Baen Books

Free Stories & Nonfiction 2024

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Next Right Action © 2024 by Marisa Wolf

Gods Among Men © 2024 by Patrick Chiles

The Fangs of Oannos © 2024 by Christopher Ruocchio

Bionic Frontier © 2024 by Robert E. Hampson

Locus of Control © 2024 by Zack Be

Pinks © 2024 by David Afsharirad

The Rivals © 2024 by S.M. Stirling

The Last Convoy Out of River City © 2024 by Jason Cordova

The Wish Doctor © 2024 by Arlen Feldman

Data Rod I-37 © 2024 by Richard Fox

Heroes & Survivors © 2024 by Justin Watson

Lethal Cheer: A TransDimensional Hunter Short Story © 2024 by Lydia Sherrer

A Baen Books Original

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Electronic Version by Baen Books
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Next Right Action 
by Marisa Wolf

Pirra had been conscious for all of an hour, and enjoyed exactly none of it.
She’d been strapped into a jumpseat under acceleration since she’d woken up—and before, evidentially—and as there’d been no one to tell them what was happening, Pirra and Gace had told each other the transport ship must be making its final approach to their destination.
Why they were the only ones in jumpseats, when they’d been put under with twenty of their former classmates, was anyone’s guess.
Not anyone’s guess, she corrected. Just hers and Gace's. There was no one else around to care.
A large jolt, then the ship shuddered to stillness on the ground, and Pirra did not throw up. Her stomach twisted and attempted to climb her throat, but she set her shoulders, breathed out through her nose, and unfastened the safety harness.
“How long 'til they clear us, you think?” Gace leaned her head against the jumpseat across the way and studied the smooth ceiling above them with the calm Pirra strove for.
“We live here now.” Pirra’s voice emerged steadily, as though she couldn’t feel each individual coil of her intestines writhe with whatever soup of chemicals her own biology and the ostensible flight doc had conspired to create in waking her up. “They trained us and went to the cost of throwing us across systems to let us rot on a landing field.”
“I mean, sure.” Gace’s laugh, as careless as it had been in the safety of their barracks on KX-Prime made Pirra hate her a little. Was her fellow trainee—graduate, fire take it—truly so relaxed? Not swallowing back the burn of digestive acid? Not holding her expression so still a tension headache was climbing the back of her skull? Not—
Pirra focused on her breathing, the in and out, and reminded herself of who and where she was.
Pirra Derale, fully graduated Specialist, Interstellar Defense Corps. Guarantor of her family’s prosperity. Defender of the civilized planets against the overreach of the United Colonial Forces. One of the tiniest fraction of the IDC’s population recruited for the safety of everything she’d ever known.
So what if she was so far from home she couldn’t spot it in the sky with a telescope? It was there. She was here. And her being here would make them safer there and—and her thoughts were spiraling again. Facts.
Pirra was a soldier. She was recruited, and she was trained, and she’d been found worthy enough to send to an active front for her first assignment. She wasn’t going to worry about why only two of them were left in the holding bay of the Kanamede. She wasn’t going to throw up on her uniform, or her one remaining friend, or the spotless metal floor of the ship.
They were unconscious for the entirety of transit, however long that might have been in real time, so her body’s complaints were due to the aftereffects of the drugs to keep her asleep and wake her up. Probably some adrenaline.
Not fear or worry or concern or nerves or—Pirra wasn’t the type. She was ready.
She swallowed twice more and realized Gace was staring at her.
“What?”
“Do we just let ourselves out, you think?” Gace’s quick smile was meant to be reassuring probably, not mocking. Her hand hovered over her own harness, though she didn’t unclip it. “IDC standard control panel over there, we can probably be trusted to open a door.”
The face of their last combat instructor hovered in her thoughts, accompanied by his tone that disapproved all their life choices. “Canaro might have something to say about that.”
Gace laughed again, and simultaneously they deepened their voices in a much practiced imitation of the trainer. “The second you think you have an idea, stop, drop, and slam your head into a wall, bits.”
The phrase went along with such gems as "You don’t know enough to think," and "Save it for up the line." Herok Canaro, IDC Combat Engineer, had made those three points the foundation of his barked orders countless cycles before Pirra, Gace, and the rest of their operational class had passed through him.
“Bits.” Pirra shifted in her seat, examining the seamless walls for nonexistent interest. The loading bay existed to keep conscious passengers separate from the ship, and consisted of two rows of ten jumpseats, an exterior wall that unfastened to serve as a ramp for ease of loading and unloading, and very little else. She remembered it clearly from her arrival on the Kanamede, which had been two hours or forty cycles ago. “That’s us. Such important little bits of the effort we can sit unattended on some landing pad for who knows how long.”
“You are not unattended.”
The voice came from no discernible direction. Unmarked walls around them gave no evidence of a speaker, and no comm had been slipped against her ear when she wasn’t looking. Her eyes snapped toward Gace, but her compatriot stared straight up without blinking.
A shudder wrenched down her spine before her brain caught on—it was the partly human consciousness that powered the ship itself, talking to them. This was no regular interplanetary ship—they’d gone system to system, from the civilized heart of the IDC out to the wilds of the UCF, which meant one of the most precious of IDC’s resources had enabled it—an Aulien, the intermingled consciousness of machine and person, becoming both or neither, that guided ships through the jumppoints.
“Uh . . . thank you.” Pirra narrowly managed to keep the last word from skewing upward in a question. Augmented Intelligence, she emphasized in the safety of her own brain. The AuIn, for awkward short. Not Aulien. They probably didn’t like nicknames. Were they human enough to have likes? “Do you have an update on our disembarking?”
“Are you not happy to be here?” The harmonics of the voice changed, a note that made her eardrums fold in on themselves. Was it a threat? A tease? Could machine-human brains comprehend the idea of teasing?
She flexed her jaw to ease the pressure, failed, and hoped she wasn’t visibly wincing. “You have been an excellent host, but you came all this way so we could do the work we were trained for.” Was she being too careful? Would the hybrid think she was condescending to it? Was she condescending to it? She cut a glance toward Gace, who widened her eyes slightly and dipped her chin a fraction.
Gace had no idea either. They were the only two humans on a ship that may or may not choose to . . . 
Pirra bit down on the inside of her mouth. Her thoughts were all over the place, and yet unable to find someplace helpful. If the not-quite-human intelligence that ran the ship had marked them for death, it would have been done. And while rumors were rampant about the never-seen maybe-creatures that enabled intersystem travel, she’d never heard of them summarily killing fellow IDC troops. Whole ships lost to mystery tragedies, but not one or two picked off here and there.
Though why only two of them were remaining for some last delivery—
Act like you have the sense they gave the moons, Derale. With studied care, Pirra folded back the loose buckles of her harness and stretched to her feet. Gace stared at her, hands half-lifted to her own harness.
“So thank you for the work you did to get us here. Are they ready for us, or should we do some recovery exercises while we wait?” There. Her words didn’t wobble at all.
Act as though the world made sense. Take the next right action available to you. Continue until you’re through or dead.
It wasn’t advice Canaro might have approved of, but her father’s words had kept her from freezing in fear uncountable times since leaving the relative safety of her home for the sprawling dangers of the galaxy, and it was better than huddling in her chair waiting for yet more of the unknown to come for her.
The animating force behind the ship didn’t answer, so she moved into the first form of her longer series of stretches. Before she finished the second move, Gace unfastened and joined her.
They didn’t die.
“Wasn’t very likely anyway,” she muttered, and Gace made a noise low in her throat that indicated they were on the same page. Or Gace was considering how crazy Pirra was.
It wouldn’t be unreasonable to wonder.
By the time they finished three full sets of the routine, Pirra’s innards no longer attempted to become outtards, and the last remnants of the bile burning the back of her throat had faded.
The next time she caught Gace’s gaze, the other woman mouthed, "Now what?" and before Pirra could summon an answer from her vast expanse of "no idea," the ship thrummed around them.
They both pivoted, Pirra facing the exterior hatch and Gace the smaller door leading to the rest of the ship. A moment later two large clunks heralded the opening of the wall to the new world they’d arrived on, and Pirra straightened to attention.
“Welcome to Discar, new—” The male speaker hesitated the barest moment when the near-empty bay revealed itself to him, but recovered without a flicker to his expression. “Grunts.” His gaze passed over them, as though there might be other newly delivered IDC trained Specialists hiding under a jumpseat. “Need anything before you leave the Kanamede behind?”
For a wild moment, Pirra considered craning her head back to ask the Aulien if they’d miss her, but she didn’t need the man tasked with greeting them to think one of his two new soldiers was headcracked.
Gace answered instead of apparently pondering dumb things to do, her voice as neutral as his. “Everything is on our person, sir.”
“That’s the way of it.” He nodded sharply and gestured for them to disembark. “I’m your Lead Two, Liden Hyrax. For the hour or so you get guided, I’m your guy.”
“Thank you for flying IDC Interstellar. We hope you enjoy your assignment.”
Neither Hyrax nor Gace reacted with so much as a twitch, leaving Pirra to conclude the message had been directed solely at her. Of all the impossibilities presented by the IDC’s bottle grown Auliens, this, for no reason in particular, sent a shiver down her spine, each vertebrae wrenching in a different direction. She lagged a step behind, letting Gace’s introduction to Hyrax provide cover for an under her breath response.
“Can’t say I want to do it again some time.” Pirra bit her cheek as the alarming urge to smile grew in the echo of her shudder. Interstellar IDC. That had to be a joke. Auliens could joke. Hyrax was saying something to Gace as she hopped from ship to planet, and Pirra risked an amendment, “But maybe it could be fun.”
There was no further targeted communication, and she shifted her attention to collecting first impressions of Discar rather than wondering on matters far, far above her pay grade.
This was only the third planet she’d ever stepped on. Funny, maybe, to be part of a system-spanning war and have such a limited view of it, but she had no interest in Command, and their need to understand and design interplanetary conflict at scale. Home for nearly twenty cycles, then KX-Prime, where she’d trained, was a rock with little enough to get it more than a letter designation, and now Discar, home of one of the oldest active fronts of the war. UCF had colonized half of the planet, per its agreement with the IDC, back when the organizations recognized such things as agreements and terms. Some unclear point later, the value of the fungal clouds became known—Pirra scanned the empty yellow-orange sky, but there were none currently above her—and the United Colonials Forces seized the entirety of the planet to maximize their profits. IDC had landed troops not long later, and so it had been for tens of cycles.
Discar certainly didn’t seem to offer much beyond the richness of its floating bacterial—animal?—life. The faint light of its far off star left everything washed out, gray-green ground cover past the landing pads, faded paving, a hazy shadow of what could be tree life off in the distance. The truck waiting for them was cleaned to IDC precision, but the base ahead of them was squat and drab. A rambling affair, indicative of being built quick and then encrusted over time. Perhaps it had been meant to be temporary cycles ago, but the spread of buildings, and the investment indicated by the visible weaponry spoke of permanency.
Hyrax gestured to the truck and Pirra slid into the back without waiting to negotiate with Gace on who’d sit up front. Let her have the face time with Lead Two, while Pirra could get herself together again. It was unlikely they’d be moved from this assignment for their length of service, given the ongoing activity on Discar and the ruinous cost of moving troops through enemy territory. Worth it to reposition some of the elite, perhaps, but not a Specialist.
“Are those Charons? They look different than the ones on KX.”
“Training beats have the near-decommissioned equipment. Not like any of you are going to fly one, eh.” Hyrax made a noise that perhaps was meant to be a laugh. “Unless you’re hiding a port under your heads.”
  Gace’s laugh was easy, casual. “Nah, I was born, not grown. Recruited halfway through school. Pirra too,” she added after a beat.
Pirra had let her thoughts stray too far along a different path—considering the troops that were meant to fly the IDC’s best jets. And control their formidable ground assault vehicles. And—this, as they rounded a corner and put eyes on the base’s central tower—operate the enormous base defense artilleries. There were versions for ordinary humans for ground and air—but the elite systems, with their drone swarms, anti-drone frequencies, and overall speed and precision, needed more than human reaction and processing times.
Like with the Kanamede, engineered soldiers, grown with artificial intelligence programs at least partially embedded in their brains—reliable details were scarce—were the answer. The AI Troops did the heavy lifting on planet- and station- based fighting, as the Auliens were tasked to space battles in addition to transportation. Normal people, like she and Gace, and presumably Hyrax, filled in the cracks. Logistics, information, infantry when needed.
“Pirra’s also usually more talkative,” Gace prompted, and Pirra dropped back into the moment at hand.
“Sorry. Somehow I’m tired despite sleeping for the last three to sixty days.”
“Well it’s not sleep.” Hyrax glanced at her in the mirror, then regaled them with his impressions of the "shut-off juice" used to keep soldiers unconscious in transit. Pirra didn’t fully tune back in until he pulled the truck to a stop outside a round building on the far side of the central tower.
He entered a code he didn’t share on the pad outside the door, and they walked into nondescript halls even more nondescript than training's. There wasn’t a single identifying mark—not the patterned stripes of home, not the painted designs of KX’s buildings—to mar the featureless fabricated walls. Lights ran in strips above, steady and cool.
They strode through the halls, and she did her best to file Lead Two’s short directions to orient herself in case this truly was all the orienting they were to receive.
“Cafeteria and galley is down there, you’ll have set hours to use it or work it.”
“Workout spaces are two turns to the left.”
“Armory is down that hall—it’s not to be entered unless there’s an alarm or you have orders or it’s after morning.”
Gace opened her mouth, but before either of them could ask for clarification on that one, he pointed behind them. “Training bays are in the ring around the tower.”
Act as though the world made sense—surely they’d get more of a download before they had their first duty assignment.
They turned into a larger corridor, the walls wide enough for at least six people to walk shoulder to shoulder.
Lead Two rattled off more facts about Discar, mostly disparaging about its colonial population and the nearby city, but something nagged underneath Pirra’s hearing. Not quite a hum, but a—
Vibration, she realized. Someone approaching. Someones, for her to hear it despite the clear path straight ahead.
Within a few strides, a door slid open farther down the wall, and a crowd appeared.
Not a crowd, she corrected herself. Five individuals. It seemed like more in the sudden shift from empty hall to company.
She waited for Hyrax’s brief update on these new fellows—that they’d meet them later, or they were the last Specialists to arrive, with the good behavior to be made up of more than two—but it didn’t come.  Her gaze snagged on the group as they walked down the corridor toward her trio, some detritus telling her consciousness to pay attention even though she could see what—
Ah.
They walked in unison, which wasn’t wrong. She and Gace had fallen into step with Lead Two despite no march being called. But this was . . .  not that. The five individuals swung their arms at the exact same rate, same angle to their bodies, same distance from their torsos. They moved their heads, slight but visible motions, as though one or another of them were saying something, and they all turned to look at once. Their mouths didn’t move. No one spoke. But the air around her thickened, and a buzz at the back of her neck made her scratch at the knob on the top of her spine before she realized nothing was there.
They were all bald—not the close cut of Hyrax’s bristle or the shortened styles she and Gace sported. Smooth as her ancient great-grandfather, or the lake on a windless day. And though they were certainly individuals—differing skin tones, heights, builds—the five were more alike than different. Something in the eyes. Or the lack of expression.
She registered the small gray metal at the base of one’s ear, then noted they all had the same embedded port, and it finally all fell together.
AI Troops.
Not quite human. She’d known it, but now she felt it, and had to remind herself they started off just like so many other normal humans in uncertain environments. Plain children like her were maintained in artificial environments too, science serving to ensure healthy babies even when mothers had to be otherwise occupied. But.
A very large but. Something else there, introduced when their brains were still developing. Machines. Like the ship that had brought her here, neither human nor artificial, but some haunting combination of the two. Artificial intelligence that had no love for humans, but held up their part of the war effort because they were programmed for it. She said nothing while the group paused, though found it hard to tear her eyes from them.
For their part, the cluster of humanish soldiers murmured a discordant conglomeration of what might have been greetings, didn’t look directly at Pirra, Gace, or Hyrax, and didn’t break pace. There was room enough that no one brushed shoulders, but it was a near thing.
“Eights,” Hyrax muttered, slurring the more formal designation—AIT—into a number.
That, Pirra retained, though probably knowing where the base’s few amenities were would have been more helpful.
***
“What am I supposed to do with two!” Leashed calm, not a roar, but the voice hit Pirra like a blow all the same.
Hyrax’s softer reply was too muffled for her to make out, and a sidelong look at Gace indicated their hearing was frustratingly at the same level.
“I got orders for a full formation from Command, and this—this is Discar, not a bleeding dusty hind end, it’s an active front, and why they think the moons of flippity-doo-ma-gee . . . ” The voice dropped to a lower level, and Pirra couldn’t tell if the nonsense at the end was another language or a result of her ears trying to fill in some meaning to noise.
“So Base Two didn’t get an update?” Gace murmured, sidling close enough to Pirra that her words were barely above the sound of her breathing.
“And the rest of our group went to . . .  some moons?”
They shrugged at each other and were quiet long enough before they were summoned that their expressions were perfectly guilt-free.
Introductions were brief—Base Two had their course list and training scores, and didn’t seem interested in hearing much from them past confirmation they also didn’t know where the rest of their fellow graduates went.
“I’m keeping you with Lead Hyrax for the next rotation. Your next assignment will be based on his report, so handle your shit.”
“Yes sir,” they chorused, and that was the end of their first interview with a Command officer. Pirra figured it could have been worse, and chose not to search Hyrax’s face for hints of his opinion on his new responsibilities.
He brought them to the quartermaster first, which went far more smoothly. The man had been prepared for twenty new assignees, and so squared two away in minutes. The only hiccup had been the weaponry.
“An SH-45?” Pirra twisted the gun to the side, inspecting its odd joinery and long stock. “I thought those were decommissioned in—”
“You trained on ST-6’s?” At her nod the quartermaster, Kerrins, tapped his nose. “Won’t feel much different in action. The SH’s are classics, sure, but what they don’t do is jam on the fungal crumbs this planet loves seeding into all the nooks and crannies.”
Despite knowing better almost immediately, Pirra held her breath. Kerrins laughed, though the sound wasn’t nearly as mocking as it could have been. “You got shot up en route with all the juices to keep your lungs clear of it, so keep breathing. It’s the equipment that struggles, and the SH is the most reliable thing you’ve got—minus the blades, of course. Shouldn’t have much need for those, but better have it and not need it, than need it and go bleeding out about it.”
Not terrible advice. Pirra resolved to add it to her list, somewhere after her father’s and before Canaro’s.
***
Pirra stopped being afraid of the Interstellar Defense Corps’ elite Artificial Intelligence Troops the day she had to clean up after their party.
The latest class of AITs had arrived only a few weeks after she and Gace—long enough to see, if not meet, the older enhanced troops every few days. Long enough to know they were referred to as Eights instead of AITs, probably for the same reason all the IDC liked to shorten and acronym things. If the Eights had their own rationale, they certainly weren’t sharing it with the likes of Pirra.
She’d been content to stay out of the way and keep them on their extraordinary pedestal, but currently her boots were covered in their detritus, and she was all too aware of their humanity.
“Is this alcohol or vomit?” Gace asked from across the shuttle bay. “Ohhh never mind. It’s both. Of course it’s both!” Her fellow Specialist made a low noise somewhere between gag and snort, and Pirra busied herself kicking sticky receptacles into a trash bag to keep from answering in kind.
Truth be told, her stomach was contemplating protesting the whole endeavor, and distraction was her top priority.
“This isn’t what I thought we’d get when IDC recruited me,” she called back once she was reasonably certain only words would emerge from her mouth.
“Pirra, you’re in the top ten percent of your class.” Gace deepened her voice to a perfect impression of a holonet announcer’s pitch. “Why further your studies and take your chances in finding a fulfilling career, when you can travel the stars and clean up after pukey new graduates?”
“Save your family!” Pirra replied, her tone nearly as good as Gace’s. “Get stuck to an exciting array of floors on new planets!”
“I mean, we did get to a new planet.”
Pirra pulled her boot loose from a particularly congealed patch of former liquid with an audible squelching rip. She breathed through her mouth to spare her sense of smell, and reached for a mop. “Discar is, in fact, a new planet. And KX-Prime was a whole other planet. So that’s three for me. But it’s still mops, not some kind of ultrasonic laser thing that does the cleaning for us.”
“If we get the worst of it out, the automated cleaners can do the rest.”
“But the worst of it is the worst of it, Gace.” Pirra indulged herself in imagining the shower she would treat herself to after this, but it only made her present reality worse. “And by the time we’re done, the assignment ceremony will be over.”
“Did you really want to see it? The Eights will go jet, tank, or defense artillery, we’ll catch sight of them from afar, and nothing about it will affect our day-to-day life.”
“It’d be nice. I thought we’d get a big assignment to-do once our orientation was done, but—” Pirra caught the twitch of self-pity in her voice and bit down against the next words.
“Not much to do for two of us.”
“At least we get to go to Bandry City next.”
***
Bandry City was perfectly lovely until it started exploding.
Pirra had been there two days, attached to a unit that had been resupplying from various neutral parties, and, Pirra realized quite belatedly, gathering intel.
There were likely circumstances under which she’d be proud of figuring that out, but in this case a shopkeeper had locked eyes with her Lead, mouthed, “It’s happening,” and slammed a beast of a blast door down between them.
Then something so loud happened she only registered it by the absence of sound following. After a breathless moment, a muffled ringing had stabbed into one of her ear drums, and then she was unconscious.
There hadn’t been enough preparation on lack of consciousness in her training. Idly, as she’d woken up propped against the crumbling stone of what once had been a building, she wondered if it would have helped.
But that had been hours and several explosions ago, and currently she and her four compatriots were spread out low inside a former specialty shop. It smelled of chocolate and cordite, which made her nose itch but wasn’t wholly unpleasant. Her ear protection and helmet combined to keep her ears from melting off her skull, and the ringing had ebbed to something she could function with.
Not ideal, but she had to take each next action available to her until she was through, or dead.
Dead wasn’t usually such a clear and present option, granted, but dwelling on the fact wasn’t going to make it easier.
“We’re to press forward to target, zone B-F8. Backup is en route.” Hyrax straightened slowly, keeping his body angled against a thick display case. “No updates on what resistance is out there, so meantime we’re on our own.”
Groans from strategic points around the shop, and Pirra shifted to catch Gace’s eyeline. This had been meant to be an ease-in assignment, help them get their feet under them. Then again, Discar was an active front. Ease-in just meant they weren’t thrown in front of a bunch of UCF goons and told to dance.
Pirra pressed a hand to the base of her skull—concussion or no, she had to get her shit together before they left the dubious safety of their shelter.
“Mask up. We don’t know what these colonial rejects have past the big booms.” Hyrax lifted his own, fastening it to one half of his helmet. “Comms urgent only. If you get separated, two clicks for proof of life every twenty minutes, but proceed to target.”
The additional information appeared to be for her and Gace’s benefit, given his steady eye contact to first one, then the other of them. Though Hyrax’s team had been larger several hours ago, so maybe additional detail steadied him as well. Pirra couldn’t consider the faces not with them, not yet.
Chatter to a minimum. Prepare for anything. Don’t die.
Canaro would probably have something pithy and rude to add, but she didn’t need his voice in her head at that moment.
Act as though the world makes sense. Take the next right action open to you. Until you’re through, or you’re dead.
She got up, and went through the door on Hyrax’s signal.
She didn’t die.
The next stretch of time compressed into a stutter shock of images—long stretches of nothing, sprinting down an open space, back against a corner, ducking into a pile of debris, eyes heavy after too long of quiet, the rapid thump of muffled impacts too close to consider.
Then a moment apart, crystal clarity, edges bright, time molten slow.
Clear, Hyrax signaled, sending Gace ahead. Torrunce covered from the other side of the square.
Not clear.
Pirra didn’t register the crack until Gace had already stumbled, tipping forward. Her own body tensed, one leg moving without volition, as though she could sprint into the square and stop Gace from falling. As though she could block the repeated blasts kicking up blood and dirt in the middle of a pockmarked park in broken city.
As though the world made sense.
Hyrax snapped out an arm, but she’d already halted her own motion. Gace was flat on the ground, not a twitch to protect herself from repeated fire.
Pirra couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop memorizing the scene, so focused she didn’t so much as flinch when an enormous THWOOM echoed from behind them.
“Tank!” Hyrax snapped, and they fell in. Those who remained. Not Gace. Torrunce signaled from across the way: Friendly.
Moments later a rumble, a vibration, the ground flowing up from the base of her feet, through her knees. She felt it along her spine, couldn’t possibly hear it, not with the repeated THWOOM THWOOM THWOOM. The top of the building to their left evaporated. Too late for Gace. A temporary reprieve for the rest of them.
Torrunce sprinted back to them, low and fast.
Pirra followed Hyrax. She kept her head on a swivel, or meant to, but no one shot at them. Not that she noticed.
Around a corner, then another, the vibration so big her feet were fuzzy, the THWOOM so constant it stopped registering, a matte gray-black enormity appeared, barreling forward over treads that took a mortar as she watched, healed as they approached, whole when they arrived.
IDC. Eight. As close to safety as they had, in this moment.
They stayed close to the back, taking out ground level threats that came for them, or their tank. The turrets moved constantly, blowing up a building or a sniper nest or a collection of bodies before Pirra registered such things were there. At one point one of the turrets took a direct hit, folded away, but the tank barreled onward.
A unit of UCF charged—charged a tank head on, maybe they all had concussions—and Pirra shot one, clean, saw them fall. Watched without blinking as the tank rolled over it and its fellows, like they were no different from the rest of the debris strewn in their path.
They weren’t.
Bits of the war effort.
Square by square, they moved forward. Cleared the city.
New target: A UCF installation on the other side of Bandry, nestled under one of Discar’s “mountains”—a towering mud pile reaching into the lower atmosphere.
The tank sped ahead, a dip of the turret in acknowledgment. Pirra waved back without thinking, opened her mouth to make a joke about it to Gace, snapped her teeth back together instead.
Torrunce secured them a vehicle, so they weren’t far behind "their" tank. Charon jets screamed overhead, and like the tanks, were more felt than heard. The battle of the mud pile was well and truly joined by the time they got there, and Pirra didn’t argue when Hyrax told her to stay close.
She followed his orders without thinking too hard about what they meant. Canaro would be proud. Perhaps even without a concussion she would have found it hard to make sense of the chaos—the best she could tell, they were doing what they could to keep any UCF grounders from flanking the tanks that had charged the installation, only to be met with black and red mottled UCF tanks.
At no point did she tilt her head back to register what the jets were doing—her head stayed at one angle and shifted on that plane or the throbbing would make her useless—but various portions of the mountain exploded outward at irregular intervals, so they were getting their hits in.
At some point, an unknown number of minutes or hours or days in, Hyrax screamed an abrupt halt on their charge. Pirra didn’t have to crane her head back like the people around her—her peripheral was enough to see the jet plummeting to the ground, deadly symmetry disrupted. But even as it fell, as small human figures rushed to get out of its path, its path . . .  shifted.
Impossibly, the jet wrenched itself from its steep descent into a curve, and Pirra lifted a hand. Useless, but acknowledging the Eight’s incredible save—only it wasn’t a save at all, or not for the jet.
Rolling at speeds even a superhuman couldn’t survive, the plummeting jet still crashed. But instead of plowing through unimportant humans, bits of the fights, it impacted between two of the UCF’s tanks.
Pirra couldn’t register what was exploding. The world, possibly, and she was on the ground—had she fallen? Had Hyrax tackled her? Did the shock wave meet her so fast?—before the third cataclysm happened. Discar’s faint light intensified, and each blade of gray green plant life outlined itself in blinding yellow red. She squeezed her eyes shut, because despite her best efforts, the world did not, in fact, make sense. There were no more right next actions. Death was coming for her.
Sorry, Dad.
Wait.
No.
Absolutely not.
Pirra breathed in, and out, and in again. Her lungs were still functional. Head questionable, but that was a later problem. It took a moment to identify which limbs were which, but she got her arms under her and shoved. Something lightened, and then a moment later a hand bunched in her jacket helped her leverage upright.
She staggered, but she was on her feet. Not dead.
Just in time to watch the mud pile mountain slowly lean forward. Like Gace, its momentum tipped forward, until it was unrecoverable.
Hyrax dragged her back to a vehicle—the one they’d arrived in, another one, she was never sure—but she couldn’t tear her eyes off the falling monstrosity. Off the one tank, matte gray black, missing a turret, firing at the enemy until it was swallowed by the mountain.
***
Pirra didn’t expect to mourn Eights with the same weight she mourned Gace. She didn’t even know them, beyond knowing too much about some of their drinking—and expelling—habits.
Every time she closed her eyes, she didn’t see the explosions, or the man she shot, or the bodies under the treads of the tank. She saw the mud pile mountain of Discar slide in slow motion over a matte grey-black tank. She saw a Charon break the laws of physics to wrench its shot-down free fall enough to take out two UCF tanks in its fiery wreck. She saw Gace, eyes dull. Eight or Specialist, they were all human enough to die for the cause.
Being trained for it hadn’t made it easier. The world didn’t make sense.
But what choice did she have? She pretended it did, so she could drag herself forward.
Hyrax delivered Base Two’s summons personally, which was . . .  not nice. Not surprising. But of enough interest that it rippled the cloud dulling her perceptions. She followed him to Base Two’s office, and for only the second time since she’d arrived on Discar, she stepped inside.
“I have a new assignment for you, Derale.”
Pirra folded her hands at the small of her back and blinked without quite meeting his eyes.
He opened his mouth, closed it, made a noise that was sigh or curse, and sat in his chair, gesturing her to do the same across from him.
After a moment, she complied, her mind slow to register his offer and her body slower to follow.
“I’m putting together a team.” He leaned his elbows on the desk between them, and waited until she met his gaze. She stared at space between his nose and forehead, but it seemed to do what he wanted. “You’re going to train with the techs that keep the Eights functional.”
He didn’t say anything for so long she realized he probably wanted a reaction. She took a steadying breath or three and forced her eyes to meet his properly, dipped her chin in acknowledgment, if not agreement.
“You should know techs retire to specific IDC locations, and that means you probably won’t go home again. You should also know your retirement will be about the best IDC provides.”
Tell that to Gace. The words were so loud in her head she was surprised she didn’t say it out loud. With a sharp reminder to once again get her shit together, Pirra focused fully on Base Two.
“And yeah you’re going to have to deal with Eights all the time, but hells above, it could be worse.”
Bandry City. The mountain. It could.
“Why?” Was that her voice? Rusty and croaked? She cleared her throat and repeated it, sounding more like herself.
“There’s something strange going on and we need you to—” He laughed, and it almost seemed normal. She wiped the shock from her expression and found half her mouth trying to curve up in a smile.
“No, Pirra. It’s a good assignment. We’re down techs, and I can’t afford to wait for resupply that may or may not come. You’ve got the scores, and you’ve got the temperament. It’s not any safer than any other job—Discar’s still the front, and more often than not I have to send techs out in the field to get to the Eights. It’s not always pretty.”
“I didn’t sign up for pretty,” she replied, which had the benefit of sounding good, whether or not it was entirely true.
“Good.” He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. “Tech hub is level two, west wing. Get down there—your new Lead is waiting.”
“It’s a training shift?”
“You want one?”
She shook her head, and found to her surprise that that was true.
“Good. Base Actual just got some weird ass report from a forest on the far side of that shit show mountain disaster. We gotta send techs to see what’s recoverable out there. You’re officially their backup.”
“Cover the techs, learn on the job?” Pirra meant it to be a statement, demonstrating her agreement, but it skewed up slightly on the end. Back out in the field was better than roaming the base. Wasn’t it?
“Cover the techs. Learn on the job.”
That made sense.
The world would make sense.
Pirra wasn’t through, and she wasn’t dead, so she took the next right action open to her.
And she went.
###
Marisa Wolf is a second-generation nerd who started writing genre stories at six. At least one was good enough to be laminated, and she's been chasing that high ever since. Over the years, she's taught middle school, been headbutted by an alligator, earned a black belt in tae kwon do, and finally decided to finish all those half-finished stories in her head.
She lives in an RV with her husband and their two absurd rescue dogs, so it's anyone's guess as to where in the country she is.

