casey gets
away, all of this has been for noth-
ing. The question is, can the Hecate
do it?”
Page 62
ISSUE 57
“We can do it.”
House nodded to himself. “The
Orion’s not helpless, just roughed
up.”
“We’re essentially a carrier with-
out her fighter cover,” Max inter-
jected. “That’s a little more than
‘roughed up’.”
“Still got two partial squadrons,”
Carl said, joining the conversation
from the flight deck.
“What about the Ghost Rider?”
Rainmaker asked.
“She emptied her rack against the
Artemis. GR2’s a bomber with no
more bombs and we can’t reload
her,” House explained.
“Not necessarily,” Carl said. “The
bombers are too big to bring inside
the bay but we can reload externally.
It’s no more dangerous than transfer-
ring cargo between two ships.”
“Which is pretty dangerous,” Max
grumbled.
“It’s also the only game in town.
Do it,” House instructed. “Rain, get
the Nemesis; we’ll handle the dock.”
“On our way. Hecate out.”
#
Rainmaker severed the connection
with the Orion and sighed deeply.
“Helm, set us on an intercept course
for the Nemesis, maximum speed.”
“You know we’re breeched in two
compartments?” Solomon asked
rhetorically.
“Yep.” He did not look at his XO,
gaze fixed forward.
“An’ dat we used up all our decoys

and counter missiles coverin’ the
shuttle?”
“Yep.”
“An’ dat we shot up the last of our
offensive missiles on the Art’mis?”
“Yep.” His voice did not vary from a
calm monotone.
“Ho-kay den,” Solomon relented.
“Jest checkin’.”
The Hecate’s captain glanced at
his XO from the corner of his eye.
“What’s the matter, bon ami? Do you
want to live forever?” he teased.
“Yep.”
# “I doubt it,” Pharaoh answered.
Kylee waited to insure that no one
else was creeping down the stream
bed then pushed free of the hang-
ing roots that veiled her. After his
initial sprint, Foxx had slowed, mov-
ing back the way he had come as the
gully curled toward the mansion then
away again. Reaching the bend, Kylee
watched intently as Foxx climbed the
bank and began to crawl through the
waist-high grass.
Pulling herself up out of the gully,
she stood cautiously. “Creek bed’s
clean,” she told the microphone that
hovered at the edge of her lips.
“Field looks clean too,” Ivan re-
plied. “If there are any left alive,
they’ve hared back to the mansion.
Come back over.”
“Not yet,” she said. “James?”
“Got you covered.”
“What’s your range?”
“If I can see it, I can hit it,” he re-
plied. “Seriously, I could take pot
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
shots at the mansion from here.”
“Stay with me. I’ve got a bit of ti-
dying up to do.” She ignored Ivan’s
protests disguised as warnings. Jam-
ming both guns into her sash, she set
off at a run. Without the need to stay
under cover, she angled across the
rolling field, cutting the distance to
where she guessed Foxx to be. Near-
ing, she shouted, “Hey, smart mouth,
you still feel like talking?”
Knowing he was caught, Foxx
stood. Seeing Kylee, he grinned, shov-
ing his pistol into its holster, holding
his hands out from his body to show
they were empty. “For a looker like
you?” he called back, walking to-
ward her. “I’ll always feel like it.” He
stopped several yards in front of her,
filling his eyes. “I’m guessing you’re
part of the reason Oden and May
didn’t come home.”
She ignored the question, holding
her own hands loose at her sides.
“You like fast?”
“I only play with the best.” He was
focused on her face now, watching
for a telltale twitch that might warn
him she was ready to draw. She was
calm, almost too calm, as if he was
not real, the entire episode a game
rather than a matter of life and
death. It was the kind of indifference
he saw only in the very best, and he
wondered fleetingly if maybe she re-
ally was faster. Impossible, he knew,
especially since the cross-draw was
a serious handicap. She had to know
that, too. So why so confident?
He was still wondering when
James’ rifle slug shattered his breast-
bone, pitching him backward into the
grass.
“Fast is good,” a distant voice was
telling him as the sky grew dark.
“Family’s better.”
# make the trees. James acts as our
They met at the burnt-out jeeps,
Kylee giving James a knowing smile
and nod of thanks, receiving a wink
in return.
“Do I want to know?” Ivan asked,
looking between the two.
“The mansion next?”
“Yeah.” He gestured toward the
still-functional jeep. “Want to take it?
Machine gun’s empty.”
“If we cannot use the gun, I say
no. It is a loud target and not very
useful.” Pharaoh paused, looking to
James as if expecting an objection.
When none came, he continued, “On
the other hand, we shall be very ex-
posed. Perhaps we should take the
jeep and use it for cover.”
John chimed in. “It’s not much
cover. I’d just as soon take a slow ap-
proach.”
“Or use the trees,” James added,
gesturing with the barrel of his rifle
toward one of the small groves that
dotted the grassland. “I think we can
reach that clump nearest the house
without too much trouble. If I can get
set up there, I can cover the entire
front of the building.”
“Red Dog has bombs,” the alien
Page 63
ISSUE 57
volunteered.
“What about more smoke gre-
nades?” Ivan asked.
“Yes.” The Cillian managed to
sound disappointed.
Ivan rubbed his chin, staring to-
ward the mansion. “All right. We
spotter and makes sure everyone
inside has to keep their head down.
From there, I guess we rush ‘em. Red
can lay down a smoke screen then
circle around to cover the back. It’s
not great, but it’s the best idea I’ve
got.”
“The faster we start, the faster we
finish,” Pharaoh said by way of agree-
ment, leading the way through the
sage grass with loping strides. The
others followed, close at first, then
drawing apart as they approached
the copse of wood. Nearing it, James
sprinted ahead in, stooped over
as he ran, dropping to his stomach
alongside the trunk of the nearest
tree. Once Pharaoh and John joined
him, he stood, slinging his sniper ri-
fle across his back and scurrying up
the trunk. The others waited until
he found a branch heavy enough to
support him as he crawled onto it,
prone, facing the building. Secure in
his blind, he swept his sights across
the front of the mansion, picking tar-
gets, noting their positions and se-
quencing them in his mind.
“Ready when you are,” he whis-
pered down.
Pharaoh swapped his long rifle

for one of the two mini-submachine
guns James produced from one of
Red Dog’s saddlebags. Checking the
gun, he flashed Ivan a thumbs-up;
James mimicked the gesture.
Ivan looked to Kylee then Red Dog.
“Call the dance, big guy.”
The Cillian balanced a smoke gre-
nade at the end of each arm. “Kiss
Red Dog!” he roared, charging for-
ward at full speed, a velocity no hu-
man could hope to match unaided.
The world became a whirlwind
of sound and motion. James’ rifle
snapped the air like a rhythmic heart-
beat of thunder, shattering glass in
distant windows. Men screamed in
pain while their companions shouted
in confusion, a tumult only exacer-
bated by the sudden arrival of billow-
ing clouds of white smoke cloaking a
two-ton death machine in its midst.
The Cillian’s knives whistled through
the air, creating swirling currents of
red in the mist.
Kylee ran, barely able to make
out Ivan’s back in front of her. She
stumbled; Pharaoh’s firm hand set
her back on her feet and they were
running again. Fire flashed and explo-
sions slapped the air as Red Dog sent
stick bombs spinning into the house
to clear those who thought to hide
inside. Bullets whined as Casey’s men
returned fire blindly. She lost sight of
Ivan in the smoke, the harsh bark of
his .45 a comfort to her in the storm.