Gods Among Men 
by Patrick Chiles

BEGIN RECORD
SURVEY TEAM REPORT: GU CATALOG NO. X259/Y029/Z049, CLASS G2V STAR
We have successfully made landfall in the northern latitudes of the system’s third planet to observe the native hominids. This marks the fifth distinct culture we have identified on this world. They are located in a coastal region surrounded by jagged cliffs and towering mountains. The natives demonstrate considerable skill in metalwork, woodwork, and agriculture, given their primitive technology.
The hominids of this region have made contact on numerous occasions with neighboring societies to the south and west, employing seagoing ships crafted from the local coniferous trees. While their shipbuilding skill and rudimentary grasp of celestial navigation has enabled the crossing of what are to them great distances, all evidence indicates this advancement has unfortunately been used for plunder. Ships have returned from abroad filled with finely crafted metalworks, livestock, and in some cases captured foreigners who have been pressed into servitude. From the snippets of conversations we have been able to translate, these prisoners refer to their captors as “Norsemen.” They have earned a fearsome reputation among the other hominids of the lower latitudes.
Deployment of observation and listening devices around the Norsemen’s village is complete, and we are continuously collecting data. Next transmission will include a full information packet.
PAUSE RECORD
***
“It’s actually quite beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Hmm?” My companion looked up from his work. “What do you mean?”
I pointed at the sky, where translucent curtains of brilliant green light danced high above our observation base. “The aurora in their magnetosphere,” I said. The glow of charged particles illuminated the snow-covered ground, making the long night almost as bright as if the local star was in view. The lights had been particularly energetic of late, corresponding to a recent coronal mass ejection from the local star.
“Treyvrell,” he tutted at me. “For being such a skilled anthropologist, you have the mind of a poet. How you keep the competing halves of your brain in balance eludes me.”
My companion, Ormbrell, was much more of a pragmatist than I. It made him the better choice for expedition leader. “Environment has indelible effects on a culture,” I noted, “particularly when the civilization is in its infancy.”
He frowned. “This one most certainly is. Every settlement we’ve observed has been quarrelsome, clannish . . .” he inclined his head toward the entry of our outpost, “this group especially so. What economic system they have seems largely based on the pillaging of other settlements, even of those within their own locale.”
“You hold out little hope for them, I take it?”
Ormbrell stretched, for the first time studying the sheaves of light swirling across the sky. “Not in the near term. Perhaps another millennia. Or two.” He softened, sensing my disappointment. “It is not that I think they are incapable. My hesitancy comes from understanding our own history. Eons ago, we were not so different. And I must admit the physical similarities are intriguing, but you tell me. Emergent cultures are your specialty, after all.”
“I do not disagree with you, they will require a great deal of time. I suppose my optimism stems from the fact you just mentioned: we have considerable similarities, both biologically and culturally. Early culture, at least.”
“I don’t have to remind you what we have learned from our own history, and from our exploration of the galaxy: every civilization must endure several filtering events as it advances. Most do not survive them. You have hope that this planet’s inhabitants will? Perhaps even be worthy of admission to the Union some day?”
“Some day,” I said.
Ormbrell squinted as he returned to his study of the day’s observations. “Your optimism is admirable. Perhaps misguided, but admirable.”
Our expedition scout, a young Reticulan named Varrex, was tending to the sensor suite outside of our shelter. Being of a telepathic race, he was of course aware of our conversation.
Time will tell. The various cultures of this world will be forced into some form of unification; that much is clear. Their civilization will become industrial at some point, and as we have seen that poses as much potential for great conflict as it does advancement. I suspect their more significant filtering events will be self-inflicted.
“As it was for our kind,” I sighed. As it was for many, in fact. Our race had endured its own internecine conflicts, until external events had forced the Great Diaspora on us. I decided to steer the conversation on to more practical matters. “Is your work out there almost complete?”
Almost. I have completed my inspection of the sensor picket, and am currently working on one of the reflective emitters. It appears to have a faulty image generator.
“Is that on the perimeter, or the shelter dome?”
The perimeter. The dome’s secondary emitters are functioning nominally.
“Then by all means, take your time,” Ormbrell interjected. “I don’t have to explain how undesirable it would be if our cloaking field were to fail.”
Indeed.
***
Varrex had spent most of the night working under the natural light of the planet’s aurora. Whereas our metabolism and sleep cycles were similar to the local hominids, Reticulans tend to be nocturnal, having evolved beneath the surface of their world. Thus it was in the early hours when we were awakened by his call for help.
I’m afraid there is a situation. Come quickly.
Reticulans are famously stoic, so it was all the more alarming that we could sense his distress. Without a word we rose and exited the dome, each taking a field kit on our way out. If we had thought to check the shield status first, we might have been more careful. We also might not have been so surprised by what we found.
We emerged to find Varrex crouched on the frozen ground, clutching his abdomen. Dark blood leaked out from between his long fingers. Above him stood a troop of hominids, clothed in animal furs and wielding a fearsome array of crude weapons forged from the native mineral stock. They were startled by our sudden appearance and stepped back before leveling their weapons at us. Their reaction was all we needed to know that we indeed had a “situation,” as Varrex had warned.
I turned to see our shelter dome was still safely cloaked; to the Norsemen it must have appeared as if we’d materialized out of the air. The perimeter of our camp, however, was in the open for all to see. Of the many protocols we follow on these survey expeditions, concealment from the local population is paramount.
Varrex had been seen, as had we. The problem with the field emitters had been more serious than we had realized, which in turn had created even greater problems. Our companion was injured, perhaps gravely so. We rushed to his side, only to be confronted by a particularly tall, rough-looking hominid wielding a long, crescent-shaped axe. The fresh bloodstains along its blade made it clear this was the one who had attacked our companion.
There was much shouting and cross-talk between him and his company, which our translation chips struggled to interpret. The native language models were incomplete, only recently having been exposed to these Norsemen. As partially-formed words began to resolve, it was clear from their reactions that our appearance had perhaps confounded them even more than Varrex’s. His gray skin, large black eyes, and small stature would have been alarming to a race which had never encountered Reticulans, whereas the sudden appearance of a pair of beings which more closely resembled their kind left them baffled.
“Gray elf,” one said, keeping a long-bladed weapon pointed at Varrex. “Or a forest gnome.”
I am not an “elf.” I am a Reticulan.
Another Norseman moved beside him, his face reddened. “A trickster!” he exclaimed, stabbing at his forehead with meaty fingers. “Can you hear? He speaks without words!”
“Magic,” the other agreed, tightening his grip on his weapon. His unease was palpable. “Dark magic, of a dark elf!”
“And what of these two? They are not elves,” another said, leveling his own blade at us.
As Ormbrell knelt to tend to Varrex’s wounds, I held up a hand in greeting and moved my other hand to engage the translation device on my belt. “We are not,” I said slowly, waiting for the translator to do its work. “We are Emissaries. Visitors. Envoys, from a land far away. We are here to learn.”
The translator did its job the best it could, considering its limited exposure to their language, but the interpretation led to much consternation among the Norsemen. “Spies!” one thundered, and lifted another of those long-handled axes above his head to strike.
To his credit, Ormbrell did not flinch. I, however, was compelled to take action. In all of my time with the Survey ministry, I had never needed to draw a weapon. I pulled a stun wand from my belt and pointed it at the charging Norseman; the air crackled as it shot a bolt of white light, leaving our attacker in an unconscious heap in the snow.
The group recoiled, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. There was much cross-talk; arguments mixed with alarm. Of course they had never seen an energy weapon, and even the low-power discharge of a stun bolt no doubt appeared miraculous to them. There would be no use trying to calm their fears, no explaining that it was as simple a tool to us as their blades.
“Magic!” one exclaimed. “What beings can wield such power?”
This question silenced the group. They turned to the largest hominid, apparently their tribe leader. “What say you, Agnar?”
Agnar. Now I knew his name. This would be useful to establish a dialogue.
His head was shaven, its bare skin marked with crudely tattooed images, and his braided red beard reached almost to his waist. He placed the haft of his axe on the ground and rested his hands atop its head. His eyes did not leave mine. “Where is your home, stranger?”
I looked to the sky, a few bright stars still visible in the morning twilight. “A world much like this, though quite far away.”
In retrospect, my answer was ill-considered. However, his question posed a distinct dilemma. If I led them to believe we were of another tribe of hominids from distant lands, there was every reason to believe they would respond aggressively, considering their behavior so far. Theirs was a warrior culture, and they had demonstrated that any from outside their clan was considered a threat. “Spies,” as one had already suggested.
I could see that Agnar held great authority over the group, but I could not ignore one hominid in particular: the one with the blood-stained axe. The one who had attacked Varrex. His heavy brow loomed over dark eyes, which darted nervously between me and my companions. He remained on edge, continually shifting his feet and rolling his shoulders, signaling that he was unmoved by Agnar’s call for calm.
“They come from the sky?” Our translators could not yet discern inflection, though his body language suggested deep skepticism. “They claim to be of the gods, then.” He turned to Agnar. “Enough of this! Let us test his claim!” With that, he raised his axe and charged.
With no alternative, I whipped the stun wand at him and discharged it once more. With another crackling flash of light, he collapsed to the ground. Two Norsemen now lay still before us.
The party froze. I could sense they were considering their next move, as was I. Our instructions explicitly forbade engaging with native populations; this was the entire purpose behind our cloaking fields. Active defense, a euphemism for combat, was to be avoided at all costs. Yet we were also expected to take any necessary steps to defend ourselves. Survey ministry protocols had come from hard-won experience, and the contradictions swirled through my mind as I tightened my grip on the stun wand, now slippery from my perspiration.
Several broke off from the group and raised their weapons to charge, until Agnar moved between us with his arms spread. “Stop!”
My hands trembled as I kept the wand leveled at the attackers. “We are not spies,” I said, as calmly as one could manage under the circumstances. “We mean you no harm.”
Ormbrell stood. “Our companion is hurt. He requires medicine. Aid.” He turned to me. “This cut is deep. I need to bring him inside, quickly.” Ignoring the looming threat, he lifted Varrex into his arms and made for our shelter, disappearing into its open portal. To the Norsemen, it would have looked as if they’d vanished into nothing. Just as we’d appeared, I realized.
They must have expected me to follow my companions inside, but I stood my ground. Disappearing into the shelter would have no doubt created even more of a commotion, and I imagined we would have soon found their entire settlement surrounding our encampment.
“Where did they go?” Agnar demanded.
I debated how to answer that. We certainly couldn’t have these Norsemen picking around our outpost unescorted. Whatever happened, we would have to leave this place soon. I tapped the communicator on my belt three times, sending an emergency extraction signal to our survey ship waiting near the planet’s lone moon.
“To our home,” I answered. Though inexact, it was the simplest explanation.
“Your home,” he repeated, giving me a suspicious look. “It is far away, no?”
How to answer that? “It is. We are here temporarily. To learn. We come as friends.”
“Friends,” he said gruffly. “And the dark elf? He is your ‘friend’ as well?”
If there was to be any good to come from this, it was that the translator became more adept at their language as we spoke. “He is our traveling companion. Our friend.”
“Then you travel with strange friends. Dark elves are not to be trusted.”
That was an odd remark, as ours was the first expedition to this region. “You have met others like him?”
“Their handiwork is everywhere. Thievery, mischief, sabotage . . . but yes, we have many tales of encounters.”
Agnar showed great confidence in his assertion, but it was of little relief to me. It was possible that an unsanctioned expedition could have encountered these northern tribes, but unlikely. It was more likely that Varrex had the misfortune of his appearance fitting neatly into their local myths. As Agnar studied me in silence, I wondered where we Emissaries might fit into their pantheon.
I soon had my answer. He had apparently reached a decision.
As the others stood wide-eyed, Agnar kneeled. “Our visitor speaks the truth. Only one can call on the power of lightning.” He pointed at my stun wand. “Only one can wield the hammer of the gods.” He bowed his head. “Thor.”
At this, the rest of his company dropped to their knees. We did not yet have a full understanding of this culture’s traditions and mythology, but we were to learn quickly.
The two men felled by my stun wand had begun to stir. Agnar rose. “We cannot know why the gods would deem to visit us, nor why they would truck with a dark elf.” He spat on the ground beside the first Norseman, the one who had injured Varrex. “Nor can we let this offense pass.” He pulled the hominid to his feet. “Einar, you have injured one who the gods protect. You understand what this means.”
The one called Einar began to tremble. “Agnar, I did not know—”
“It does not matter. You must pay the price for your insult, lest we all suffer for it.”
The others in the group traded grave looks with each other, and I sensed they had all come to the same realization. Two of them took Einar by the arms and led him back toward their settlement. For his part, Einar seemed resigned to whatever fate awaited him.
***
At Agnar’s insistence, I was compelled to follow. Two more of the Norsemen accompanied me, assuming the stance of my personal guards. Word must have spread to the rest of their company, as I was greeted by the entire tribe. The Norsemen, male and female, adults and children, had formed into lines on either side of the path leading into their village square. All kneeled as we passed.
At the center of the square was a stone pedestal, with heavy wood pillars on either side. Einar lay face-down on the stone, stripped to the waist with his arms lashed to its pillars.
My heart raced as I imagined what awaited him. We could not interfere, particularly now that we had been discovered. From what we knew of other hominid cultures, it appeared he was about to be publicly whipped for his crime against Varrex.
How wrong I was, and how I cursed myself for our mistake. Whatever had caused the outer cloaking field to fail, this unfortunate soul was going to pay a high price indeed. Two Norsemen approached from behind the condemned, each carrying an array of short-handled knives. As they lay their blades around the pedestal, I noticed the grooves cut into its surface. Buckets had been placed beside them.
I turned to Agnar in desperation. “This is not necessary. His offense was unintentional. You must reconsider.”
Agnar’s eyes met mine. “You ask mercy for such a grave offense? Once punishment has been decreed, we mortals do not have the authority to revoke it.”
I could sense the regret in his voice, his inner conflict. Perhaps he could be dissuaded. “You were the one who decreed it. Can you not reverse your own decision?”
“For an offense to man, yes. But for an offense against the gods? That is not in my authority, great one.”
Now it was I who faced inner conflict. We were forbidden from interacting with species under observation, and from using our defensive weaponry unless directly threatened. The first threshold had been irreversibly crossed, and I was averse to crossing the second despite this dire situation. Our inadvertent discovery by the Norsemen had led them to decide we were deities. Perhaps if I embraced this, the damage could be limited. I stiffened my spine, striving to present myself with godly authority. “In that case, I demand that you stay his punishment.”
Agnar leaned against his axe, working his jaw as he considered my demand. He finally answered with a solemn bow of his head. “Mighty Thor, your request for mercy is noted. You are both noble and kind. But only the Great Father, Odin, can stay this man’s fate.” He pointed to the ceremony about to unfold. “Einar accepts the punishment for his deeds. This is his only path to Valhalla.”
Whatever “Valhalla” was, I sensed it carried great weight with this culture. Agnar moved to stand before the accused and addressed the crowd.
“Einar, son of Haldor: For the crime of bringing injury to one who the gods themselves protect, you must pay with your life. By enduring the ritual of Blood Eagle, you will be redeemed. May we see you in Valhalla.”
For his part, Einar appeared as calm as one could. A single tear rolled down one cheek. “It is as you say, Agnar.” His voice choked. “May our forefathers accept me into their presence.”
Agnar accepted his confession with a nod, and turned to the Norsemen by the pedestal. “Begin.”
I watched in horror as the hideous ceremony commenced. To this day, I am reluctant to describe it in any but the most prosaic of details. Even that brings up memories which should forever remain buried.
They began by driving a knife between his shoulder blades, drawing it down the length of his back. Rivulets of blood poured from the wound, spilling down the grooved stone and into the waiting buckets. Through this, Einar uttered not a word. No cries of pain, no pleading for mercy. I could not have been so composed if faced with the same punishment.
I have witnessed many things from afar during our observations of this planet’s inhabitants. They are a species prone to exacting terrible punishments for the most mundane offenses. Sadly, this is a common feature of primitive civilizations. When the security of food and shelter cannot be assured from one day to the next, violence reigns. Brutality is not isolated to this world, but what transpired here ranks as perhaps the worst I have encountered.
There was a sickening crack as bones were split and ribs separated. Still, Einar remained silent. How he managed such a feat is beyond my reckoning, as I could sense his unbearable pain. When the first organ was removed by the blood-soaked hands of his torturers, I could bear no more.
“Enough!” I roared, with a fury I’d never felt nor thought possible.
It was a foolish thing to say, of course, as this Norseman was beyond help. I doubt even our advanced medicine could have saved him at this point. The crowd turned to me in shock. The executioners froze in place, looking to Agnar.
“It is too late, mighty Thor. Do you not wish for this man to join his ancestors in Valhalla? Do you not desire his redemption?”
“I do not desire for him to suffer in this manner!” Something inside of me snapped at that point. I did not yet know who this “Thor” character was in their mythology, but if that conveyed a measure of authority upon me in their eyes, then I was determined to leverage it.
The crowd drew back in alarm as I held the stun wand above my head, my thumb moving its selector to the widest dispersion possible. “I said, enough!” I snapped the wand down sharply, and the flash this time boomed like a thunderclap.
The entire crowd collapsed to the ground. I turned to Einar, now mercifully unconscious on the pedestal. I could not bear to look beyond his face.
Overcome with both rage and regret, I reached for the offensive weapon inside my field kit. They were to be used only in the most extreme circumstances; to my knowledge they had never been drawn against one under observation. I held the gun to Einar’s head and pressed its trigger, ending his life with bolt of charged particles.
It was an act of mercy, yet I have never forgiven myself. None of this should have happened. It was our fault for being here, for being too comfortable with our technology. We had become complacent, and complacency kills. I had just not expected it to happen to an innocent bystander.
***
Varrex recovered fully, once we were extracted and back aboard our ship. Our report caused considerable debate within the Survey Ministry, for which I am glad. All expeditions were recalled and halted until such time as we could ensure the safety of the local populations.
Disturbing as this event was, and as violent as these hominids are (we’ve since come to learn they call themselves “humans”), I believe they still have potential. They show impressive creativity and intellectual curiosity, though these traits are too often employed in brutal ways. If they can overcome their warlike tendencies, the Galactic Union could someday benefit from their inclusion. The time will come when we are allowed to return to this world, though I expect it to be many centuries. Perhaps I will be permitted to see it again for myself, if only to bring closure to the horror I observed.
***
FROM: SURVEY MINISTRY ARCHIVES
SUMMARY REPORT (CALENDAR AND LOCATION STAMPS TRANSLATED TO LOCAL REFERENCE)
788 A.D. Skiringssal, Norway. Technical malfunction aboard survey ship led to inadvertent contact with a large tribe of humans. Survey party was unable to maintain concealment due to failure of transparency field. Our sudden appearance led to great confusion and alarm among the humans.
The tribe our team encountered is one of a warrior class which dominates the region. Tribal traditions and societal structures are centered on agriculture, harvesting of local aquatic and land animals, and wanton aggression against neighboring regions. There is considerable warring between tribes as well.
It is a primitive, quarrelsome culture. One team member was gravely injured by a particularly agitated human male wielding a heavy melee weapon known as a “battle axe.” As punishment, this individual was then subjected to a gruesome ritual they call “blood eagle” which will not be described here.
We attempted to dissuade them to no avail. The tribal chieftain’s insistence on this dreadful punishment is symptomatic of a more unfortunate consequence of our appearance: they now worship us as deities. Further contact NOT RECOMMENDED.
END RECORD

Patrick Chiles is a graduate of The Citadel, a Marine Corps veteran, and a private pilot. In addition to his novels, he has written for magazines including Smithsonian’s Air & Space Magazine.

The Fangs of Oannos 
by Christopher Ruocchio

CHAPTER 1
THE KING OF THE BEASTS

#

“What do you know of our guests, mi sadji?” asked the High Prince of Jadd, seated in his float-chair to my right. “These men of Oannos?”
I looked up at the flight of starships descending—like a phalanx of birds black against the eggshell sky. “Only that they are a strange people. Stranger than you men of Jadd.”
My friend—my host, my patron, and my jailer—laughed softly in his way, so near to coughing. The High Prince was not a young man. His face, concealed in that moment behind the enameled cobalt mask of state, was like a dried olive, so withered was that noble brow, those hollow cheeks. It was said throughout the city and across the planet that Aldia du Otranto was nearly one thousand years old. Not that he was born a thousand years prior—that fact is true of many a sailor of the waterless ways between the stars—but that he had lived one thousand years. If that were so, he was the oldest man in the galaxy. The oldest man who was yet all-man, at least. For in Jadd they did not augment the flesh as among the Extrasolarians, who traded their blood and organs for metal and glass.
In Jadd, they wrote poetry in the blood, composed sonnets in the four-lettered language of God. The princes of that far realm live long lives, longer than the palatine lords of the Imperium. But a thousand years? I shuddered then—who am older now—and felt every second of my near six-hundred years. 
Why should time make itself most felt through pain?
Through pain, and . . . 
“Arman says they’re all wizards!” said the girl on the stand in front of me. “He says they do blood magic. Do they do blood magic, Uncle?”
The plates of the mask that covered Prince Aldia’s face arranged themselves into a smile, “Non, child. What they do is little different than what we do here—what we did when we made you for your Abba here.” He nodded at me. “Save that they do it less well. But they are a strange country, Lord Marlowe—you are right.”
“I have heard it said they pay tribute to the Lothrians,” I said. 
Aldia was silent. The mamluk clone soldiers gathered about his throne, his various attendants shifting where they stood. One of them, a man in a mask black as my clothes, looked at me. From his uniform—just as black—I knew him for one of the Yahmazi, the High Prince’s secret police. The white circle enameled on his mask’s forehead all but confirmed it: the Jaddian emblem of the full moon.
The plates about his mouth clicked as the man spoke. “We have heard that as well.”
“That they are coming here,” the High Prince’s quavering voice still managed to find enough force to interject, “means that they do not want war with us, even if they are under the Lothrian thumb. We shall hear them.”
The shock of the shuttles’ descent hit us then like far-off thunder, wrenching my attention from the old prince. The men of Oannos were making their final approach, their shuttles—I marked nine—descending, circling like crows over the Alcaz du Badr, the Palace of the Moon.
Below the receiving stand, the landing field stretched to receive them, a great sheet of printed black marble fenced by flowering hedges. The landing field lay in the very heart of the High Prince’s pleasure gardens, a short walk from the ringed palace itself. Sunlight glinted off the Tholo Orothano, the core of the palace, that great golden dome of a structure—a hundred stories tall.
“They’re coming in fast,” said Neema, my attendant, whispering in my ear. “Should we be alarmed, Domi?”
“The Jaddians don’t seem alarmed,” I said, remembering that Neema was Jaddian himself, a Nemrut School homunculus, the replica of man’s shape bred and trained to service. Cassandra was herself more than half-Jaddian, though she was my blood—the blood of the old Imperium—and the blood of her mother’s kin, who dwelt at the far edge of human space. But she had been raised on the Planet of Fire, and spoke the language of that far country as though it was her own. She was a native—though the other children would never fully accept her.
I was a guest.
An exile.
The Oannosene shuttles fell like arrows, like the bolts of some huge, orbiting ballista. At their present velocity, they would smash into the landing field, shatter into a million pieces, erupt in nuclear fire. Surely somewhere in the gardens, the Jaddian princes had secret gun emplacements, cannons whose gunners even then tracked the descent of this foreign delegation. Surely they would fire, if they believed the incoming ships were a threat.
But the shuttles were only falling. They were not under thrust, and had decelerated through serpentine coils across the roof of the sky, braking from the friction as they plunged down from the terrible Dark beyond.
“Abba,” little Cassandra said, “they’re going to crash!” Her hand seized on mine, and she drew closer to my side.
But our Jaddian hosts had us at a disadvantage. They had seen the ships of Oannos before, and knew their secret.
For in the next moment, the shuttles hinged open, and each ran out their black sails—their sails of woven nanocarbon and glass thread—ribbed, many-masted, cupping the air. One-by-one they deployed, one-by-one the drag those sails fast-generated arrested their falling, so that in a moment each of the great vessels—which before had fallen like hard rain—now floated light as dandelion seeds.
At some signal I did not see, a drum began to beat. Low, slow, the prelude to the Jaddian anthem.
Doom. Doom. Doom-boom.
As the shuttles finished their descent and the blue fire of repulsor matrices took on the role of lift, those sails—which had acted in lieu of parachute or retro-jet, which before had been stretched wide against the upper airs—turned upward, so that the masts stood over the landing shuttles like a thicket of black trees.
Doom. Doom. Doom-boom.
Great legs of jointed metal took the weight of the shuttles at last, buckled as landing peds met the printed marble of the landing field. Only then did I see that the sails were not black at all, but deep azure, and that each sail bore a device upon its face: a man with the head and tail of a fish—gold against the blue, his tail coiled about the round bezant that represented the Oannos system home sun. In either hand the fish-man grasped matching bezants—the suns of Anzar and Masiddica, whose worlds Oannos had conquered.
Doom. Doom. Doom-boom.
It reminded me of the icon of the Miudanar, the serpent-demon worshipped by the inhuman Cielcin, who crushed stars in his countless hands.
Thinking of Miudanar, and of Akterumu—where I had seen the eldritch god’s bones moldering on black sands—I shivered, despite the heat of the day.
Doom. Doom. Doom-boom.
The drumbeat gave way to the music of silver trumpets, of great brass horns and horns of ivory and banded gold. Horns of the elephant whose ancestors the men of Jadd had rescued from the dying Earth and carried out among the stars, and of the mammoth whose kind the Jaddians had made to live again by their art.
When the Jaddian band ceased, the Oannosene ships answered. Speakers in each of the shuttles piped the reedy music of cornemuse and ghaita out into the summery air. As the ramp of the foremost vessel was lowered, I picked out the note of the single-stringed imzhad, an instrument old as Earth herself, relic of that age when the Sahara was yet thick with blossom. As the music swelled, a lone figure emerged from the darkness of the shuttle’s airlock into the light of the noonday sun. His robes were of Oannosene azure, his head bald as an egg, his skin black as coal.
“Is that the prince?” Cassandra asked, tugging on my sleeve. She had known Jaddian princes all her life, but never before had she seen the lord of another realm—unless it was I, her father, and my presence was not an event to her.
I shook my head, waited for the man to speak.
Leastways I thought him a man, until he spoke—then I was not sure if the herald were a woman or an androgyn, so high and clear was its voice as it declaimed, “My lords and ladies, princes and princesses of the Houses of Jadd, High Prince of Jadd! May I present His Royal Highness, Izemrasen the Embraced, First Scion of the House of Barasegh, Crown Prince of the Most Splendid Dominion, the Kingdom of the Three Suns, Prince of Oannos, of Anzar, of Masiddica!”
The black ships of the Oannosene let loose a horn blast like the cry of a whale, low and mournful one second, high and keening the next. The music of it touched some cellular memory in me, of the sea rushing in to drown green valleys, of a city caught in its flood.
The memory passed as Izemrasen himself appeared.
Cassandra gasped.
The Prince of Oannos was not alone. Prince Izemrasen was proceeded by four quartets of Barasegh house troopers, armored blue and gold, their suits scaled like fishes’ mail, their lances keen, heads blazing with white fire. But they were not what had so shocked my daughter.
It was the lion.
Here surely was such a beast as the one Herakles had slain with his own hands! I had seen terranic lions many times in my life, in the menageries and preserves of many a great lord of men. There were lions in those very gardens, Jaddian lions with coats black as coal and manes like pale fire.
But this lion was something else, something more.
Its coat was purest gold, and golden too its curling mane. But it was not its splendid color that set the beast above its mortal kin—it was its size. The great beast was large as a horse, great enough that a man might sit astride it—as indeed one did. For this great beast wore a saddle, and upon that saddle sat a man greater and nobler than any I had seen save two only, his face beaming like the sun. His face was dark, as though he were carved from jet by the hand of some master sculptor. His eyes were yellow as a cat’s—as the bezants upon his standard—and his hair was gold as the hair of the lion upon which he rode. Of gold, too, was his armor; a suit of golden scale. His tunic and cloak were royal blue, so that with his scale he seemed the very icon of his people. Over all he wore the striped fur of some great beast, white and black.
“The man knows how to make an entrance,” I observed, pitching my voice so that only Aldia and those immediately about me could hear.
Just behind me, Neema murmured, “Not that you’d know anything about that, my lord.”
I glanced back at him with arched brows.
“That lion—it’s so big!” Cassandra looked up at me with eyes wide. She had but recently begun her training as a neophyte at the Fire School, and so wore the pure white uniform of that rank, so like the garments of the fire priests of Ahura Mazda who dwelt upon the mountain above the school itself. I had agonized over the decision to allow her to train—the Fire School would make her a warrior—a Swordmaster of Jadd. I had been a warrior, once. What had such a life brought me but pain? “Is it real, Abba?”
I shook my head—not to answer her, but to remind her to be silent.
I’d heard it said that Prince Izemrasen was a great hunter—so great a hunter that he had long ago ceased to hunt ordinary prey. The men of Oannos were blood magi, geneticists and natalists nigh as skilled as any in the Empire—nigh as skilled as any in Jadd. It was said the prince himself had taken to the art, and so designed creatures for his pleasure: monsters great and terrible against which he set his will and his thews.
“Is it?”
I fixed Cassandra with a stern gaze. She looked away, and recalling my own father, I softened, smiled my crooked smile. “He made it,” I said. “Now hush, girl.”
Izemrasen had reached the open space below the stands, and raised a gauntleted hand. “I greet you, Aldia, High Prince of Jadd, and thank you for your welcome! I have sailed many years to be here!”
Seeing his gauntlet, I wondered at one of the man’s titles. The Embraced. He had a golden serpent embossed on the vambrace that sheathed his arm. Intricately wrought, it circled his arm, its every scale picked out by the careful action of the goldsmith, so that the head rested on the back of Izemrasen’s hand. It seemed to me a strange token for a man whose family’s heraldry was a fish.
A personal badge?
“Be welcome, Prince of Oannos,” said Aldia. “We are pleased to welcome so great a lord of the Small Kingdoms to the Planet of Fire. I pray your father, the king, is well.”
“It is for my father’s sake I have come,” said Izemrasen, beaming as he swept his gaze over all the Jaddian high court. “His, and the sake of all my people . . . ” The Prince of Oannos fell silent then, his eyes settling on me for just a moment—for I was the only man not masked upon the stand. The great lion tossed its head, and Izemrasen scratched the beast behind one ear. “I bring his greetings, as well. On behalf of my father, King Azenzar III, I thank you for granting me this embassy.”
“The honor is ours,” said old Aldia, “may this be the start of a renewed friendship between our peoples.”
At the sound of Aldia’s voice—amplified by speakers on our platform to carry over the field and be heard by all the Oannosene embassy—the great lion roared. Many on the stand flinched, gasped, drew back. Behind me, Neema yelped, and Cassandra pressed close to my side. My own hand went to the hilt of the sword concealed in my coat pocket. I felt the contours of the winged lion’s head carved in the elephant ivory pommel. The simurgh. The blade had been a gift from Aldia himself, granted in the early days of my forced sojourn among his people.
“Ssusem, Muhuc!” said Izemrasen, pulling on the reins. “Ssusem! Hves!”
The lion quieted, and at a motion from the prince, sank to its belly. He snapped his fingers, dismounting, and four men approached—having exited the shuttle in the prince’s train—and led the beast away. I watched it go.
The king of the beasts—and the beast of kings.
The lion had been a symbol of royalty unto the uttermost antiquity. Gilgamesh had fought with lions when men were children, when a king must prove himself to his people by his mastery of animals. The Jaddian simurgh—part lion, part bird, part dog—had long been a symbol of the princes, and the symbol of the Persian kings they counted as their ancestors. Even in the Empire, the great lords who counted themselves protectors of the realm called themselves the Old Lions.
Had Izemrasen cast himself in that same mold?
Was there not a statue of Gilgamesh—taken out of Earth when she fell—trapping a lion with one arm, crushing a snake with the other?
“It is for this reason I have come!” the prince said, shaking me from my tangled thoughts. “My prince! My people—our worlds—lie on the edge of the Rasan Belt, as you know . . . a mere hundred or so light-years from the borders of the Commonwealth. The Nameless Ones—the Lothrians—have long threatened our worlds, our security. For centuries, we have paid them tribute—I do not deny it!” This naked honesty surprised even me, and many a painted houri of the Jaddian court gasped and hid her face behind her fan. “We have paid them tribute . . . as the cost of our survival. Now we in Oannos have heard rumors—doubtless you know them yourselves—that the Nameless Ones have given themselves to the xenobites! To the Cielcin, who are the enemies of all mankind! If that is so . . . ” Here Izemrasen shook his black and golden head, “If that is so, we can pay them tribute no longer. Ours is a proud nation, and strong after its fashion. But we are small. Three suns cannot stand against ten thousand, and the Commonwealth has many more. If they have truly gone over to the service of the enemy . . . Oannos cannot stand against them. Oannos cannot long stand at all.”
The golden prince gestured with his right hand as he spoke, thumb and first finger together—not pointing, but gesturing as though to gather his listeners in. The serpent on his gauntlet flashed in the sun as he spoke. I felt certain the man must be scholiast-trained, for his speech—heavily colored by the accents of his far realm though it was—was cast in the high rhetorical style of the Imperium. But then, the lords of such outer realms were so often schooled in the Imperium, just as their lords adopted the Imperial style to lend legitimacy to their reign. “The Splendid Dominion has need of a new patron. To wit, I have come to offer a gift: myself.”
That sent a shock through the Jaddian congregation, and for a moment, nothing moved but the wind and the sail-banners of the Oannosene ships moved by the wind.
“Yourself?” asked the High Prince Aldia.
“It is said the High Prince of Jadd has many children,” Izemrasen said. “That they have many children. That those children have many children. I offer myself as a son to you. Or a grandson. Or a grandson’s son. I will rule Oannos when my father, King Azenzar, has gone to Earth. With a princess of the Great House of Jadd to wife, your descendants will be Kings of Oannos, and Princes of Jadd beside. Through marriage, our two nations will be united.”
Aldia made to respond, but the Yahmazi man in the black mask spoke more quickly than his aging lord. “You seek our protection, is that it?”
“Your friendship, yes,” said Izemrasen.
“And what of Jadd?” said Prince Sennen Gorgora, black-haired, red-masked, one of the princes that sat in the Domagavani, the council of princes. “What does Jadd gain by your . . . friendship?”
Prince Izemrasen did not seem bothered by this line of questioning. He smiled, brushed his golden hair from his onyx face. “Why, Oannos,” he said, again sending a murmuration through the crowd. “The Kings of Oannos will be Kings in Oannos only. We would be princes of Jadd—your brothers. Bound by blood against the Nameless Ones and their inhuman masters.”
“You wish a seat on the Domagavani!” Gorgora was incredulous. “You? You are no Jaddian.”
Aldia raised a hand. “Enough, Prince Sennen,” he said, and focusing his attention on the golden prince, he continued, “but my royal cousin is correct. You are no Jaddian, Prince Izemrasen. You say you wish a seat on our council. That is an interesting proposition. Were you to do so, you realize your Dominion would be subject to our laws?”
“I do.”
“And to our . . . dictates?” the High Prince asked. The Domagavani was a congress of sorts, comprising the eighty-one great princes of Jadd—of whom Aldia was the chief. Each ruled his demesne after his fashion, some as absolute despots, others constitutionally, yet others with the aid of some elected parliament or other agency. But within the Domagavani, they were equals—save Aldia, who as High Prince retained some special privileges.
“I do.”
Another murmuration ran through the crowd.
With the stroke of a pen and a marriage contract, Oannos intended to make itself the eighty-second principality of Jadd. I understood the Jaddians’ disquiet perfectly. Oannos stood to gain far more from Jadd than Jadd stood to gain from Oannos. At a stroke, Izemrasen’s Most Splendid Dominion would transform itself from one obscure backwater among many to one of the most powerful and important states in the stars of the Upper Perseus. By securing a vote on the Domagavani, the King of Oannos—as King in Oannos, and Prince of Jadd—would secure with it a measure of power over states and princes far older and more powerful. 
And what would the Jaddians stand to gain?
A duty. An obligation.
I knew nothing of the strength of Oannos’s armies, the size of its fleets . . . but as Izemrasen himself had said, they controlled but three suns. The Lothrian Commonwealth commanded tens of thousands of star systems to galactic north and west. But for the Sollan Empire, they were the mightiest human polity in the galaxy. Jadd could stand against them, with their clone armies and vast fleets.
“This will merit some consideration,” Aldia said. “You make a generous offer, a compelling offer, my Prince of Oannos, but we have never before accepted an outsider into our ranks . . . you are not Jaddian . . . ”
“You are inferior!” said Sennen Gorgora. “Yours is a lesser race!”
Izemrasen’s winning smile did not falter, though I thought I saw the sunfire in his eyes grow dim. “Inferior?” he said, “If it is a question of breeding, my lords, I have brought my pedigree. We men of Oannos know our bloodcraft. I am not Jaddian, this is true, but my blood and my breeding are not so different from your own.”
This set another ripple through the Jaddians. Though the Jaddians were generous with their friends, that generosity was forever overshadowed by their sense—their quiet sense—that they were the greatest of Earth’s peoples. Theirs was a race and culture that could trace its threads to man’s Golden Age—when Earth was young and yet unspoiled—to Pasargadae and Persepolis, to Ecbatana, Susa, Ctesiphon . . . 
They were Parsis before they were Jaddians, and Persians before that, scions of a race of men old as human memory.
Sensing his moment, Izemrasen pressed. “I have brought gifts as well, animals I crafted with my own hands, as proof of our artistry.”
“You are not Jaddian!” said Sennen Gorgora once more. “Do you count Katanes the Great among your ancestors? Did your ancestors depart Earth aboard the Simurgh? Travel with the Last Peregrination? Do you even know who your people were?”
Nearly all who were not descendants of the Great Houses of the Empire or of Jadd could claim their inheritance with any certainty. The Mericanii and their machines had taken that from almost everyone—everyone whose ancestors had not already peregrinated from Earth before the Foundation War. Most people simply staked their claim, took ownership of a piece of the sacred past and be damned.
But the Jaddians knew better, and looked down upon those who did not.
“I had heard it said the men of Jadd were proud of their breeding,” said Izremrasen, “but inferior? My fathers have ruled Oannos for four thousand years. That is half the time since your fathers took Jadd from the Empire. We built Oannos with our own hands, our blood, our sweat—just as Katanes and his brothers—and their sons—built your dominion. And you say inferior? Is this how the men of Jadd treat those who would call them friend?” Here his eyes alighted on my face. “I see it is not so, and that the rumors are true . . . ” He advanced a step, one hand on the golden hilt of his unkindled sword. “You are Hadrian Marlowe.”
“I am what I am,” I said. There was no sense denying it.
“They say you tried to kill your Emperor.”
“They say a lot of things,” I said, subtly shifting to place myself between Cassandra and the prince. That he had singled me out of all the Jaddian court struck me as odd.
I did not know what to make of his behavior . . . or of him, for an instant later, Izemrasen’s shining smile returned, and he said, “I saw you once, when I was a boy. My father and I had sailed to Forum to treat with your Red Emperor. You were received in triumph! Paraded through the Eternal City as a conqueror. It was the first time I ever saw one of the Cielcin—the only time. I remember their horns, their pale faces, and the great one—the machine devil with the four arms—I remember it crucified on the bier behind you.”
Iubalu, I thought. The Cielcin chimeric general, part-machine, part inhuman flesh. 
I had bested the monster. I, and Udax, and Siran. But Udax and Siran were dead. They were all dead. Undone by violence or by Ever-Fleeting Time . . . every one of them—save Lorian, and he was gone beyond recall.
But for Cassandra—and Neema, I supposed—I was alone in all the universe.
“You were like a god to me,” said Izemrasen. “Hadrian Halfmortal . . . ”
“Peace, Prince of Oannos,” said Aldia, interjecting. A bout of coughing overtook him, prompting a serving girl in saffron and gold to hurry to his side. But the High Prince waved her down, and he said, “We are humbled, Prince Izemrasen, by your humility. Yours is a generous offer, one we shall consider seriously, and whose possibility we shall . . . interrogate while you sojourn with us here.” Having mastered himself again, the aged High Prince continued, “Though our peoples have had but little contact, we have heard tales of Prince Izemrasen of the House of Barasegh, his prowess as a magus and a hunter. We would be honored to take you as son . . . ” Here the High Prince turned to Sennen Gorgora, and to the other princes of the Domagavani there present—and there were always a handful of them on the holy planet. “If such a thing is even possible, of course . . . ”
Gorgora inclined his head in deference to the High Prince, who returned his attention to Izemrasen. Voice amplified, quavering, Aldia said, “Tonight we feast to welcome your coming! Be welcome to Jadd, our friend from afar.”

#

The High Prince’s palanquin rose smooth and silently from the landing field after the reception of the Oannosene embassy was concluded. I sat across from him, Cassandra beside me. Neema remained with the rest of the court, would journey through the gardens to the Alcaz on foot. Hot as the day was, with the red giant sun shining brightly, I was glad of the field-insulated cool of the palanquin.
By rights it should have been sweltering. There was a thurible hanging from the roof of the compartment, and its smoke filled the cabin with the scent of myrrh. The walls and doors were hung with curtains of samite—azure and saffron, white and gold.
“Are you well, Aldia?” I asked, leaning forward.
“It is only age, mi sadji,” the High Prince said. “My lungs, you know.”
“Perhaps the brazier . . . ” I reached for the thurible.
“No!” Aldia said, “No no. It pleases me. Do not worry yourself. I have perhaps worked too hard in preparation for the arrival of our guests. I will rest before the feast tonight.”
It was yet some hours until noon, the middle of that watch the Jaddians called Havan. 
“Did you see the lion, Uncle Aldia?” Cassandra asked, and without having to turn I knew her eyes were wide as moons. “It was huge!
Beneath his enameled azure mask, Aldia smiled. “I have seen smaller horses, child.”
“Abba, do you think the prince will let me see the lion? I’d like to see it again!”
“Perhaps, Anayan,” I said, and smiled at Aldia. The girl was totally insensitive to Aldia’s rank. The old man was perhaps the second most powerful man in the galaxy—unless one counted the Chairs of the Lothrian Grand Conclave, and they were thirty-four—but to her, he was simply Uncle Aldia.
“What is your impression of the man?” Aldia asked.
“My impression?” I echoed, surprised to be asked. “Did he not seem desperate to you?”
Aldia was nodding. “Desperate, yes . . . and trying to hide it. Not that it can be hidden. He offered to subordinate his realm to ours. What he proposed was no less than the dissolution of his kingdom as he knows it.”
Below us, the pleasure gardens of the palace of the moon slid by beneath us. From above, the flower beds and lily ponds and neat little hedges seemed like tiles in a mosaic, or pieces of a pattern on an intricately woven rug, a carpet of delights.
“You think he doesn’t know that?” I asked.
“I think he underestimates the degree of oversight we and the Domagavani would gain over his realm . . .  King in Oannos, indeed . . . ” Aldia said, and shook his head, “I think our new friend believes that he can gain our support for virtually nothing. He thinks he can gain a seat on the Domagavani—affect the course of Jadd herself—obtain protection from the Commonwealth, our support in war, and the hand of one of my granddaughters—or great-granddaughters, as is more likely—still call himself king . . . and give us . . . nothing?”
“I do not think he sees it as such,” I said.
“I’ve had enough of this thing,” the old prince said, and raised unsteady hands to his mask. The articulated plates that moved as his face moved locked into place at the press of some unseen button, and Aldia removed the thing completely. “That’s better.” He smiled at Cassandra, and massaged his face.
“I don’t know how you wear the damn things,” I said. On Jadd, the great lords were forever masked, the man forever abrogated by his station—at least in public. In acting as the High Prince of Jadd, Aldia was to set aside his own person, to become an organ of the state, of his people.
The man beneath the mask was ancient, skin like crumpled paper, cheeks sagging forehead seamed. But his eyes were keen, like chips of obsidian. They had not yet begun to dim—though for Aldia, as for all men, that final darkness was coming . . . 
 . . . would come soon.
“Ordinarily, they’re quite comfortable,” said the old man, coming out his thick, white beard with the knobby fingers of one hand. “But in this heat?”
I nodded, reflecting quietly upon my black, military-style tunic and trousers, my high boots and long coat. Sweat beaded my forehead, clung to my long, dark hair.
“He is not so clever as he thinks he is,” I said, thinking of the serpent wound about the prince’s arm, his personal token. “This Izemrasen.”
“Nor as wise,” Aldia said.
“Will the Domagavani allow a marriage?” I asked.
Aldia shook his head. “Prince Gorgora and the others have nothing to say about how I conduct marriage affairs . . . ” The prince turned, looked out through the filigreed lattice on the window at the Tholo Orothano, the golden dome of the palace. From the ground, it seemed a single piece of unalloyed gold, but from the air, the windows and promenades that ringed the upper levels were plainly visible. It was toward one such promenade we flew. So long as Cassandra and I were to remain guests in the palace, the Tholo was itself our home. “It may be to my house’s advantage to arrange such a union, but induction into the Domagavani? The formation of Oannos as a Jaddian state? Never. They will never allow it.”
“Why, Uncle?” Cassandra sat forward, her feet barely reaching the floor of the palanquin.
Aldia smiled, opened a hatch in the bench beside him, drew out a black cherry where it rested inside on a bowl of ice. He passed one to Cassandra, before taking one for himself. I refused with a raised hand. The fruits were too sweet for my taste.
“Because they are not Jaddian,” Aldia said.
Cassandra hung her head. How often had the same been said of her by the other students? By the children who at all other times called themselves her friends.
“I mean no harm by that, sweet girl,” Aldia said. “But they do not know our ways, our customs, our histories. They worship Babalon—Mother Earth, you would say—as in your Empire. They know nothing of Ahura Mazda, nothing of Atash . . . nor should they be made to. The God ordains that man should take all shapes, but that does not mean we should destroy ourselves by admitting outsiders to our midst.”
“But you plan to entertain his marriage request?” I asked.
“To entertain it, yes,” said High Prince Aldia. “Oannos might prove a useful ally among the Small Kingdoms when the Commonwealth attacks at last.”
“You think they will attack?” I asked.
Aldia smiled, and there was pain in that smile. “You and I both know it is only a matter of time before the hammer falls.”
Neither of us knew it was already falling, was aimed at all our world.

CHAPTER 2
THE CONFERENCE OF THE BIRDS

#

The feast to honor the arrival of the Oannosene prince began with the sunset prayers pronounced by the mobads who served the Eternal Fire. Night had fallen on Jadd, and her three moons—white and white and green—were shining in the darkening heavens. As was the custom in the Alcaz du Badr, we feasted out under the stars, in a grand pavilion pitched between the arms of lesser buildings that radiated from the great dome of the Tholo Orothano, amid the fountains and crystal pools that proceeded from the palace proper to the gardens.
The night was warm but not unpleasant, and even and anon a cool wind would blow—scented with orange blossom or rose—from jets concealed by false oriels in the white stone façade of the palace to left and right. Everywhere among the tables there were braziers burning, and liveried servants in white—so like their priests, I thought—were there grilling meat amid sweet-smelling smoke, made forever visible by their tall, white caps. These men carried platters and skewers like swords among the guests, pausing to tend each table with care, whilst amidst it all a full orchestra played, and women clad in flowing silks and golden bangles danced to the lustful pleasing of lute and flute and drum.
I was seated at the high table—not at Aldia’s left, for at so formal an occasion, such proximity would have been inappropriate, but at the extreme end, Cassandra beside me. Izemrasen and his coterie—the captain of the vessel that had brought him so many light-years to Jadd; a woman I took for a blood magus of Oannos, one of their porphyrogeneticists; and three high ministers from the court of King Azenzar—had displaced us. It was no slight, and no trouble, for the feasts of Jadd are not as in the Empire. Among my own people, a formal dinner is a structured, measured affair. Courses are brought one at a time, laid before guests, and progress through the natural order, from amuse bouche to petit fours. Salad followed soup, dessert followed dinner.
Not so in Jadd. Among the Jaddians, there were dozens of courses, each brought on platters or skewers by the cooks and the men that served them. Sweet might follow savory, and be followed by savory in turn, so that a course of roasted lamb might be succeeded by a dish of iced cream and candied pistachio, only to be followed by another course of grilled meat, or a salad bright with acid. Each guest was expected to take only a little, to taste each dish as it was presented—and little more.
Each dish was a work of art masterfully arranged. Each lived only for an instant, oft served already on its spoon—a single bite, like a dream—that melted away on eating, as on waking, leaving only a pleasant memory.
What all we ate I could not begin to tell you, Reader, at that, or any dinner at the High Prince’s court. There was simply too much.
Of the conversation, by contrast, there was too little. The Jaddians little spoke as they ate, by custom—to do otherwise to pay insult to the efforts of their servants. After the prayers of thanksgiving to the Lord of Wisdom that began the feast, there was little said until all was done, unless it was to one’s neighbors in hushed tones. Cassandra whispered to me, asking question after question—about the food, about the odalisques dancing on the dais in the heart of the pavilion, about Izemrasen and the men of Oannos.
“Do you really think he’s as strong as the Jaddian lords?”
“Do you think Uncle Aldia will let him marry one of his granddaughters?”
“Yes, but which granddaughter?”
“Or which great-granddaughter?”
“What if Prince Sennen says no?”
“Why does he have a snake on his arm if his kingdom’s symbol is a fish, Abba?”
“Abba, you said he was a hunter. What does he hunt?”
“Yes, but why, Abba?”
“Abba?”
“Yes, Cassandra?” I asked, conscious of the eyes of the woman seated to my right, a companion of one of the princes of the Domagavani. The girl had behaved herself—not raising her voice—but she had spoken far more than the Jaddian courtiers were used to.
“May I be excused?”
I peered down at her, trying to gauge her desires. “Only if you come back.”
She nodded, and smoothing the front of her neophyte’s white uniform, slid her chair back upon the marble tile. I watched her go, twin braids bouncing as she went her way through the flock of servants forever in motion.
“What a darling girl,” said the woman at my right.
I looked at her, trying to gauge the woman’s intent. Jaddian women wore no masks like their men, and the gauzy veil that might cover nose and mouth was cast aside, baring her painted face. Such women are always masked, I find, and wield their words like knives. The compliment, I felt sure, was an insult in disguise.
“She is,” I said, and smiled my crooked smile.
“I understand her mother is dead,” the woman said.
Another insult, a reminder of all I’d lost. 
“Yes,” I said, voice at once brittle. I’d no desire to discuss such things. “Slain. Fighting the Cielcin.”
“Dreadful,” the woman said, and touched my arm with a hand intricately dyed with henna. The sight of it recalled my Valka’s saylash, the fractal intaglio tattooed upon her hand and arm. This woman’s nails were like talons, painted red as blood. “And you . . . alone?”
I was not, as it happened. Demetra visited me two or three times out of the week, assisted Neema with the upkeep of the manse on the island . . . assisted me.
I felt my eyes narrow, harden. “Madam,” I said, peering at her male companion. “Don’t.”
She laughed. “I mean only that the girl must want for feminine instruction.”
“My daughter wants for nothing,” I said. “She is a novice of the Fire School.”
“War is an ugly profession for women,” the woman said. “Violence will make a sapphite of her—if you are not careful.”
My smile turned to glass. “Violence makes corpses of those not acquainted with it,” I said. “Have a care how you speak to me.”
“I mean no offense!” the woman said, a shade loudly. “It is only that the girl is unacquainted with our ways. As it seems are you.”
“Shereen!” the woman’s male companion looked round, hissed at her in their native Jaddian, “Are you drunk? Do you know who that is? This is Hadrian Marlowe, the Red Emperor’s own magian! Show some respect!”
Was that terror in the prince’s eyes? My smile warmed. He should feel terror. It would be he who must answer for his woman’s insult, should I choose to take offense.
I did not choose.
He was a Prince of Jadd, and though I might have challenged him—for I was a lord in my own right—I would not so dishonor Aldia, nor did I want the trouble that might come of slaying so great a lord in single combat.
Even at my age, it would not have been a fair fight.
“I’ve done nothing, nothing, mia qal!” the woman, Shereen, turned and swatted her companion. “I was just giving Lord Marlowe here some advice!”
“I will keep what you have said under advisement,” I said, and knocked back my near-full glass of Verde from a plantation on the flowering moon, signaled a passing page for another.
For the rest of dinner, I answered her sporadic attempts at conversation in monosyllables. By the time the pilau was served at the end of all, she had gotten the message, and returned to the silence she had criticized Cassandra for breaking.
If she had intended to try and seduce me—as did not seem impossible, given her line of inquiry—she had failed.
The music died, and at once the sound of silver ringing on glass caught my attention. Turning with the others, I peered along the high table, found Izemrasen standing, his white tiger-skin cloak yet hung from his shoulders—but he had foregone his armor in favor of suits of Oannosene azure. Only his vambraces remained, the left housing his terminal, the right displaying the serpent badge—though I thought that surely here was a different gauntlet, for the serpent’s head was not on the back of his hand, but pointed back toward his elbow.
It was that hand which held the spoon, the left that held the glass by whose musical properties the prince had summoned silence.
“My lords and ladies,” he began, speaking slowly, setting down his spoon, “good people of Jadd. On behalf of my father, my people, Captain Mokrani here . . . I thank you for this reception . . . ” He smiled down on High Prince Aldia, and raising his glass, forged ahead, “It is . . . difficult to imagine a more generous host. To your prince! To Aldia the Long-Lived, Prince of the House du Otranto, High Prince of Jadd!”
All gathered drank then, to the health and largesse of their liege.
When the toast was finished, Izemrasen spoke. “It is difficult to meet such generosity in kind, but we have brought gifts for you, our hosts. Gifts from the genetic sorcerers of Oannos. Proof—I hope—that we are to be numbered your equals in the art of bloodwork.”
This was overly ambitious, and disquieted many of the Jaddians—greater and lesser—who heard it, for in Jadd the supremacy of Jaddian genetic wizardry was taken as plain fact. Even the palatine lords of the Imperium, who had invented nearly all the science of human eugenics, were reckoned second best to the men who designed and sequenced the genomes of the princes of Jadd. For this lord of the edge of the human universe would assert equality with the Jaddians was a grievous insult, though Izemrasen seemed not to notice.
The Prince of Oannos tapped the jeweled comm patch on the mastoid process behind his right ear, issued some subvocal command. Still holding his goblet, he stretched a hand toward the rear of the pavilion, along the central aisle to the orchestra on its dais, where—by arrangement—a coterie of Oannosene servants appeared, directing a series of float pallets upon which a number of tall objects stood, concealed beneath cloths of azure and gold.
“Across the galaxy,” Izremrasen began, his seeming permanent smile firmly in place, one ringed hand gesticulating in the best rhetorical fashion, “tales are told of the men of Jadd—how you defied the Sollan Empire of old, and carved a home for yourself here, among the far suns. Tales too are told of the beauty of your court. The men of Jadd have built a paradise in this life, it is said, greater than any on Earth of old. I see that the tales speak truly. I asked myself: How shall I honor my hosts? Your love of beauty, your legacy of war. Long and hard I sought for an answer.” He held a fist beside his ear, shook it, held the gaze of all the room with his golden eyes. Opening that fist, he said, “Then it came to me.”
He clapped his hands three times, and his servants removed the drapes that covered the pallets they had floated in from their ships deep in the palace gardens. Heads turned, human curiosity besting that innate Jaddian sense of superiority. I craned my own neck, leaning nearer the cursed woman at my right hand to better see.
Each of the pallets held a tall cage, each intricately wrought of golden wire twisted to evoke the waves of a sea in storm, a dozen cages in all. Within each, a flock of bright birds perched, startled by the sudden removal of the drapes. Of every hue and kind they were, red and blue, green and gold. Black. White. Yellow. Parrots and parrakeets, toucans and birds of paradise, and half a hundred other varietals besides so that I—who know but little of the flying things—was taken by sheer excess of it all. Not a one of them made a sound, though several flapped their bright wings in agitation.
“My birds!” said Izremrasen, gesturing with spread fingers, “for your paradise.”
That, evidently, was the sign that the cages should be opened, for they were, and as if they had rehearsed this a hundred times, the birds leaped into the air, much to the alarm and delight of the diners. Cassandra had not returned, and I found myself wishing that she were present. She would have laughed with delight. Looking down the table, I saw that Aldia was himself smiling, and felt myself—momentarily—at my ease.
The birds alighted upon the cords that ran between the poles that held up the roof of the pavilion, upon the centerpieces of the tables, upon the backs of chairs and the tops of the cages they had but lately escaped.
But that was not the end of it, for an instant later, one of the servants blew a whistle—its sound so high that it took the genetically augmented hearing of the high lords to hear.
Then one of the most remarkable things I had ever experience—in all my nearly six hundreds years of life—began.
The birds began to sing.
Not in the crude speech of birds, the trilling, chanting, squawking, croaking of ordinary beasts . . . but in human voices. Men and women alike gasped, and looked on in wonder, for here—truly—was a marvel, and not merely a marvel of genetic science, but one of training. Skill. Dedication to the craft. I confess myself amazed, and for a time forgot my place in time, forgot my spat with Shereen, forgot that I was in exile, and very far from home.
They sang in Jaddian, but I shall translate it for you—near as I can.
Here is what they sang:

Three moons there were o’er Jadd of old . . .
. . . three moons there shine there still
And there Katanes, proud and bold
Ruled over sea and hill.
His sword, like crystal, caught the sun
His will, a bar of steel
Thus round his high seat, one-by-one
The princes came to kneel . . .

I knew the song at once—every man and woman of Jadd knew it, and I had counted Jadd my home for nigh two centuries. It was Il Balantha du Dom Katanes, The Ballad of Prince Katanes, the tale of how he won for Jadd its independence, wresting it from the hands of my own people, the Sollan Empire of old. It was not quite the anthem of the Jaddian people, but it was nigh as good as, and beloved by every soul in the Principalities, from the meanest serf up to Aldia himself. Katanes was a hero, one of history’s great men . . . 
Long the birds sang, and told his story. How he had wrested the keys to the Jaddian genetic line from the Imperial viceroy, how he freed his brothers and sisters, and united the noble lines of the Jaddian genetic constellation behind him, and fought the Imperium to a standstill with the first mamluk clone armies in defiance of the Terran Chantry’s sacred laws.
The song concluded with Katanes wed to the daughter of the Sollan Emperor, fomenting a peace that had lasted ever since, that blossomed into a friendship between the Empire and Jadd that—while often distant—had lasted ever since, enduring long millennia.
Izemrasen’s meaning in selecting the song was plain. He intended to couch himself as a second Katanes, to cast the Commonwealth in the role of the Empire, and Jadd as his salvation. It was transparent as glass, but so artfully was it delivered that—though I felt certain even the densest courtier must have clocked the intended meaning at once—none seemed to mind.
The last words of Il Balantha lingered on the air and in my mind as the applause began, startling those birds closest to their human audience. When this, too, had faded, Aldia spoke. “Truly,” the High Prince said, “you honor us, Prince Izemrasen. Yours is a kingly gift, a wonder of the bloody art and science of genesis.”
Izemrasen—who had not sat at all during the lengthy performance—bowed deeply to his host. “If the Lord High Prince will permit me,” he said, “I have another gift. A personal gift. One prince—however humbler—to another.” Straightening, he gestured to his servants.
A moment later, a roar sounded from beyond the pavilion, transformed into a high and piercing cry. To my somewhat surprise, the Oannosene songbirds did not startle or flee—I would forget that in the moments that were to come—and instead confined their fright and irritation to the odd cry or flapping of jewel-feathered wings. Those diners seated nearest the entrance stood. Women gasped, men turned about and put themselves—some did at least—between their women and the source of that sound.
I stood myself, amazed at the sight of the creature—the creatures, there were two—that still more Oannosene serving men led into the pavilion on golden chains.
One had the head of a lion—not gold as the beast Muhuc that Izemrasen had ridden, but white—the other the head of a lupine dog. Both had bodies equal parts feline and canine, part lion, part dire wolf.
But they had wings, wings great as those of the teratornis. Greater.
And their tails! Their tails were neither the tails of lions or of dogs, but the great feathered fans of peafowl. The feathered tail of the dog-headed beast was white as its fur, but the lion-headed creature—the male, I realized—had feathers of viridian and celadon, cerulean and bright gold!
I thought at once of the beast whose image made up the pommel and hilt of my sword. That immortal bird-beast that was one of Jadd’s most ancient symbols—a symbol more ancient than Jadd, as ancient as Earth herself.
Part lion, part wolf, part peafowl.
“The simurgh!” said Izemrasen, “In the flesh!”
“The simurgh . . . ” Aldia said, leaning forward. “You made these creatures?”
“Yes,” said Izemrasen, still at Aldia’s right. “A breeding pair. The female of the species is the one with the wolf’s head, the lion is the male. There are more of the creatures back home. They require some special handling in vitro, a consequence of the chimerization, but they are as fine a specimen as we of Oannos have ever made. Syrtes! Lilu! Qqim!”
At the prince’s command, the chimeras sat, gold chains rattling in the hands of their minders.
“They are . . . beautiful,” said Aldia, and sparing a glance for Sennen Gorgora and the lesser princes seated along the length of the high table, he continued, “I see that we have underestimated the skill of your magi.”
“I made them with my own hand,” said Izemrasen.
“You made them yourself?” said Aldia.
Izemrasen bowed but shallowly. “A gift bought is worth less than a gift made,” said Izemrasen, “so say we in Oannos.”
“Impressive,” said Aldia. “Very impressive indeed.”
“Syrtes!” said Izemrasen, and the male simurgh perked up. “Nder!”
On command, the leonine beast roared, reared. Its claws were like knives of polished obsidian, its teeth like spears. Its roaring turned to piercing music, high and cold as the screech of any falcon. Then it opened its wings, spread its tail wide, feathers snapping in the smoky air.
It was too much for the lesser birds.
As it was meant to be.
Frightened by the roaring simurgh, the hundred or more birds that made up the Oannosene chorus took flight. Women shrieked, men ducked, and the musicians in the orchestra cradled their instruments. All at once the pavilion was filled with the beating of so many wings. Confusion. Chaos. Pandemonium. One woman yelled as a red and blue-tailed parrot collided with her, its claws tearing at her arms in her haste to be away.
Over it all, I could hear the whistle blast of the Oannosene beastmaster as he attempted desperately to recall the fleeing birds. Surely, I remember thinking, they must have clipped their wings. Surely the beasts could not go far.
Far enough.
The High Prince’s mamluk guards stood at the ready, hands ready on their lances. I was on my feet, and moved along the high table, the better to stand by Prince Aldia.
“Ho! Syrtes! Ho!” Izemrasen shouted, and vaulted over the high table—his fine cloak abandoned on his chair. Just as the simurgh had frightened the flock of singing birds, so the birds had frightened the two simurghs. The female—the dog-headed beast with plumage white as snow—hunkered down, snarling, while the male roared and snapped, beating the air with its mighty wings until the pavilion over our heads snapped like the sail of some seagoing vessel in some inconstant squall.
As I watched, Izemrasen himself seized the gilt chains that secured the male of the species, and in that instant—for a time—I was moved by his display. It took great personal courage to rush a beast of that size and terror, and one so . . . unnatural besides. Whatever his political wrangling, his seeming-bumbling lack of tact or understanding of the ways of the Jaddian court—he was no coward.
In that moment, I admired him.
He would make a fine king one day.
“Abba!” Cassandra had returned from her protracted visit to the lavatory, stood frozen on the borders of the great tent away to my left. “What’s happening?”
“Just stay there!” I said sternly, wheeling to face her. “Stay down!”
That turn—it would later transpire—probably saved my life.
One of the birds collided with me, claws scrabbling at my back, wings beating my shoulders, my arms. A claw snagged in the heavy samite of my court dress, and the bird went mad, wings beating as it tried to free itself. Its wings were green as emeralds, flecked with gold. It squawked as it tried to make its escape, claw caught in the tail of my coat. I seized the creature, tore it from me. I felt its foot break, and felt a twinge of pity as the bird cried out in pain. I’d not intended to do it hurt, though a dull fury was on me. I cast the creature down, but it did not stay there.
Eager to be off the ground, the bird rolled where it fell, let out another cry.
That was when I felt it.
The burning.
My hand—the hand that had seized the emerald bird by its taloned foot—was burning. Sparing it a glance, I saw no wound, no hurt upon the pale flesh—unless it was the calluses and the scars left by old violence.
I knew poison when I felt it, though I did not fully understand what was happening—what had happened.
But I knew to draw my sword.
The Phaian blade—its exotic nuclei forged in an array of particle accelerators thousands of years ago and tens of thousands of light-years away, its hilt reforged here on Jadd in the likeness of the very beasts that had triggered this panic—sprang into existence in an instant, sprouting as a flare from the surface of a sun. Blue-white its liquid metal blade shone, glowing with a light of its own. Before the mamluks could stop me for the crime of drawing blade so near the High Prince, I slashed the emerald songbird in two.
“Poison!” I shouted, drawing the eye of all about me not occupied by the simurgh. “Kill the birds!”
Sensing the tension in Aldia’s mamluk guard, I let my sword droop.
Aldia turned to look at me, eyes wide in his cobalt enameled mask. We both had the same thought, I sensed, in that same moment.
The bird had flown directly at the prince. Only the fact that I was standing as so near at hand had confused the creature.
It had been intended for him.
Aldia and I both were avid players of druaja, the mechanical labyrinth chess so beloved on Jadd. In druaja, as in the traditional chess whence it traced its lineage, it was sometimes necessary to sacrifice one’s queen to win the game.
Had Oannos intended to sacrifice its prince to mate another? A prince far greater still?
Though no word passed between us, I knew the old man and I each had thought the same thing.
Then a second bird flew at us, flew directly at the chair-bound prince.
Heedless of the mamluks, heedless of the nerve-fire in my fingers, I leaped up upon the high table, scattering glassware as I went, blade flashing—its edge programmed to the width of a molecule—and slashed the carmine beast in two.
“Don’t touch it!” I said, shouting at the man seated beneath me who sought to move the half of the bird that landed on his plate. He was lucky it had not landed in his lap.
I stayed where I was, burning hand clenched around the hilt of my sword, blade ready to cleave any other kite that came for the prince. Aldia’s mamluks—having communicated silently after their fashion, subvocalizing in their mirror-faced helms—set about killing the other birds. Izemrasen had by then calmed the male simurgh, the one called Syrtes. I spied a half dozen Swordmasters with blades drawn like mine, distributed about the pavilion.
Had any of the birds escaped?
They could not all have been envenomated, could they?
The woman I had seen attacked by one of the birds was sitting up, her fine coiffure in shreds, the veil of fine gold chain that had obscured her lovely features a tangle.
But she was not dead.
Not all then.
No third bird came for the High Prince.
“Izemrasen!” I called, and thrust my blade down at the prince.
The Serpent of Oannos, Lord of the Most Splendid Dominion, turned from his work helping to secure the simurgh. For an instant—a fleeting instant—I thought I glimpsed the face behind the face. Was that anger written there? Fear? Frustration?
“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded.
Then the hidden face was gone, lost beneath the mask his obvious scholiastic training had laid on him. Izemrasen shook his head. “I don’t know,” said he, and stroking the face of Syrtes, gave him over to his servitor. “This is not my doing.”
My eyes narrowed.
“Oh!” came a voice from over my shoulder. “It burns!”
Looking down, I saw the Lady Shereen standing up swiftly. She’d been crouched over the body of the green bird where I’d left it on the white tile. She shook her hand out, immediately put the fingers in her mouth.
Fool.
“No!” I shouted.
At once her eyes went wide, filled with tears. Abandoning her male companion, she scurried from the pavilion, almost colliding with Cassandra in her haste to be away.
“Someone get her!” I said.
“Send for my physicians!” Aldia said, voice surprisingly strong.
Lady Shereen and any other victims—and myself—would need to be seen at once.
My hand was burning, burning, burning.
I looked down at it, feeling the sweat beading on my forehead. I held my sword the tighter. It was all I could do to keep that hand from touching any other part of me. I’d not been scratched—that was a small blessing. That meant the poison was not in my blood.
But the pain of it! Not since I had been a prisoner in the dungeons of the Cielcin Prophet-King had I known such pain. Looking down at the hand, I half-expected to find charcoal where flesh and bone had been, fancied I could smell the smoke burning meat.
“Hadrian . . . ” Aldia’s voice was kind. “You’re hurt.”
“It was him,” I said, and thrust the blade at Izemrasen. “He tried to kill you, Aldia.”
Izemrasen spread his hands, revealed his empty palms. Behind him, the two simurghs were being led away. About him, the Yahmazi, the Jaddian secret police—armored all in black and white—were closing in. “My prince, it was not me,” he said, “by Mother Earth, I swear it.”
“Commander Ruhani,” Aldia said, “Take Prince Izemrasen and his people into custody.”
Izemrasen stood straighter, but he did not object. He neither begged nor speechified, but tugged the hilt of his unkindled sword from his belt and cast it on the earth.
I did not leave the table until the Yahmazi put him in fetters and turned him away. Only then did I banish my own blade and leap down from the table.
“Abba! Are you all right?” Cassandra asked.
“Stay back!” I said, still clenching the hilt of my sword. “The birds were poisoned. Something on their skin. It’s on my hand, my coat.” It was possible the garment would have to be burned. “Don’t touch me now, there’s a good girl!”
“You were . . . poisoned?” the girl’s eyes were very wide.
“Not badly,” I said. “But I need to go with the wounded. Where’s Neema?”
“With the servants—”
“Go to him!” I said, voice ragged with pain.
“But I want to stay with you!”
I snarled. There was no time to argue. “Until we find Neema.”
It was better not to let Cassandra out of my sight, whatever my present state.
“Does it hurt?”
I chewed my tongue, looked down at her. She was safe. That was what mattered.
I smiled. She should see her father smiling, even then. She was scared, and small, and needed me solid.
Presently I nodded, and—still smiling—said, “Certainly it hurts.”
The wounded were being brought from the pavilion, chivvied by mamluk guards or by Yahmazi men. The medical team was already hurrying from the palace, and on the roof of the Alcaz above, great floodlamps had been engaged. Their radiance gave the whole scene a sense of unreality—or perhaps that was the poison leeching through my skin.
They had tried to kill the prince. Had nearly killed me.
It was the Lothrians, it had to be. The Commonwealth had pushed Oannos to try and cut the head off the Jaddian state. The Commonwealth . . . and the Cielcin whom they served.
The war had found me, even at the farthest edge of the galaxy.
Even in my exile.

CHAPTER 3
THE COILS OF THE SERPENT

#

Homobatrachotoxin.
An ancient poison, one known to the men of Earth. A neurotoxic steroidal alkaloid—that was what Aldia’s physicians called it. There were certain birds, I later learned, in whom the venom was naturally occurring—the consequence of said bird’s preference for insects rich in the toxin. But in those birds—most likely the terranic ifrit—the toxin was not lethally concentrated. The autopsies Aldia’s people performed over the course of the next several days revealed the poison in seven of the one hundred seventeen birds the Prince of Oannos had gifted the Jaddian people, and at concentrations more than a hundred times greater than in the terranic ifrit.
And of course, none of the seven birds was an ifrit at all.
Three were parrots, two were lorikeets, one a hoopoe, and the last a toucan—this last I found especially sinister, as the toucan was well known to be Prince Aldia’s favorite bird.
My own injuries were minor. The toxin worked by depolarizing the nerve and muscle fibers, permanently opening the sodium ion channels, which blocked the brain’s ability to send signals to the affected cells. The result was pain . . . and eventual paralysis. Had the bird that caught on the back of my coat caught on my lapels, had its wings beaten my head and face—had I inhaled the toxin that floated like dander on its wings—that pain and paralysis would have affected my lungs, not merely my hands.
That was the fate Izemrasen had chosen for Aldia.
Choking. Gasping.
If, of course, Izemrasen were truly guilty.
In a certain sense, the prince’s guilt did not matter. Whether it was the prince himself or merely one of his retinue, Jadd had its casus belli. If Aldia and the Domagavani wanted a war, they had only to declare it. Oannos and its twin subject systems might find themselves taken into the Jaddian fold after all. Not by marriage, but by conquest.
Looking back now, I almost wonder if that hadn’t been the intent.
I but briefly knew Prince Izemrasen, but I thought then and think now that he was at his core a decent man, one reared on princely mirrors, one desiring to be the champion and servant of his people. By forcing a doomed war with Jadd, a war he and his house must lose, he forced the Jaddians to occupy his worlds. Oannos, Anzar. Masiddica. The Jaddian armada would be there when and if the Lothrian hammer came, and though the House of Barasegh would be dead or neutered, the people of Oannos would have a new defender.
Alternately—if he was behind the attack, as seemed plain that night—it was possible he intended to set himself up as the hero. Manufacture an attack on the Jaddian prince, one so mad it was either genius or folly. Expose and present the true culprit—a scapegoat—and return to Oannos with a princess of the House du Otranto in train.
Or perhaps he was the scapegoat, a Trojan Horse employed by some other agency in his own court. Or by the Lothrians. If the rumors of the Most Splendid Dominion’s regular tribute to the Commonwealth were true . . . the Lothrians might have used the prince to hide their hand, a gilded glove to conceal the gray, sexless hand of the Nameless Ones.
All these scenarios and more played out in my mind as Aldia’s physicians bathed and scrubbed my hand in clean water. My torn and poisoned clothes they discarded. My sword and other effects they sterilized. There is no cure for batrachotoxins. Treatment in cases such as mine involved thorough cleaning and the administration of local anesthetic, which worked to antagonize the alkaloid. The more serious cases, such as that fool woman, Shereen, required more global treatment. Controlled dosages of other toxins acted to antagonize the homobatrachotoxin, each inhibiting each. Recovering would be slow.
All in all, some twenty people had been affected by the Izemrasen’s birds, thirteen had mild to moderate contact exposure—like myself. The rest were more serious.
Only one died before the dawn. A young man—the son of some provincial satrap.
I watched him die, stalking the palace ward like a phantom myself, my right hand bound in the black gauze of a corrective. The gel agent beneath the smart bandage worked to rejuvenate the damaged skin cells, but Aldia’s physician—an elderly woman with a face like a sunburnt olive—warned that I might experience numbness in the affected tissue for many weeks to come.
That, at least, proved correct.
I remember massaging my fingertips with my thumb, each in turn, feeling the hand as though it were someone else’s. It was not a new feeling. The third and final fingers were not the fingers I was born with. A Durantine doctor had presided over their regeneration whilst I convalesced on Nessus after my trials on Dharan-Tun and at Akterumu. The left hand I had lost entire. Its bones were false, a lattice of printed adamant, the flesh regenerated overtop. That, too, I had lost in battle, lost fighting the Cielcin.
My body was a tapestry of scars, old injuries faded or etched more deeply by time.
The nerve damage done by the Oannosene poison would prove among the least-lasting of the hurts I had suffered, though—like the worst of those hurts—it left no visible sign.