“Red Dog goes to cover back.”
“Go.”
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
Beside her, Pharaoh went down as
if pole-axed, legs cut from under him.
She shouted, sliding to her knees,
scrambling backward to where he lay
in time to find John kneeling across
from her.
“I’m okay,” Pharaoh growled, teeth
clenched. “Go on.”
John’s medical kit was already
open, his hands busy inside. “I’ll take
care of him!” he shouted at Kylee.
“James can cover us! Go! We’ll catch
up!”
She stood, hands shaking, tears
welling in her eyes. Feet braced apart
she drew a deep shuddering breath.
“No more,” she said, softly but firm-
ly. Louder, “This ends. I’m not losing
anyone else!” Drawing her pistols,
she sprinted the final few yards out
of the smoke and onto the concrete
paving of the mansion’s entrance.
The building was fronted by a
high, columned porch leading to a
recessed double doorway, giving
the men within plenty of cover. Ivan
stood behind a column on the near
side of the indentation, blood trick-
ling down his cheek from a pressure
cut. Gunshots echoed as the man-
sion’s defenders fired sporadically at
imagined targets.
“It’s a wicked crossfire, but we’ve
got them pinned,” Ivan said as she
approached in a brisk walk. “Hold up
here until Red’s ready on the other
side.”
“Want me to move over? Get a
better line on them?” James asked
through the headsets.
“Not yet,” Ivan replied. “Red Dog
shouldn’t take long.”
# trum after they struck. Seconds after
“How close you reckon we gets be-
fore dey kin pick us up on sensors?”
Solomon asked softly.
“Don’t have to whisper. They defi-
nitely can’t hear us,” Rainmaker an-
swered in a voice barely louder than
his XO’s. “And I don’t expect they can
detect us until we open fire.”
“Knife fight.”
“Yep.” He did not bother to add
that, after the initial stab of energy
weapons, the Nemesis could follow
up with the bat of its heavy missiles
and the Hecate could not do a thing
about it.
“We’re inside their envelope now.”
The tension on the bridge was pal-
pable, but the sensors officer’s voice
was steady.
“Weapons?” Rainmaker asked.
“Targeting laid in. Closer we get,
the more its gonna hurt her.”
“On my mark. Sensors, tell me
when we’re in visual detection range.
Helm?”
“Oh yeah, we’ll line up an’ give ‘er
the full broadside...sir.” Rainmaker
smiled at the belated attempt at pro-
tocol. Formal discipline had never
been the Gators’ strong suit; some
things did not change with age.
“Range!”
“Mark!”
The space between the two cruis-
ers iridesced as the Hecate’s star-
Page 64
ISSUE 57
board laser array pulsed to life,
lances of energy so focused that they
only dropped into the visible spec-
the first broadside, the Hecate rolled,
bringing the opposite side array into
play, unleashing a second wave of de-
struction.
The Nemesis was hurt but not out;
even as the second broadside boiled
away tons of its hull, defensive sys-
tems came to life and the hobbled
cruiser began returning fire. A wave
of missiles pounded into the Hec-
ate, gashing the once smooth tear-
drop hull. System failures cascaded
through the ship; warning lights
flooded the Hecate’s bridge with
crimson strobes.
“Helm?” Rainmaker demanded.
“Still responsive.”
“Take us in again.”
“Laser arrays are dead!” protested
the weapons officer. “We have no
weapons!”
“We got one,” Solomon said, dis-
lodging the man from his seat and
taking over the controls.
“It’s a risk we’ve got to take,” Rain-
maker agreed. “Bring that thing on-
line.”
The Hecate circled like a matador
stalking a bull, working for a short-
range shot from the untried forward
pod without opening itself to the
Nemesis’ remaining weaponry. Rain-
maker watched the displays in frus-
tration as more missiles pumped into
his ship.

“Target,” Solomon announced.
“Shoot already,” his captain
snapped.
The bridge went dark as the pod
sucked power directly from the Hec-
ate’s reactors, an eerie silence set-
tling over the crew as even the re-
circulating fans of the life-support
systems went dead. “Dat don’ seem
good,” Solomon said in the stillness.
The wait was little more than a
second, but it seemed an eternity
before the ship returned to life. The
main screen glitched through a series
of scrambled images before resolv-
ing into a live feed. The aft hull of
the Nemesis looked like a smolder-
ing piece of paper, a dull line of red
crawling slowly forward, leaving only
ruin in its wake.
Solomon gave a low whistle as the
ring of secondary nuclear reaction
fire burned itself out. “Dat’s some
ray gun.”
“Quantum weaponry,” Rainmaker
echoed, studying the scroll of sensor
information displayed alongside the
main view. Hyper-accelerated alpha
particles had torn the fabric of the
other ship apart at a subatomic level.
Destroying the section of the ship
the ray hit, they forced the atomic
nuclei outward, into their own elec-
tron shell and unleashing the energy
of nuclear repulsion, converting the
material of the target itself into fuel
for uncontained, secondary nuclear
reactions.
“Let’s shoot ‘er again,” Solomon
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
crowed, hunching over the control
panel. “Oh. No, maybe not.” Rain-
maker guessed the reason before he
was told. The surge of energy neces-
sary to power the weapon had liter-
ally melted, not only the conduits
that fed the pod, but the hull sur-
rounding them.
He laughed in spite of himself,
struck by the ludicrous nature of the
situation. The Hecate had no weap-
ons left to use while the Nemesis,
her entire aft quarter destroyed, lay
motionless in space before them.
Eventually, he sobered, wiping the
tears from his eyes and facing the
concerned stares of his crew.
“Well ain’t this a fine kettle of fish,”
he said. “Solomon, what did you tell
your pappy you’d do when de gator
bit off your other arm?”
“Ah tol’ him, I’d jest bite down real
‘ard an’ roll till de gator, he done give
up.”
Rainmaker grinned. “Never
thought I’d be sayin’ this at my age
but, prepare the magnetic grapples
and stand by for boarding actions.”
“Aaiieeeeee!” Solomon whooped,
grinning back at him. “If I’da known
we’d be doin’ dat, I’da brung my good
teeth.”
Confronted with the sudden ap-
pearance of a swarm of heavily
armed Acadians in the passageways
of their ship, the crew of the Nemesis
could not surrender fast enough.
# ment later, his gun belt joined it. He
House slumped in his command
chair, mood darkening by the sec-
ond. Engineering had not been able
to give him either thrust or lasers. In
the end, the Orion coasted forward
with no more value than an asteroid.
Closing in the shadow of the massive
liner-turned-warship, GR2 and the
remaining fighters delivered their
payload of capital missiles with rela-
tive ease, tearing the power and con-
trol centers from the dock.
Leaving the Orion to drift through
the steel latticework of the dock’s
scaffolding like a bull through tinsel.
“Gonna cost me a fortune to fix all
this,” House grumbled. The rest of
the CIC wisely pretended not to hear.
# knee. He twisted the pipe vertical
The tranquility of the veranda was
deceptive, implying the entirety of
the universe shared its peace. Stet
sat with his boots propped on the
rail, leaning his chair on the back two
legs, lemonade in hand, guns in their
holsters.
He smiled contentedly as Red Dog
rounded the corner of the building. “I
was hoping it would be you,” he said.