#

“Izemrasen,” said High Prince Aldia, seated on his throne beneath the very apex of the Tholo Orothano, “Prince of the House of Barasegh, Prince of Oannos . . . you are charged with the crime of would-be regicide, of the murder of Roderigo ban Abbas du Bal, of twenty-one other accounts of assault against members and quests of my court, and of committing an act of war against the Domagavani and the people of Jadd. How do you answer this?”
Izemrasen stood in the center of the floor, unfettered as was his right as a foreign dignitary, but under heavy guard. A dozen Swordmasters of the Fire School stood near at hand, each grasping the hilt of his unkindled sword, each shielded. Only a single Oannosene minister stood fast by his prince, robed in royal blue, with a tall, pill-shaped cap on his head. The fellow was dark-complected as his lord, with numerous heavy gold chains looped about his neck, draped over his shoulders, held in place by jeweled epaulets.
It was this man who spoke, raising his chin in gesture of defiance. “Innocent, Prince.”
These two words were like a pair of stones dropped into still water, the way they disturbed the Jaddian court.
The great chamber—the Court of the Three Moons—lay, as I said, beneath the apex of the Tholo Orothano. We were high in the great palace, so eighty stories from the ground. Still the roof of the great dome lay hundreds of feet above our heads, its center crowned by a mandala of colored crystal cut to evoke stained glass. That jeweled dome scattered light of every hue upon the minutely tiled pillars and arched galleries that rose all round on the levels above.
The Jaddian throne itself—wrought during their wars with the Sollan Empire in direct challenge to the Solar Throne—was fashioned in the shape of a crescent moon, its horns rising to either side of the high seat, almost meeting at the top, a great arc nearly ten cubits in diameter. The whole throne—the seat, and the crescent of its back—was cut from a single piece of pale crystal, a printed gem polished to a mirror’s shine. Seated at the bottom of that crescent, on a cutting in its precise center, sat old Aldia himself, his shriveled legs concealed with the robes of state.
“Innocent?” he said, cobalt mask moving in time with the flexion of his jaw. He cast his eyes up at the great Faravahar that hung above the crescent throne, that icon of Ahura Mazda, the Lord of Wisdom and of Truth. “Innocent?” he said again. “You are a fellow prince, my Lord of Oannos. I will permit you to unsay what you have said. The truth is your only defense. Lies ill become any man, much less one whom the God has set above other men.”
“The truth?” Izemrasen objected, taking a step forward. He had eschewed his finery that day, dressed in simple blacks, as a common soldier. Only the golden bezants at his throat and the golden chains of aiguilettes betrayed his royal station—bright as his hair, less bright than his glowing eyes. “The truth is that I was betrayed, O High Prince!”
His minister threw out an arm. “My lord, you must not.”
“Mustn’t I, Munatas?” the prince countered.
The tall-capped minister stepped before his lord. “My Prince of Jadd. These seven days—whilst we have been confined to our vessels on the landing field—we have worked tirelessly to get to the bottom of the . . . unfortunate situation at the welcome feast.”
“I’m sure you have,” Neema tutted, unheard by all but me.
“Unfortunately situation, sirrah?” Aldia said. “The birds in question were designed the way they were from birth. You expect me to believe that a bloodworker of your master’s caliber could fail to notice that seven of the birds he gifted to us could not be touched without pain? Without risk of death? Tell me: they did not make the journey here from Oannos awake. They were in cryonic storage, were they not? They would have had to be handled. Tended. Revived. This could not be done without knowledge of the danger they posed.”
Before Izemrasen could respond, the minister, Munatas, said, “My Prince of Jadd. The Prince Izemrasen was ignorant of these matters, by Mother Earth, I swear it. The birds were not his charge.”
“You mean to say it was one of your servants?” asked Sennen Gorgora, seated on a lesser throne below the high seat, alongside a dozen of his fellow junior princes of Jadd.
“One of the birdkeepers,” said Munatas, and as he spoke, I realized for the first time that his teeth were implants made all of gold. “We arrested all of them when we returned to our shuttle, sent word to our ship in orbit that they should do the same. These seven days we have worked to ascertain precisely what happened.”
“A boy is dead!” Aldia shouted, his gnarled and spotted hands tightening on the staff that symbolized his right to rule, twisting in his lap. “A boy is dead, minister. But for Lord Marlowe, I might myself be dead!”
One of the other members of the Domagavani present—a young man in a viridian mask—spoke up then, saying, “If you knew one of your servants was guilty, why did you not produce him sooner?”
“Because they needed all the time they could to get their stories right . . . ” I said, half-turning to speak to Neema, who could only shake his head.
“Because this is an internal matter!” said Munatas.
“An internal matter?” Gorgora objected. “Your delegation attacked the High Prince himself!”
“How we investigate our own people is our matter, my Prince of Gorgora,” said Minister Munatas. “It fell to us to determine what had happened, as it falls to us to bring that information to you now. This is the proper forum, is it not?”
This prompted a burbling from the panel of lesser princes seated below Aldia’s high seat. Objections and reprimands were thrown like so much rotting fruit, and the preponderance of the court—those gathered about the throne of the moon on its dais—shifted where they stood. The room was filled with low sound, like a rising tide.
Speaking over all, voice amplified by speakers hidden in the cornices that decorated the tops of the columns that encircled the round chamber, Aldia said, “Can you produce this character, then?”
“My lord High Prince, she is outside.”
Another wave of surprise and disquiet washed over the prince’s court, masked men and painted women alike whispering behind paper fans.
Theater, I remember thinking. It’s all theater.
It always was. I was no stranger to royal courts, to the game of dynasty and throne.
In the balance hung not merely the fate of relations between Oannos and Jadd, but the fate of the Oannosene people. An alliance with Jadd would pull their three worlds, their billion-some subjects, out of the path of the Commonwealth, out of the White Hand of the Cielcin, even if Jadd were committed to war in their defense. A failure of that alliance might spell doom for Oannos, condemn it to slip into the clutches of the enemy—perhaps forever. The Commonwealth sold its own people to the Cielcin, meat and slaves alike. The Nameless Ones would not hesitate to liquidate the entire Oannosene people to meet their obligations to their inhuman masters.
“Bring her!”
Munatas keyed his terminal, and a moment later, a quartet of still-armed Oannosene troopers entered, leading a slight, dark-haired woman between them. She was not dark-complected, like the prince or his minister, but pale, plain-featured. Whatever the wonders of Oannosene eugenics, they evidently did not extend to the servant class. Still, there was something about her. Something in the eyes. They were dead eyes, black eyes, tired and beaten. She looked like one who had endured great pain with little sleep.
It was a look I knew well, and wondered what torment her people had put her through in the days since the welcome feast. I found myself imagining a dark room, poorly and centrally lit. The largest of the Oannosene landing ships was surely large enough to have a brig.
Or had they caged with the animals the prince had brought?
So dejected was she, that I began to question Izemrasen’s guilt for the first time.
Hers was the aspect of the caged dog, ready to bite.
“This is the one?” asked Aldia, peering down that the woman from under his mask’s ridged brow.
“One of our birdkeepers,” said Munatas. “She was the one who secreted the birds in question among those intended as a gift for Your Celestial Grace.”
“Is that so?” asked Aldia, leaning forward. “What is your name, child?”
The woman looked up, shook her head.
“Isem-nnem?” Munatas asked her, translating.
The woman turned, looked at the dark minister. Turning her face from Munatas to Aldia, she said, “Isem-inu . . . Izlan, ageldun.”
“She says her name is Izlan, Prince,” said Munatas.
“Izlan . . . ” Aldia said. “Whom do you serve?”
Munatas translated. Izlan replied.
“She says, ‘only what is right.’”
I speak the Imperial Standard, Jaddian, Lothrian . . . I know the tongues of the Norman Freeholders, speak Tavrosi Nordei and Panthai well as any native of that far country—for I shared my life and bed with one of their clanswomen. I read English, Latin, and Greek, can speak Mandari and Nipponese more than passing well. I have smattering of the Irchtani language—though no human can fully speak the tongue of the birdmen of Judecca. And I of course know the black speech of the Cielcin.
But the tongue of Oannos was strange to me, and stranger still the experience of not understanding. I had to trust that Izemrasen and his minister were representing the woman honestly.
But Aldia did not.
“She said she acted alone,” said a woman in Yahmazi black at Aldia’s side. She was—I think—the only masked woman in the entire chamber. The woman of Jadd did not mask themselves as their men, except in the military or in police roles—where the women were rare.
Aldia wrung the scepter in his hands. “Do not twist words with me, minister,” he said, and gesturing two-fingered at the Faravahar of Ahura Mazda above his head, added, “I warn you again not to twist the truth in this place.”
Izemrasen spoke then, evidently no longer able to contain himself. “She is a servant of the Nameless Ones. A Lothrian spy!”
For a moment, my blood ran cold. The court about me held its breath, the thing they all knew and feared confirmed.
“Of course she is!” I said, too loudly, drawing glares from the courtiers to left and right.
Izemrasen looked at me, eyes wide and too bright in his dark face. Was that fear? The man’s fate—and that of his people—teetered on a razor’s edge. On monofilament. Maybe he was a dupe, after all. A puppet. The mechanism by which his secret—and perhaps unknown—Lothrian masters had attempted to decapitate the Jaddian state. The plan made more sense if he was ignorant. Why else would be come to Jadd himself? Surely—if he was the mastermind behind the assassination plot—he would have sent this Munatas with his poisoned gifts and hollow offer.
Sacrificed a pawn, not a prince . . . 
And yet . . . 
And yet he must have known. How could he not, master of beasts that he was?
He had seen me, and so I spoke. “You had to have known . . . ” I said.
“Had to have known?” Izemrasen looked at me. “Lord Marlowe, I did not know. Why would I have come? Risked my own life? My people’s future?”
“Because you are at the mercy of the Lothrians,” I said simply, shouldering my way out of the net of courtiers, heedless of Neema’s pained protestations at my back.
“Lord Marlowe! Enough!” said High Prince Aldia. “It is Aldia who rules on Jadd—and the princes of the Domagavani—not Hadrian Marlowe. Your Emperor indulged your theatrics to his ruin, but I shall not. Have a care.”
I did not move from my place. The fingers of my right hand still tingled from the bird’s poison, would be numb yet for weeks.
But my not retreating seemed not to bother the High Prince—though the nearest of the Swordmasters locked eyes with me. I could sense the man trying to get the measure of me. I had lived at the Fire School itself since before Cassandra was born, ever since the failure of the Jaddian research project at Islis Ulta—my participation in which had been the price of my exile, and the coin that bought my daughter’s life from the genetic looms.
“Whatever his manners . . . ” Here Aldia looked pointedly at me, and I sensed that I had served my old friend’s purpose. “I confess that I am sympathetic to Lord Marlowe’s point of view . . . are you in league with the Lothrian Grand Conclave?”
The Crown Prince turned from me to Aldia. He said nothing.
The elderly prince’s voice quavered, but the shadow of the young ruler remained in the fading man on the crystal chair.
“They’ve threatened you, have they not? Threatened you with conquest, the enslavement of your people? And in return you were to kill me? To throw Jadd into an electoral crisis that they might invade while we are at our weakest?”
“My prince, I swear to you, I’ve come to you in good cause.”
“You mean to say this woman acted alone?” Aldia asked, looking at the birdkeeper. “You had no knowledge that seven of the birds you brought from Oannos were, in fact, tools of assassination?”
Izemrasen stood straighter. “No, my prince.”
With Aldia, I turned my attention back to the woman called Izlan. She was sweating, shaking, staring at her boots. It was amazing, I reflected, what fear could do to the body.
“Woman,” said the High Prince, speaking his native Jaddian. When she did look up, he said, “Izlan.”
She looked at him, black eyes shining. Her right hand squeezed the left, crushed the fingers until I felt sure that she must break them.
“Are you a Lothrian servant?” Aldia asked. “Speak truly, and I will spare your life.”
Izlan’s eyes flickered to the Oannosene men standing close about her. Haltingly, she said something, a string of words in the Oannosene language I could not understand.
Tall-capped Munatas injected himself, saying, “The woman says she is.”
The Yahmazi translator at Aldia’s side said, “She said that she fights for a free people.”
That was too much. I had been to Padmurak, to Vedatharad itself, the gray capital of the Lothrian Commonwealth. No one had been free, not on that entire world. Not even their lords—who pretended they were not lords, just as they pretended not to have names—were free.
Aldia was nodding. “Good,” he said, and turned to the Yahmazi woman in her black uniform. “Take this woman into custody. We will speak to her separately. This is not the Forum.”
The Yahmazi woman tapped her terminal, transmitted subvocal orders to a number of prefects similarly garbed in long, black kaftans and black masks bearing the mark of the full moon on their brows.
“This woman is under my protection!” said Izemrasen, placing himself between Izlan and the Jaddian police.
“This woman—so you say—attempted to assassinate the high prince of Jadd!” shouted Sennen Gorgora.
“She is one of my people!” Izemrasen said.
“She must face justice!” shouted another member of the Domagavani.
“She will face my justice, Prince!” said Izemrasen. “I, too, am a prince—or have you forgotten. If one of my people has wronged this court—as indeed she has—then I have wronged you, though I did not do her deed. It falls to me to make justice.”
“Surman!”
The word was lifted above Izemrasen’s own dark tenor. A single word, harsh and brittle as the song of crows.
Surman.
Death.
It was the woman, Izlan, who had spoken it, voice shrill and cold.
I was a moment realizing that I had understood her, for it was not the language of Oannos, but that of the Commonwealth she spoke.
“Death!” she cried again. “Death to tyrants! Death to kings!”
She raised her hand, her left hand; pointed a finger at Aldia where he sat enthroned.
Then I froze, feet heavy as lead, pinned in place by the unreality of what happened next.
That hand—her hand—exploded.
I saw the fingers blown apart, the arm with it. Saw blood and strips of gore spatter the Swordmasters and the Oannosene guardsmen clustered about her. Izemrasen caught the spray full in his face, and briefly turned away.
For an instant, I caught the glimpse of metal where bone ought to have been, then the beam ignited, bright as sunfire in the smoky air of the dome. Someone—Lothrian or Oannosene I dared not guess—had implanted a gun the long bones of her arm. And that gun was pointed square at Aldia.
Only the throne’s shields saved the High Prince. Such beam weapons could chew through a shield in seconds, but Izlan did not have seconds.
An instant after she fired, Prince Izemrasen was on her, shouting, “No!”
He seized her arm, batting it aside such that the beam went wide. Had I not hurled myself to the ground, I would myself have fallen—and fallen in two pieces. Many of those behind me were not so lucky. Many by fashion wore personal shields, while others had ducked like myself. But Izemrasen had sown more death than life in his effort to save the princes shielded on the dais. The beam burned hot enough and bright enough that men and women were cloven clean in two, and the scent of sandalwood and Jaddian myrrh was overwhelmed by the stink of burning men.
I activated my own shield, regained my feet. Izemrasen had taken hold of the woman’s gun-arm, and as I crossed the floor hammered his dagger down into the mechanism to kill the beam.
If Izlan felt the knife, she gave no sign, but spat upon her master’s bloodsoaked face.
“Net bohari,” she said in Lothrian. “Net zari . . . ”
No gods. No kings.
She was dead before I reached her, another corpse among many.
“Master!” Neema scrambled after me. “Master Hadrian, are you hurt?”
I waved the man to silence. “I am all right, Neema,” I said, turning to look at him. He looked unhurt in his court best, the red kaftan trimmed with gold. “You’re unharmed?”
“Only my pride, Domi,” he said, “I confess I fell over the minute that . . . thing went off.”
“That may have been what saved you,” I said.
“Prince Izemrasen.” The voice of High Prince Aldia du Otranto filled the high hall. “You saved us.”
Izlan’s blood was yet on the prince’s golden dagger. I watched it drip.
The blade was broad as the man’s hand, a cinquedea whose broad face showed the gilt image of a tangled serpent devouring its own tail.
Foam ran from Izlan’s mouth, I saw. She had taken poison.
“Is this justice enough?” Izemrasen asked, spurning the woman’s corpse with his boot.
“Justice?” Aldia asked, eying the dead of his court. “Yes. But enough?” He shook his head. “Men are dead, Prince of Oannos.”
Izemrasen looked at the carnage his own intervention had caused. “I did what I could.”
“What you’ve done is not murder,” Aldia said, “and so is not an act of war . . . but there is grief here . . . and pain . . . ”
Among the dead were surely numbered planetary satraps, loyal servants of the princes of Jadd; their wives and sons, visiting dignitaries from the Empire, the Durantine Republic, other Small Kingdoms.
“But I no longer believe you set those birds to kill me,” the prince said.
Izemrasen visibly tensed. Had he expected some other pronouncement?
“I would have peace between our worlds,” Aldia said. “And perhaps . . . I shall have you for a son.”

#

That ought to have been the end of it. For the weeks that followed, it seemed it had been the end of it. I was not a party to the talks that happened between the Jaddians and the visiting prince—indeed, my little household and I had laid our plans to depart the Alcaz du Badr entirely and return to the Fire School. Cassandra had been away from her lessons long enough, and her Master Hydarnes would be eager to prevent her falling too far behind.
But something made me stay.
Izemrasen and the Oannosene were set to depart before long.
The foreign prince had twice left messages with Neema, expressing his desire to see me. I’d ignored them. There had been a time when I was perhaps the most infamous man in the galaxy. Perhaps I still was, even then.
There were always such messages, every time I journeyed to the High Prince’s court from my quiet exile on the Islis du Albukam. Men wishing to dine with me, to have me regale them with stories of the war; women wishing to give themselves to me, that they might say they—for a night—conquered he who had conquered so many chieftains of the Pale Cielcin. Businessmen came with opportunities I did not want, artists came seeking patronage I could not give.
In two hundred years of exile, I had refused them all—save one.
And Izemrasen was not the one.
Still, his interest interested me, and it was perhaps for that reason that I lingered at court, and Cassandra and Neema with me. I let the girl play in the palace pools, splashing, swimming with Aldia’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and the children of the lesser princes housed at that time in the court of the moon. I myself passed the time alone, reading in the palace library, writing the account of my life of which this account will later prove a part.
I was reading, poring over the histories and mythologies of Old Earth, for in Jadd they have a great many documents, twenty thousand years old and more. My fascination with Earth’s Golden Age has only sharpened in me as I have grown older, perhaps because I am now an antiquity myself. I had become obsessed with our oldest myths, with legends out of Persia, Assyria, Babylon, and Canaan. These the Jaddians—their heirs—possessed in abundance, and I took every hour I could spare in their study . . . engaged in projects of my own.
But the day of the Oannosene embassy’s departure came, and I was invited to stand in the High Prince’s retinue once again, and to bear witness to Izemrasen’s departure.
The day was warm, as it was ever warm in Jaharrad. Following the events of the welcome feast, the Oannosene ships all were moved from their bivouac in the royal gardens’ landing field to the starport in the city itself. This would have occurred under normal circumstances, but the attack had expedited that transfer, and Izemrasen and his people had spent the majority of their time on Jadd confined to a cothon sunk deep in the white stone of the starport landing field.
It was there we said our farewells.
The details of what had been determined between Aldia and Izemrasen and the lesser princes of Jadd were not known to me. I knew only that Izemrasen’s request that his Most Splendid Dominion be brought into the Jaddian fold had been denied, and that—despite this fact—he had been invited to return. For a wedding? Or only for renewed talks?
Close though we were, Aldia had said nothing of his plans to me. That was wise, for there were many ears in the high court, and many whispers.
I’d left Cassandra in Neema’s care, not wanting a repeat of the welcome feast. She had come close to real harm then, as close as she had ever come, and though weeks had passed, the memory of that moment still burned in me. Had she not excused herself, she would have been present when the birds attacked the high table. It might have been her lying dead in the palace medica, or dying. Three of the victims—Lady Shereen among them—were still receiving constant care.
Izemrasen and his party emerged through sliding, reinforced metal doors at the far end of the overlook. The chamber was wedge-shaped, with the convex arc of windows at my back overlooking the floor of the blast pit where the Oannosene shuttles stood clustered, their sails and masts stowed.
The Crown Prince of Oannos looked a shadow of the champion that had arrived. Gone was his great lion mount, gone his golden armor. Only the serpent vambrace remained, the snake’s head once again at rest above the back of his hand. The prince wore a suit of Oannos blue, gold buttons and braid shining in the stained glass lamps that hung from the sloping ceiling. Seeing him, I thought of Hamlet’s father’s ghost: resplendent in his first scene, fading in his last.
“Izemrasen,” said Aldia when the heralds had completed their task, “Prince of the House of Barasegh, it has been our honor to host you here on Jadd. While we wish matters had been different, we are grateful for your visit, and pray that you have a swift and uneventful journey home. May your visit here be but the first step to greater union and harmony between our states and peoples.”
Munatas close behind him, the Prince of Oannos approached Aldia, who stood bracketed by Swordmasters and mamluk clone slaves. The prince did not bow, for though he was a lesser lord, he was a prince still.
“I thank you, High Prince Aldia, for your hospitality,” he said, casting his gaze up and down the line. His eyes settled on me, and in them I saw a man thin and stretched, hollowed out by care. “We have heard stories of the splendor of your court, but the tales and holographs do little to capture the wonder of Jadd as it is. Would that we had met in the sun, not under the Lothrian shadow.”
Aldia inclined his head. “We are even in the shadow of the Commonwealth, as are you.”
Izemrasen’s eyes had not left my face. “And the shadow of the Empire.”
Aldia turned himself and glanced at me, eyes twinkling in his azure mask. “That as well.”
At last, Prince Izemrasen took his eyes from me. To Aldia, he said, “We will await your emissary back home. You have shown us wonders here. But on Oannos, in the Blue Palace, in Nem, we will show you wonders of our own.” He extended his hand, golden braid and chain aiguilettes tinkling, and lifted it in farewell. “Until our next meeting.”
“In the name of Ahura Mazda, giver of all good things, the generous, the loving—go in peace,” Aldia said, raising his own hand in token of farewell.
Then Izemrasen turned, moving right along Aldia’s line, toward the side door where the steps that ran down to the floor of the cothon lay. He stopped as he drew level with me, but it was a moment before he turned.
“Lord Marlowe.”
Was he shaking?
He turned, face me squarely. “It is a pity we had so little chance to talk. I would have liked to know you better.”
I said nothing.
“Tell me one thing, before I go,” the prince said. “Did you truly strike His Radiance, the Emperor?”
Of all the questions he might have asked . . . this?
He might have asked about Syriani Dorayaica, Prophet-King of the Cielcin, the Scourge of Earth itself. He might have asked about Kharn Sagara, and the lost world of Vorgossos, or about either of the Mericanii daimons I had encountered. He might have asked me about the war, about any of my seeming countless battles. About the Cielcin: their ways, their worlds, their gods.
He might have asked me about Death, and what lay beyond her onyx gates.
But this?
My estimation of the man sank by the moment. He had seemed at first a paragon of his people, their champion and exemplar. Later, he had struck by turns as a villain and a fool.
Fool had won out—or so it seemed.
“Why do you think I am here?” I said. “In exile?”
“It’s true then?” Izemrasen laughed—the short, desperate laugh of a man relieved. He looked round, as if expecting to find the others joining in. “You tried to kill the Emperor?”
I had not tried to kill him—though I’d heard as much said before.
I did not correct him.
Prince Izemrasen shook his head. “Even in far Oannos, we have heard tales of the Halfmortal. Meeting you . . . it is as though Herakles or Alexander or William himself stood before me . . . you care nothing for the laws that bind ordinary men. Even princes . . . ” Again he shook his head. “I wish our meeting had been different.”
“I wish Roderigo du Bal were still alive,” I said, naming the boy Izlan’s birds—Izemrasen’s birds—had killed the night of the welcome feast.
“I wish that as well,” Izemrasen said, eyes darting left and right. His was the aspect of a cornered beast. “The Lothrians . . . the war . . . it has all gone on so long. Will you not retake the field? Take up the fight again? For Jadd if not your Empire?”
I turned my face away. I would not be shamed by this man. Not then. Not ever.
“I am an old man,” I said, not looking back.
“I see,” Izemrasen said, faltering. “I see . . . may I shake your hand, lord?”
I looked at him. He had proffered his own. The light of the overhead lamps shimmered in the golden scales of the serpent wound round the prince’s arm. As I reached out with my own hand, I found myself transfixed by it. The way the scales glistened, each one so delicately carved—and by hand—no two alike . . . 
It looked almost . . . 
Alive!
The viper lunged at me, leaped from Izemrasen’s hand and through the air between us.
Had I realized what it was a second later, I would have fallen. As it was, the serpent’s jaws snapped on air as it misjudged the distance between its perch and me. Its eyes were like rubies beneath horned lids, and the courtiers about my scattered. I heard Izemrasen curse, and saw a blade flower in his hand even as his honor guard fired on Aldia’s.
He was neither fool nor villain, I realized then, reaching for my own blade.
He was both.
My Phaian blade caught the prince’s shining brand. The strength of his arm—backed by his Oannosene eugenics—was incredible. Even in my prime, I could not have matched him. His golden eyes were flat as coins, as the bezants on his standard, and his teeth were bared.
The serpent had fallen to the ground, had moved off among the scarpering courtiers.
It had been a living thing the entire time, a serpent bred to resemble jewelry, a final weapon in disguise.
Not quite final . . . 
Izemrasen thrust at my eyes, and I parried him, thumbing my body shield as I pivoted, coming out from the line. Two courtiers lay dead, and the mamluks had closed ranks about Aldia. The air was full of fire, plasma shots, energy beams.
“You won’t . . . leave this place,” I said.
Then it was the golden prince who was silent, but I understood him plain.
He’d never intended to leave Jadd alive.
The past several weeks’ negotiating, the long meetings, the concessions, the compromises . . . had all been to lure the Jaddians into a false sense of security. When the plot with the birds failed, and Izlan’s secret weapon was defeated by the shield that guarded the throne of the moon, they’d had to try some other method.
This was their final chance, their last hope to slay the High Prince of Jadd for their inhuman and hardly human masters.
The pale blue blade fell toward me like the executioner’s White Sword, and I parried, staggering aside. My left knee ached—had been failing me for years, but though the bones rebelled, the thews remembered—remembered when they were young and strong. The shot of one Jaddian lance caught on Izemrasen’s own personal shield, and the energy curtain coruscated, refracting rainbow light. He’d overcommitted to the blow, and his blade notched the stone floor deeply, the highmatter blade parting marble as readily as butter.
Once, I might have let him recover, let him regain his footing, that he might face me and die like a man.
Once . . . 
I lunged, feinting high.
Strong as Izemrasen was, and swift, his nerves clouded him. He had been a knot of tension, of terror since he entered that stone chamber.
He had known it would be his tomb.
His only question was how many would share it with him.
From his perspective, the answer would be not enough.
He raised his sword to parry.
I dropped my blade, caught him in the thigh.
The near-white highmatter sliced bone and fiber without effort, without discrimination.
And Izemrasen fell, the Lion-Serpent of Oannos collapsed at my feet, his sword still in his hand.
I stomped on that hand with my good leg, felt the fingers and metacarpals break around the hilt of his own sword. Izemrasen’s blade remained live—still in contact with his hand. I leaned by weight upon his fingers, and he groaned.
I lay my own blade along his throat, a inch or so from his carotid.
“Yield!” I said, and said again, “Yield!”
He had to answer quickly. The wound I’d made in his leg had severed the femoral artery. He was bleeding out, making my threat to his carotid redundant.
But he gave no answer. Izemrasen clenched his jaw. Fearing another poison tooth, I knelt, slamming my knee into his ribs.
It was exactly what he wanted me to do.
He spat, and only the presence of my shoulder between his face and his saved my eyes.
I felt the acid in his saliva burning.
Venom.
The man had given himself venom, a toxin little different from that which he had given his birds.
His venom had the desired effect. I staggered off him, his blood running from my hydrophobic coat like beads of quicksilver. The prince was dying, though whether it was by his wounds or of his own venom no man could say. I staggered back, abused knee complaining. About us, the battle was dying, too. There were four Swordsmasters of the Fire School in Aldia’s honor guard. The men of Oannos had never stood a chance.
And more were coming. The rear doors—the doors by which Izemrasen and his compatriots had entered—were opened, and more Jaddian troopers were streaming in.
“He’s taken poison!” I said, wheeling to look at Aldia, “My prince? Are you well?
Aldia’s eyes were wide. “The snake . . . ” he said, as the last of the Oannosene troopers fell or through down their weapons.
It was lying dead on the ground, trampled by the courtiers in their haste to escape.
“Dead,” I said, and pointed with my sword.
Aldia shook his head. “Why didn’t it attack me?”
I could only shake my head. He was right. Izemrasen had been close enough to strike the prince, and his float-chair’s shields would never have stopped something so slow moving as a leaping viper.
The Prince of Oannos could have killed the Prince of Jadd if he had wanted to.
Why had he struck at me first?
I looked to the dying prince. Three Jaddian soldiers had surrounded him.
It didn’t make sense.
“He saved you . . . ” I said. “In the Tholo.”
“He must have known that little stunt would fail . . . ” Aldia said. The prince kept one ringed and wrinkled hand on his withered breast.
“You think he only wanted to lure you here?” I asked. “Out of the palace?” The High Prince was certainly more exposed here than in the Alcaz. But it seemed almost too subtle. Too elaborate.
Aldia directed his chair toward me, prompting his mamluks and his Swordmasters to redistribute himself. Inclining his head to the foreign prince’s supine form, he said, “He must have been truly desperate.”
“You don’t know the Lothrians like I do,” I said, thinking back to my time as a prisoner in the Conclave’s dungeons. “Or the Cielcin.”
“My Lord High Prince!” said one of the soldiers kneeling by Izemrasen. “He’s dead!”
Aldia shut his eyes. “This may mean war with Oannos,” he said.
“They would not dare, sire!” said one of the Swordmasters near at hand.
“They may,” the old man said, “and make us swallow them by force.”
My sword was still burning in my hand, a cold, pale fire. I looked down at it, at the blade gleaming in my fist. I let it go, watched the blue-white liquid metal dissolve into mist.
It was a long time before I understood.
Aldia had never been the prince’s target.
I was.

###

Christopher Ruocchio is the internationally award-winning author of the Sun Eater, a series blending elements of both science fiction and fantasy, as well as more than twenty works of short fiction. “The Fangs of Oannos” takes place before his upcoming novel, Disquiet Gods.

Bionic Frontier 
by Robert E. Hampson

“Hey, Shep, great to see you again!” Jakob Novikoff and Victoria Horst met Glenn “Shep” Shepard in the entrance lobby of the Jack Steele Center for Bionics in San Antonio. Jakob and Shep had been fellow patients at a rehabilitation center for amputees not far from their current location. Vicky had been a later addition to the patient population. The common thread linking them was that each had received bionic replacements for their missing limbs, and were re-entering the workforce.
“Have I got something to show you! Take a look at this,” Jakob continued with enthusiasm. He held up a pair of bionic limbs that looked like legs with considerable modifications.
Glenn took a limb and examined it. It had the usual magnetic bearing at the knee, but the lower leg appeared slender, with a less pronounced heel and longer, more flexible toes. “Those look almost like hands,” he said wonderingly.
“Got it in one. We’re calling those ‘tingers.’ The whole structure is a ‘foothand’ although some of the techs shorten that to ‘fands,’” Jakob told Glenn. “They’re for use in zero-gee environments.”
“Who came up with this, you?”
“Yeah, there was a book I read from the late Twentieth. Genetically engineered humans with four arms and no legs. They were designed as slaves for zero-gee work. Artificial gravity made them obsolete, and the owners were going to eliminate them, but were stopped by a slave revolt.”
“I hope that’s not a prediction for how things will go.”
“No, but it’s not a bad analogy. Instead of being a burden on society, bionics allow me to be a very productive member of space-based society.”
“I notice you’re wearing regular legs right now, though.”
“Sure, I refuse to be defined by my injury. Land, sea, air, or space, I can do any job I want.”
“Good for you, Jakob. Good for you.”
“I had a good example, Shep.”
Shepard turned and looked at Vicky, who had extremely obvious augmentation. “I’ve read that book, Vicky. I know where you got the idea.” Unlike Jakob, Vicky’s legs were completely natural, but prosthetics replaced both of her arms. Her left arm was artificial from the shoulder down and was bulky, more than twice the diameter of a flesh-and-blood arm. Her shoulders weren’t completely lop-sided, but it was clear that the bionic rebuild on that side extended into her shoulder, collar, and back. The right arm looked relatively normal, but it bifurcated at the elbow, becoming two limbs, one with grasping appendages, and the other with fine manipulators and instruments.
“These are my working arms,” Vicky told them. “Yes, I do have normal looking ones—for clubbing and dates. Unlike Jakob, I figured I’d actually wear mine and show you how they work.” She held up her right arm and demonstrated the powered drivers, cutters, welders, and clamps she could utilize in place of fingers.
“So, on the one hand you can hold something, and work on it with the other hand . . . ”
“ . . . and on the Gripping Hand, I can keep myself in place in gravity or not. I’ve been reinforced all the way across the shoulders and into both arms.”
“Cool! Are either of you coming to Mars with me?”
“I’m working on ship construction for now, but got my sights set on the asteroid mining project they’re getting ready to launch,” said Jakob.
“I’ve been detailed to orbital station expansion,” Vicky added.
“Oh, God, no. Not another Asimov Station, please,” Shep pleaded.
“Nope, this is the Heinlein Station refit. Strictly a Space Force operation,” she assured him.
“Ah, better. Just beware of panicking civilians. You’ll still have a few of them at Heinlein, but the Guardians are good folks.”
* * *
Six months later:
In the middle twenty-first century, two primary designs had been adopted for deep space stations: Rings and free-floating modules. The first long-term space habitats, Russia’s Mir and the International Space Station, were collections of tubes and blocks, connected to a “truss” of solar panels. It was not until replacements for the ISS were constructed that other designs were considered. The Clarke and O’Neill space habitats constructed at the Earth-Moon Lagrange points L4 and L5 were the first stations to be constructed as rotating rings, as depicted in over a century of science fiction.
Other designs, such as the tubular habitat proposed by Gerard K. O’Neill, or the inflatable barrel shape of the ill-fated Asimov Station, had been tried and rejected, despite the appeal of continuously variable spin-induced artificial gravity afforded by the hollow structures. They simply presented too much empty space to pressurize, not to mention the potential for loss of life and equipment in the event of damage. The major ringed stations created different gravity environments by having additional rings at different radius points from the common center.
Heinlein Station, at the L2 Lagrange point on the far side of the Moon, was the exception. Instead of concentric rings around a relatively small core, Heinlein had a long, wide spindle, and was designed to have a series of rings lined up in parallel along that hub. The original ring, Ring One, was short and wide and only produced one-half-gee of spin-induced gravity. Until two months ago, it had been filled with offices, personnel quarters, and limited visitor facilities for Space Force lunar operations. The newly completed Ring Two had a larger radius, but still sported the wide, flat rim of Ring One. Heinlein’s inhabitants were happy to finally have a one-gee habitat, but would have been happier to be able to occupy both rings. Unfortunately, flaws in the “commutator”—the interface between rotating ring and fixed hub—of Ring One required it to be emptied so that the construction crew could modify it before finishing construction on Ring Three.
The plan for the final ring had been changed from the original specifications. It would be much more like a thick disk with a hole in it than a ring. The habitat would consist of multiple decks ranging from zero-point-eight to one-point-two gees. That ring was still a few years from completion, but when it was, it would include research and training support for Space Force operations off Earth, as well as an extensive rehabilitation hospital in both the low and high-gee regions, in part to facilitate the type of rehabilitation required for recipients of bionic augmentation.
Even partially completed, Heinlein was a busy place. It was the headquarters of the U.S. Space Force Space Mobility Command. Whereas USSF mostly provided the crews for other stations and vessels, SMC owned Heinlein. It was headquarters, operations, logistics, and barracks, all-in-one. The L2 space station had all the features of a military base, and was a city unto itself, lacking only the families of the deployed Guardians.
The experience of Asimov Station had taught the world that space operations required a corps of professional spacers. That grand experiment had been the first foray into space tourism beyond one-off passenger rides to orbit and back. Asimov had been a celebrity destination with features of a posh hotel and health spa. However, a station emergency had demonstrated that few of the rich and pampered were capable of rational actions during a crisis. The hospitality workers and medical personnel were overwhelmed and undertrained. All of the celebrities were evacuated—often alone in life pods built for twenty or more, with flunkies and bodyguards blocking access by anyone else. More than half of the medical and hospitality staff had died.
International space agencies agreed that space was too harsh to be left to amateurs. A professional crew was needed to handle operations, maintenance, and emergency management for every station and every ship carrying civilians through space.
The Astronaut Corps needed to evolve into the equivalent of military transport, Merchant Marine and Coast Guard, all in one.
The USSF SMC offered to take on the job. On the surface, it might appear that the United States was claiming the solar system as its own, but in truth, Space Mobility Command operated under treaties and cooperative agreements with most of the space-faring nations, and several that weren’t—yet—but wanted to be. They needed a base and a place to live and train with their international colleagues. Other stations had dedicated purposes: O’Neill and Clarke were science outposts on their way to becoming space colonies as workers brought their families with them. Verne, in Earth orbit, and Wells in lunar orbit, were the equivalent of airports, transfer points for cargo and personnel headed elsewhere. They were full and filled with civilians.
So, Space Force built their own. Heinlein.
* * *
Victoria Horst was uniquely qualified to be shift lead on the multinational—and multi-service—Heinlein construction crew. The warrant officer had been a helicopter pilot, flight instructor before her accident. She had an International Relations bachelor’s degree—common among experienced soldiers working closely with foreign military. The opportunity to earn a master’s in mechanical engineering had accompanied the instructor rating and CWO-3 rank. Her capstone project and thesis, however, were on adaptation of rotorcraft systems to extremes of temperature and air pressure. She reasoned that if helicopters could be adapted to extreme atmospheric pressure and temperature, they could be modified for exploration of Venus and Mars. To do so, they’d have to transform from “a thousand unrelated parts flying in formation” to “a million unrelated parts sharing the same orbit.”
Helicopters were unforgiving beasts, and there was no bailing out in an emergency. When she’d had her life-changing accident, she’d flown her broken Lakota-neo to a landing she should have walked away from, if not for a fragment of disintegrating rotor hitting her exposed arms. Her rehabilitation was long, and she hadn’t gotten fitted for bionics right away. But the delay gave her the time to complete a second masters in biomedical engineering, with a thesis on human—and bionic—factors integration in space construction.
Now she got to put it into practice.
Heinlein had been commissioned five years ago with its first ring, a compromise between the planned three-ring structure and the need for immediate occupancy. Ring One was smaller than intended, its short radius limited the artificial gravity and personnel capacity. The flaw in the commutator only appeared much later. Like bearings on an axle, the commutator allowed for smooth rotation while maintaining electrical, and communications wiring, along with leak-proof connections for air and water. Ring One’s commutator started to break down much faster than anticipated. Repairs had become a constant and critical challenge.
Now that Ring Two was open, offices, labs, and support functions from Ring One had been moved into the new section so that the old commutator could be refurbished. It delayed the expansion plans but was necessary for safety. The unofficial motto of Space Mobility Command had been borrowed from USAF Search and Rescue: “So that others may live.” SMC safeguarded the lives of humans off Earth—they could do no less for their own.
Completion of Ring Three and reopening Ring One was necessary, however. There was simply too great a need for the facilities they would house. As a result, two constructions crews worked simultaneously on Heinlein. A Brazilian orbital construction firm was building Ring Three, while Global Dynamics, a company with a long history of military development, spearheaded the commutator refurbishment.
CWO-3 Horst had never been medically retired, unlike the very famous case of her friend Glenn Shepard, who had been forcibly retired even as he fought to return to duty following bionic augmentation. She was still a reservist, and Space Force co-opted her as a liaison to the Office of Scientific Integration, tasked with supervising the commutator refit.
It was her dream job, but not without its own challenges, equal to the problems she’d faced learning to use her own bionics. It might seem trivial to many people, but before she even reported for duty, Vicky and her doctors had to decide whether her unusual bionics would be covered by her pressure suit, or whether to have her limbs and suit adapted to wear the arms on the outside of the suit.
Her answer was “why not both?”
“Expense” came the answer. GD would only pay for one custom exosuit. Thus, for travel and routine transfers through low pressure zones, she used a generic pressure suit modified only to accommodate the increased bulk of her left arm and shoulder. She couldn’t use it for construction work, though, since the suit material would be easily damaged if she had to apply her bionic strength.
She insisted, and GD eventually agreed (with Space Force applying some subtle pressure as well) that she needed a custom exosuit based on Glenn Shepard’s Mobility in Limited Environment Suit. The original MILES was practically a wearable spacecraft, while Vicky’s variant was only a bit larger than her Space Force suit. The MILES customizations allowed her to control vacuum-adapted versions of her two-arm prosthetics attached to the exterior. She had all the options of her three-handed configuration. It was ideal for a worker who might need to hold themselves suspended from the outside of a spinning habitat under full gravity, while securing and manipulating a repair with two other appendages.
* * *
Most shifts were routine. Work in vacuum suits—still termed “EVAs” for “extravehicular activity”—was limited to four hours. Maintaining six EVA shifts in a day was a strain on personnel and resources and increased the risk of fatigue-related accidents. It was a major reason why Vicky had opted to work with GD; their construction schedule included an eight-hour period each day with no exterior work, even though there was no “night” in space. With EVAs limited to sixteen hours a day, the eight-hour “night shift” was devoted to rest for the entire GD team. Each shift crew worked one EVA and one inside shift, in addition to a two-hour commitment to exercise and physical conditioning each day. Decades of experience had shown that prolonged exposure to low or no gravity degraded the human body—even with bionics—so the exercise period was mandatory for all station occupants.
Vicky was First Shift Lead for GD. She chose to spend at least one hour of her mandatory exercise period before suiting-up to head outside. The job also meant she was nominally responsible for the other three shifts; therefore, after her EVA shift, she’d be in an office throughout most of second and sometimes into third shift. She found that the frustration of dealing with paperwork was best relieved by another hour of exercise, which was why she split her scheduled time before and after her work shifts. To make matters worse, she’d had to interrupt her exercise this “morning” due to a change in today’s task schedule.
One of the radiator fins on the outside of Ring Two wasn’t working, and a whole section of Ring Two was overheating. Heat management was a problem in closed systems, and vacuum was the perfect insulator. It wasn’t as simple as turning on an air conditioner, since there was no air to conduct heat away from the station; however, heated fluids could be pumped through fins attached to the outside of each ring. The fins had a black side and a reflective side and rotated to allow the black side to face away from the sun and radiate excess heat into space. Vane R-Two, S-Four-Alpha either had a problem with the coolant line or wasn’t keeping the reflective side facing the sun.
Technically, Ring Two wasn’t their problem, but the station maintenance crews were pitching in to get the construction completed as fast as possible without resorting to dangerous round-the-clock EVA operations.
The vane repair was disruptive to the schedule, and an absolute pain in the ass for Vicky, since it would fall during first shift. She had to pull two workers out of the schedule and dedicate them to the vane diagnosis and repair. She’d also need two workers inside to check coolant flow, test valves, and guide the EVA crew toward additional problems associated with the vane. She could pull those two from third or fourth shift, but of course that disrupted their schedules as well.
The worst part was that she’d have to split the attention of her safety monitoring personnel between the hub of Ring One and the perimeter of Ring Two. Even worse, Ring Two was rotating, while Ring One was not. One or even two safety observers were not enough to keep track of two sites that were constantly moving with respect to each other.
The only solution would be for Vicky to step in as safety officer for the vane repair. It was time to suit up, and head outside to start what should be an uneventful shift, just . . . complicated.
* * *
Personnel had arrived on Heinlein to occupy Ring Two before the decision was made to shut down Ring One for the commutator repair. That meant that the habitat areas were nearly at capacity; accommodating two construction crews stressed that capacity. Vicky’s status as a reservist and liaison earned her a shared junior officer cabin on the perimeter of Ring Two. On the other hand, she’d befriended the shuttle pilots as a fellow aviator. They invited her to share the roomier accommodations next to flight ops in the spindle. Frankly, she found it easier to suit-up in zero-gee, and the central location beat having to EVA just to get to breakfast.
Morning briefing was conducted over dedicated comms with most of her assigned crew. Their suits and tools were stored near their assigned quarters, and it wasn’t feasible to get everyone into a single space just to hand out assignments. The vane crew would need to collect specialized tools, though, so Vicky summoned them to the spindle and briefed them on the upcoming job.
“Okay, Ad-hoc, Z-man, you’re on EVA for the vane repair. We’re tasked with the first analysis of the problem; it came up during the down shifts. No-one even bothered to check if it’s an inside or outside problem, so Half-check, Patsy, you’re on interior diagnostics.”
“Suited?” Wolfram “Half-check” Hlavacek asked.
Lea “Patsy” Patrice was already looking up plumbing and circuit diagrams for the vane and just glanced up briefly.
“Suited for now. If you have to disassemble the coolant run, you may have to depressurize.”
The two workers “borrowed” from third shift nodded, and Half-check moved to look over Patsy’s shoulder at the specs.
“Just to clarify, Two’s going to be under spin the whole time? We’re expected to stand on our heads for this?”
“Well, you can always hang like a monkey, Zahir,” said Adriana “Ad-hoc” Hockaday.
“Very funny, Adi. I get headaches when I have to hang inverted,” replied Zahir Khoury. “If it turns into a full-blown migraine, I’ll have to spend tomorrow sleeping.”
“Remind us again how you qualified for EVA construction, Z-man?” asked Half-check.
Zahir muttered something under his breath.
“I didn’t hear that.” Patsy held a hand next to her ear. “Did you say your mam changed the test scores?”
Zahir turned red in the face. “I said . . . I invented half the tools we’re using out there.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess that’s okay then.”
Vicky was about to step in and stop the ribbing, but Ad-hoc stepped up and in a loud whisper, told Z-man, “Ignore them. They’re just jealous you even have blood flow to your head in zero-gee!”
The two shift-mates laughed, and soon there were smiles all around, although Vicky did hear a very faint “firsties” and a snicker from Patsy, but shift-based rivalry was normal. These people were professionals. Once the work started, all rivalry was put aside.
“Okay, up and out, crew.”
* * *
The vane repair started out routine. There was a problem with the rotation stem which kept the reflective side pointed toward the sun, and the radiative side pointed away. However, once that was fixed, Half-check reported that the interior was still not cooling. In fact, it seemed to be getting worse.
“I can’t see anything obstructing the coolant line out here. How about inside?” Ad-hoc asked over the comm.
“Nothing here,” responded Patsy. “Half-check’s reading high pressure on the coolant system, but it’s not flowing.”
“And yet we have no pressure out here. Is there a valve anywhere in there? I don’t see one on the specs, but it wouldn’t be the first time one was installed as a workaround for some other problem.”
“Not that we can see unless we disassemble the bulkhead.”
“Where are you? What’s inside from here?”
“Waste water storage. There’s heads on either side, and a freshwater tank to either side,” Vicky cut in. She was tethered to the nearest spoke on Ring Two, where she could also see some of the work teams on the hub of Ring One. “Are you thinking of sealing off and opening up?”
“It depends.” There was a note of humor in Ad-hoc’s voice. “Whose head?”
“Mine, actually, or it would have been if I had taken the berth in junior officer country.”
“Ooh, Fresh-faced lieutenants who will be so thankful I saved them from overheating!” retorted Ad-hoc. “At least, until they heat up on their own!”
“Wait? What were you doing in officer country?” came another voice. “You’re a warrant!”
“Space Force doesn’t have warrant officers, Half-check,” Vicky said. “Pilots are officers; they accorded me an honorary O-2 rank.”
“Lieutenant Bosslady! Yes, ma’am!”
“Enough of that.” Vicky told him. “There’s no quarters, no critical infrastructure under the vane. If you need to open it up, you can do so, but I need to notify Ops so they can sound the decompression alarm and not catch anyone in the head.”
“Y’know, if we vent atmo, it’ll get rid of the heat in here,” said Patsy.
“And unbalance the ring, idiot.”
“Ad-hoc’s right, no venting, although once we pump down, it’ll take the heat out anyway,” Vicky admonished them. They knew it anyway. This was simply stress-relief banter.
“And make it someone else’s problem. Yay!”
“Can we get on with this? The suspension harness is great, I don’t have to hold myself on the ring in full-gee, or hang upside down, but I’m still getting a headache.” Z-man’s voice had taken on a whiny note. “Maybe I can swap with Half-check if we’re opening up the hull.”
“Not a chance, man. Besides, there won’t be enough room to fit through.”
“Then can you send some spare oxy out? I turned mine up to stave off the headache.”
“Whine, whine, whine. You want some cheese with that, Z-man?”
“You should have stacked a spare bottle, Zahir. I did. I figured hanging off the rim under rotation would increase muscle exertion.”
“Gee, now you tell me, Adi . . . ”
“Cut the chatter. Make the call, Ad-hoc. Z-man, the sooner you get to it, the sooner you can get back inside.”
“Right, Bosslady. Okay, have Ops tell the louies to use the heads in the Commons. Half-check can verify the pressure-tight doors while we wait on the pump-down, and Patsy can start pulling off the interior panels. Z-man, get the exterior access panel off.”
* * *
Sure enough, the problem was evident as soon as they could disassemble enough of the bulkhead to visualize the complete length of the coolant line. There was no valve, nor obstruction, but what there was . . . was a crimp. The line carrying hot fluid out to the vane passed through a small gap in the main structural bulkhead. Instead of a simple bulkhead fitting, a through pipe was welded to the pressure-tight plate. It was firmly sealed against air leaks, but it required separate couplings inside and outside of the hull. Apparently when the interior coupling was attached, the through-hull tubing bent and collapsed on itself, drastically reducing the flow and slightly cracking the welds. The narrow section of pipe eventually became completely blocked, and Sector R-Two, S-Four began to heat up. The fact that there was also a miniscule air leak masked the problem until Ring Two was fully occupied.
Once identified, the repair went quickly. Half-check cut out the old pipe and installed a new bulkhead coupling with integrated heat and pressure sensor to monitor for leaks. Patsy and Z-man then replaced the coolant line couplings while Ad-hoc reassembled connection to the vane.
At this point, the repair was going smoothly . . . 
 . . . until it didn’t.
* * *
“Hold it right there, Zahir. I need to come around behind you to get on the other side before I tighten the bolts down.”
It was the final stage of the repair, putting the disassembled hull plates back in place. Z-man had adjusted his position and was using a three-point tether to hold himself up against the one-gee centrifugal force trying to pull him off the hull. Ad-hoc has loosened her own tether to move around Z-man and the vane so that she could get to the other end of the hull plate to align and fasten it in place.
“Why are you using your maneuvering jets, Adi? Just walk around.”
“If I do that, idiot, I’ll be hanging upside down. You always complain about it; why would you think I want to do it?”
“But that’s too much thrust,” Z-man told her.
“Yeah, I —” Ad-hoc cut off as her thruster switched from intermittent puffs to full thrust, pushing her out away from the station. “Z-man, help!”
“I got you, Adi.” His co-worker’s tether passed over his own, and he grabbed it to start pulling her back against increased gravity and outward thrust. “Ungh. Heavy.”
Neither of them saw the tether wrap over the edge of the vane, causing a small cut into the braided polymer. Z-man pulled on Ad-hoc’s tether, but every time he tried to shift his grip, the tether slid back through his hands, putting stress on the weak spot.
“Chief? We’ve got a situation, here.”
“I see it. Don’t try to pull her back in, you’re not strong enough. I’m bringing a construction tether.”
Vicky knew that a problem like a stuck thruster was self-solving problem as long as the tether held. For that matter, even a broken tether wasn’t a big problem; construction tugs were on standby to retrieve stray parts and drifting personnel. Given time and sufficient air, they could wait until the thruster ran out of fuel and tow Ad-hoc back in. She used her own suit thruster to drag a heavy-duty construction tether out to the rim, intending to attach it to the dislodged worker.
Z-man kept trying to pull his co-worker back, but he couldn’t overcome the outward forces. Worse yet, every time he lost his grip, the tether snapped tight and rubbed on the edge of the vane. If that wasn’t bad enough, Ad-hoc had now begun to spin on the end of the line, with the thruster introducing even more oscillation.
“Z-man! Quit trying to pull her back. You’re making it worse—I’ll be there in another minute!”
“I can do it! Just let me try.” He heaved on the tether, and managed to get more slack, but couldn’t hold it. This time when it snapped back, the tether parted and the free end snapped against the back of his suit. The release of tension also propelled him back against the base of the vane. As her tether came loose, Ad-hoc began to drift outward from the station and off to the side as the ring rotated away.
“Dutchman, dutchman, dutchman! All hands, this is not a drill. Dutchman off Ring Two.” Vicky used the emergency channel to announce the universal code for uncontrolled EVA. At the same time, she used her shift-lead override to force Ad-hoc’s suit transponder to squawk an emergency locator. A tug should be able to pick her up, but they likely wouldn’t approach until the thruster ran out.
There was one other thing Vicky could do. Her own maneuvering jets were taking her head-first toward the outer rim of Ring Two, close to the base of the vane. If she could flip over to face opposite to her direction of travel, she could kick off and send herself out toward Ad-hoc, or at least in the direction of her retreating tether. Grabbing the tether would be worse than what Z-man had attempted, but she had an advantage.
A bionic advantage.
The rim approached, and Vicky used small thruster bursts to change her orientation. She could have tried to calculate it, but fifteen years as a rotary wing pilot had given her an instinctive sense of rotation. She landed and kicked simultaneously, changing course to chase after her dutchman.
Despite books and movies to the contrary, flying through space on suit thrusters just wasn’t that fast. It felt as if Vicky was just drifting as she slowly caught up with Ad-hoc’s tether. She still had one end of the construction tether, but would be running out of room soon. She’d have to collect enough slack to tie a strong hitch between the larger and smaller diameter lines, and somehow absorb enough of the tension to keep it from breaking again.
She had a solution for that, though, but it was going to hurt like hell. Her bionic rebuild had replaced her left shoulder blade and collar bone, with additional strengthening of her spine and across to her right arm. It not only enhanced her lifting ability, but also served as strain relief for forces across her shoulders.
Vicky would grab each tether and take the strain across her own reinforced skeleton.
“AAAAHHHH!” she yelled, treating it much as a “ki-yah” in martial arts. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but it felt good to let it out. The sense of being pulled apart was brief, and at the end she could feel rebound in the tethers giving her enough slack to tie them off. Her head’s up display had a warning light for several magnetic bearings in her right arm, so she’d need to power-cycle those before trying to do anything else.
“Ad-hoc! Adriana. I’ve got you now. Can you shut down that thruster?”
“Damn. That hurt! I banged my head inside my helmet,” she heard over the comm.
“Um, no sympathy here, Ad-hoc. I buffered a few gees across my shoulders. Don’t whine or we’ll start calling you Z-man.”
“Don’t you dare, Chief! Uh, anyway, the thruster is stuck, but I should only have a few minutes left.” It was a good thing. Ad-hoc was still twisting at the end of the tether, and the whole thing was trying to pull out of Vicky’s grasp. “Speaking of, how’s Z-man?”
“Ah.” It wasn’t that she forgot, but Ad-hoc was drifting further out. Z-man was still attached to the station.
“Suit leaking,” came a thready voice. “Got hit right in the collar. Hurts like a sonofabitch.”
“How bad a leak? Can you seal it?”
“Can’t move my arms very well. I think it’s the neck ring; helmet’s got a crack down near the edge.”
“Shit, okay. With Adriana tied off, I’m coming back to you. I can be there before anyone else unless Half-check or Patsy are in position.”
“Negative, Bosslady, Patsy and I are in pressure suits, but not exos. Besides, we have to wait out repressurization of the compartment before we can move toward the airlock.”
“Acknowledged. Call in to cancel the dutchman and redirect the rescue to Z-man’s position. We can reel Ad-hoc in from there if we have to.” Vicky turned and pushed herself along the tether back to the base of the vane.
Z-man didn’t look good. The slight cloud of vapor around his helmet indicated more than one leak. There was a smear of blood inside the visor, and another on his forehead. His skin had taken on a grey pallor, and one eye was swollen shut.
“Hold on, Z-man, let me take a look at your suit.” She could see condensation at several points along the seal between helmet and suit, including one point where the neck ring appeared to be crushed. “Yeah, it’s the neck ring. Suit Goop won’t be enough to seal it. I’m going to have to cut in and straighten the ring, then apply Goop.”
“Hurry.”
Vicky took a moment to check his suit status.
Oxy at eleven percent and dropping.
That wasn’t good at all, she would, indeed, have to hurry. On the other hand, they could buddy-bottle once she got the leak patched. There was enough oxy in her own suit to share with him.
Unfortunately, in the time it took to use her bionic right arms to cut and remove the crimped neck ring, straighten a segment to fill the gap, and apply vacuum sealant to the whole thing, her own oxy was dipping into reserve. She hadn’t grabbed an extra bottle, either.
Ah!
“Ad-hoc! What’s your oxy status?”
“Twenty-five percent, plus reserve.”
“Okay, I guess I’m reeling you in after all. Has that thruster stopped yet?” Vicky looked out across the taut safety line to see Ad-hoc still rotating in a circle at the end of the tether.
“Not yet. It should have run out by now.”
“I need to start pulling you back anyway. It just means I have to be prepared to slow you down and catch you as you go past. Once the thruster cuts out, you’ll be moving too fast.”
“Bosslady, rescue says not to risk pulling Ad-hoc back in. They’ll retrieve her once the thruster runs out. They can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Negative, Half-check. Have them meet us here. We need Ad-hoc’s extra oxy for Z-man.”
Half-check started to protest, but Patsy’s voice cut him off. “I told them that, Boss. I told them our own superhero had it covered. Just ignore them. I’m moving to the airlock to help bring you inside. Half-check! Come with me or get out my way!”
Vicky suppressed a laugh and just continued to pull on the tether. She felt the tension release and the line start to accumulate slack. Now she had to coil up the tether and make sure she didn’t speed up Ad-hoc any more than she already was.
Ad-hoc was getting closer. Fortunately, she wasn’t heading directly at the vane, but slightly to the side. Vicky continued to pull in the slack. As the other suit passed alongside, she’d brace herself and absorb the deceleration strain across her shoulders.
Three . . . 
Two . . . 
One . . . 
“Ki-YAH!”
* * *
“By the time I got the two suits hooked up, Zahir was down to two minutes of air. I had my reserve, and Adriana’s was more than enough to give them both twenty minutes. Lea was stationed at one of the emergency airlocks in the ring, but I didn’t want to traipse through half the hab, cross Officer Country, and still have to head to the spindle for sick bay. Better to wait five more minutes for the rescue tug, and take them both in via the hangar deck. I stuck around to finish securing the panel, gather their tools and coil up the tethers. Once I was able to head to sickbay, they were both sitting up and joking.”
“You stayed out there alone? Did I not teach you better than that?”
“Um, bad example, Colonel, you might want to rethink that. You always do things yourself.”
Shepard grunted over the comm. “Anyway, how are the arms? Any damage? Marty will have both of our asses if you have to go back in the paint and body shop.”
“No damage, and just a bit of muscle soreness. Doc Ling says the strain-relief reinforcements did their job. The only thing I had to do was reset the mag bearings afterward.”
“Good.” He paused for a moment. “Good work, Chief Warrant Horst. You’re continuing a great tradition here.”
“Of being the right . . . bionic . . . man for the job?”
“Bionic woman, I believe, Vicky.”
“You believe? You don’t know?”
“I leave that to Jakob. Oh, by the way, did you hear what he did? Scrammed an engine test and shunted a potentially fatal overload? All in zero-gee, doing a job that required four hands.”
“So those extra ‘fands’ and ‘tingers’ came in handy?”
“Ugh. ‘Handy.’ You’re as bad as General Weber with the puns. Anyway, Boatright’s over the moon, so to speak. His first three bionic astronauts, and every one a hero.”
“It’s truly a bionic frontier, Shep. The stars are ours.”
“That they are, Vicky. That they are.”
* * *

Dr. Robert E. Hampson is a neuroscientist and author. By day, he is a professor in the Wake Forest Institute for Regenerative Medicine. By night, he writes military, adventure and hard-science science fiction as well as nonfiction articles explaining science to the general public.
Robert Hampson's 2023 novel The Moon and the Desert, builds on his forty-year scientific career to update the 1970s classic TV program The Six Million Dollar Man. His SF writing career began with "They Also Serve," a short story in Riding the Red Horse, published in 2015. That story became the foundation of his first solo novel The Human Side, in 2020. He has three collaborative novels with Sandra Medlock, Chris Kennedy and Casey Moores in the "Wrogul's Oath" arc of the popular Four Horsemen Universe, has co-edited two anthologies, and published more than 25 works of short fiction (some written as “Tedd Roberts”). He is also a regular contributor of nonfiction articles for science fiction readers, with more than 15 articles published.
Dr. Hampson is a professor of regenerative medicine, translational neuroscience, and neurology at Wake Forest School of Medicine; a teacher; a scientific journal editor; a reviewer for dozens of journals and research agencies; has been interviewed on his research by newspapers, radio and TV; and a consultant to TV and game producers, defense contractors, and authors. He has published more than 175 peer-reviewed scientific articles.
His website is http://REHampson.com.

Locus of Control 
by Zack Be