The Cillian watched him curiously
as he stood. He walked to the edge,
stepping down from the flagstone to
the ground. “I really could care less
about Casey, but I am glad you and I
have this chance to settle unfinished
business.” He drained the last of the
lemonade, tossing the glass into the
flowerbed ringing the veranda. A mo-
bent to lift a ten-foot length of iron
Page 65
ISSUE 57
pipe from the grass.
Red Dog shrugged off his laser and
its power pack, sliding his knives free
of their sheaths.
Stet nodded in satisfaction, fish-
ing a hard case from within his cloth-
ing. He removed a trio of hypoder-
mic needles, pressing each in turn
against his neck. “Bring your best,
cockroach,” he said, finishing the in-
jections.
The Cillian charged, all three blades
arcing downward as he closed. Stet
blocked, holding the pipe in both
hands like a staff, sparks flying from
the iron as it clashed with the knives,
the impact driving the cyborg to one
and sprang back. He jabbed at the
alien with one end then spun the
iron, cracking the other end against
Red Dog’s torso just below his miss-
ing arm.
Red Dog scythed his blades, forc-
ing Stet to give ground again, block-
ing another thrust of the pipe off a
hilt. Stet let his right hand slide down
the pipe, gripping it like an over-
sized bat, and swung it with all his
strength. To his surprise, Red Dog
stepped into the blow, accepting a
hit that sent the Cillian staggering to
his front pair of knees and shattered
the chitin of his torso like an eggshell.
The alien roared in pain, mandibles
snapping inches from Stet’s nose.
The twin blades of his right arms
sliced across the human’s chest and
stomach, rolling flesh back as they

carved through the meat, deflecting
from the subdermal plates implanted
beneath the cyborg’s skin. The left
knife swept higher, drawing a thick
line of crimson from his chin as Stet
jerked his head back to avoid being
decapitated.
Stet fought to get the iron pipe be-
tween them, shoving the Cillian back
with adrenaline-fueled desperation.
A pair of knives fell to the ground
and the alien grabbed the pipe him-
self, jerking back. Stet held on, find-
ing himself lifted from his feet and
slammed through the stone balus-
trade of the veranda. He kept his grip
and somehow wrestled the pipe from
Red Dog, rolling across the flagstone,
trying to put some kind of distance
between himself and the alien. Feel-
ing the opposite railing behind his
back, he forced himself up, over the
rail. He landed clumsily, almost losing
the pipe, hands slick with blood.
Standing, he saw Red Dog begin
to circle the outside of the veran-
da, moving slowly, motions stilted.
Hands trembling, he felt the drugs
take hold, numbing the pain, energy
returning to his limbs, as the Cillian
approached. The alien was mak-
ing some kind of trembling, twitch-
ing motion that produced a kind of
grinding chirp where his segments
pressed together.
Stunned, Stet realized the Cillian
was laughing. Red Dog gestured with
the tip of his knife toward the stick
bomb wedged in the flap of skin and
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
muscle he had carved from Stet’s
chest, shoved there when the alien
relinquished his grip on the pipe.
“Priest says hello.”
# Ivan raced toward her only to be
“Back’s clear,” Red Dog broadcast.
“Already on my way.” James’ voice
was punctuated with static as he ran.
John made a growling noise in his
throat, then said, “Go without me.
I’ve got to sew this back up and I
don’t want to leave him.”
Kylee watched Ivan’s frown deep-
en. “You hit bad, Pharaoh?”
“Just a scratch.” The hunter’s voice
was strained.
“Dammit, Pop! A shattered femur
is not fine!” John barked.
Ivan started to reply, stopped when
he saw Kylee’s face. Her eyes were
closed, tears streaking her cheeks,
jaw clenched. He thought she was
going to faint, but then she opened
her eyes. He recognized the fire that
burned there; he had seen it in the
mirror for years.
“Kylee!” he shouted, reaching for
her. She was already moving toward
the doors.
“Bow your head!” she screeched,
sending a hail of flechettes through
the shattered glass to the left of the
door. “Bow your heads and pray!”
A slug whistled past her. It was the
man’s only chance before she blew
him away. “I am the old original
iron-jawed, brass-mounted, copper-
bellied corpse-maker from the wilds
of Arkansas!” Death spat from both
fists, each hand moving to fire on
separate targets. “Look at me! I am
the woman they call Sudden Death
and General Destruction!”
intercepted by James. The younger
man wrestled the two of them out of
the line of fire.
“She’s going to get killed!” Ivan
screamed at him.
“Queen in frenzy is invulnerable,”
buzzed Red Dog through the head-
sets. “Plus brilliant Kylee has remov-
able exoskeleton.”
The bounty hunter jerked away,
his face a study in frustration. “Don’t
stand there!” he barked at James.
“Give her some cover fire!”
She was almost at the door, advanc-
ing steadily. “Sired by a hurricane.”
A shot up, through a second-story
window into a man who thought he
was hidden. “Dam’d by an earth-
quake.” Two silver darts through the
door panel into a woman lining up
her shot. “Half-sister to the cholera,
nearly related to the smallpox on
the mother’s side! Look at me!” She
triggered the releases for both pis-
tols simultaneously, the empty clips
dropping to the ground like metal
tears. “I take alligators and whisky for
breakfast; rattlesnakes and a dead
body when I’m ailing.” Two new clips
slammed home. Behind her, James
and Ivan moved forward, searching
desperately for an open shot at any-
one threatening her. “I split the ev-
erlasting rocks with my glance and I
Page 66
ISSUE 57
squelch the thunder when I speak!”
A three-round burst struck her
across the chest like a lightning bolt,
slapping her to the ground. She
stood, regaining her feet with a cool,
unhurried surety that bordered on
disgust, the spent slugs piping the
front of the langer shell vest like
rhinestones. “Stand back and give
me room according to my strength!”
She trained a pistol on the man who
shot her, squeezing the trigger and
holding it down, letting the gun fire
on full automatic. His body jerked as
if in convulsions before falling life-
less. “Blood’s my natural drink and
the wails of the dying is music to my
ear.” She drew her foot up, lashed
out, smashing open the door. “Cast
your eyes on me, gentlemen,” she
growled, stepping into the mansion’s
ballroom. “For I’m ‘bout to turn my-
self loose.” She paused to survey the
remaining handful of survivors with
mad eyes. “Bow your head, for the
Pet Child of Calamity’s a-coming!”
She shot them in the back as they
ran.
#
Ivan stood frozen, watching Calam-
ity’s Child through the open doors as
she stood, panting for breath. James
leaned against the doorjamb, looking
deliberately distracted, moving away
as Ivan walked to stand beside the
girl. “You all right?” he asked, after
several moments passed in silence.
“We’re not done yet.” She re-
placed the partially spent clips with

fresh ones.
“No, we’re not.” There did not
seem anything else to say.
She turned toward him, surpris-
ing him with a sad smile. “You un-
derstand, don’t you?” Her voice was
suddenly childlike, small and wistful.
“I do.” He put an arm around her
shoulders and squeezed. “I do in-
deed.” He released her to reload his
own gun. “You ready?”
Kylee nodded. “Let’s get back to
work.” She froze, cocking her head
to one side. “Hold on a minute,” she
muttered, walking forward into the
ballroom, listening intently.
Impossible. A human could not
hear an Adolphus’ sonic screen. The
creature watched in fascination as
the human female moved toward its
position, moving her head as if trian-
gulating. Impossible or not, when she
reached to pull a slug-thrower from
her shoulder holster, it knew that its
ambush was ruined. Best to salvage
what surprise it could from the situ-
ation and hope to overwhelm them
with speed and brute force.
Nine feet of muscle and wide bone
plate seemed to coalesce out of thin
air, bearing down on Kylee with in-
credible speed. She squared her feet,
bracing the Colt with both hands as
the alien surged toward her.
The gun spoke with a steady
rhythm as she placed her shots with
care, walking them up the center
of the skull-like shield of bone. By
the third slug, the Adolphus’ frontal
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
plate cracked vertically; the fourth
converted the crack into a spider web
of shattered bone. The revolver’s fi-
nal slug sent the alien crashing to the
floor with a sound like a deflating
child’s balloon. Its body slid to rest at
her feet.
“What was that?” James asked,
rushing into the room.
Kylee shrugged. “Not Red Dog.”
# worth it.”
The four checked the house cau-
tiously, Red Dog with his torso
swaddled in masticated remnants of
Casey’s drawing room sofa. Except for
a pair of maids cowering, locked in a
bedroom, the mansion was cleared.
They found Casey in his office on the
top level. He sat at his desk, papers
littering the floor, staring contempla-
tively at the sky where the roof had
been. He turned slowly, swiveling to
face them, elbows resting on chair
arms, hands up, a bemused smile
playing at his lips. Seeing no danger,
James stepped back diplomatically to
watch down the hallway.
“Red Dog thought devil would be
taller.”
“I grew up,” Kylee said. “Edgar
Casey, in accordance with the Stone
Hunting Act—”
“I surrender,” Casey interrupted.
Ivan snorted in disgust and Casey
quirked an eyebrow at him before
continuing. “By all means, take me
into custody and guarantee my safe
conduct to the nearest Hegemony
court of law.”
Kylee drew the green handled
flechette pistol, holding it out, turn-
ing it from side to side in her hand.
“This gun belonged to a friend of
mine,” she said, looking down at the
gun then up, through her eyebrows,
at Casey. “A very good friend.” She
smiled wistfully. “She didn’t get a
trial.”
“Don’t,” Ivan cautioned. “He’s not
“Rose is,” she countered matter-of-
factly.
“I know, and I’m sorry,” he replied.
“But not like this. Is that really a face
you want to see at night when you
meet your ghosts? Don’t hurt your-
self anymore.”
She stood, stone-faced, staring
down at the gun. She glanced again
at Casey then back quickly to the gun,
her thumb stroking the engraving on
the langer shell of the grip. At last,
she returned the pistol to her sash.
Casey’s emerging sneer van-
ished at the sound of a .45’s ham-
mer cocking. “I, on the other hand,
have nothing but ghosts,” Ivan said.
“One more’s not going to make a
difference.” The blood drained from
Casey’s face, leaving him paler than
the papers scattered at his feet. He
lifted his hands as if they could shield
him against a bullet.
Kylee laid a hand on Ivan’s wrist.
“You’ve got family,” she said, press-
ing down gently. With one final glare
at Casey, he eased the hammer down
with his thumb.
Page 67
ISSUE 57
“The end result’s the same any-
way,” he said. “He’ll hang for mur-
der.”
Casey scoffed, emboldened.
“Hardly. I don’t know who screwed
up and let you get a warrant, but
there’s no way it’s for murder.”
“Maybe,” Ivan said. “But we’ve got
a witness who saw you pulling the
trigger.”
“That’s impossible!”
“A slo-po. Between NevRio and
FarGone,” Ivan told him.
Kylee smiled, a predatory grin that
showed her teeth. “I was there.”
“You?” Casey mocked. “As if a
court would listen to some Frontier
brat.
“That would be a Frontier brat
with Earth citizenship.” She watched
the color drain back out of his face.
“But I am curious. Why? You’ve got
enough people willing to kill for you,
why expose yourself?”
“Hazel,” he muttered. “She was
going soft, needed to be reminded
of the stakes. She had a grandson on
that transport.” He shrugged. “Some
things you’ve got to do in person.” He
shook himself, slowly regaining some
of his bravado. “No matter. Even if
you do make it stick, the worst I’m
looking at is a few years in prison.
Hell, I own enough judges, I’m safer
in court than I am out here. I can
drag things out so I don’t even go on
trial for years and by then—I’ve got
people in places you lowlifes only
dream of. I’d sleep with one eye open

if I were you.” He dropped his hands
to the arms of his chair and began to
stand.
The short range shotgun blast was
deafening.
“Feel free to appeal,” Red Dog
buzzed happily, clattering forward
to inspect his handiwork. “Dead,” he
pronounced, as if at that range there
could be any doubt.
Ivan stared at the alien. “What—”
He sputtered to a halt, unable to find
words.
“Trying to escape?” Red Dog sug-
gested.
So much worry, so much tension
and grief across so many years—
brushed aside by the Cillian’s sheer,
unrelenting, ridiculous consistency.
His eyes fixed on the still-spinning
wheel of Casey’s overturned chair
and he began to laugh. He had not
believed it would end, not really;
never allowed himself to hope. Ex-
haustion, relief, frustration, happi-
ness, grief—it all rushed out as if a
damn had burst.
He turned and Kylee was in his
arms. He stumbled as she threw
herself on him and they fell to their
knees, tangled together. They were
both crying and laughing at the same
time. Whatever the future held, this,
now, was certain: Edgar Casey was
gone. Ivan Steponovich entered a
new world he had never allowed
himself to contemplate—one in
which they were all finally free of the
man and the shadow of his actions.
Calamity’s Child Chapter 11
Object Real:
Object Real by M. Keaton
“It’s over, baby girl,” he said, crush-
er her to his chest. “It’s finally over.”
For a moment, she was silent, lift-
ing her face to meet his eyes. “Not
for me,” she replied. “Not while there
are still men like him out there.”
There was no bitterness in her words,
only weariness and a touch of sor-
row. Ivan looked at her, forehead to
forehead, at the determined set of
her jaw. There was a future in her
eyes; a future driven, not by law,
but by justice. In Kylee’s case, might
could make right, and with the ability
came the duty.
“Okay,” he said, voice raw. “But
let’s go home for a while first.” She
grinned; they would both be all right.
He cupped her face in his hand,
brushing away tears with his thumb.
“I love you, Calamity.”
“Who wouldn’t?” They dissolved
into laughter again.
“So much drama,” Red Dog com-
plained to James. “Warrant says
‘dead or alive.’ Not hard to under-
stand. Partners are hard to under-
stand.” James chuckled, stepping to
help pull them up.
Ivan clapped James on the shoul-
der and called his brother. “John,” he
said, fatigue finally laying in its claws.
“How’s Pharaoh?’
“Stable. I commed the Orion.
They’re sending down an emergency
response shuttle but it’ll take a while.
Sounds like they had some battle
damage,” the man replied through
the headset. “If you can spare him,
send James down and we’ll bring Pop
into the house, he’ll be a lot more
comfortable in a bed.”
“On my way.” His brother tossed
them a mock salute as he ducked out
the door.
Kylee hooked the crook of Red
Dog’s left arm through her right,
linked elbows with Ivan on her left,
pulling them toward the door. Ivan
paused, looking back, wondering if
he should do something with the
body, if he should empty the desk or
collect the swirling papers. He turned
away. It was over. Let the weather
have them. Let sun and wind do
their work. Let the storms come, the
whole house crumble, and the grass
return.
“Hurry up,” Kylee demanded. They
left, walking in comfortable silence,
stopping when they reached the top
of the sweeping staircase.