“What do you mean when you say that you ‘belong’ on the lunar frontier?” Captain Braxton asks, free floating in her therapy office in the Sky Pharm’s clinical bay. “You’ve proven yourself time and again. How many more tours do you need, Master Sergeant?”
“The frontier is always going to need people who know what they’re doing,” I reply, picking at the patches on my flight suit. “And frankly, I have nowhere else to go. The front needs someone dedicated who isn’t going to make mistakes.”
“And that’s you?”
“It has to be.”
Braxton nods, keeping her arms held open in a well-practiced zero-G version of a “non-threatening posture.” She may be a therapist now, but we went through the same basic training. If it came to zero-gravity blows, I’m sure we’d have a good spar before I took her out. Of course, if I did that, I would never get put back on active duty. I could even end up Earthbound on a desk.
“You make it sound like you’re the only person with any agency in the whole sector,” she says. “I don’t believe that.”
“I’m sure you don’t believe a lot of what your patients say. But I’m telling you: If I’m not out there and people die, and I could have saved them . . . ”
A chill goes up my spine as I trail off. Every moment I sit here is a waste of my time.
“Orbital life is dangerous, Zeb, and the lunar front? Tenfold. Drone strikes, territorial disputes, piracy, supply shortages, to say nothing of the usual acts of God. It doesn’t have to be your responsibility, especially when you’ve already done your time and command wants you elsewhere. So, who do you owe here?”
“Who do I owe? Do you think I’m just on a guilt trip?” I ask, laughing.
“Are you?” she asks.
I cross my arms.
“What’s coming up for me is a feeling that you might be punishing yourself,” she continues. “And that type of mindset is not conducive to being stationed anywhere, much less a hot zone with the duties of a master sergeant. You may think you’re helping but you’re just as likely to get everyone killed thinking all this chaos is solely your responsibility. So, let’s talk about what debt you think you owe.”
“It sounds like you want to talk about the taikonauts again, is that right?” I ask. I can still see them floating away when I close my eyes, but that’s not the type of detail you would ever tell a therapist in the military.
“That would be a good place to start,” she says.
“Let’s not go around again. What do I have to say to get you to let me go?”
“You know that’s not how this works,” she says. “Just answer the questions. There won’t be another transport for a few days. You’ll get back to the GWOP eventually.”
“I don’t want to go back to the GWOP,” I say. “What I want is for you to approve me to go to lunar orbit.”
Braxton just nods again, a callous gatekeeper. Someone in command aboard the GWOP—Geosynchronous Warfighting Orbital Platform, the largest post-war orbital operating base—decided to deny my transfer request to lunar orbit until after a psych eval. GWOP is the center of U.S. operations, in a critical defensive position observing both Earth and lunar orbital maneuvers from GEO, and most would call it some kind of demotion to be moved out to a frontier Moon orbiter. My punishment for taking initiative was to be ordered down to the Sky Pharm in low Earth orbit for a few rounds of this mandatory therapy. “Standard procedure,” they claimed. So what if they decided I have a little bit of death wish? Don’t we all? Isn’t everyone who survived the war a little messed up?
“If you’re so determined to get off the GWOP, why not take a desk job on Earth instead?” Braxton asks, predictably.
“I don’t belong down there,” I say. “Every time I go back, I get sick. I’m a career man, Braxton, there’s nothing for me there—no friends, no family. I had a dog once, but I gave her up because I had to be up here. I can’t sit around on the GWOP anymore, and I certainly won’t survive sitting behind a desk Earthside.”
“Hold on, Zeb,” she says to me, holding up her watch as it starts beeping, “Braxton here.”
“Captain Braxton, we need you to come down to comms,” a voice says through the watch. Braxton is the ranking officer onboard Space Pharm, and the voice is the only other officer, a young lieutenant named Niko Lima. Space Pharm—which has some obnoxiously long official name I’ve officially forgotten—is mostly a commercial space station for Pacer Bio Tech’s pharmacological research using microgravity to grow near-perfect crystalline protein structures. The clinical wing is operated by Space Force as part of some hush-hush deal that resulted in Pacer getting federal funding to build the lab and Space Force to defend it.
“I’m in session here,” Braxton says. “This line is for emergencies only, Lima.”
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” Lima says. “We have a priority distress signal coming through from a spaceplane that entered low Earth orbit from the surface about an hour ago.”
“Whose?”
“Looks like Bulgaria,” the lieutenant says. I look at Braxton and raise an eyebrow. The post-war space gold rush is on, and the launches never seem to stop from every last country trying to get in. Oftentimes their ships crap out somewhere and we—or the Chinese, or what’s left of the Russians—end up having to save them. I didn’t even know Bulgaria had a program.
“What’s their issue?” Braxton asks.
“Life support failure,” Lima replies. “That’s all we know. They are asking permission for an emergency dock.”
“We can’t help them problem solve this remotely?”
“Apparently not.”
“Bulgaria,” I mouth, and Braxton waves me off.
“Why us?” she asks. “There are other stations in LEO better equipped to manage this type of issue.”
“They said we are the closest station with a UAGS 34/44 androgynous docking port.”
“Of course,” Braxton says, rubbing her temples. “Tell them they can dock. We will have to rush to set up an arrival team. I’m coming now.”
Braxton turns off her watch with a heavy tap.
“A Bulgarian spaceplane?” I ask.
“This is the routine these days,” she says. “This happens almost once a week.”
“They don’t let just anyone land on the GWOP.”
“Well, we aren’t the GWOP. I need to go check this out.”
“I can come with . . . ” I start.
“No, no,” Braxton says. “This one’s not your responsibility. You’re off-duty while you’re on my station.”
“Tomorrow then,” I say, and start to turn to leave. She holds up her hand to stop me.
“Listen Zeb,” she says. “Logging more hours on the frontier is not going to relieve whatever this burden is you are carrying. Whatever you’re looking for, you’re not going to find it out there.”
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Instead I offer a stone-faced nod to Braxton and then I use the hand holds above to spin around and exit her office. She may be the only officer I’ve encountered in my entire life who has told me to do less.
Outside her office are a few other unused office portals, including the psych chamber, where they do research on clinical MDMA and ketamine applications in zero-G. This is also where they house the station’s ARCHI, or Autonomous Robot for Combat and Hazard Intervention, in a charging port on the wall. The clinic is an odd place to keep an emotionless brick of a murder machine with six arms and multiple tactical defense measures, but it is the only spot where military tech can be housed.
Beyond the clinical wing is the Pharm’s main concourse, with seven additional wings built along the tube, some with their own smaller additions. Farther out, maintenance modules and vast solar arrays jut out into infinity. The massive installation is one of the biggest in orbit, although it doesn’t hold a candle to the menacing GWOP, which is visible at night from the Earth’s surface.
I push myself down the 40-feet-wide, 160-foot-long concourse corridor, waving at one of the Pacer employees who is eating a meal, and another who is using the bicycle to exercise above me, upside down. To his right is the main viewing port of the central corridor, currently pointed down towards Earth. At this point, I’ve lived in orbit almost as long as I’ve lived on Earth, and it still never gets old seeing big blue. I once logged something like two consecutive years in orbit during the war, back when I was maintaining the AI-targeted slag guns on the lunar orbiter Vesper. In my dreams, I can still smell the iron ore waste heating up in her firing tubes. You don’t need bullets in space, just projectiles mostly trash from our lunar industries.
I lost count of how many satellites and ships I helped tag in those years. In fact, the only one I can’t forget is the one Braxton keeps wanting to talk about. We fired on an enemy spaceplane, and two Chinese taikonauts managed to escape and find their way to a tether attached to Vesper. They were signaling for help as they climbed hand-over-hand toward the orbiter. I had no way of hearing their voices, but in my mind, I always imagine them screaming in Mandarin, begging for their lives. But what was I supposed to do? There were two of them and one of me, and it was the middle of the war. Was I supposed to let them onto the ship and roll the dice on them agreeing to be POWs versus taking me instead? No I ejected their line, and challenge anyone to claim they would’ve done something different.
No big bang, no triumphant action I just had to watch them float away, for hours and hours. Two men, two humans, spiraling helplessly into the black ocean. Watching that is an altogether different experience than watching slag from your ship’s cannon blow up a dot on your view screen. It wasn’t war, it was torture.
I try again to shake the memory off as I grab the handhold tethers that crisscross the concourse tube like an abstract jungle gym. I pull myself down to the far end of the station to peek in on the animal laboratory to check out the rats again. There aren’t a lot of animals on the GWOP.
I get a stern look from a Pacer tech as I cross the portal.
“As long as you don’t touch anything,” she says, before I even ask my question.
“Okay, okay.”
I push toward the rat cages, a floor-to-ceiling wall of individual glass rectangles, each one housing some number of lab rats. It would be all too cliché to tell Braxton she makes me feel like one of the rats. She wants to poke and prod and experiment with getting me to talk about how I let those Chinese taikonauts die.
I tap lightly on the glass.
I need to ground myself here.
“Attention all personnel,” I hear Braxton’s voice say over the Sky Pharm intercom. “We will be receiving a spaceplane in distress in the next three hours. I am requesting a security and engineering detail join us at docking at 1905 hours. Please contact Captain Braxton with any questions or concerns.”
I feel the wave of anxiety flow through me, Braxton’s words, not mine pushing me to go join the two enlisted men Braxton is calling a security team, but I stop myself. I am trying to say “woosah” more.
“Master Sergeant?” the Pacer tech calls.
“Yes?” I turn around, prepared to set her mind at ease about the imminent boarding party, as if it’s my job.
“Please don’t tap on the glass.”
“Sorry,” I say aloud, and then just to myself, Woosah.
***
I wake up to the distant, muffled sound of shouting echoing down the main concourse and through the closed hatch of the crew quarters. Sleepily, I rub my eyes forcing myself to take a nap in here after seeing the rats had felt like the only way to keep hovering over the spaceplane docking, against Braxton’s orders.
“What’s that?” I ask, but there is no one else in the crew quarters wing. Wondering if I’ve already missed the arrival of the Bulgarians, I look down at my watch and find it flashing red with an emergency alert, but not giving any details. Suddenly feeling a shot of adrenaline in my chest, I untether myself from the sleep wall and push toward the far door of the cabin.
As I’m moving, I hear more loud voices echoing in from the concourse. Where the first shout could’ve been from rowdy poker gamesmanship, this was undoubtedly a scream from someone in distress. I sidle up against the far wall and take a look out of the small porthole. The portion of the concourse I can see looks empty except for a lone man floating in the middle of the tube, gripping a handhold tether. He is masked and holding an air-pump rifle; not the modern kind, but an old one like the Chinese used to issue during the war. They were never quite as powerful as the U.S. rifles, but power isn’t really what you need in orbit SAPs, spaceborne air-pump rifles, are designed to create enough projectile force from compressed air to damage/incapacitate a human with blunt force trauma, but not enough to blow a hole in the side of a ship. You also can only fire them when planted on a wall or other object to transfer the force, otherwise you’ll end up in a spin.         
Silently, I tap through the emergency screens on the watch and try to access the Sky Pharm on-board AI system and get more information, but as a guest I’m limited to base functionality. I request a status report from the AI, but it tells me I do not have clearance and that I should seek shelter until help arrives. Fat chance of that.
Carefully, I look out the porthole again and see the lone gunman still floating there. He doesn’t have a military uniform, or any specific identifying marks, but he’s armed and doesn’t look friendly. The pieces are starting to come together armed gunman with no identifying marks, mysterious “Bulgarian” spaceplane, missing crew, silent station alarm . . .  it can only mean so many things.
Pirates.
“Damn,” I mutter to no one at all. I fall asleep for a few hours and the station gets hijacked? Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself; maybe there is a better explanation.
Then I hear one of those screams again.
“Nope,” I say. “This is real.”
The screaming seems to be coming from down the concourse, on the animal lab side. They must’ve collected everyone in a smaller space to increase crowd control of the Space Pharm crew. That’s what I would do, at least. I pull back from the door and take a deep breath, something Braxton taught me, actually.
Without access to main systems there isn’t much I can do from the crew quarters. If I want to signal GWOP for help I will need to get to the comms module, which is across the concourse. But if I go out onto the concourse, the lookout will spot me. Whoever these guys are, I’d guess they came here with some record of the main Space Pharm crew, but maybe not their guests. That means I may have some element of surprise if they don’t know I’m in here, for whatever good that will do me.
The module door’s handle begins jiggling, and I instinctively scramble up the wall above it to hide. After a few moments of awkward struggle, the door pushes in and the nozzle of a SAP rifle enters, held by another intruder, different from the one floating in the middle of concourse. They may not know I’m here, but at least they were smart enough to send someone around to check. I let him come farther in, waiting to see if he is alone.
If he is, he’s mine.
My heart rate increases and my back tenses up, even though I’ve done these maneuvers a thousand times before. The trouble is, you never know what you’re getting into, or with whom. At least it’ll be one-on-one.
I press my feet into the wall to give me leverage for a dive attack. I wait as long as I can, long enough for him to get into the module and out of the sightline of his friend, but not so long that he spots me in his peripherals. Then I dive into his back.
The pirate tries to let out a shout, but it catches in his throat as my arms grip his neck. I lock in the choke and wrap my legs around his midsection. I can tell from the way he wriggles in my arms that he’s never done a day of zero-gravity jiu-jitsu in his life. Unluckily for him, I teach a class on it on the GWOP.
I shift my grip and clamp down on his jugular, cutting off blood flow to his brain for a quicker knock out. His body goes limp after ten seconds, but I keep holding on. I know I only have a few moments before his spotter gets suspicious, and the safest thing to do would be to snap his spinal cord, but I haven’t even confirmed if these guys are really enemies.
Instead, I grab the cable ties off his waist, likely what they used on the rest of the crew, and tie his hands and ankles before forcing a towel in his mouth and zip-tying that around his head. I look over his gear up-close while he is still unconscious, but he has no identifying marks either. His comms watch is a few generations old, and his flight suit is even more tattered than mine. These guys could be from anywhere, backed by anyone.
I take his SAP and check the loading mechanism, hoping it might just be a prop, but it turns out to be fully loaded with pebble-sized round projectiles. This is not a good sign.
I only have a few moments to think before someone else comes looking. My first and most bone-headed idea would be to just take the SAP rifle out into the main concourse and attack the other intruder head on before throwing myself toward comms. I’m sure I could handle him on my own, but he might not be alone, and I have no way of knowing how many pirates came on board. So, no dice, I have to find another way.
I look around the crew quarters and see a maintenance hatch that probably goes out into the extended modules. I push off the intruder toward the wall, where I find a panel with a diagram of the station’s layout. The hatch leads out to a maintenance module, which runs through some of the other maintenance modules, and might give me a way to get to comms.
The pirate below me starts to shake awake, tugging on his cable ties. I open the hatch and start to climb in, only to hear the pirate begin to shout through his towel.
“Shut up,” I say, but he won’t, and I find my arms raising the SAP as I plant my back in the wall.
“Dammit,” I say, and fire one shot, releasing a compressed air pop slightly louder than the nearly silent modern U.S. rifles. The projectile hits the man in the head, incapacitating him and sending the body twirling toward the wall. I pull the hatch closed behind me, point the SAP forward, and begin crawling along the rungs of the tube.
The clock is ticking.
***
I don’t have to travel too far before I find disappointment at a major junction point. Reading over another copy of the station diagram posted to the wall, I find that I am on the wrong side of the Sky Pharm. The crew quarters are opposite the comms wing, and the access tubes were never designed to circumvent the main concourse.
“‘No wasted space in space,’” I say, reciting the mantra of every station design engineer I’ve met. They don’t tend to foresee these types of situations.
Tubes on all sides lead to the other three wings on this side of the station. Above me is a hatch that goes farther out to the solar array station. Perhaps there is a suitport out there I could use to get around the station to the other side? I’m not sure how I would get back in. Maybe I could jettison the suitport on the other side—if there even is one—and use emergency protocols to get in? But the pirates would hear the commotion.
I reach up and grab the handle for the door only to have it swing open toward me, followed by a U.S. issue SAP being pressed into my face. My finger just barely scratches the trigger on my own SAP before I realize who it is.
“Captain?”
“Zeb, Jesus,” she says, lowering the rifle. “They didn’t get you.”
“Who didn’t get me?” I ask. “What’s going on?”
“The spaceplane,” she says, “pirates.”
There is Pacer tech hiding behind her, face white as a ghost.
“Any idea what outfit?” I ask.
“Unknown,” she says. “They wanted something from Pacer’s lab. I would guess they’re a non-state proxy group trying to steal IP. This happens way too often in LEO. They bust in on a spaceplane under false call signs, rob, and then go back Earthside. Usually long gone before we know what’s hit us.”
“Has it happened here before?”
“Not on Sky Pharm. We’ve had an attempt before but never been boarded. They usually go for smaller targets.”
Braxton winces and pushes back against the wall.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“They burst in on us after docking, started firing without any warning. Lima hit the silent alarm before they got him. I got tagged in my ribs, internal bleeding probably but I’ll live.”
“How many of them?”
“I’m not sure, nine maybe?”
“Then it’s eight, for now,” I say.
“You got one?” she asks.
“Yes, but they’re probably on my tail as we speak. I was going up this way to see if I could get into a suitport and go around to comms.”
“Don’t worry about that, Zeb, I already sent for help,” she says, tapping her watch. “Got away in the fray and squirreled up in here with one of the Pacer techs. Was able to get the message out remotely before they got to comms. They probably trashed it by now.”
“Damn,” I say.
“Besides, there’s no way get back in the ship around the other side if you took out the suitport. You’d have to go in through the main airlock, and that would just put you back on the concourse. Safest bet is to stay here with us until help arrives.”
“Help will be at least a day away, Captain, maybe two,” I say. “We can’t just sit here. They’ve probably got the rest of the crew.”
“Confirmed, they’ve got them,” Braxton says. “There’s not much we can do.”
“The hell there isn’t,” I say.
Braxton points at her broken rib.
“Between you and me we’ve got one and half soldiers and two SAPs, plus I’m only a goddamn therapist at full strength,” she says. “I’m not taking those odds. We’re staying here.”
“We can’t just let them do whatever they want, Captain,” I say. “The crew is a bunch of civilians, for god’s sake.”
“There’s nothing we can do for them until the cavalry arrives,” she says. “We stay.”
“To hell with that, Captain, give me your SAP and I’ll go myself.”
“Absolutely not, Master Sergeant. We stay; and that’s an order.”
I open my mouth to respond, ready to shout about rank versus respect, when I realize something obvious that’s been staring me in the face. I swivel back to the station diagram. Comms may not be on this side of the ship, but the Space Force clinic is, and the tubes will take me straight to it.
“Fine, Captain, stay here,” I say, pressing my finger into the clinic on the map. “There may only be one and a half of us and seven of them, but we’ve got a goddamn ARCHI, and I like those odds.”
“The ARCHI has never been turned on,” Braxton says. “And assuming it’s operational, and that the pirates haven’t trashed it, do you even have a plan to use the damn thing?”
“I’ll have to play it by ear,” I say. “We had a saying during the war ‘nothing too fancy is better than nothing at all.’”
Braxton curses as I start pushing my way back down the junction toward the access tube.
“Zeb, don’t do this. You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“You just don’t get it, Captain,” I say, looking back up at her and wiping sweat from my brow. “This right here? This is one of those moments. You’ll live with it for the rest of your life, regardless of what you do.”
“Zeb . . . ”
“I know what I’m doing,” I say. “Do you?”
***
The clinic is empty, my first piece of luck all week. I crack the maintenance hatch open and slip slowly into the clinic wing, SAP held high in case one of the intruders decides to pop out from around a corner. I let out a low whistle, just to test the waters, but there is no response.
I push myself through the room toward the wall besides the main entrance. As I pass, I can tell that several people left the clinic wing in a hurry, probably racing toward the alarm only to find themselves face to face with a gaggle of pirates. This Space Force skeleton crew of doctors and mechanics never stood a chance.
I work my way over to the ARCHI. It is inset in the wall, shaped like an unassuming rectangle about five feet tall. There is a dull scratch on the thick bullet-proof glass where its “face” would be, probably from one of the pirates trying to smash it with his rifle. He will be shocked when ARCHI snaps back.
I pull out the control panel for the ARCHI, which has a more significant crack, likely from the same pirate. Using the touchscreen, I begin trying to turn the ARCHI on and give it directions, but the system scans my watch and tells me I don’t have station clearance to activate the ARCHI.
“The hell I don’t,” I say.
ARCHIs often require station-specific passwords or biometric authentication, neither of which I have. But a lesser-known fact is that any Space Force guardian can operate any ARCHI in an emergency mode capacity. I tap in the requisite code and watch the OLED screen flicker to life behind the scratched glass. There is a systems check, followed by swift shift over to an emergency screen.
“How can I be of service?” the ARCHI asks.
“We have an active incursion event,” I say. “Eight or nine intruders, it’s unknown how many hostages.”
“Support?” ARCHI asks.
“Just me,” I say, looking back at the empty maintenance tube hatch.
“Master Sergeant Zebulon Reed,” ARCHI says, syncing with my watch and biometrics. “Are you armed?”
“I have a SAP,” I say, “but only five more shots.”
“I will be using biometric signatures to identify Pacer and Space Force crew and separate them from intruder targets,” ARCHI says. “Is there anyone else onboard who is not part of the crew manifest that I should know of?
“No, just the pirates.”
“Stick behind me for cover, aim for the head as needed,” ARCHI continues. “Things will move quickly.”
The rectangular form begins lifting off the wall toward me, accompanied by a low humming sound. Six steel arms unfurl like squid tentacles from behind the square body, each harboring different offensive or defensive elements. Without the limits of gravity, an ARCHI can be shaped in any number of configurations. I can only imagine how different things would have been if I had had one of these things back on the Vesper. Maybe those taikonauts would still be alive if I had had this kind of backup.
“I am detecting multiple heat signatures in the protein crystallization refinery, wing six. This is likely the site where the hostages are being held.”
“All of the hostages?” I ask.
“Unknown,” ARCHI says. “They appear to be trying to access main systems and data banks.”
“Data banks? They must be trying to steal some of Pacer’s proprietary data,” I say. “All this for protein crystals?”
“Unknown,” ARCHI says. “Shall I define and execute an attack plan?”
“Define,” I say. “Wait for confirmation of execution.”
“I am going to force a few malfunction alerts and alarms through the station’s AI to try to confuse, distract, and possibly draw them out onto the main concourse,” the ARCHI says.
“That’s gonna make it hard for me to see as well,” I say.
“Correct. You will need to be careful discharging your SAP after I turn off the main station lights.”
“‘Be careful’? That’s your plan?”
“While I make a frontal assault, you can use the secondary access via the animal laboratory to flank the intruders and begin releasing hostages.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “They probably have schematics. Don’t you think they’ll be guarding the door?”
“They will be distracted by me,” ARCHI says.
“What’s the mission success probability?” I ask.
“Unknown,” ARCHI says.
“Don’t bullshit me, just give me the real number,” I say. It might be an urban legend, but I’ve been told that ARHCIs tell white lies or omit information to manage soldier psychology.
“Sixty percent chance of success,” the ARCHI says. “Within acceptable limits.”
“Sixty percent feels low,” I say.
“It is within acceptable mission limits.”
“Can anything improve that rating?”
“Expressions of confidence,” ARCHI says. “Expressions of self-worth, and camaraderie.”
“Goddammit,” I say. “Enough with the propaganda. Let’s do this.”
“Godspeed,” the ARCHI says, turns, and opens the clinical wing’s door.
***
Everything happens so fast it’s hard to follow. The ARCHI uses two arms to fling itself off the lip of the clinic door and toward the pirate anchored on the tether in the middle of the concourse. There is a frightened shout, and then I hear the pop of the pirate’s SAP. The projectile bounces off the shell of the ARCHI like a cotton ball just before the robot reaches him, grabs his neck, and snaps it backwards violently. The snap is totally clean with no blood; the robot knows that free floating liquid could damage a system and is calibrated for maximum damage and minimal mess. In all my years in orbit, I’ve never actually seen an ARCHI set loose. The precision is perfect, and the little machine is ferocious.
Right on cue, the lights in the concourse chamber go out, and a blaring alarm begins to sound across the intercom. Like some six-legged nightmare monkey, the ARCHI pulls itself through the concourse handholds and crashes down on the door of refinery wing. Using one arm to push the door open, the ARCHI reaches in and pulls another pirate out, whipping him around violently before releasing his limp body, tied up in itself like a fleshy ball of yarn, out onto the concourse. I hear a small chorus of SAPs pop and clap as they fire on the ARCHI through the portal to no avail.
While they are distracted, I push myself across the concourse and through the wires until I reach the animal lab, which is next door to the refinery. Reverting to training on “how to clear a room in zero-G” is almost automatic.
I twist the handle and fling the door in, wait a beat, and then move into the lab with my SAP pointed forward. I quickly check above and then below the door so as not to let anyone get a drop on me like I did earlier in the crew quarters. This maneuver is completed most efficiently with two guardians at once, but you do what you can. Aside from the rats, the lab is empty. As I slip into lab I can hear the sound of a scream behind me. Assuming it’s another pirate being grabbed by the ARCHI, I have to guess we are down to five.
I float down to the far end of the animal testing wing. Across from the rat wall is another hatch, this time connecting directly between Pacer’s animal and refinery lab wings. This little tube will be the most dangerous part of the trip; with no room to maneuver it has the potential to basically become a shooting gallery.
Just as I pull the lever on the hatch I feel the door push outward toward me, followed closely by one of the intruders apparently trying to escape or flank the ARCHI.
“American,” he says as I fall back and flatten. I point the SAP at his head and fire before he or I can fully process what’s happening.
Immediately, the force of firing the projectile sends me into a backward spin. I fight for a second to grab hold, but there is nothing nearby to stop my spin. Blood rushing to my head, I hold out the nozzle of the gun and let it catch on the nearest handhold before pulling myself to a stop. I look over at the pirate; his body is limp.
Four shots left.
I grab the pirate’s leg and maneuver us so I can push off his body and float back toward the hatch. Entering the tube, SAP first, I crawl down the tube one rung at a time. The refinery-side door is already open at the far end, and I can hear the sounds of the pirates’ desperate battle with the ARCHI.
When I reach the opening, I peek up toward the concourse door and the ARCHI and see that the pirates have taken cover closer to the door. Two are using their bodies as leverage to try to force the door closed, trapping the ARCHI’s arms in the opening. The other two are farther back, planted on desks welded to the wall and aiming their rifles at the ARCHI, shouting in a language I don’t think I recognize. Swiveling my head around, I see the eight crewmembers are at the outer end of the wing, zip-tied to the bulkheads and other welded station parts.
I signal silence to the group as I quietly guide myself into the refinery. I grab a pair of scissors off the tool wall to the left of the hatch and then push myself straight toward the enlisted guys, who I trust slightly more to know how to fight.
Slipping the SAP over my shoulder to free both hands, I take the scissors to the specialist’s wrist restraints. While gnawing on the plastic zip-ties with the scissors edge, I hear another shout, but this time it’s from one of the crew.
“Watch out!” a Pacer tech yells. I spin around in time to see the two pirates on the desks raising their guns. I reach to pull mine off my shoulder, but I already know I’m drawing against two guys who have the drop on me. If their aim is worth half a shit, they’ve got me. I’m dead.
There are three pops.
The first pop is a projectile that hits me in the shoulder, and my body bends back under the force, forcing me into another spin before my back hits the crewman and stops me. The second two pops don’t connect, and I manage to get off my own shot, using the enlisted man’s body as leverage, before I realize they didn’t come from the pirate’s rifles. Looking up, I see two standard issue projectiles ricocheting slowly away from the heads of the two now-incapacitated pirates, spinning free from their cover behind the desks. At first I think the shots came from the ARCHI, but the angle is wrong. Then I see there is someone planted in the same transfer tube I had come through.
“Captain!” I shout.
Just then, the concourse door crashes open and ARCHI barrels through, its deadly bouquet of arms grabbing both remaining intruders by their necks and slamming their bodies together in a deadly crunch.
A sudden quiet overtakes the refinery as the ARCHI slows to a halt. I can hear myself breathing, the pain in my shoulder where I was shot immense.
“Master Sergeant?” I hear one of the enlisted men say.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes.”
I turn back to the specialist and cut him free, then the other.
“You have to get them secured,” I manage to say through the pain as I turn to cut the next crewmember free. Both push off the bulkhead and back toward the two pirates, grabbing their SAPs and the zip-ties.
“There’s another one alive in the animal lab,” I say. “And there was another in crew quarters, I’m not sure of his whereabouts now.”
“Where is Lima?” I hear Braxton shout.
“They left him in the docking port,” one of the Pacer techs says.
I reach out to cut loose her hands next, but the impact of the SAP on my shoulders is making it hard to breathe, much less cut.
Braxton comes up next to me and takes the scissors.
“I got it,” she says, taking the scissors from my hand and freeing the tech. “Can I trust you to go get him and bring him back here?” she asks him.
“Yes, sir,” the tech says.
“Where did you come from?” I ask.
“I realized a bit late that you might not have clearance to activate the ARCHI,” she says, cutting the next pair of hands. “And I didn’t want it to be my fault that you then decided to go at it completely alone. Turned out I was wrong, but once I was following you, I couldn’t stomach turning back either.”
I nod, wiping sweat from my forehead.
“Threat neutralized,” ARCHI announces.
“Let’s confine any of the living ones to wing three, ARCHI,” Braxton says. “We’ll collect the dead next.”
“Affirmative,” the ARCHI says.
I look around at the Pacer techs, several of them crying. Most have never experienced anything like this before, or seen death or violence come this close. Braxton is helping them move off the bulkhead and is directing the more stoic crewmembers toward helping the Space Force guardians to round up the bodies of the remaining pirates. I look at my hands shaking, unsteady and start to feel the impacts of the adrenaline catching up with me, almost like a hangover.
“Let me see that arm, Zeb,” Braxton says, maneuvering my shoulder. “We probably need to sling this.”
“Yeah,” I say through shallow breath. My body is starting to realize I did almost die today, not something I’ve felt since the war. Braxton puts her hand on my other shoulder and squeezes.
“I’m just going to say it, Zeb. You saved a lot of lives today.”
“Well, the ARCHI did, at least,” I reply, with a smirk.
“Joke all you want, but look around you,” Braxton says. “We weren’t prepared for this, and you were. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you weren’t here.”
“You would’ve waited for the cavalry,” I say.
“I should have listened earlier, Master Sergeant,” she says. “You had the right idea.”
“Just doing my job,” I say.
“Captain?” one of the Pacer technicians says, calling for her. Braxton gives me a knowing nod and floats off.
I slink back into the wall, holding my arm in place.
“Thank you,” I hear some of the techs say, and I smile through the pain in response. “Thank you; thank you.”
What I don’t tell Braxton, what you can never tell a military therapist, is that even now, after all this, I can still see those two Chinese taikonauts floating away from the Vesper when I close my eyes. My hands bloodied, body shaken, lives saved; none of that seems to matter. The lunar frontier came to low Earth orbit today, but no debt was paid.
What I don’t say, what I could never say, is that Braxton might have a point.