“Red Dog has decided killing same
human twice is more trouble than
worth,” the Cillian proclaimed to no
one in particular.
Kylee snorted. “What now?” she
asked, looking down at the bullet-
pocked ballroom.
Ivan shrugged. “John said it would
be a while before they can get a shut-
tle down for Pharaoh. That means
even longer before the rest of us get
picked up.” He paused. “There’s a
pretty big kitchen in this place. And
plenty of bedrooms.”
He looked from his daughter to his
partner with a lopsided smile. “The
Page 68
ISSUE 57
bad guys are all dead. We lived.” They
started down the stairs. “I’m gonna
get me a sammich and take a nap!”
M. Keaton
Growing up in a family with a his-
tory of military service, M. Keaton cut
his linguistic and philosophical teeth
on the bones of his elders through
games of strategy and debates at the
dinner table. He began his writing
career over 20 years ago as a news-
paper rat in Springdale, Arkansas,
U.S.A. before pursuing formal studies
in chemistry, mathematics, and me-
dieval literature at John Brown Uni-
versity. A student of politics, military
history, forteana, and game design,
his renaissance education inspired
the short television series: These
Teeth Are Real (TTAR).
His literary “mentors” are as di-
verse as his experiences. Most pow-
erfully, the author has been affected
by the works and writers of the “an-
cient” world, including the Bible,
Socrates, and (more modern) Ma-
chiavelli, 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.)

Thieves’ Honor
Episode 12: The Rescuers, Part 3
by Keanan Brand
Previously, on Thieves’ Honor:
“Captain Zoltana is in the brig, I un-
derstand. Innocent, of course, we all
know that”—Tarquin waved a hand
at the air—”but it’s her digging into
your background, captain, that has
upset my friends.”
“This isn’t about your cronies or
a wayward captain.” Anger soured
Kristoff’s words. “This is about you
and me and my missing pilot.”
“Neither of you nor Miss Fiona
Grace have suffered enough.” Tar-
quin shuffled forward.
That’s right. Kristoff pressed a
hand to his wound, slid thumb and
forefinger through the V opening of
his shirt, and loosened the knife hid-
den in the folds of his bandage. Just a
few more steps.
# maybe, a certain pirate.
“Admiral Cunningham was one of
our heroes,” Leo said in a quiet voice.
So. Finney lifted her brows. You
know who I am.
He waited for her to speak; she
looked at him and said nothing.
“When Willa sent the first mes-
sage, right after your capture, our
leader—Daniel—started planning
your rescue.” Leo’s gaze sharpened.
“We don’t usually meddle with crimi-
nals.”
Thieves’ Honor
Episode 12: The Rescuers, Part 3
by Keanan Brand
“What are rebels, then?”
“Good citizens?” He shrugged. “
Some fight for justice or for freedom.
Some want the government to honor
broken promises. Some of us—peace
makes us nervous.”
“Which one are you?”
And now, on Thieves’ Honor:
The thin but tough fabric of the
cloaking suit molded itself to his
body with disconcerting precision.
He tugged at it, adjusted it, pulled it
here or there, but the suit remained
overly familiar. Clingier than his third
girlfriend—what was her name? He
swung his arms, trying to stretch the
material into a more comfortable fit,
but it was tough and held its shape.
Much like the captain, who never
backed down from anyone. Except,
Giving up—but only in a tempo-
rary retreat—Mars lifted his naval
uniform from its hook then folded
and packed it among the other
neatly arranged items in his duffle.
He hadn’t had a chance to visit his
quarters since boarding the ship af-
ter leave, but all his belongings were
here; if it wasn’t in the bag, it wasn’t
necessary.
Gaines tossed him a large ruck-
sack made of the same material as
the cloaking suit, and he stored the
duffle inside, cinched the bag closed,
then settled it on his back.
“The straps have the power con-
tacts.” Gaines hitched up one side
of his own rucksack by adjusting the
buckle. “Once you activate your suit,
sir, the pack will be invisible, too.”
“But I’ll still be able to see, right?”
Mars couldn’t quite squelch the hint
of panic in his voice.
“Aye, sir. As long as we’re both
wearing the hoods—and they’re in
full contact with our suits—we’ll see
our surroundings and each other, but
no one will see us.”
Mars looked at the bug-eyed
hood, expelled a long breath, then
pulled the wire-laced fabric over his
head and smoothed the neck down
over the suit’s high collar. The world
blinked then came into focus again,
the colors just off enough to give the
impression of an alternate universe.
Gaines hit the kick-lock with the
toe of his boot, and the wall panel
popped open. For the second time in
five minutes, Mars stepped into the
lift.
The door hissed open.
The green wings of cadets on the
right shoulders of their uniform tu-
nics, two female sailors laughed as
they entered, and one continued a
story about a fellow cadet who had,
apparently, lost his pants while on
parade. “Fletcher didn’t even blink.
He just stepped out of them and kept
marching.”
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ISSUE 57
“What’d the instructor do?”
“Let us finish the formation then
ordered Tanner to return Fletch’s
belt—how she saw Tanner steal it, I
don’t know, not at that distance—and
then she made Fletch turn around.
She looked at his backside for a sec-
ond or two then complimented his
dedication to physical training.”
“She didn’t.”
The storyteller nodded. “Said it
was the best uniform malfunction in
ten years.”
I’ll see your uniform malfunction—
Mars pulled at his cloaking suit—and
raise you one pain in the posterior.
The fabric didn’t make a sound,
but his movement created a breeze
strong enough to dislodge a stray
wisp of hair along the cadet’s collar.
She scrunched her shoulder then
brushed the back of her neck, frown-
ing. “Did you feel that?”
Her companion looked up at the
vent. “Probably just the air recycling.
But I could swear there was someone
breathing behind me.”
“Oooh!” The storyteller waggled
her fingers. “The Haunted Elevator!”
Laughing, the other woman slapped
her hand away.
When the door slid open at three
deck, they stepped out, still laughing,
and only when the door closed again
did Mars release his breath in a loud
gust.
“Yeah, uh, forgot to mention that,
sir.” Ensign Gaines sent the lift down
toward the cargo deck. “Breathing

and noises and such aren’t masked
by the suit. Sorry.”
“No, I should have thought of it.
Common sense. What’s the captain’s
favorite route?”
“I don’t know, sir. It’s never the
same.”
Mars plucked at his cloaking suit.
“How many times has she left the
ship this way?”
Gaines smiled. “Every time Com-
mander Wilkes comes aboard.”
“Except this time.”
The ensign’s expression sobered.
After a couple seconds, the door
opened onto the hold. A gaggle of
grease-covered mechanics surged to-
ward the lift, but Mars and Gaines slid
out and around the group, dodging
feet and elbows and one ugly-look-
ing wrench. Mars tugged at his suit
again then mentally cursed as Gaines
quietly chuckled, but Mars took the
lead, setting his feet with care, the
cushioned soles of the boots absorb-
ing the sound of his steps.
All they had to do was reach the
cargo hatch. Easy enough. Plenty of
room to give all the visible crewmen
a wide berth.
“Sergeant at arms!” Admiralty po-
lice approached the security desk
near the hatch. “Sergeant at arms,
lock this deck down. Immediately.”
# Helmer Kristoff.”
Kristoff stepped over a body and
unlocked the collar around Alerio’s
neck. Free of the bomb, the engineer
rubbed his throat. “Thanks, cap.”
Thieves’ Honor
Episode 12: The Rescuers, Part 3
by Keanan Brand
“Didn’t do it for you.” Kristoff threw
the key. It arced upward in the torch-
light, chain trailing like a glittering
comet tail, and landed somewhere
beyond the parapet on the roof. “Did
it for Martina. Name another ge-
nius who could keep a battered old
freighter in the sky and not be above
a little piracy.”
Alerio shrugged. “Everyone needs
a hobby.”
Across the courtyard, the crew and
the late Tarquin’s servants dragged
unconscious or wounded guards and
soldiers to the center and locked
them together in chains. As for the
dead, they were few, and laid in a
neat row. But one wounded man, so
bloody and slack that he appeared
dead, was lifted and set apart from
the rest of the defeated.
Kristoff lifted his chin, signaling a
passing servant, then nodded toward
the mercenary. “Who is he?”
“Bosko, sir. Mercenary. Governor
Tarquin was going to pretend he was
your pilot, and trade him for your
crewman.”
Surprise, surprise. She’d been
planning to cheat. But why play that
game, when she already had what
she wanted? Not that it mattered
now.
Kristoff stuck out a hand. “Captain
“I know, sir.” The man shook his
hand. “Reed.”
“Any secret way out of here, Reed?
Tunnels, maybe?”
“Just holding cells below, sir, and
stores. Only way out is the front
gate.” He nodded at Kristoff and
walked away.
Willa approached, her garments
torn, their pristine white now
streaked with blood and gun powder.
“Captain Kristoff.”
He scooped up the bomb-laced
collars piled at his feet. “Here. You
and Ezra turn on the sonic barrier
then toss these off the roof. The
height will add distance to your
throw, and the farther out in the des-
ert, the better. The explosions’ll kick
up a little sand, but no harm done.”
She took the collars from Kristoff
and slid them like lethal jewelry onto
her arm.
“Now,” he slapped his hands to-
gether, “point me toward whatever
room Finney’s locked in.” He grinned.
“Hope they took away her guns.
She’ll probably shoot me sooner’n
say thank y— “
“She isn’t here.”
Kristoff straightened. “Say again?”
“She’s gone.”
Gone, as in she took an evening
stroll? Or gone, as in her soul now
sang among the stars?
“Finney broke away, and it looked
like she would escape.”
He heard the words, but—
“She was shot.”
No.
“And then the rebels engaged, and
the colonial troops were called out. I
haven’t been able to contact anyone
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ISSUE 57
since.”
No. He stared at the girl. No.
Willa touched his arm, drew a
breath as if she would speak, then
looked down. After a moment, she
withdrew her hand and stepped past
him. “Ezra?”
The boy limped up the short steps
to the portico and offered Willa his
good arm. The other was in a sling
fashioned from his belt and the re-
mains of his shirt. The kid’s back and
chest was covered in bruises and
cuts, and one side of his jaw was pur-
ple-black. Nevertheless, Ezra stood
straight, waiting. Willa wrapped her
free hand around his arm, and he es-
corted her to the stair.
Blank, Kristoff looked around the
courtyard.
Kneeling beside a colonial soldier,
Mercedes pressed the heel of her
hand against the man’s chest while
Corrigan tugged at a broken blade
lodged in the wound. “Grab that
gauze, Al”—Mercedes waved toward
her medical bag—”this one’s gonna
be messy.”
“Why we patchin’ these boys up,
Doc?” grumbled Corrigan. “They’d
leave us to bleed.”
“Ezra’s book.” Sahir locked a shack-
le then heaved himself to his feet. “Is
hard. Tells me love my enemies.”
Corrigan grinned. “Doc don’t love
nobody.”
Alerio cleared his throat.
“Well, you, maybe, Lord knows
why.”

After a short, intense silence,
“You’d be surprised,” Mercedes said,
“at everyone I love.”
The giant mechanic grunted,
pulled the blade free in a welter of
blood, and Alerio stuffed a wad of
gauze into the wound. Then, careful
only to use his good hand, Corrigan
held the unconscious soldier upright
so Mercedes could wrap a bandage
around the man’s arm and upper
chest.
“A body’d think this was Earth a
thousand years ago,” she grumbled.
“Medicine by torchlight.”
Explosions shuddered through the
walls in rapid succession—Willa and
Ezra following orders.
The servants clustered on the op-
posite side of the courtyard. Their
clothing was stained with blood, and
they looked at the crew with uncer-
tainty. A few had taken guns from the
dead. None looked as if they knew
how to carry a firearm, much less use
it.
“Captain!” Ezra leaned over the
parapet. “Troops coming!”
The crew scattered, taking up po-
sitions behind columns or the large
planters filled with palm trees. Krist-
off ran to the stairs.
Doc’s fancy medicine had kept him
on his feet, but that shotgun slug
had punctured his chest only three
days ago. Halfway to the roof, he was
wheezing like an old man, and his
legs refused to obey him. They col-
lapsed, landing him on the stone step
Thieves’ Honor
Episode 12: The Rescuers, Part 3
by Keanan Brand
with a teeth-rattling thud.
Not now, blast you. Kristoff pound-
ed on his legs, as if fists could moti-
vate recalcitrant muscles. Not now!
The soldiers would use grapnel
hooks to climb the walls, and they’d
have bigger explosives than those
little collars.
A couple corridors away, the front
door of the villa gave way with a
splintering crash.
Kristoff called to the huddled ser-
vants. “So, any of you lot have com-
bat experience?”
They looked at one another then
back at him, and shook their heads.
He sighed. “All right, then, hand
me a weapon. Something big. Lots of
bullets.”
Reed walked along the short row of
bodies, stopped, and grabbed an am-
munition belt, then held it up along
with a Ginchon nigh big enough to
take down a small planet.
“Yep, that’ll do.”
Kristoff loaded the gun in rhythm
with the jogging thud of boots as
troops took the villa, room by room.
The soldiers were likely scanning,
guns ready, performing a leapfrog
maneuver through the corridors so
that no man was left unprotected or
entered a room blind. He’d used the
same procedure many times in the
military, especially when boarding
and securing enemy vessels.
“Everyone grab a weapon and an
ammunition belt. Don’t take any-
thing that requires charging or shoots
anything other than bullets. Easier to
handle. Anybody too scared to fire,
load the guns. “
There was more shouting outside
the walls. The servants drew closer
together.
Civilians. Kristoff gave them his
sternest glare. “Move!”
They scrambled into action and,
stumbling over themselves or fum-
bling weapons, managed to conceal
themselves around the courtyard.
Kristoff was the only one still ex-
posed. He settled the gun to his right
shoulder, ignored the weakness in his
left arm—he had no time for it—and
looked down the sight.
“You on the stairs,” called a voice
from the dark, “I got no quarrel with
you. Just gonna send in a couple
medics to check the wounded.”
“Got my own medic.”
“I know you’re not alone in there.
Surrender now, and everyone lives.”
“Sure. You’ve got toys that see
around corners and walk through
walls”—Kristoff laughed—”but I have
all these rookie shooters, and they’re
nervous as sand roaches in sunlight.
Who knows what they’ll hit once
they let fly?”
The response was taut. “My men
are all over this place. Just a matter
of time, we’ll have your positions
mapped. Won’t need a firefight to
take you down.”
The voice was familiar.
Nah. Had to be mistaken.
Still, didn’t hurt to try.
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ISSUE 57
Kristoff let the gun barrel tip down,
but only a notch. “I’ve had just about
as much shootin’ as my good nature
can stand.”
“If this is you good-natured—”
“That you, Claudius?”