***
Zack Be is an award-winning author, obscure songwriter, and Couple and Family Therapist long trapped in the gravity well of the Washington, DC, area. Zack is an emerging SFF writer whose work has appeared regularly in Asimov’s Science Fiction and was published in Analog Science Fiction and Fact in 2023. His story “As Able the Air” was a winning story in Writers of the Future vol. 36, the most prestigious contest for emerging SFF authors in the world. He was previously a finalist for the Jim Baen Memorial Short Story Award, in 2023.

Pinks 
by David Afsharirad

We were racing for pinks.
Jordan used the magnazip to seal the seam in the back of my bio-synched undersuit.
“You sure about this, Danny?” he said. Jordan always was too timid, always second-guessing decisions that had been irrevocably made. Why he was a mechanic and not a driver.
“Why wouldn’t I be? You saying I’m going to lose?”
Jordan shrugged. “If you do, it won’t be my fault. Or the Orange Possum Special’s.” He gave the exosuit a tender pat on the gauntlet. “I’ve got her in top shape. No Defens-245 is gonna outrun her. Least not one that’s stock.”
“You know a lot of mercs keep their suit’s stock?” I asked. I was being an asshole and knew it but couldn’t help myself. Truth was, Jordan was the best mechanic I’d ever worked with, and we’d been together for ten years at this point—a lifetime for a driver and his mechanic. I guess I was just jumpy. Truth was, I was worried.
“No,” Jordan said. “I don’t know of many mercs who keep their suits stock. But it ain’t like the Possum here rolled off the assembly line on Cordella in this condition. Hell, Danny, there ain’t a suit in the quadrant who can take her.”
“Especially not with me driving,” I said, trying to psych myself up as much as anything.
“Especially not with you driving,” Jordan agreed. “And me as your mechanic.”
I turned and flashed him a smile. “Right, Jordan. Then there’s nothing to worry about.”
Nothing, I thought, except that if I lost, we were well and truly screwed.
#
The thing about it was that it had all started out so damn stupid. We were in Arabat, a small town in the Taranha sector of Leoto. We’d just spent three weeks of sheer hell clearing the jungle of guerilla Kitoas. The Kitoa were primitive. Even with the explosive-tipped arrows they had, they were no match for us. But the three-eyed bastards knew the terrain, and in dense jungle foliage, our bulky suits could almost be considered a drawback.
Almost.
Long story, we’d cleared every tunnel and cave and hidey-hole. Had burned our share of enemy camps and had routed the last of the Kitoa warriors. Now it was time for some R&R before we headed out to another sector and more of the same.
We were paid by the Leotan colonial government, such as it was, and quite handsomely, else we wouldn’t have taken such a shit job on a jerkass backwater planet. I mean, talk about the ass-end of the known universe. But Arabat had a bar and though the local swill they served could only aspire to be called rotgut, it did the job.
Too well.
I was on my fourth drink when a handful of drivers and mechanics from the Guardian Corps wandered in.
“Look at these assholes,” I said, too loud. One shot me a glare. I stared past him, pretending I wasn’t the one who’d said it.
Merc teams, as you can imagine, are fiercely competitive. We’ll work together if the job requires and the pay is right, but we’ll never like each other. Maybe it’s silly. Tribalistic. But it’s the way it is. I particularly didn’t like any man jack who would work for the Guardians. I’d had run-ins with them before. They were scab labor. And always just so, so holier-than-thou. In a sense, they weren’t really even mercs, more a private army for lending out, as they were underwritten by the trillionaire mining magnate Roger Hartoni. He sent them out wherever he felt they could be “of service to the greater good of the First United Federation and its allies.” So they didn’t take money for killing directly from those who wanted the killing done. Somehow because they were on salary, with benefits and a retirement plan, that made their hands less bloody than mine. Or so they thought.
I took another sip of my drink, feeling it burn on the way down. Oof, the stuff was terrible.
The Guardians sidled up to the opposite end of the bar and started doing shots. It wasn’t hard to guess that they’d just come out of cryosleep on the way to Leoto and were trying to rid themselves of that bone-deep chill that seems to linger for days after you come out of a Nap, no matter that the experts say it’s all in your head.
“For the good of the First Fed!” one said, holding up his glass. They all echoed then downed their drinks.
I snorted. Yeah, sure. We were all regular humanitarians.
Look, I knew the Kitoa had to go. Most had. They’d been relocated to a reservation in Azuma sector, and they were, from all accounts, quite happy there. These last holdouts were blood-thirsty, no-account savages who wouldn’t listen to reason. They had to go. But let’s not make out like we were saints here. We were killing sentient beings for their land. No different than humans—and Kitoas—have been doing since time immemorial, but it rubs me the wrong way when people drape themselves in false glory. Do the job that needs to be done, but don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back for all the good you’re doing, that’s what I say.
Another round was poured, and the same asshat made another toast. “To the Guardians, keepers of the peace!”
I snorted again. Louder. The asshat shot me a look, and this time I didn’t avert my eyes but held his gaze.
I signaled the bartender for another drink. When he’d poured it and moved away, I raised my glass and my voice, locking eyes with the asshat.
“To the eradication of the Kitoa,” I said. “If only they had the sense not to evolve on a planet that has resources the First Fed needs.” I downed my drink in a single swallow and realized how much of a mistake I’d made, instantly. The alcohol had been creeping up on me for a while and now it hit me full force. My stomach cramped and I thought I might blow chunks.
Then I realized the other mistake I’d made. Every man jack in the Guardians was staring at me. The asshat moved down the bar in slow, measured strides.
“You got some sort of a problem with the First Fed?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Not particularly.”
“You some sort of pussy Kitoa lover?”
I shook my head. “No pussy. No alien lover. I’ve killed a mite more of them than you have. Maybe you’re the Kitoa lover.”
The man told me to do something anatomically challenging to myself. I told him I’d give it a shot. That got a chuckle from his buddies but didn’t do anything to cool his jets.
“Piece of shit merc,” he muttered, turning away.
“Like you’re better,” I called after him.
Why did I seem to want a fight so bad? Hadn’t I had enough violence lately? Enough to last a lifetime?
“I’m Sergeant Nils MacLeod of the Guardian Corps,” he said, as if that was supposed to mean anything to me. “We’re peacekeepers. Not hired thugs.”
“You been out in the jungle around here lately?” I said. “Pretty damn peaceful now that the last of the Kitoa have been cleared off. The clearing being done by me and my fellow mercs.”
“What’s your point?”
“I’m saying we’re peacekeepers, too, friend. So watch what you say about us. And how you say it.”
“That a threat?”
One of MacLeod’s buddies put a hand on his shoulder, whispered something in his ear. By the way MacLeod said, “The Hell I will,” I’m guessing it was something about laying off me.
We weren’t being all that loud, but a crowd had started to gather. Mercs from Alpha Company gathering in a loose semi-circle behind me, the Guardians behind MacLeod. This was going to turn ugly. You could feel it in the air. If we avoided an all-out brawl, it’d be something of a miracle. People would get hurt, injured. Some might wind up dead. It had happened before.
And it would be because of me. Because I couldn’t stand the smarmy look on their faces. I had enough blood on my hands. And I’d get a lot more in the years to come. I was a merc. It came with the territory. But killing for a job—and I made it a policy never to take a job that I didn’t think absolutely needed to be done—was different than a friend getting shivved in the back because I couldn’t hold my liquor.
I tried to diffuse the situation.
“Listen, friend—”
“I’m not your friend, merc.” The way he said the word, it was a curse. MacLeod held his fist clenched at his side. He looked ready to raise it. I knew where he’d try and land it if he did: the end of my nose.
I was too drunk and too pissed off to think clearly. And I was too angry to back down. But maybe if I changed my tack—started coming at him from a different angle—this situation wouldn’t go totally sideways.
I decided to steer clear of politics and attach on a baser level: exosuits.
“What kind of sled you driving?” I asked, referring to his exo. It was possible MacLeod wasn’t a driver at all. That he was a mechanic or just some private army brass, but I didn’t think so. We drivers have a look to us. And MacLeod had it.
The non sequitur threw MacLeod for a loop. For a moment. Only for a moment. He wasn’t as far gone as I was, despite the shots and the grogginess that came from defrosting after a Nap.
“Defens-245,” he said, an edge in his voice.
I laughed.
MacLeod didn’t.
“The D-245s is top of the line. Best money can buy,” MacLeod said.
“It’s not money makes for a good sled,” I said. “And a good sled’s worthless without a good driver.”
“Yeah? What’re you driving?”
“You ever hear of the Orange Possum Special?” I said.
MacLeod spat a short burst of laughter. “The hell is that?”
He put on a good front, but I could tell I had him.
“Nice try,” I said. “But I think you know. Which means I think you know who I am. So why don’t you just go back to your end of the bar with your peacekeeping buddies and keep the peace to yourself.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.”
MacLeod chewed his lip for a while.
“All right,” MacLeod said, finally. “So, you’re Danny Ricter.”
I raised my empty glass.
“So you’re a washed-up, has-been, disgraced soldier who drives a rust-bucket sled that no self-respecting merc would strap on.”
He was trying to get my goat.
“Sure, friend. Say what you want about me. But let’s not drag the Possum into it.”
MacLeod scoffed. “Any D-245 could leave that jalopy in the dust with one booster disabled.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” I said.
“I would,” MacLeod said. And it was then I realized I’d stepped in it. “I’d bet the pink slip it would.”
The whole bar seemed to get colder and quieter, like the entire structure and all of us in it were being put down for a Nap. I felt Jordan’s grip on my shoulder. I don’t know when he’d come up beside me, but there he was, and his hand was like a vise. All that time turning wrenches had made his hands strong. I winced, and MacLeod mistook the reason why.
“Too steep for you to risk it, eh? Of course, I thought you said there’d be no risk. Not for you. Not for a hotshot—”
“Okay,” I said.
It was like when we cycled the airlock in space and the air all rushed out in an instant.
“What?” MacLeod’s face fell. Just for the barest moment. I’ll give him credit there. He recovered fast.
“I said okay. We’ll race for pinks. You got a bet.”
And just like that, I’d made what turned out to be the stupidest mistake of my life.
#
I made my way from camp to the starting line, smack dab in the center of Arabat, next to the Founding Fountain, a grotesque Neo-Baroque monstrosity depicting Amos Leoto, the Alsatian noble who’d been granted the charter to settle the planet and for whom, of course, it had been named. Guys from Alpha Company had drawn up the course. MacLeod and the boys from the Guardians whined about it, but they didn’t have much choice. They’d been planetside less than one solar rotation and didn’t know the territory. They’d insisted on a few changes, which were granted, just to save face.
The race was going to be a slog. If I stayed at the top of my game, I might be able to run it in just under twelve hours. And I would have to stay at the top of my game. I’d have to be steady if I wanted to win, but I damn sure couldn’t be slow.
A crowd had gathered, as of course we knew it would. This sort of thing was completely illegal, but what was anyone going to do, call the cops? Both merc teams had turned out, but so had an obscene number of locals. It looked like a county fair. Women wearing very little clothing strutted around the perimeter, whispering sweet nothings into the ears of every merc who would listen—as well as what those sweet nothings would run, moneywise. Food vendors hawked various street food on sticks and in cones and plastifibre bowls.
And of course, there was betting. Just so much betting.
Ricky, one of the younger guys in our squad, ran up. He walked ten paces in front of me, backward, his neck craned up so he could see me through my lifted visor.
“I got five hundred on you, Danny!” he shouted. “I’d bet more but that’s all I had. You’ll take the bastard, Danny! Easy.”
Kasabian ambled up. “Don’t foul this up, Ricter. I got a thousand riding on it.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. Then told him where he could stick his winnings when, not if, he won.
Jordan, of course, hadn’t bet. He’d said it would be unethical. Truth was, he didn’t have the stomach for gambling.
“What are my odds?” I asked him through the comm. The message was relayed into his earpiece so that only he could hear.
“They’ve got MacLeod as the three-to-one favorite,” he said.
An ice cube slithered down my back and settled in my groin. I must have been too shocked to say anything for quite a while because Jordan was back in my comm-set, “Danny, you okay?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Three to one, eh? Well, that’ll just make winning all the sweeter.”
“Danny, I’m not—”
“Can it, Jordan.” There was more of an edge in my voice than I meant. “I don’t need you trying to talk me out of what’s already done.”
A silence, followed by, “Right, Danny.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m just worked up.”
“No, you’re right. Well, there he is.”
MacLeod waited as we approached the starting line. His Defens-245 gleamed in the early morning light. It was tricked out with chrome all over the place and painted two-tone turquoise and white. Over the right breast was a three-dimensional insignia of the Guardian Corps. His helm was two-toned as well, with a snarling tiger logo on each side with the words “Jungle Cat” in an aggressive, to my eye slightly silly, font.
But all of that was just cosmetic. What counted were the mods he and his mechanic had made, and at a glance, there were many. Moon Dog thrusters, the big bore 455 models that had had been strictly military issue until just a year ago. Each set went for 500,000—and last I’d checked the wait list was three years long. How had he gotten them so fast after they’d been made available to the public, I wondered. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that he had them. The Possum was outfitted with 357 Kagoes and there were no flies on them, but they weren’t on the same level as the Moon Dogs.
And his thrusters were just the start of it. Beneath the fancy paint job and chrome, it was obvious his suit had been beefed up, with extra armor plating in all the major vital areas and points of failure. He looked like a walking tank. And with the nonstandard issue .60 cal. Reefers on his gauntlets and a new Matin-Elrod replacing the standard-issue rocket launcher on his shoulder, he basically was. Then I noticed the grenade launcher. MacLeod—or more likely, his benefactor Roger Hartoni —had spared no expense.
“Shit,” I thought when I’d sized him up. Or I thought that I’d thought it. I must have said it out loud because Jordan said, “Yeah, shit is right.”
“A fancy sled doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “It’s the driver that counts. Papa Hartoni probably bought all that stuff for him. Doubt he even knows how to use it.”
“Sure, Danny,” Jordan said.
“Plus, all that extra armor and weaponry, it’s only gonna slow him down.” The rules of the race were that you had to run with all of your arsenal intact. No fair stripping off heavy plating and ordnance in order to make yourself lighter.
“Good point, Danny,” Jordan said.
“Do I sound convincing?” I asked.
“Not really,” Jordan said.
“Damn. How am I gonna fool myself if I can’t even fool you?” I let out a short chuckle to let Jordan know I was joking. The same as I might have flashed a smile if we’d been face to face instead of me towering five feet above his head.
“How’s the rotator cuff on the left shoulder?” I asked. It had taken some damage in a skirmish with a Kitoa warrior a week earlier and Jordan had had to do some significant rebuilding. It was good as new, and I knew it. We’d been over it a dozen times already, but I had to have something to say to cover the tense silence, so that’s what I said.
“Good as new,” Jordan replied, as I knew he would.
And then we were at the starting line, standing face to face with MacLeod and his mechanic, a stocky man with the strange, mismatched appearance of a Shanoan—the red hair and dark complexion that you never saw paired together on Earth, but which had somehow become common on that colony world. I’d been told that it was somehow racist to say so, but Shanoans made stellar mechanics. Racist or not, it was true. And why shouldn’t it be? Out there on the knife’s edge, you had to know how to repair machinery or die. An exosuit was peanuts compared to an atmosphere generator.
MacLeod nodded at me. I nodded back. They were the only pleasantries we exchanged. One of the civilians approached us, a man in a tan business suit. The kind that had been popular on Earth in the twentieth century and had become popular again in the twenty-second. It was shabby but well-cut. He introduced himself as Silas Gage, the representative from the First Bank of Leoto who would be holding the pink slips to our sleds while we raced. It was a formality that MacLeod had insisted on. He didn’t say that he didn’t trust a greasy, no-count merc like me to welch on the deal, but he might as well have. I’d agreed because what else could I do without looking like a greasy, no-count merc who would welch on the deal?
Gage produced a tablet. Jordan passed his tablet over the top of it and the pink to the Orange Possum Special data transferred. The Shanoan mechanic did the same.
Pinks, of course, weren’t pink. They weren’t really any color. Just bits of data stored on a tablet. I’d looked the reference up once, on the holoweb. Pink, it turned out, was short for pink slip, which was slang for automobile registration way back in the day on Earth. Probably, the article had said, these registration papers were pink in color, though whether that was true had been lost to time.
After Gage had confirmed that the pinks had been transferred, he motioned for Jordan to disable my comms and GPS tracker. Jordan did so. Gage checked that there were no backups, then motioned for the Shanoan to verify. MacLeod’s mechanic nodded, then he, Gage, and Jordan moved to MacLeod to do the same.
This was the part of racing that always felt strangest to me: being cut off from Jordan, not having my mechanic in my ear, advising me at every turn. Truth was, in battle, mechanics were far more than grease monkeys making sure the sleds operated at top form. They monitored every aspect of the exosuit and advised when to slack off on the throttle, when to lean harder on back-thrusters. They also kept an eye on the GPS and the HUD, advising on maneuvering and tactical matters.
But racing wasn’t a skirmish, and custom said that a driver had to win or lose by his own skill. Comms and tracking were turned off at the hardware level—as simple as removing a single chip from the sled’s mainframe. During the twelve hours it would take to run the race, I’d be completely cut off—from Jordan, from the rest of Alpha Company, from the outside world in general. I felt at home in my sled. When we’d been out in the field for long periods of time, when I came back to civilization, I almost felt naked without it. But cocooned inside, the silence pervasive without comms during a race, I felt trapped. Like I was inside a casket.
I tried not to think about it, flipped up my visor so I could hear what was going on. During the race, I’d have to have it down.
His official duties executed, Gage said, “Thank you, gentlemen. It looks like everything is in order. Good luck to you both.” And then he melted back into the crowd.
“We sure this guy is on the up-and-up?” I asked Jordan. On these far-flung planets sometimes the officials were crookeder than the crooks.
“Best as I could tell,” Jordan said. “Anyway, I trust him more than handing the pink over to one of MacLeod’s buddies.”
“Okay, then, let’s do this.”
Jordan began running down the checklist. I confirmed each vital system was operational and fully powered. When we’d confirmed the last item, Jordan said, “All systems go,” and I said, “Let’s kick some ass.” It was the same thing we said every time we went into battle. It was like an incantation. A prayer. It had always served to calm my nerves. But not this time. My balls were cramped up in my stomach. Usually, when I took the Possum out, worst that could happen is I would die. I was unlikely to get killed this time—unless MacLeod really didn’t want to lose, and I didn’t think even a piece of shit Guardian would stoop that low—but if I lost, I’d lose the Orange Possum Special. I’d be a driver without a sled, worthless. Death is bad, but living a meaningless life would be, as the saying goes, a fate worse than death.
“Ready, gentlemen?” Monroe asked. He was a driver from Alpha Company who was there to lay out the course, officially. He went through it. I was barely listening, and I doubt MacLeod was, either. We’d both known the route since it had been hashed out and it was plugged into our sleds’ map system. Monroe’s spiel was for the bystanders.
Money was still changing hands, but as Monroe finished his speech and held up a checkered handkerchief—God, where had they found one of those?—the bookies motioned for all betting to stop.
“On your marks,” Monroe shouted. “Get set.” And then, of course: “GO!” He dropped the handkerchief and MacLeod and I were off.
He was fast off the starting line, as I knew he would be. Those Moon Dogs weren’t just for show. I was trailing him already, but his gap wasn’t widening, at least not yet. And from this vantage point I could evaluate what kind of driver he was.
The answer was that he was good. Damn good.
I was still holding steady at about ten yards behind him, but I was having to exert more power to do so. I laid on the gas and closed the gap by a couple of yards as Arabat receded in the rearview. The noise of the crowds was lost now to the surrounding jungle and to the roar of the boosters in my sled.
I looked up and saw a drone hovering above us. Moments later, it was shot out of the sky, nothing but a smoking mass of rubble on the ground. There were rules about filming races. Specifically, it wasn’t allowed. I don’t know why. Guess it would take away from the suspense.
Soon we were in the thick of the jungle, and it was here that MacLeod started to falter. I gained on him, and I could tell that he didn’t like it one bit. The jungle was alive with sound in the early morning light, which penetrated the dense canopy only in patches. Here, it was eternal twilight.
MacLeod startled a small flock of pickerlings, which flew from their ground nests in a flurry of wings and beaks, shrieking that awful noise they make, and which I’d become accustomed to. MacLeod hadn’t. He faltered, swatted at the birds with his gauntlets. The birds were too fast, even for his upgraded exo. They skimmed out of the way, spiraling up into the trees. But the distraction had rattled MacLeod. He took a bad step and stumbled, pinwheeling his arms to keep his balance. I used it to my advantage, darting around him just as he righted himself.
I swear I heard him let out an inhuman cry of shocked anger. I know, I know: Impossible through the helm of an exo. But I heard it, nonetheless.
I knew my lead wouldn’t last long if I didn’t keep my head in the game. I picked up the speed, darting around and between massive trunks and the braided vinelike bushes that grow like weeds on Leoto. I considered darting through a thick tangle of them; it would save time if I could keep up my speed, but I risked getting ensnared. It wasn’t cutting corners; the track that had been decided on was relatively wide, allowing that we’d have to navigate around dense foliage and over steep hills and deep ravines. So cutting through the underbrush was legal, but I had to decide if it was the smart move.
I’d found that in racing, as in life, sometimes it pays to take a stupid risk. Also, MacLeod was gaining on me. I darted into the brush. Leaves big as the palm of my exo’s hand slapped at me. I could barely see five feet in front of my face. I darted nimbly, my speed never slowing, avoiding the thickest vines and swatting away the thinner ones. When I burst through the underbrush, back into a relatively clear span of jungle, MacLeod was nowhere in sight.
The fact didn’t console me. I was pretty sure I was still in the lead, but without a comm connection to Jordan to tell me for sure, and with both MacLeod and my GPS trackers disabled, there was no way to know that he wasn’t far ahead of me. I thought it unlikely, but he was damn fast.
Nothing to do but keep running.
I’d raced before, of course. It was a pretty common pastime among drivers. Usually there was money riding on the outcome, sometimes significant money. Davenport, a driver who’d been with Alpha Company for close to eight years, had once lost an entire year’s pay betting on a race. It had delayed his retirement to Santinaa, a fact that he never stopped bitching about. But usually the stakes were penny-ante. Racing for pinks wasn’t unheard of, but most guys weren’t stupid enough to actually do it.
In my rearview display, I watched as MacLeod crested a rise. I had been ahead of him for some time, but that didn’t matter now. He was coming up on my six. Fast.
Despite my best efforts, I watched as he passed me. This was his terrain, the foliage not nearly as dense. There was nothing to do but to keep my head down and pour everything I had into the race.
Over the next hours we darted in and out of the jungle. MacLeod was faster on the straightaways, there was no doubt about that. But he wasn’t nearly as good at maneuvering. The advantage should have been mine, with all the jungle we were cutting through, but somehow every time I got a lead on him in some dense foliage, as soon as the jungle opened up, he’d pull ahead of me. I’d spent the better part of the race in second place, which was to say, I was losing as we neared the halfway mark, the farthest from Arabat that we would go.
I was as exhausted as I’d ever been during a race. People who’ve never driven a sled, never even been inside an exo, think that it’s like sitting inside a self-driving transport. That drivers just cozy up inside and let the machine do all the work. Nothing could be further from the truth. Driving a sled is as grueling a workout as has ever been invented. Drivers have to consume, on average, 4,000 calories a day just to keep from wasting away. I’ve seen guys, after particularly long engagements, shed their exos and step out into the world looking like POWs, just released after the war. The most well-muscled POWs in history, sure. But still thin as rails, their faces like skulls from loss of body fat. It was the reason why we all looked like bodybuilders between jobs. We had to keep that insane level of muscle to make it through the stints in the field.
Yes, of course, we didn’t actually haul the suits around like you would a backpack. The average sled weighed a little over a ton. The Orange Possum Special, with her upgrades, weighed in at 2,091 pounds, to be exact. But despite the servos that made the suits move, you still got in a serious workout. Every jump the suit made, you had to make. Everything you lifted still had weight to it. When the suit ran, you ran. Now imagine doing that for hours on end.
To say nothing of the mental strain. My brain felt like someone had reached inside my skull and swirled around in there with their fingers. Racing was hard work, though not nearly as hard as battle, but no matter how much I tried to push the fact that we were racing for pinks out of my mind, I couldn’t do it. I kept imagining scenarios in which I lost the Possum. Scenarios which were looking increasingly likely.
I was trailing MacLeod by close to two hundred yards now. For long periods, I’d lose sight of him only for him to reappear from behind a rock or around a tree, his lead ever-increasing. I hadn’t had eyes on him for close to half an hour when I saw him crest a rise and disappear on the other side of it.
I dug deep and put on a burst of speed. I’d closed maybe half of the distance to the hill when I saw MacLeod appear again, moving toward me at an incredible speed. Strange as this was, the way in which he was moving was even stranger: erratic, with none of the finesse he’d displayed up to this point.
“Shit!” The sound of the curse reverberated in the closeness of my helm. Something was wrong. Nebulous thoughts as to what flitted through my mind.
MacLeod was going to kill me . . .
There was a cliff which would prove impassable . . .
MacLeod had disturbed a den of Vermers, the ferocious, nocturnal bearlike animals that hunted in packs, and which really did not like to be woken during daylight hours . . .
The one thing that somehow didn’t cross my mind was what happened.
Behind MacLeod, travelling at a furious pace and slinging a fusillade of arrows, was an Kitoa war party. As I watched they boiled over the crest, a seemingly never-ending band of warriors. I couldn’t get a decent count, but there looked to be maybe two dozen. More than enough to be a credible threat to MacLeod and me.
I stood rooted to the spot, only for an instant, as my mind reeled. We’d cleared out the last of the Kitoa warriors. Those few that we hadn’t killed in battle had surrendered or had retreated deep into the Mexmia sector. We’d been sure of it.
But somehow we’d been wrong.
They rode burantus, the six-legged creatures they used the way humans on Earth had once used horses and cattle. They were beasts of burden, sources of food, and mounts. Unlike the livestock of Earth, they were predatory and carnivorous. Even if you killed a mounted Kitoan, you still had his mount to deal with, and the slavering jaws of the burantus, with triple rows of serrated teeth, could be deadlier than the Kitoan weapons.
I watched as one of the arrows impacted on MacLeod’s armor. The piezo crystals, so plentiful on Leoto, set off an electric spark due to the vibration of the impact, a spark strong enough to ignite the explosive tip of the arrow. A sound like a gunshot reverberated and a fireball bloomed on MacLeod’s shoulder. He stumbled, righted himself, and kept running. The Defens-245 armor could take a lot, especially with MacLeod’s upgrades, but a few more direct hits at that range would weaken it to the point of failure.
I crouched, fired off three incendiary rockets from my shoulder launcher. Two found their targets. Two Kitoa warriors fell. I squeezed off a rapid burst of .50-cal rounds from my gauntlet but stopped myself almost as soon as I’d begun. MacLeod was running in such an erratic pattern trying to avoid the arrows, that I didn’t trust him not to run right into my line of fire.
Another arrow made impact with MacLeod’s sled and exploded. When the fire and smoke cleared, his shoulder launcher hung limply down his back, held on by the barest of wire. Spark flew from the damaged area. He was lucky the arrow hadn’t ignited all of the rockets in the launcher. If it had, he’d be missing his head right now.
The Kitoa warriors were closing in on him. He spun and let off a burst of machine-gun fire but his aim was off, if he was aiming at all, and he hit nothing. The two burantus whose riders I’d killed were leading the pack now. Unburdened of their mounts, they were running at full gallop, their six legs scurrying in that insectoid way they had that always churned my stomach. Fast as they were moving, they would reach MacLeod any moment. I took aim and fired off two more rockets. Both found their marks, but the nearness of the explosion caused MacLeod to stumble again. I let out another blast of machine-gun fire, hitting nothing, and then decided it was past time for me to get out of Dodge.
I ran.
Behind me, I could hear MacLeod coming up fast and behind him the inhuman war cry of the Kitoa warriors. Up ahead was a wall of jungle. The Kitoans were masters at maneuvering through the thick brush, but I had no doubt that I’d be able to outrun them, or at least get into a defensible position and hold them off for a time. But from what I’d seen of MacLeod, he would be overtaken almost as soon as he set foot in the dense foliage.
I had not more than a few seconds to decide what to do. MacLeod was no friend of mine. More than that, he wasn’t even a part of my team. I had no loyalty to him beyond the loyalty that one feels for a member of one’s own species.
But that was enough. I couldn’t leave him to die at the hands of the Kitoans. I’d seen firsthand what they would do to him if they didn’t kill him outright in battle. We’d come across the remains of more than a few fallen mercs who’d been taken captive. The Kitoa had no concept of prisoner exchange. They killed every man and woman and, yes, child they took prisoner. Slowly. And with great ingenuity and, though it was impossible to read their alien emotions, it seemed, delight. MacLeod was a flag-waving, holier-than-thou asshole, but I couldn’t let him fall into their hands. Not if I could help it.
I turned and motioned for him to turn away from the direct path to the jungle. He understood and turned abruptly. I did the same. The warriors were close on our heels, but our exos’ maneuverability gave us enough of an edge to keep us from falling into their hands. Expert riders though they were, the burantus weren’t as nimble as a well-calibrated sled. The Kitoans pulled hard on the reins and the burantus’ six splay-toed legs kicked up dirt as they struggled to alter course at high speed. It was enough to buy us some breathing room. But only for a moment. Soon, the arrows started flying once more.
A particularly quick warrior ran up alongside of us. He was young, long-limbed and heavily muscled. His bow was strapped to his saddle, and he held in his left hand a lance, almost three yards long. The Kitoan lances were also equipped with piezo crystals, though they did not have explosive tips as the arrows did. Instead, they had some sort of simple amplifying circuitry in the blade that increased the voltage from the crystals. If you found yourself on the wrong end of one of those, you’d be stabbed and electrocuted all at once.
At first, those of us in sleds didn’t have to worry much. The armor plating was more than strong enough to keep the lance’s blade from penetrating, and it conducted the electricity away from the body. But it hadn’t been long before the Kitoa warriors had figured out just where to insert the tips of the blade, in the soft joints where armor plating met armor plating. This warrior seemed to know exactly where he was aiming. He struck out, but I brushed the lance aside with a quick wave of my arm. He wobbled in the saddle but kept his mount and regripped the lance, ready for another go at me. His three eyes burned with hatred as he tried to drive us back into the jungle—or kill us, whichever he could manage.
I shot him in his center eye just as he reared back for another attack. The lance fell limply from his hand, the electric charge crackling in the dirt as he slipped from the saddle and lay still. His mount was still coming for us, faster now. I dispatched him with another well-placed bullet. I hoped the bodies would serve as speed bumps to the warriors still in pursuit.
Still on relatively open ground, we began to pull ahead of the band of warriors, but MacLeod kept stumbling. He looked back too often, shot at the pursuing Kitoans too frequently and with little effect. As good a racer as he’d been, he was as bad a soldier.
If our comms hadn’t been disengaged at the hardware level, I would have read him the riot act and coached him what to do. But as it was, I had no way of communicating with him except broad hand and body gestures, which I couldn’t waste time or energy on making.
My HUD informed me we had been on the run a little more than ten minutes. Despite his poor aim, MacLeod had managed to take down a few of our pursuers, and I’d managed to do the same. But there were still more of them than us, and I knew if we didn’t find a defensible position soon, it was likely over.
We scrambled up over a rise. There, perhaps half a mile away, was a creek. It carved through a canyon of red rocks, which were dotted with caves and crevices. If we could get across the creek and find a place to hunker down, we might be able to hold them off. I pointed and MacLeod nodded. We put on the gas. I was drenched in sweat and my muscles ached from the exertion. Flooded with adrenaline, my whole body seemed to vibrate.
The warriors had all but stopped flinging arrows at us, concentrating instead on trying to keep up with our sleds and saving them for when they’d have a better chance at landing a kill shot.
We plunged down into the creek, which was only knee-high to our exos. The muddy water churned as we tromped across the wide creek bed and up the opposite side. Immediately, I began scanning the area for a place to make a stand. There was a cluster of red boulders that I thought would do the trick. It would have to. Our only other choice was running back into the jungle. I ran for it, MacLeod hot on my heels—and the warriors hot on his.
We were going to make it. That much was clear now. The rocks were no more than a dozen yards ahead. The Kitoans must have realized what we were going to do, for the barrage of arrows started again, furious now and in greater number than before—but with far less accuracy. The arrows went high, low and wide, impacting impotently on the ground.
And then one found its mark.
It was a lucky shot—lucky for the warrior who had let fly, not for me. I’d fought many a soldier, on this planet and others, and I’d never met a marksman who could have intentionally made that shot at that speed and distance. So it had to have been a lucky shot. But in battle, as in life, sometime luck is all you need.
The arrow entered the inch-wide gap in the exo’s armor where the thigh connected with the pelvis. Its razor-tipped head sliced through the thick rubber and embedded itself in the soft flesh just under my buttocks and exploded.
One second I was running for the safety of the boulders, the next I was flying through the air, turning ass over elbow as I came crashing to the ground.
My world went red as the HUD flashed warning signal after warning signal, strange jumbles of words that I couldn’t make sense of. The pain was mind-melting, but only for a moment. The undersuit sealed off my destroyed right leg and used electric current to completely deaden the pain receptors in that part of my body. But no matter how advanced the medtech in the suit was, it didn’t change the fact that my body had just undergone major trauma. My brain was foggy and, for a moment, I thought I was back at my grandmother’s house, where I’d been raised on Decarti. She was in the kitchen making breakfast and I’d overslept and would be late for school again, which was bad because I’d already had six tardies this quarter. I could smell bacon and hear a yellow-beaked wirely singing outside the window of my attic room and I thought that when I grew up, I’d like to be a birdwatcher maybe, though I didn’t think that was really a job so much as a hobby.
And then MacLeod’s face filled my world. He put his helm to mine and yelled something at the top of his lungs. It was an old trick we drivers used. If you yelled loud enough the vibrations would carry through the helms and you could be understood. But I didn’t really want to listen to whatever it was MacLeod had to say. I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep. If I was already late for school, then what was the rush?
The exo flooded my body with a cocktail of drugs and hormones. I snapped back to the present instantly.
MacLeod was screaming at me, asking if I could stand. A stupid question. I was, effectively, missing a leg. The armor still held, but the right leg of the exo was dead. And I suspected once I took the Possum off, my actual right leg would come off with it.
I shook my head.
MacLeod slid his arms underneath me, picking me up and running full-bore with me toward the cover of the boulders. He must have diverted energy from all non-vital systems because he ran. Faster than I’d seen him run before, and with the added weight of my sled.
We made it to cover. MacLeod positioned me on my belly, facing the oncoming warriors. He lay down beside me. Injured as I was, I was going to have to help him fight if we were going to live through the next few hours.
The sled was doing its job now. I felt as if my right leg didn’t exist. It was a strange feeling, but better than the searing pain that I would have felt had the medtech not been working its magic.
The war-party, emboldened by the injury they’d inflicted, was now reserved, not wanting to come too near our fortified position. They stopped their forward attack and held a line, lobbing a dizzying array of arrows at us.
We fired back. MacLeod’s rocket launcher hung uselessly down his back, but his gauntlet still worked just fine, as did the grenade launcher. I fired the remaining incendiary rockets in my shoulder launcher, taking down five warriors, then switched to the gauntlets.
The warriors fought fiercely, but soon they realized the position they’d gotten themselves in and fell back, out of the effective reach of our weapons. MacLeod lobbed a few grenades at them, but stopped when it was clear he was just wasting ammunition. So he was at least that smart.
I used my arms to slide back away from the outcropping we’d been shooting from. MacLeod followed. I popped the visor of my helm and motioned for MacLeod to do the same.
“I thought you said you and your merc buddies cleared this are.” The first words out of his mouth. Well, I guess he had a right to be pissed.
“Seems we missed a few,” I said.
“What’s the status of your leg?”
“Pretty well fucked,” I said. “I think that would be the official diagnosis but let me check.” I flipped my visor back down and ran a diagnostic. The suit was dead on the right side from the hip down. Totally useless. As such, the only data on the injury to my person was conveyed through the undersuit, but from that data it looked clear that the leg would be a total loss. If it hadn’t actually been blown clean off, it would have to be amputated.
Shit. And I’d always been so proud of the fact that I’d had all my original parts. Well, looked like me and the Possum would be due for a few upgrades when we made it back to civilization.
If we made it back.
I flipped open the faceplate. “Total loss,” I said.
“You or the exo?” MacLeod asked.
“Both.”
“So you’re a sitting duck out here.”
“Don’t be too broken up about it, MacLeod. I’ll be okay. Thanks for asking. It means a lot that a guy like you would care so much.”
MacLeod glared. “So,” he said finally, “what’s the plan? Wait here for reinforcements?”
I let out a short bark of a laugh. It didn’t sound too mirthful to my ears. “What reinforcements? Far as anyone knows, we’re running an idiotic race, not fighting for our lives. And sure, eventually they’ll come looking when we don’t show back up in Arabat. But we’re miles off the course.”
“Can’t we—” MacLeod caught himself.
I smiled. “‘Can’t we call someone?’ That what you were about to say?”
MacLeod glared at me. He’d saved my life and no doubt I’d saved his, but I still hated the sonofabitch and I’m pretty sure he felt the same about me.
“We can’t dig in here long enough to hope that they’ll come looking. Those Kitoans are already in the process of flanking us. Come nightfall, they’ll have us surrounded and they’ll attack. I don’t know if they’ve got friends they’ll bring along with them or not, but in the dark, injured as I am and with as little ammo as we’ve got left, I wouldn’t put the odds in our favor.”
“So what? We die?”
I nodded. “That’s sort of the probable outcome here, MacLeod. Hate to break it to you, but the good guys don’t always win.”
MacLeod sneered. “The way you were talking about the Kitoans the other night, I’m surprised to hear you call us the good guys.”
“Maybe there are no good guys,” I said. “Just people doing their best for what they think is right. I don’t know anymore. But I don’t particularly want to die today, so if it’s us or the Kitoans, I’d just as soon I be the one walks away from this fight.” I glanced down at my mangled leg. “Or crawls away.”
MacLeod chewed on this for a while. “There are good guys,” he said. “We’re the good guys.”
“All right. Then let’s make sure it’s us that rides off into the sunset.”
#
MacLeod said he didn’t like the idea of leaving me, but I suspected the truth was he didn’t like the idea of being alone.
The plan was that he would leave soon as he could, before the Kitoa warriors had us completely surrounded, and head back to Arabat. He’d tell everyone what had happened and then the cavalry would ride in and rescue me. Easy-peasy.
Except that meant he had to make it back without getting killed himself. And I had to hold off the band of warriors until he returned with help.
As I’d told him, the likely outcome was we both died. I almost had to physically kick him out of the safety of our hiding place. If I’d had two working legs, I would have. But eventually he went.
He was maybe a hundred yards away when the warriors spotted him. A band of about eight broke off and gave chase. I managed to pick off two of them with my shoulder rockets before they ran out of range.
I watched as he disappeared from view, the warriors close on his heels. It would be nothing short of a miracle if he made it. Despite his rank and his position in the vaunted Guardian Corps, he wasn’t cut out for soldiering.
Emboldened by the fact that I was now alone, two warriors broke off from the group that remained and made a charge at me. I waited until they were just in range, then cut them down with two single-fire bursts.
I counted the remaining warriors. Only three. In all the ruckus, I’d never gotten an exact count of how many had been in the war party and how many had been killed. But as best as I could estimate, that meant that it was likely that at least a half-dozen were in the process of flanking me. Seeing as how that pitiful frontal assault had just failed, they would fall back on their initial plan of waiting until nightfall to attack. It wasn’t impossible that help would have arrived by then, but I couldn’t count on it. The warriors had attacked at midday, and MacLeod and I had been running all-out for hours at that point. We were about as far away from Arabat as we were going to get at that point. Now MacLeod had to make it back all that distance, then muster up troops to cross it again to come and get me out of this mess. If everything went perfectly, it would be just past sunset by the time they returned. More likely they wouldn’t be back by midnight—if they came at all. MacLeod had a lot of ground to traverse.
There was nothing for me to do but wait. And keep an eye out. First, I checked where I stood in terms of ammunition. I had two rockets left and a little over 200 rounds. As a last ditch, I could set the Possum to self-destruct and take out as many of the Kitoans as I could, but I would go with them. With my leg destroyed, if I crawled out of the suit, I wouldn’t be able to get far enough away to be outside of the blast radius before it detonated.
I kept busy by running diagnostics on the Possum and toting up just how much money it was going to cost me to get her back in running order. Conservatively, I was looking at wiping out my life savings. And all that would have to come after I bought myself a new leg. I weighed the cost-to-benefit ratio of going lab-grown versus mechanical. The latter was cheaper, and as a driver the mechanical prosthetic would interface nicely with the Possum. But despite spending a lifetime in a mechanical suit, somehow having a piece of metal as an actual part of me didn’t sit well. Then there would be the rehab costs. And while all of this was happening, I’d be losing work as a mercenary.
I was just starting to come to the conclusion that my life as I’d known it might be over when a rustling off to my left caught my attention. I scanned the area. Three warriors on foot were slinking toward me. Another three waited in a copse of trees off to my right. If the first group didn’t kill me, they expected I’d run straight into the hands of the second.
Not going to happen. I cursed myself for not outfitting the Possum with a grenade launcher the way MacLeod had with the Jungle Cat. A well-placed grenade in that copse of trees would come in handy right about now.
Instead, I repositioned myself so I was facing the warriors approaching from the left. They wouldn’t expect me to be meeting them head on. I held steady until I could, as the old saying goes, see the whites of their eyes, though of course the “whites” of the Kitoans’ eyes were a bright orange, then I reared up and let out a barrage of bullets. Taken by surprise, all three fell. Immediately, I spun to face the other group. They were charging from the trees now, lances held high. I spent my two last rockets on them.
From the group of warriors still in front of me, I heard not a peep. If my numbers were correct, there were now only three of them left, total. But I only had 167 rounds left. No rockets. Not enough to risk a night skirmish. There was only one thing to do:
I had to get the hell out of there.
#
The leg came off when I climbed out of the Possum. I had a feeling it would. Still, it’s a strange thing to look down and see your right leg not attached to your body.
The undersuit was sealed tight around the wound, which would prevent me from bleeding out. However, outside the Possum, I wouldn’t have access to its medtech, which meant the potent cocktail of hormones and drugs was already starting to wear off. In a few hours’ time, despite the undersuit’s neural interface blocking some pain transmitters and receivers, I was going to be in agony. I’d have to move fast. Hard since I only had one leg.
From the storage compartment of the Possum, I removed a handgun and a dagger, as well as a backpack full of wilderness survival gear. All of this was standard sled equipment, but I’d never known of anyone actually using it. Usually in battle, leaving your suit meant you were already dead or soon would be. I strapped the dagger and the gun to my belt and donned the backpack. Then I took one last look at the Possum.
We’d been through a lot together. It occurred to me that the Possum was my oldest, most long-lasting relationship. In some ways, it was the only home I’d ever had. I realized, standing there on that alien world, that tired as I was of the mercenary life, the one reason I hadn’t left it all behind was because then I’d have no use of the Possum. I’d be homeless.
As I was now.
It seemed strange to say goodbye to a hunk of metal, even if that hunk of metal meant more to you than anything in the galaxy. Even stranger to salute or give it a last kiss or pat on the shoulder. So I simply turned away and started belly-crawling toward a flat spot between two boulders, from which I’d determined to make my escape.
I peered out and saw nothing. It was night now, and without the Possum’s infrared and star-vision, I was nearly blind. There are three moons that hang in the night sky over Leoto but all three are exceedingly small and dim.
I hefted a rock and threw it as far as I could. The aliens didn’t fire on it. Of course, the Kitoans’ night vision was considerably better than a human’s, more in line with the extinct big felines of Earth, or so I’ve been told. It was very possible they were watching me, laughing at my stupid trick, and I simply couldn’t see them. It was a chance I’d have to take.
I crawled out into the open, sure I would feel the impact of an arrow—and then nothing at all. But it seemed I’d made good my escape.
Ahead was the creek bed. If I could make it there, I’d have a chance. The night hummed around me, the strange alien animal sounds of the jungle that I’d become accustomed to. Of the warriors, I heard nothing.
I was almost to the creek bed, could hear the water babbling over the rocks, could smell the wet earth, when they attacked. They were silent as the wind and on me before I knew what was happening. Three of them on foot. They must have left their bows and lances with their mounts, for they carried only daggers and tomahawks.
I heard them too late to get into anything resembling a defensive position. I rolled over just as a tomahawk thwunked into the ground right where my head had been a moment earlier. The piezo crystal produced a charge, and I could hear the crackle of current and smell ozone. The back of my head tingled from lying on the ground, charged as it was with electricity. I reached for the dagger on my belt and stabbed at the warrior just as one of his comrades jumped atop me. I landed a kick with my remaining leg. That took the wind out of him. The first warrior regained his feet. He and the third drew their daggers. They stood in a spread-legged fighting stance. I was a little jealous. I no longer had legs to spread.
I sat up and drew the gun from the holster. At the sight of it, all three sprang back, but one was too slow, and I shot him twice in the chest. I hit another in the back of the head as he ran for cover. I wasn’t proud of the fact, but if I hadn’t, he would simply have returned to kill me later.
That left only one. I drew a bead on him as he fled but he was already too far away. I’d spent three bullets. Only seven left. I couldn’t risk it.
I got back down on my belly and crawled to the creek fast as I could. I slid down the embankment and would have fallen into the water had I not grabbed hold of a trailing vine at the last moment. I eased myself into the water. It was tepid, almost hot, and slightly less than chest deep. The current was slow but persistent. I inflated the undersuit’s life vest—another feature I’d never heard of anyone using—and let the current take me.
For a driver, someone use to commanding a ton of steel, simply floating down the creek felt strange. Much too passive. I felt I should be doing something. But there was nothing but to let the creek take me. Soon, I passed into the thick of the jungle. Night was absolute here. I could see nothing in the stygian darkness. Around me, the animal sounds of Leoto echoed. Unprotected as I was, they sounded sinister now. I tried not to think of the predators that lurked in the jungle. The vermers. The magdolans, so like the long-extinct panthers of Earth. Most of all, I tried to put from my mind the aquatic pantagons, giant amphibians that hunted in the rivers of Leoto. The creek was deeper now, my foot no longer scraping the bottom as the current carried me along. Was it deep enough for the pantagons to use as a hunting ground?
And of course, the most dangerous predator of them all. There was at least one Kitoa warrior still alive in this sector.
The gentle burble of the creek rose to a moderate, then a loud, roar. The life vest kept my head above water, but it was a struggle to keep my good leg facing downstream as I was spun around in the eddies and whirlpools. Twice I was buffeted against rocks that I had not seen in the blackness. I thought back to the map of the racecourse, to the maps we’d used when waging our campaign of annihilation against the Kitoa. I remembered no rapids, no waterfalls. But then I hadn’t been looking for them. I did remember that this creek didn’t lead to Arabat but cut across the jungle some twenty miles to the east. If I floated too far downstream, I’d miss civilization—such as it was—entirely. Without the Possum, I had no good way to judge the distance I’d covered. I’d have to make my best guess.
I floated on.
#
At first, I thought the lights were a hallucination. That I’d been so long in the sensory-depriving darkness that I was imagining things, my mind, overcome as it was with pain and adrenaline, pushed to the point of hallucination. Tiny pinpricks of light that shimmered and winked and sparkled in the darkness.
But no, the lights were real. And as I floated farther downstream, I recognized them for what they were. Campfires.
I paddled to the bank and pulled myself ashore. The fires didn’t look far. I gathered my strength and crawled toward them. It was hard to be quiet, dragging myself through the underbrush. But soon I realized that stealth wasn’t necessary.
It was a Kitoa encampment, and not a small one. I counted as many as two dozen warriors, in addition to the women and children. How was it possible they’d evaded us, I wondered.
Though it was the middle of the night, no one was asleep. They sat around the campfires, chanting and singing, bodies swaying rhythmically to the beat of drums.
MacLeod was in the center of the encampment. He was tied to a stake, which had been driven into the ground, his arms bound behind him. He was stripped naked, and his body had been badly mutilated, but he was still alive. If I knew the Kitoa, he would be for hours yet, perhaps as long as a day. There was no sign of his exo.
I watched as a female Kitoan broke from the group and approached one of the fires. From it, she removed an iron poker. She approached MacLeod. She held the poker up so that he could see it, then pressed it into his right cheek. He howled.
I turned away.
I was crippled. I had only seven bullets left in my sidearm. There was nothing I could do. I slunk back from the perimeter of the camp, trying to keep quiet, trying to ignore the sound of MacLeod’s screams. The ground was uneven here and overgrown. The undersuit kept my arms from getting too scratched up, but my face was a tender mass of cuts, nicks, and—perhaps worst of all—insect bites. The pain cocktail had completely worn off, and each time the stump of my right leg bumped against a rock or a tree root, hot lightning shot through my nervous system and I would have to stifle a scream.
I was perhaps a hundred yards from the camp when I came across MacLeod’s sled. Dawn was breaking, and in the faint light, I could just make out its mechanical bulk in a tangle of branches. I crawled over to it, propped myself up. It lay on its side, the hatch open like a gaping mouth. It had taken its fair share of impacts but didn’t seem to be disabled, at least not at a glance. I maneuvered myself inside. It felt strange being in another man’s exo. Like wearing someone else’s boots. The fit was all wrong, the smell foreign. I flipped the power switch.
The Cat came to life. I ran a diagnostic. Systems were damaged but still operational. There were three grenades left in the launcher and over a thousand rounds of ammunition in the gauntlets. There were even three rockets left in the shoulder launcher, though these were useless, damaged as the launcher was. The Kitoans must have ambushed MacLeod, taken him down before he had much of a chance to fight back. He was no doubt rushing, hadn’t been aware of his surroundings. He’d probably run right into their hands. The fact that he hadn’t used the suit’s self-destruct meant that he’d either been overtaken so quickly he didn’t have a chance—or that he was too naïve to realize that the instant death that would have given him was far preferable to falling into the hands of the Kitoa. Perhaps it had been a little of both.
I closed the hatch and stood in the suit. It would be tricky driving it without my right leg. I would have to pilot it manually, using the hand controls, but it was manageable. I walked in circles until I felt I had the hang of it, always aware that with each passing moment, MacLeod was being tortured.
Finally, I was as ready as I was going to be. I turned to face the encampment and ran.
#
The first grenade caught the Kitoans completely off-guard. I lobbed it at the fire nearest to the edge of the camp, around which a group of perhaps five of the aliens were dancing. The explosion sent their bodies flying off in all directions. I barreled out of the undergrowth, gauntlets blazing. For a moment it looked like I would be able to run in and grab MacLeod before any of them realized what was happening. Most of the women were scattering, snatching up their young as they retreated to the relative safety of their tents. I didn’t launch an attack on them, but I knew better than to think they weren’t a threat. Soon as they got the children stowed away, they would emerge, every bit as bloodthirsty as the warrior men.
I sent a second grenade into the middle of another group as I ran toward MacLeod. I was halfway to him when I felt the barrage of arrows. I turned and let out a sustained burst of machine-gun fire, mowing down a half dozen warriors. I swept my gauntlets across the entire camp as I backed toward MacLeod. It was no easy task, controlling the exo’s legs with the hand controls as I sprayed bullets.
I screamed as a lance pierced through the underarm of the Cat. The tip didn’t reach the undersuit layer, but the electric shock did. I backhanded the warrior who held the lance, crushing his skull with the gauntlet, his body flying six feet into the air. Then I pulled the lance out.
The initial shock of my attack was wearing off and the warriors fought with purpose. A few of the females had emerged from the tents, piezo-tipped daggers in their hands. Soon I would be swarmed.
I reached MacLeod and severed the ties that held him to the stake. His body was a ruined, bloody mass that collapsed as soon as the cords were cut. I scooped him up and ran.
I lobbed the remaining grenade as I did so. I didn’t look back to see how many I’d killed. No matter the number, it wouldn’t be enough. There were too many of them and only one of me.
MacLeod and I had started the day racing. Now, we would be in a race against the Kitoa warriors, and the stakes would be higher than the pinks we’d originally bet.
I tore through the jungle at as fast a clip as I dared. I couldn’t risk tripping. If I did, the warriors would catch up with me for sure. And it was likely I’d land on MacLeod, crushing him to death, and then my one-man rescue mission would be for nothing.
Arrows flew past me, landing uselessly in the jungle. I risked a look back. We were pulling away from the horde.
I ran for what seemed like hours, though the Cat’s HUD indicated otherwise.
At some point, I realized MacLeod had regained consciousness. He looked up at me, confusion in his eyes. It must have been strange, being rescued by your own exo. I wondered if he thought this was all a dream. Or that he was dying.
I flipped the visor. It took a moment for recognition to dawn on his face.
“We’re going to make it,” I said.
MacLeod nodded, then slipped back into unconsciousness.
#
Ahead, a faint outline of the town hove into view as the sun hung high in the sky. I was too exhausted to run, though nowhere in the galaxy had ever looked more appealing.
It was just after midday when we entered the town square. Of course no one was waiting for us. No doubt the search parties were out looking for us along the racecourse. But a mech suit attracts attention, even more so when the driver is carrying a nude, bloody soldier in his arms. As we walked toward what was supposed to be the finish line in the center of town, locals and mercs poured from buildings. They shouted questions I couldn’t hear through the visor. They made gestures of triumph and confusion.
The crowd surged around us as we crossed the finish line, together.
#
MacLeod survived, though I never saw him again after that day. Soon as he was stable enough to be transported, he was whisked away to one of Roger Hartoni’s private hospitals where, I’m sure, he received the best of care.
I wasn’t as lucky. Since my injury had been incurred during a race and not officially sanctioned combat, my insurance wouldn’t cover my medical bills nor repairs to the Possum. Well, that was the life of a merc. You take the money, and you take your chances.
A couple of the guys were able to salvage the Possum. They towed her back into town where Jordan did his level best to get her operational, but the right leg was just too far gone. The smart move would have been to sell her for parts to fund my own recovery, but I just couldn’t make myself do it.
I was in the hospital, trying to come to grips with the fact that I might never walk again—and worse, that I very likely would never drive a sled again—when Jordan burst in waving his tablet wildly.
“You’ve got to check your messages,” he said.
“It’s just bills. Bills I don’t have the money to pay.”
Jordan pulled a chair over to the side of the bed. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He swiped his tablet and handed it to me. “Take a look.”
It was a message from someone named General George Sydney of the Guardian Corps.
I tossed the tablet onto the coverlet. “I don’t want to hear from those assholes,” I said. “‘Thank you for your service in saving the life of . . . ’ blah blah blah.”
Jordan picked up the tablet. “Just read it.”
Reluctantly, I agreed. I scanned the message, then swiped back to the top and read it again, slower this time, sure that I’d read wrong.
“So?” Jordan said.
“So the Guardian Corps wants to thank me by buying me a new leg . . . ”
“And fixing up the Possum,” Jordan said. “I’ve already starting pricing it out. With the blank check they’re giving us, we can finally—” He cut himself off. He must have seen a look on my face. “What? What? Oh hell, Danny. Don’t tell me you’re going to get all high and mighty about taking their money.”
I thought for a moment. Was I?
Then a smile spread across Jordan’s face. He’d realized something. A moment later, I realized it myself. I smiled, too.
“Nah,” I said. “I’ll take the money. I’m still a merc at heart.”

David Afsharirad is an author and an editor at Baen Books. For five years, he edited Baen’s The Year’s Best Military and Adventure SF series. In addition, he edited the anthology The Chronicles of Davids. With Hank Davis, he is the coeditor of the upcoming Tomorrow’s Troopers, an anthology of power armor short stories, which inspired “Pinks.” Of the story, he said, “You can only read so many power armor stories before you want to try your hand at it. Thanks to Toni Weisskopf for giving me an outlet for this story and for giving me her expert guidance to make it stronger.”