“Who’s asking?”
“The only cadet who spent more
time in the commandant’s office
than you did.”
“Helmer Kristoff?”
“You say that like it’s a question.”
A deep laugh rolled out across the
courtyard, and a command was car-
ried by other voices until it echoed
back through the unseen troops—
”Stand down!”—then a man in body
armor stepped into the open, his
arms stretched out from his sides,
gun pointed at the sky.
Kristoff lowered the Ginchon to
rest across his knees. “Hey, Claudius.”
“Hey, Kris.”
“So.” He let out a long breath. “We
still friends?”
#
Resting her weight on the crutches
but keeping her back to the concrete
wall, Finney stood near the rear door
of the war room. In the center stood
a long table, its black top inlaid with
the tri-planet symbol of the colonial
government, and the gleaming sur-
face cast back shadowed reflections
of the lights overhead, as if they were
stars in the expanse of space.
But this was an underground bun-
ker, and she was a pilot. She needed
real space. Real stars.

Finney turned her head away, saw
her battered face in the glass of the
corridor wall, and grimaced.
Aye, lass, said her late grandfa-
ther’s imagined voice, ‘tis yer sainted
grandmother’s face. I always braced
m’self whenever I had to look at ye.
Or her. ‘Tis good fortune she was of
a traditional mind and wore a veil, or
there might never have been a wed-
ding. There was affection and irony in
that voice. Now, lass, I can tell yer not
believin’ me. It was really her cook-
ing, ye see, made me love her, and all
her father’s money—
She chuckled, and men and wom-
en in dust-colored clothes cast her
curious glances then looked to Dan-
iel, their leader, who sat at the head
of the table. He indicated the seat
beside him, but Finney shook her
head. Her leg wound throbbed, but
she was disinclined to yield anything,
even a few moments’ respite, to the
rebel leader. Despite his promise, he
had yet to allow her access to a radio,
and now he wanted her to attend—a
staff meeting?
If I didn’t wear more bandages
than a first aid dummy, Grandfather,
I’d break outta here.
Aye, and that’d be poor coin for
savin’ yer life. Give the lad a listen.
Across the room, Daniel studied at
her.
She leaned back against the wall,
easing some of the weight on her
arms and one good leg, and sent him
a small smile. Never a good thing to
Thieves’ Honor
Episode 12: The Rescuers, Part 3
by Keanan Brand
upset the natives. Make him think
she wasn’t fidgeting on the inside,
ready for the first escape that re-
vealed itself. Make him think she was
actually interested in whatever was
going on here. Make him trust her.
Daniel was not a remarkable
man—average height, indetermi-
nate age, pleasant expression that he
wore like a mask—yet he command-
ed attention, and his prolonged si-
lence tightened the atmosphere. The
men and women gathered around
the table held their shoulders rigid,
their backs straight, as if an invisible
puppet master held their strings too
taut.
Unlike the often ear-rending skreel
of static over the old analog radios
used by the Vega crew, a stream ra-
dio blipped to life with a soft burble:
“Scout report, sir.”
Daniel laid his radio on the table.
“Go ahead.”
The disembodied voice continued,
“Lot of action at Tarquin’s place, and
Five reports the garrison’s cleared
out. No overhead surveillance,
though. No drones.”
“Horatio is a backside-of-the-uni-
verse settlement,” replied Daniel.
“Government won’t expend many re-
sources here. As long as the garrison’s
empty, send a patrol to see if there’s
anything worth taking. Willa?”
Hesitation. “She missed her check-
in again.”
Daniel’s brows drew together.
“Any ID on that old freighter?”
Finney’s hands clenched around
the crutches, but she schooled her
expression as the report continued.
“Troops are still patrolling out
that direction, so Seven can’t move
close enough to read the name on
the ship. One of the colonials got
too close, though. Flew up into the
air and landed fifty feet away. Hasn’t
moved yet.”
Finney fought a grin. Yep. The Mar-
tina Vega. If her security field was
operational, that meant she hadn’t
been shot out of the sky. The old tub
must still be flyable. Good girl.
“Carry on,” said Daniel. He pressed
his thumb against the radio and the
device burbled again then turned off.
Daniel folded his hands on the table
and glanced around at the assembled
rebels.
“Before we begin”—he looked
down the table at Finney—”meet
Fiona Grace, the last living relative of
Admiral Archibald Cunningham, the
hero of every colonial rebel and one
of the greatest men who ever lived.”
All eyes turned toward her.
Uh, Grandfather?
Don’t look to me for help, lass. I’m
dead.
# didn’t notice how her breath brushed
Crouched behind the parapet at
the top of the stairs, Ezra peered
around the corner. About halfway
down, still sitting on the stairs, the
captain looked up at the commander
of the colonial garrison. “Sorry we
had to kill so many of your men.”
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ISSUE 57
Claudius nodded, and let the bar-
rel of his gun rest in the crook of his
arm. “So, I hear you left the service
and turned pirate.”
“Freighter.”
The commander glanced around
the courtyard then looked back at
Kristoff, brows raised.
“Yeah, well”—the captain
shrugged—”they started it.”
Claudius gave a short, quiet chuck-
le that ended in a throat-clearing
harrumph. “Like I said, Kris, I got no
quarrel with you. Let us take our
wounded and dead back to the fort?”
The captain nodded.
Claudius turned aside, tossed a
hand signal, and colonial soldiers
entered the courtyard. They carried
away the dead, but they couldn’t
unlock the shackles on their captive
brethren. A key so big it looked like a
toy came sailing out of a dark portico
and clattered across the stones.
Kneeling beside Ezra on the roof,
Willa whispered, “What’s really go-
ing on?”
Ezra shook his head. Between the
discomfort of his various cuts and
bruises and the tension of exhaus-
tion versus adrenaline, he almost
across his shoulder when she spoke.
But then the hairs raised on the back
of his neck.
“Are you cold?”
Again, he shook his head, and this
time his neck burned.
Down in the courtyard, the captain

and the commander still faced one
another. Kristoff’s shoulders slumped
a little. “One of the servants said my
pilot was shot. Any of your troops fire
on a woman fleeing this place?”
“We didn’t get involved until the
rebels opened fire on Tarquin’s men.”
The captain’s voice was flat. “Is she
dead?”
“I think you know Governor Tar-
quin’s dead.”
“My pilot.”
“Couldn’t say—but I know where
the rebels are.”
# Corrigan’s back. Keep talkin’.
Aside from one large, battered,
unconscious fellow carried on a
makeshift stretcher, only Tarquin’s
servants and the crew of the Martina
Vega followed Commander Claudius
into the desert. Captain, cook, and
mechanic brought up the rear, Krist-
off slung between Sahir and Corri-
gan while his legs decided whether
or not they would work. At best, he
shuffled along, but mostly the men
just dragged him.
Then Corrigan hoisted him with a
grunt, and slung him over one shoul-
der. Kristoff was too wiped to protest.
A shoulder gouging him in the
belly was about as pleasant as a fist
to the gut; his head flopping around
as if his neck was a noodle—sicken-
ing. Kristoff was dizzy inside of four
steps, and he almost vomited, but
clamped his mouth shut and cursed
his body for disobedience. Wounded
and exhausted, it still had no right to
Thieves’ Honor
Episode 12: The Rescuers, Part 3
by Keanan Brand
mutiny.
“Where—do—we—go?” panted
Sahir.
“West, I think,” replied Corrigan.
“No. Where?”
“Do I look like a soothsayer?”
“You look—like captain—hit you—
when set him down.”
“Nah. He’s wounded.”
“You have—broken hand.”
“Well, I’m taller.”
Sahir wheezed a laugh. “He is—
crazier.”
Yeah, yeah. Kristoff’s chin bumped
The moons had risen, casting a
blue-edged glow across the undulat-
ing sand. Over a ridge and down into
a bowl rimmed with rocky outcrop-
pings, a black maw yawned, sand
and earth piled around it as if a giant
animal had burrowed here. Claudius
led them down stone steps to a vast,
echoing room as large as a cavern,
and activated a torch near the mas-
sive door. The light swayed upside
down in Kristoff’s vision.
Claudius stepped back from the
door. “This is as far as I go.”
# feet, swaying, his eyes struggling to
Finney opened her mouth, hoping
the right words would drop in. Give
her a gun, she could hit the bull’s-eye
‘most every time. But a speech?
She swallowed. Looked at the wait-
ing rebels. She was their hero’s blood
kin. They expected brilliance.
Well, good luck with that.
“Uh, hello, everybody. Just want
to, uh, say thanks for helping me out
earlier today, and—”
An alarm screamed through the
concrete corridors, and the room
cleared in seconds. Even Daniel, lean-
ing on a cane, exited at a hobbling
run, his bodyguards appearing from
around the corner and surrounding
him as fluidly as if they were a hu-
man coat.
Alone in the war room, Finney
smiled.
On the table lay Daniel’s radio. She
swung forward on her crutches and
grabbed the narrow device.
Then she frowned. Dagnabbit.
Even if the Vega crew had operation-
al radios, that tech was too old to re-
ceive any signal from this one.
She sank into a chair. Curses, foiled
again.
#
Once the rebels were convinced
the ragtag rabble at their front door
wasn’t hostile, they lowered their
guns and ushered them inside.
Kristoff slid down from Corrigan’s
shoulder, and his knees almost buck-
led, but he managed to stay on his
focus.
“Hey, cap, you all right?’
He mumbled something.
Corrigan leaned down. “What was
that?”
Kristoff mumbled more nonsense.
Corrigan frowned and leaned clos-
er.
Kristoff let fly with a right that
Page 73
ISSUE 57
snapped Corrigan’s head sideways.
The big man staggered then fell,
arms spread wide.
As if he saw the captain floor the
mechanic on any given day, Wyatt
stepped over Corrigan’s legs and
slapped Sahir on the back. “I could
use somethin’ stronger than water.
What about you?”
“Water.” Sahir ran the back of his
hand across his forehead. “For bath.”
“Yeah. You are a little ripe.”
“If I am ripe, you are rotten.”
The crew moved on, and Kristoff
stared down at Corrigan for a couple
more seconds before the knees fi-
nally collapsed. He landed hard, too
exhausted to feel the pain.
Corrigan grunted, trying to move.
Kristoff turned his head on the grit-
ty floor. “Thanks.”
After a long silence, Corrigan’s arm
twitched. “Any time.”
#
Something hummed above his
head, not loud enough to be iden-
tifiable, just annoying. He squinted
open his eyes then groaned and
closed them again. “Somebody turn
off the sun.”
A low chuckle sounded nearby.
His eyes snapped open, and he
tried to lift his head. He couldn’t see
past the blue sheet covering him to
the chin.
A blurry face hovered above him,
and a red-brown rope hung down
beside it. A braid. “Didn’t we do this
earlier this week?”

“F-Finney?”
“One and only.” Her face came into
focus.
He frowned, lifted a hand that
wasn’t quite steady, took her chin
between thumb and forefinger. “Tar-
quin did that?”
“Her goons.”
“Yeah, about that.” He lowered his
hand to his chest. “You’re so cagey,
how’d they catch you?”
She drew back, cheeks flushed.
“Iwaslookingatadress.”
“Say again?”
“Iwaslookingatadress.”
“Not sure I heard you, Finn.”
She moved away, and he turned
his head to the side to watch her. She
propped a pair of crutches against the
counter and sat on a stool beside the
bed. After a few seconds, she looked
at him, smiled, shook her head. “Back
in Port Henry, I was on my way to find
some dinner, and I passed a line of
shops.” Finney shrugged. “There was
this dress in the window—”
Kristoff looked up at the ceiling
and laughed.
# on her collar, tugged her tunic into
Zoltana unbuttoned her tunic, re-
vealing a once-crisp white shirt now
damp with sweat. Someone in atmo-
sphere control was having fun. Juve-
niles. But she’d served planet-side in
the Western Desert before becoming
a star mariner. She could handle the
heat.
Somewhere in the cellblock, a
rather nice tenor slurred a love song
Thieves’ Honor
Episode 12: The Rescuers, Part 3
by Keanan Brand
in drink-lengthened notes. Tomor-
row, someone would be regretting
his good time tonight.
“Captain Iona Zoltana.” Com-
mander Wilkes stood outside her
cell, hands clasped behind his back,
a smug smile on features rounded by
too many years behind a desk at the
admiralty. He waited, as if expecting
a salute. Zoltana buttoned her tunic.
Starting at the top. His smile disap-
peared.
“Your advocate will be assigned
from the court pool—”
“I have my own.”
Red climbed Wilkes’ neck. “You
understand the gravity of the charges
against you, Captain Zoltana?”
I comprehend the enormity of the
stick up your—”Aye. Sir.”
Wilkes cleared his throat, pushed
his mouth into an insincere smile,
and spoke with forced friendliness.
“Anything you need to get off your
chest? I can speak to the tribunal,
maybe convince them to mitigate the
sentence.”
Zoltana straightened the bars
place. “Charges are not synonymous
with evidence. Sir.”
“Oh,” Wilkes wagged a finger in
the air, “there’s evidence!”
“Then there’s little I could tell you.
Sir.”
He glared. “Captain Zoltana, you
will regret—”
Heels hit the floor in rapid but
muted cadence, as if someone in
ISSUE 57
cloth-covered shoes advanced along Double­-Edged Publishing, Inc., publi-
the corridor. Wilkes looked over his cation was At the End of Time, When
shoulder, and frowned. the World Was New, a short piece
A cheerful and oddly familiar of speculative fction that appeared
voice rang out, “Don’t mind me, in the fnal issue of Dragon, Knights,
Commander. Go ahead. As you were & Angels. History, mythology, folk-
threatening?” tales, C.S. Lewis, Howard Pyle, J.R.R.
Wilkes paled. Tolkien, William Shakespeare, Rob-
Whoever approached should al- ert Louis Stevenson, and the Bible
ready be within sight. Gripping the remain great infuences, as do the
cool metal, Zoltana pressed her face family tall tales, pioneer stories, and
to the bars and looked down the pas- Southern gothic with which Keanan
sage. It was empty. grew up.
Keanan Brand
Writing since age nine, when an
English assignment required a short
story, Keanan Brand dreamed of
writing Westerns or books about his-
tory, or recording the crazy stuff of
dreams. Late teens and early twen-
ties witnessed the imposition of real
life and the putting away of dreams.
For a time, he dabbled in nonfction
and freelance journalism, then a su-
pervisor suggested a free writing
seminar at the local college, and Ke-
anan returned to a greater love: fc-
tion, specifically fantasy and science
fiction. He started entering contests,
winning awards for poetry, essays,
and short stories. These successes led
to freelance editing for other writers,
and for a science fiction small press.
His frst story to be accepted by a
Page 74