The Rivals 
by S.M. Stirling

Xi’an, China
Special Research Unit 32
June 25th, 2032 CE
To
June 25th, 165 CE

Yuè Daiyu bolted upright in bed from a confused dream of fear and flight and chaos.
It took an instant before she realized that she was hearing the strobing screech of a siren, not simply dreaming it.
“Tā mā de!” she swore, putting the heels of her hands to her eyes, then forced herself into action.
Starting with hitting the light switch. The clock said it was just midnight, which meant she’d had an hour and a half of sleep after falling thankfully into bed at the end of a long day’s mental and physical work—which was worse than nothing, in a way. She could feel the sand grinding in the gears of her brain.
“Another practice run? It’s only been two days!”
Reaction to the siren was automatic, though, drilled in by months of hearing that sound at unpredictable intervals day and night. She bolted out of the sheets and threw on the clean sturdy field uniform that always hung ready in the little cubicle, stamped her feet into the boots, cinched the belt and swung the full pack on her back, and put on the billed cap. The only thing that wasn’t drilled in was the last-instant snatch at her mother’s pendant from its place on the little bedside table.
Just in case. The news had been very bad just lately—and the gaps in the news were even worse, if you kept up with things.
It was old, even as a pendant; family legend said it had been handed down from mother to daughter since it was found in one of the first modern archaeological digs, over a century ago. The centerpiece was an Eastern Han coin—round, with a square hole in the center—in a gold ring that enclosed the ancient bronze. It dated from the reign of Emperor Ling, one thousand eight hundred and sixty years ago . . . 
Which is ironic, when you think about it, flitted through her mind as she dashed out the door.
The lights were strobing red in the corridor outside as she tucked it away beneath shirt and jacket. She turned right and trotted all the way to the operations room, just as she was supposed to; the Colonel would be waiting, expressionless but watching a time readout.
She was sweating a little by the time she got there, after running nearly a kilometer with twenty kilos on her back, despite being in the best condition of her life—the training here included a strong physical element. Her degree in Chinese historical linguistics was one of the reasons she’d been picked for this, but not the only one; youth and health were among the others.
The technicians sitting at their workstations or tending the hulking machinery—which she didn’t pretend to understand; she was a historical linguist, not a physicist—were sweating too, under the stiff discipline. The sweat of fear. She looked over at Liu Xiang as she took her place on the circle of gridwork. The building was semi-underground because that circle was as close as they could come to the ground level of long, long ago. The roof above them was a ferroconcrete dome.
“Colonel?” she asked quietly.
He was a square-faced, stocky-fit, gimlet-eyed man just turned forty, a decade and a half older than her. She wasn’t altogether sure what he was a colonel in, even after months of working together, but he’d proved disconcertingly knowledgeable about all the team’s specialties. They’d all cross-trained so that they could help each other . . . or perhaps replace each other if necessary.
She was morally certain he’d been at some university or another at some point in his life, though, whether he was Army or People’s Armed Police or something more obscure.
“This is not a drill,” he said calmly.
He spoke excellent standard Mandarin, but with an occasional slip that made her think he came from the northeast, up near the Russian border. She hadn’t dared to ask. Now she felt a jolt of genuine fear. That meant . . . 
“Now keep silent,” he added.
The other three members of the team trotted in moments later: Yang Biao, the engineer; Hú Bingwen, the agronomist; and Ding Àilún, their historian proper, who was indeed handsome and cheerful most of the time as his name indicated, but not right now.
Do I look as scared as they do? I hope not!
They all glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes as they took their places and sat on the gridwork. Theory was one thing, reality another. None of them were married or parents; that had apparently been part of the selection process, but everyone had some family.
The cargo surrounded them on three sides and part of the fourth, in carefully arranged heaps lashed together with rope—hemp rope, at that.
Not all that much of it was hers; some books, some data on the military-grade laptops and drives. Most of the gear was in Biao and Bingwen’s care, and they were checking it over compulsively with their eyes. Probably as a distraction. All of them were older than her, but not by more than a few years—she suspected that she’d been brought in when the original choice . . . 
Almost certainly a man, her mind added.
 . . . disqualified himself somehow. She carefully didn’t think of what had probably happened to him then. This was an ultra-secret project. She hadn’t believed what it was, not at first, though she’d carefully not said anything to that effect.
A stiffly self-controlled messenger delivered a paper to Colonel Liu, and added:
“The strike on Vienna will be in the first wave, sir.”
“Good,” Liu said, nodding. “We need no competition . . . where . . . we’re going.”
Oh.
Nothing had ever been officially said, but she’d heard the rumors that this setup was a copy, and the original was in Austria, of all places. Apparently serendipity combined with good espionage had given them this chance to correct the dead-end . . . literally, a mass-death-dead-end . . . that the world seemed to be in.
Then the Colonel raised his voice: “You labor to ensure China’s future!”
A different future starting far in the past, Daiyu thought; it wasn’t quite a lie, exactly, but—
It won’t look anything like our China by this date. Which is much better than nothing, I suppose.
“Commence the run!”
Fingers tapped keyboards, voices murmured low. A whine built; even now, men and women labored at one piece of equipment, snapping in parts and stepping back and nodding at the last instant.
Then someone’s voice broke in, half a scream, as they leapt to their feet:
“Beijing! Beijing is gone! Multiple hits!”
Daiyu hissed involuntarily. She’d lived there for much of her life, her parents and grandparents and great-grandparents had been academics at Beijing University—had been since it was the Imperial University, generation after generation, apart from a brief exile when the Japanese occupied it and a not-too-bad rustication during the Cultural Revolution. The thought of the blast wave leaving burning rubble in its wake . . . 
Biao grunted as if someone had punched him in the stomach; he was an only child, like most people their age, but she knew his parents and grandparents lived there.
Did live there. Died there right away, if they’re lucky.
Another shout: “Missile inbound for Xi’an.”
Daiyu jammed a knuckle into her mouth and bit. Her parents were dead, and her grandparents; she had a cousin but had never met him. But that missile was headed for her. Some part of her mind scolded her for selfishness; billions would be dying soon, millions already had . . . 
“Initiating!” someone said. “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . ”
Flicker.
Everything seemed to freeze for an instant, and then things were back to normal . . . if you could call this instant of mass destruction anything resembling normal.
Flicker. Flicker. Like a hiccup in the flow of time, freezing everything outside the circle of gridwork and slowing it down within.
“Missile approaching,” the same voice said, an edge to it now. “Countermissiles launching . . . missile still on course.”
Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker.
The world was strobing faster and faster, like some crazed early film where things moved jerkily.
“Missile nearing destruction radius—
An ear-piercing whine filled the air, going up and down the scale from shrill to bass as those disconcerting moments of stasis struck. Sparks flew, and a man whose nerve had broken was caught dashing towards them in a great arcing discharge, shaking and dancing like a spastic puppet.
Colonel Liu’s face was still like something carved of granite, his breathing even, but there were beads of sweat on his brow.
FlickerFlickerFlickerFlicker—
Everything was in slow motion now, each moment of frozen time blending into the next. She noticed his eyes glancing up . . . over what seemed like an eternity. Daiyu followed his gaze . . . and stifled a scream with difficulty. The concrete dome above them was bulging.
Bulging slowly.
It was like being paralyzed and seeing death stroll towards you at a leisurely pace, taking its time. Cracks spread, and plaster fell away from the smooth surface, drifting downward like vast snowflakes. The concrete cracked too, a huge crumbling hemisphere of it pointed straight at her. As if a giant fist was striking it from the east.
And it is, she thought . . . or mentally gibbered. A fist of red-hot air rammed forward faster than sound.
The cracks in the thick concrete spread. She could see the steel rebar within now, snapping like thread and shooting sparks as it did.
Light behind that, blinding-bright, growing, heat beating on her face.
A dull roaring noise, drawn-out and slow. Screams, equally bass and low.
 . . . flickflickflickflick . . . 
Blackness.
* * *
Daiyu realized her head hurt even before her eyes opened. Hurt badly. Blood was running down her upper lip, salty and nasty in her mouth. She moaned and stirred, coughed and spat.
Then she realized she was lying on . . . 
Dirt, she thought. And I can smell night-soil.
That meant composted human wastes used as fertilizer. Relief uncoiled within her.
We made it! We’re here! We’re not going to die right away!
That cut through the pain and grief. Then she heard the distinctive shick-shank of an automatic pistol being cocked, and shed her pack and forced herself to her feet. The metric ton of . . . stuff . . . they’d brought with them was intact, but in the space left for an entrance Colonel Liu was standing with the weapon in his hand. In front of him was a clutch of . . . 
Peasants, she thought. Badly frightened peasants. Angry frightened peasants.
The reason they were angry was obvious; the Chinese time-travelers and their gear had landed on a field of nearly ripe vegetables, bok choy, broccoli and eggplant and others now thoroughly crushed and scenting the air with bruised green smells. These people probably got some of their money selling them in nearby Xi’an—Chang’an, this far back—and needed the money very badly. This . . . this time and place . . . wasn’t friendly to the poor.
They were frightened because the strangers and their baggage had appeared out of nowhere without pack-animals or porters or wagons—though they probably hadn’t seen the arrival, or they’d still be running and screaming “sorcery” over and over again.
All of them were ragged, dressed in short lap-over jackets held with rope belts, with loose pants below for the men and skirts for the women, and mostly bare feet. She could smell them from here, too, even with her nose bleeding. Old sweat sunk into coarse cloth, unwashed bodies . . . 
Colonel Liu hadn’t opened fire. Daiyu didn’t think that was his automatic response to any confrontation. But shoot he would if he had to, with pellucid ruthlessness. The peasants would run when they saw some struck down by magic, with sounds unlike anything they’d heard before. Right now they were brandishing hoes—she noted that the heads were heavy cast iron.
He called out to her:
“Your translation services would be appreciated, Doctor Yuè. They don’t appear to understand my attempt at the language at all.”
She walked—hobbled and reeled—over to him, mopping at her lip with a tissue as she did; one of her many pockets was full of them.
And I’ll never get any more, some distant part of her mind gibbered. Never any more . . . of so many things.
There was a trickle of blood on his neck, from his left ear. She suppressed an impulse to mop at it, and spoke to the mob of two dozen farmers and the families behind them with both her hands raised, palms open:
“Please, good people, listen to what I say,” she said in her best stab at the late stage of Old Chinese spoken towards the end of the Eastern Han period.
Or very early stage of Middle Chinese, she noted absently; that was still a matter of dispute.
And they’re so short! And skinny! Bent backs, missing eyes, skin diseases . . . 
What the peasants were saying—or shouting—didn’t sound at all like modern standard Mandarin, or even the Mandarin dialect that would be spoken here in her time. Much harsher and choppier, with consonant combinations that didn’t exist anymore and hadn’t for a long time, over a thousand years.
Not for a long time in my age. But in this one, yes, this is current, she thought, the knowledge disorienting in its strangeness.
The tone system of Middle Chinese was just now starting to develop from consonant-cluster endings in Old Chinese, and while the Middle Chinese system was ancestral to what she’d grown up speaking, it wasn’t very much like it all. A little more like Min, or Cantonese or Fukienese, those were comparatively archaic, but not very like those either.
The peasants stared at her. The one in front brandishing a hoe—he had a few wisps of beard, mostly grey—lowered the tool and frowned. He scratched at the bandana-like covering tied around his head.
Then he spoke.
She caught exactly one word for certain: djuj, meaning who.
Probably in a sentence meaning:
Who the hell are you people and why have you destroyed some of our crops?
Daiyu turned to Colonel Liu, flogging her aching head into working order by sheer willpower:
“Sir, they’re speaking a, ah, a dialect of Eastern Han. A rural western dialect of Eastern Han. What I know is the best reconstruction we have of the literary, court speech of Luoyang, the—”
She shifted to Old Chinese: “—the Eastern Capital—”
The old peasant caught the name of the city and spoke excitedly to his fellows. Then they all laid down their tools, dropped to their knees, and bowed.
The elderly peasant spoke again, much more slowly, and she thought he was trying to mute the distinctive sounds of his local speech. He evidently knew that court language was different from his, but not enough to realize she was speaking a weird variety of it.
She nodded, repeated what she thought he’d said back to him, and he nodded enthusiastically.
“Sir, he says he’s sending his son to—”
She pointed north.
“—Chang’an.”
That was the ancient name of Xi’an. It had been an imperial capital for a long time, in the Qin period after the First Emperor unified the country, and then in the initial, earlier period of the current dynasty known as the Western Han, before the brief interregnum of Wang Mang in—
Her mind did a skip. About a hundred and fifty years ago, as of now, she told herself. This now is your now now!
Luoyang was a long way east of here; hence the name of the second phase of that dynasty, Eastern Han. Her folk still called themselves Han people . . . 
“The boy . . . young man . . . will go fetch some sort of official.”
“Excellent, Doctor,” the Colonel said, holstering his pistol.
Behind her she heard groans, and saw the others sitting up and wiping at dribbles of blood from noses, ears, and eyes.
“We will need transport,” the commander of their party continued.
She nodded and turned back to the old peasant man.
“We . . . will . . . need . . . carts,” Daiyu said slowly, trying to make each word distinct. “Several . . . carts. Carts. Wagons.”
“Carts!” the man replied, just barely recognizable as the word to her, nodding, and pointing to the gear with a questioning expression.
He’d caught that at least; and this close to a city, market-gardeners like these probably had a few. Handcarts, if not animal-drawn.
I don’t think we’ve invented wheelbarrows . . . not quite yet.
She nodded again.
The Colonel pulled replica coins from a pocket, held on a string through their central holes, and handed them over. The villagers’ enthusiasm grew; those bronze coins were probably more than they’d expected to get from this field.
Their baggage included precious metals and jewels, enough to make them rich by here-and-now standards.
If this official doesn’t have us killed and take it when he arrives, she thought with a shiver.
There were two rifles in the baggage . . . but if they had to use them . . . 

S.M. Stirling is the New York Times best-selling author of the Draka series, the Lords of Creation series, and the Emberverse series, among others. With David Drake, he is the author of several novels in the General series. He cowrote novels in the Falkenberg's Legion series with Jerry Pournelle. A former lawyer and amateur historian, he lives in New Mexico with his wife, Jan.

The Last Convoy Out of River City 
by Jason Cordova

As far as months went, Sammie Rameau was pretty sure he’d had worse ones. The problem was, none sprang to mind.
He glanced out the window of the Executive Mansion again and watched as another naked man ran down the street. Closely trailing the naked guy was a police car with lights on and sirens blaring. While a scene like this was not an entirely uncommon occurrence in downtown Richmond, it was usually late at night during the summer when the crazies came out to play with the cops. Not in the middle of a cold and rainy April day.
Wiping his eyes tiredly, Sammie went back to work. While most of the mail that came into the governor’s mansion these days was prescreened and automatically sorted, there still needed to be someone on hand to deliver the mail throughout the building. Someone who could still do their job, and had been one of the few lucky vaccinated ones at the onset of the Pacific Flu, needed to be there. None of the other mail clerks had shown up to work in over a week. Which was why, despite the rioting going on in his neighborhood, the crazy naked men and women running the streets, his mother’s recent death from said flu, and the remains of the Richmond Police Department struggling to keep the city from exploding, he was at work today.
“Hey, kid,” a voice called out from behind. He turned and saw one of the few remaining security personnel standing in the doorway looking at him.
“Not a kid, Jerome,” Sammie said, their normal morning routine. Some things, at least, remained the same. “Sophomore at VCU. Means I’m an adult now, sir.”
“Until you can buy alcohol without that fake ID of yours, you’re still a kid to me,” the burly member of the governor’s Executive Protection Detail said with a grin. He motioned at the miniscule amount of mail in the room. “Mailroom’s kinda slow. Why don’t you head out?”
Sammie shook his head. “No thanks, sir. I need the money. After . . . you know. Home is . . . well, yeah. Thanks for the card, by the way.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your mom,” Jerome said. “She was a hell of a woman. To have raised you boys must have been one Herculean feat.”
“She did me good, whoopin’ my ass whenever I stepped out of line. My brother . . . not so much. I’m glad the flu got her, though. I’ve been hearing rumors about people . . . going crazy?”
“Well, truth be told, it’s why I’m down here talking to you,” Jerome said, his voice dropping low. “I know you can keep a secret, so . . . I need your help. Hell, we need everyone in the building’s help. We need to move the lieutenant governor to a safe location, but . . . I’m short on manpower. You’re vaccinated with both shots, right?”
“Yes sir?” He’d been the only one to show up that day for work during the initial vaccinations, and had been moved to the front of the queue because of it when the second doses arrived.
“I don’t know who thought it would be a good idea to have a lowly mail clerk fully vaccinated, but I’ll take it.”
“Sir?”
“You ever handle a gun before?” Jerome pressed. Sammie blinked. He had, but it was not something he wanted to admit to someone who was more or less a police officer. Sensing his hesitation, Jerome held up a hand. “I don’t care where or how, okay? But can you handle a firearm without shooting yourself or someone else unless told to?”
“You recommended I visit the range, sir. Back when I first got my internship. So I did. Took some lessons. Not a total waste of money, but . . . sir? What’s going on?”
“Richmond’s fallen,” the muscular man said in a quiet voice. “I need to get Lieutenant Governor Lenity-Jones out of town.”
“This is one of the safest buildings in the city, though,” Sammie protested. He pointed at the wrought iron fence just outside the bullet proof windows. “That’s why I’ve been coming in to work every day. It’s safer here than Oak Grove.”
“Shit, Fallujah’s safer than Oak Grove,” Jerome acknowledged. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the city is going to burn, and with everything up in the air right now, I need reliable people who’ve passed our security clearances to help me get the lieutenant governor out of the city asap. We have to head to Redoubt, but that’s not at the top of the agenda. Besides, she’s not going anywhere her husband and kids aren’t, which means Deer Creek first. I need a team.”
“But you have a team!” Sammie’s head was starting to spin. Redoubt, Deer Creek . . . they sounded like code words to him. Undeterred by Sammie’s hesitation, Jerome pressed on.
“Had a team. Most are sick or . . . noncommunicative. Can you help? Will you? What about your older brother? I know he’s in and out of jail, but . . . hell. We can bring him.”
“Back in jail. Last I heard it was on lockdown. No way to visit him, and they’re not letting anyone out. He hasn’t called since Mom died. No one else left for me here.”
“I don’t want to sound callous, but that suits what I need perfectly.”
“Sir . . . ”
“Sammie? I’m not going to sugarcoat this. If we’re still in this city when it gets dark, we’re going to die. You, me, the lieutenant governor . . . everyone. The clock is ticking, and we need to move now. So you with me? Or do you want to stay in here and eventually become zombie food?”
“Z-zombies?” Was Jerome messing with him?
“No shit, end of the world apocalypse stuff, kid. Those naked nutjobs out there? Fucking zombies.”
Jerome had never lied to him in the past, nor had he ever blown anything out of proportion. If the man said zombies, then he really meant it. Which also meant that Sammie needed to get out of Richmond, one way or the other. If the security detail was offering him a job in exchange for leaving certain death, he’d be a fool to ignore it. His mother would have agreed, and pushed him out the door before he could wrap his head around the absurdity of zombies.
“Okay. I guess I’m in, sir.”
Jerome’s broad face cracked a tiny smile. “Excellent. Swear to me you’ll obey orders and protect the lieutenant governor.”
“I . . . I will, sir. I’ll protect her with my life.”
“A bit much, but I’ll take it. Come with me.”
Jerome led Sammie into a room he hadn’t even known existed inside the executive mansion. Granted, his mail functions didn’t take him everywhere, but he’d been pretty convinced he knew all the rooms and offices inside.
A small group of men and women were gathered around a table. A map of Richmond had been laid down upon the table and spread out, and was covered with sticky notes. It only took Sammie a moment to figure out that they were seeking the best, safest way out of town. The problem? Richmond was in the midst of a renovation of sorts, with multiple construction projects going on in downtown and the surrounding areas. New skyscrapers were being built, and lots of construction detours had made a jumbled mess out of downtown.
The conversation, which had sounded heated when Sammie first walked into the room, died down when everyone seemed to realize newcomers had arrived. More than one hand dropped to their hip before recognition hit them. For the first time, Sammie began to wonder if this was such a hot idea after all.
“Jerome?” one of the men asked, looking at Sammie carefully. “Your kid?”
“Just a mail clerk,” Sammie corrected before Jerome could speak.
“Here?”
“Yes sir. Interned, then part time work.”
“What the hell are you doing, coming in to work on a day like this?” The man gave him a strange look. “You should be home, with your family. In times like these—”
“Sammie’s got no one left, Marcus. He’s vaccinated,” Jerome declared. “I’m bringing him on as part of my team. I vetted his security clearance already.”
The man called Marcus looked at them both silently for a long moment before he shrugged. “Your responsibility then.”
“Of course.”
“So, we’ve got three vehicles,” Marcus said, turning his focus back to the table. He pointed at a spot not too far away from the location marked with a single pink sticky note. “We’ll do a traditional stacked formation. Lead, package, and pursuit. Designate vehicle Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. Jerome, you’re driving pursuit, Charlie. Allen, lead, Alpha. I’ll handle the package, Bravo. My suggestion? We thunder run down Broad, hook up with I-95, and then circle back north and join I-64. We hit that and we’re home free.”
“Until Charlottesville,” someone opposite of Marcus muttered. “And Staunton. And Lexington.”
“I’d love to hear a better plan if you’ve got one, Allen.”
“Broad and 95 are going to be a mess,” Jerome interjected, stepping forward and tracing a finger along the largest street next to the pink sticky note. It took Sammie a second to figure out the sticky note was the Executive Mansion’s location. “On a good day, traffic is a mess at that juncture. And today is not a good day.”
“We could take Broad north, then turn onto Belvidere and get on 64 there,” Jerome suggested, his eyes locked on the map. “Only problem there is we’d still have to hit the 64/95 interchange at Bryan Park.”
Every other person at the table shuddered at those words. Richmond had been built before interstate highways were even a remote possibility, and the city had suffered painful growth following the bicentennial. Civil engineers and city planners had become alcoholics trying to determine how to build interstate interchanges around and throughout the sprawling mess of Richmond. In the end, nobody had been satisfied with the resulting designs, but at least the capitol of Virginia had somewhat-functioning interstate routes.
Sammie, however, was staring hard at the map. He had an inkling of an idea, but he wasn’t sure how well it would be taken. He was, after all, just a lowly mail clerk.
“Sir?” Sammie asked, raising a hand slowly. Marcus chuckled.
“You don’t have to raise your hand to speak.”
“Yes, sir. But what about Monument Drive?”
All eyes went back to the map. There were a few quiet mutterings as the group mulled it over. After a moment, Jerome started to shake his head.
“Narrow streets, but the center is passable, if needed. Takes us past those loonies at VCU, though,” he stated. He looked at Marcus. “They still proclaiming themselves the People’s Free Liberation for Democratic America?”
“I think they shortened it to the People’s Democratic America,” Marcus muttered. “Easier to acronym or something. Haven’t had a security briefing about them in a few days. Short-sighted of Captain Thomas, but no point in chastising the dead now. Everything within sight of the campus is a valid target to them, and VCU is not small. But . . . it’s not a bad idea. We thunder run it down Monument, then turn north at 195 and then hit 64. Could work.”
“Maybe. I don’t like it, though,” another man said, shaking his head. He had a thick beard and a beige hat—so very unlike the rest of the security detail. It took Sammie a moment to realize that this was one of the three security contractors who’d shown up the day before. “There’s no entrance to 195 off of Monument. We’d have to hit side streets. Massive chokepoints there.”
“Bit of a downer, aren’t you, Rafe?”
“Blow me, Jerome.”
“That’s a bad juncture, yes sir,” Sammie said, trying not to show his nerves. “The bridge on Monument over 195. Always traffic there. No, you have to stay on Monument until you can get to US-250. Henrico County, at least.”
“That’s . . . not a bad idea,” Rafe said as he tugged on his beard. “Need to turn off Monument, but it could work.”
“That means Broad Street eventually,” Jerome said, his eyes back on the map. “And that still takes us past VCU.”
“Wait. That’s actually an idea. We could stay on 250 and we can hook up with I-64 outside Charlottesville, avoid that mess as well,” Marcus stated. He began to slowly nod. “Then we just gotta deal with Staunton and Lexington. Not a bad plan at all. But first we have to deal with those idiots at VCU . . . Jerome? Go get the kid . . . Sammie? Yeah, go fit Sammie with some body armor from the armory. You range qual’d?”
“Qualified, sir.” Sammie informed him. “Can’t buy a firearm yet, though, so the range master let me qualify with his weapon. He also drilled me on firearm safety until I could recite it in my sleep . . . which I did, once. Freaked my mom out.”
“This guy gets better and better every time he opens his mouth.” Marcus grinned. “Good find. Get him suited up, Jerome. I want to be on the road before 1430. I’ll go tell the lieutenant governor that we have a plan.”
“C’mon, kid. Let’s get you suited up.”
#
They made it down to the armory without issue. Surprisingly, other than a locked gate, there was nobody else down there.
“Armorer’s sick,” Jerome explained as he first kitted Sammie out with a plate chest protector and high quality earbuds to dampen the sound of anything too loud without interfering with regular noises and conversations. He then started looking through various weaponry before finding something he clearly felt more comfortable with Sammie handling—a .40 Hi-Power Browning. After finding a suitable hip holster, Jerome grabbed one of the empty Virginia State Police duffel bags stuffed behind the armorer’s empty desk and started stuffing it with gun magazines from what seemed like complete random to Sammie. Jerome paused, looked back, and smiled. “Forty caliber, ten round mags. Larry had a certain way of organizing his armory. Weird, but it made sense to him.”
After a few minutes, all of the magazines were stuffed into the duffel bag. Jerome handed him the handgun and a magazine. Sammie instinctively cleared the chamber and inspected it before sliding the mag in. Everything locked back into place. The .40 caliber pistol looked different from the .45 he’d shot at the range, but all the important bits were in the right place. “I’m good.”
“I need to buy your range master a beer,” Jerome muttered, though it was clear he was pleased. “I know you said you were qualified, but I didn’t think you actually knew what you were doing. . . . ”
“‘No point in shooting a firearm if all you can do is point and click,’” Sammie quoted. He holstered the weapon at his side and practiced reaching for it. Satisfied, he adjusted the body armor so it wouldn’t obstruct his draw or push the weapon out of place. “Mr. Cochrane was a bit of an ass when he ran his range, but he knew his stuff, sir. And he made sure I left knowing how to handle a weapon safely.”
“Really need to buy that man a beer . . . ” Jerome sighed as he finished packing the bag. “I’ve got two dozen extra mags in here, all the same caliber as your weapon. This is your bag. You keep it near you at all times. You understand?”
“Yes sir.”
They headed back up, Sammie carrying the heavy bag without issue, and rejoined the group of men and women standing in the lobby. They all were looking outside, with more than a few muttering quietly amongst themselves.
“What’s going on?” Jerome asked, standing on his toes to see over the crowd.
“One of those . . . zombies attacked the security guard at the gate,” a woman’s voice replied. She sounded unsure about her own words to Sammie’s ear.
“Is the gate still in place?” Jerome asked. “Is there a clear path to the Carriage House?”
“Path is clear,” Rafe responded.
“Okay, listen up!” Everyone instantly stilled as Marcus gave instructions. “Bravo on the package. Alpha, out the door first. Charlie, cover the rear. We move as one, and we move quickly and quietly. Once we’re in the Carriage House, find your assigned vehicle. We’ve rehearsed this a million times, people. Let’s do it right. Madame Lieutenant Governor? You know what to do?”
“I stay low, let you stay between me and danger, and try not to be a hero. I understand the plan,” a voice said from in the middle of the group. Sammie had seen the lieutenant governor once or twice, but he’d never really interacted with her. While she sounded nervous, there was a decided lack of fear there. Perhaps uncertainty. Maybe. It was hard to be sure. Her slight Caribbean accent lingered still, in spite of her years living in Virginia, and Sammie had never been good with associating an accent with emotion.
Marcus smiled. “Words I love to hear. If any of those zombies breach the gate, Alpha and Charlie will handle it. Bravo keeps moving to the Carriage House. Allen, on your call.”
The slender team lead looked around and checked the rooftops before nodding. “All clear. Moving.”
Sammie was one of the last to leave the Executive Mansion and move across the open area to the Carriage House. He stayed close to Jerome, unsure, though he knew better than to draw his weapon. The range master had been very strict about that, and Jerome had reiterated it as well on their way back up from the armory.
The door to the Carriage House was open. Inside there were three large, black SUVs waiting for them. Two members of the detail were climbing under them while another two were checking the interiors. It took Sammie a moment to realize they were sweeping the big SUVs for bombs.
“Okay, listen up!” Marcus barked to the gathered security detail. Sammie looked at them and saw, beneath a riot helmet and body armor, the lieutenant governor of Virginia in the middle of the packed group. The men and women surrounding her appeared as though they were not about to waste time with pleasant warnings. Sammie straightened his spine a little and tried to fit in. “Whatever your vehicle is, your fire zones are relative to the direction your SUV is pointing. In Alpha and Charlie we’ll have six per—driver, shotgun, mids, and rear. Bravo will have four. You have your team assignments already. If shit goes sideways, Bravo is the priority. If Bravo is disabled, Charlie is up next, then Alpha. You understand?”
“Means if Bravo gets shot up and can’t continue, we’re up to transport the package next, okay?” Jerome whispered to Sammie. Swallowing nervously, he nodded. Jerome pat him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ve got a good crew. Alejandro and Tom are solid, Zeke is one bastard in a firefight, and Vince is a nice meat shield. You’ll sit mid right, next to Vince. We’ll be fine.”
Sammie nodded. He didn’t feel fine. Meanwhile, Marcus continued to give instructions and reminders to the security detail.
“Roads are wet, so drive carefully. Assume that people will not get out of your way. Don’t assume that their intentions are benign if they block your path. Slow down, but try not to stop. Be insistent and nudge them out of the way.”
“Not worried about what the press might say?” Allen asked, a grin on his face.
“Fuck those parasites. Let them try to get in our way. I’ll tell Rafe to floor it.”
“Hooah,” Jerome said. This elicited a laugh from the entire security detail.
Sammie saw a small smile on the lieutenant governor’s face beneath the riot shield and recalled what the press had said about her during the election season. The Broken Token had been the kindest thing they’d said about Virginia’s first black lieutenant governor during the campaign and election. It’d only gotten worse from there, much to his mother’s consternation.
“Of course they hate her,” Sammie remembered her saying one evening after he’d returned home from work. Before the Pacific Flu, before everything had gone so terribly wrong. “She’s not willing to let them pigeonhole her into what they think a black woman should be.”
“Last thing,” Marcus’ sharp tone brought Sammie back to the now, away from the painful memories that would inevitably rise if he focused on his mother for too long. “Watch each other’s back. If one has to get out for some reason, unless they’re bitten by one of those . . . zombies. Damn it, I hate saying that. If your teammate is bit by a zombie, you either eliminate them or incapacitate them somehow. You’ve all had the primer vaccine at least, so you should be protected. But I can’t guarantee that. So make sure nobody gets bit. Understand?”
“Yes sir!” the detail chorused, Sammie along with them.
“All right.” Marcus paused and looked around at everyone. His eyes met Sammie’s for a brief instant before moving on. “Drivers, you know the route. Thunder run down Monument Avenue, then link up with 250 once we’re into Henrico County proper. Maintain comms discipline. Everybody and their mother has a scanner these days, so don’t give up too much info. If it’s important and needs detailed explanation, use your cells. Keep them charged as much as you can. If we lose cell service, then revert to radios, and keep them off emergency channels. Those are going to be a mess. Let’s do this. Alpha team, lead us out.”
Everyone knew their vehicle. Everyone but Sammie, at least. Uncertain, he decided his best course of action was to follow Jerome. Jerome glanced over at Sammie, grinned, and gave a subtle nod toward the third vehicle. Sammie nodded and climbed into his appointed SUV. Four other men besides Jerome filled up the rest of the large vehicle. While it was not as big as Bravo, there was still plenty of room for him to comfortably move around, even with the body armor.
“This is Zeke,” Jerome said once everyone was inside the SUV, slapping the other man in front on the shoulder. “If either of us give you an order, Sammie, you follow it, okay? Guy next to you is Vince. Don’t call him Vin. Tom and Alejandro are in back. I think you can figure out who is who. ”
The darker-skinned Alejandro gave him a curt nod while Tom, a blond-haired stick of a man who looked almost seven feet tall, ignored him. Palms sweaty, Sammie nodded back at Alejandro. Something in the front chirped, then Marcus’ voice came over the radio.
“Team, this is Lead. Execute.”
The lead SUV accelerated out of the parking space and passed through the open gate. Bravo quickly followed, then it was their turn. Sammie’s eyes immediately began scanning their surroundings as they exited the capitol grounds, leaving the safety of the iron fencing and sturdy buildings behind.
“Sammie, think of a clock. Dead ahead from the front of the SUV is twelve o’clock, understand? You watch from your two o’clock to your five,” Jerome told him as turned quickly left, then right, and they were soon cruising steadily down Main Street towards Monument Avenue. “Front is always twelve o’clock. Anything suspicious, call it out.”
“Contact, seven o’clock . . . zombies,” Tom called out as he leaned back into his seat. “Wish these MP-5s were suppressed. Gonna blow some eardrums if I shoot now.”
“Hold fire,” Jerome called back as the small horde of zombies fell quickly behind. “From the last reports I heard, we’ll run out of ammo before targets.”
Targets. Not humans, not zombies, but things to shoot. Sammie swallowed the sudden bile that threatened to rise out of his stomach and focused on watching his side of the SUV. For fifteen minutes it was absolute silence. Outside, other than the occasional swarm of naked infected, there was nobody to be seen. This part of the city was practically abandoned, with survivors either hiding in their barricaded homes or having already fled the city.
Or hiding out at VCU with those lunatics, Sammie thought.
“Bravo, Alpha. Road obstruction ahead,” Allen’s voice was crystal clear over the radio, interrupting the relative silence.
Jerome snorted softly. “So much for keeping radio discipline . . . ” he muttered.
“He was Navy,” Zeke said, chuckling nervously. “Contact! Two o’clock. More zombies. Looks like a few corpses getting eaten, too . . . Jesus Christ this is fucking disturbing.”
“Chill,” Jerome told him. “Eyes front. VCU is right there.
“Alpha, Bravo. Copy obstruction. Slow and steady. Go the other way?”
“Copy. Alpha moving.”
Jerome exhaled and gripped the steering wheel tightly. Ahead of them, Alpha turned right on Belvedere, away from Monroe Park and VCU. Sammie risked a glance up at Jerome and saw a bright sheen of sweat on the back of his neck.
“Here we go . . . ”
The road leading in front of West Hall at VCU was blocked by two burning vehicles, Sammie saw. Whether it had been a genuine accident or someone really didn’t want anyone going this way, he wasn’t certain. However, Main Street wasn’t where they wanted to go anyway. Franklin, he knew, would take them to Monument, and then it would be a straight run out of town—barring any unforeseen issues.
“Don’t tell no one, but I always wanted to do this,” Zeke said as they followed the two lead vehicles down Franklin. Surprisingly, there were no other cars along the road. Either those who could get out of town already had or nobody had thought to go the wrong way down a one way street to escape the city. “Drive the wrong way on a street, you know?”
“You ain’t driving,” Jerome muttered.
“Contact!” Sammie called out as he spotted someone running at their vehicle. A woman, he realized. It took him a moment to realize she was in uniform as well. And she was being chased. “Is that a state trooper?”
Behind her, a swarm of zombies were in hot pursuit. Jerome muttered something and began to slow down. Zeke immediately protested.
“Priority one is the package,” Zeke reminded him.
“I know, I know,” Jerome replied. “Sammie? Roll your window down and tell her to jump and hang on.”
“Hang on to what?” Sammie asked he quickly rolled down the window. The state trooper saw them and found an extra burst of speed to put a tiny bit of distance between herself and the zombies.
“Railing up top, running boards along the side.”
“This is an unmarked car! No railings up top!” Zeke protested loudly.
Sammie relayed the information anyways. She hollered something at him, the words lost in the loud engine of the SUV and the hunting screams of the zombies in hot pursuit.
“I think she heard,” Sammie called. “But those zombies are gonna be on us as soon as she is.”
“Alejandro? Cover fire. Time to earn that fat paycheck.”
“Fat paycheck my Latin ass . . . ” the rear shooter grumbled as the back door of the SUV swung open. Alejandro, his seat belt wrapped around his arm for safety and support, half-leaned out the door and aimed his rifle, resting the barrel shroud on the top of the open door. He began to fire in a slow but methodical manner, dropping a zombie with every shot. The gunshots were loud but not deafening, which surprised Sammie. He’d half-expected for his eardrums to be blown out.
“Guess these earbuds work,” he muttered under his breath.
The state trooper either hadn’t heard Sammie, or had mistaken the open back door as a sign that she needed to run there. Instead of jumping onto the running boards of the SUV, she twisted and tried to climb in the back. Alejandro tried to get out of her way but failed. Panicking, the woman accidentally knocked Alejandro into the seat just as the few remaining zombies reached them.
Inside the SUV, the gunfire was louder than anything Sammie had ever experienced before in his life. Zombies fell mere inches from the open back door, their clawed hands reaching futilely towards them. Two more slammed into Sammie’s door, their naked and filthy bodies leaving greasy smears on the metal. With his window half-down, Sammie stuck the handgun Jerome had given him out and squeezed off five shots. He wasn’t sure if all of them hit, but the two zombies did not get back up.
Sammie felt sick to his stomach as realization of what he’d just done crashed down on him. But he was still alive. That was all that mattered to him at that moment. Later, when the sun was gone and he could have more time to process, he would pray and ask his mother’s forgiveness. Until then, though, he needed to help them keep the lieutenant governor alive.
“What the fuck, puta?” Alejandro roared as she climbed over him in an effort to escape the zombies outside. “Bajar!”
“Pendejo!” the state trooper shouted back at him. She fell face-first into the middle seat, somehow twisting into the most awkward position possible without touching either Sammie or Vince. “Sorry! Sorry!”
“Charlie, this is Bravo. What’s going on, over?”
“Secure for now, Bravo. Be advised we picked up a state trooper.”
“Copy, Charlie. Vet her later. Bravo out.”
“Bravo, Alpha. Approaching Stuart Circle now.”
“This is where it’s going to get interesting,” Jerome said. “Trooper? There’s a shotgun on the floor at your feet. You do not touch it unless we have to unass, you get me? And you will be told when to unass.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a slight tremor in her voice, but Sammie could hear her happiness at being alive. Which was good. His own heart felt like it was stuck in his throat and he wasn’t sure what, precisely, to do next.
“Sammie,” he introduced himself, offering his free hand.
“Flores. Violet Flores.”
“That explains the Spanish,” Alejandro said from in back. “Sorry about the swearing.”
“Whatever. I have brothers. Had.”
More gunfire. It took Sammie a moment to realize that it wasn’t their vehicle doing the shooting. Craning his neck, he spotted Alpha’s driver’s side window exploding. Alpha began to slow down and drift to the median, narrowly dodging the heavy concrete base of the statue in the middle of Stuart Circle.
“Alpha’s under fire! Allen is down!” a voice cried out from the lead vehicle.
“Charlie! Move up to support!” Marcus’s voice was taut. Jerome clicked the radio twice and accelerated.
“Contact! Seven o’clock, high. Apartment building . . . shooters! Multiple shooters!” Tom called out as rounds began impacting on the SUV. The heavily modified vehicle was able to withstand the gunfire and Sammie, who’d wondered if they were as armored as Bravo, felt a little relieved. That quickly vanished as one of the bulletproof window shattered.
“Shit!” Vince cursed loudly. “I’ve got muzzle flashes on the fifth floor of that apartment building there. First, second, and third windows from the left.”
“Those wannabe revolutionaries,” Jerome practically spat. “What I wouldn’t give for an RPG right now . . . ”
Sammie watched as Alpha rolled to a stop, with Bravo turning to the right to avoid rearending it. For a second he thought the second, larger SUV was going to pass it before he spotted another roadblock obstructing Monument Avenue. This one looked to consist of multiple pallets, couches, chairs, and some sort of black metal railing or something. While it didn’t appear too sturdy, he wouldn’t have wanted to try and drive through it. The other side of the road was blocked in a similar manner.
Whoever had built these roadblocks hadn’t wanted anyone to journey down Monument, and instead were trying to direct everything to the front of VCU, Sammie guessed.
“Road block,” he announced.
“I see 'em,” Jerome growled as he, too, slowed down. “Damn. Bravo turned the wrong way.”
Sammie looked around. Stuart Circle wasn’t the oddest designed roundabout ever, but it was fairly close. Instead of going to wrong way as they had been, here was the official starting point of Monument Avenue for any westbound traffic. For years city officials have said the roundabout was confusing and that the citizens of Richmond did not understand how it handled traffic. So far as he could tell, the only idiots who hadn’t been able to figure out how the circle worked were the city officials themselves.
“Charlie, Bravo,” Marcus’ voice crackled over the comms. “Under heavy fire. Move that roadblock!”
“Copy Bravo,” Jerome said as he clicked the mic. He turned and looked at the vehicle’s occupants. “Time to earn that paycheck, boys and girls.”
“W-what?” Violet asked, abject fear evident in her tone.
“Alejandro, you pop first and move to Bravo,” Jerome ordered as he shifted the SUV into Park. He did not turn it off, however, Sammie noted. “You’re a better shooter and you’ll have more cover. Secure their situation, then move to Alpha. Tell them to get their asses through the barricade. Sammie, Vince, with me. We’re cover fire. Zeke, Tom, Violet . . . cover us and watch for zombies. You’re on overwatch. Stay in contact with Bravo. If it looks like you’re going to be swarmed, call it out, lock the doors, and push Bravo forward if you have to. We’ll rendezvous with you at the Lee Memorial. Zeke, take lead. On three we go. One, two, three!”
Sammie grabbed his duffel bag, popped his door open and exited the SUV faster than he had ever moved in his life, yet he was still slower than Jerome and Vince. The two men were out of the vehicle and sprinting for the statue in the center of the roundabout before his feet had even set foot on the wet pavement.
Brick streets, he mentally corrected as he followed Jerome and Vince to the large monument in the center of Stuart Circle. Behind him, he could hear Alejandro swearing in Spanish as he sprinted over to Bravo. Something wet and heavy smacked into the brick at his feet. It took him a moment to realize that he was under fire once more.
“Get your stupid ass over here!” Jerome barked from the protective base of the statue. It was clearly wide enough to protect all three of them from the gunfire—provided it was only coming from the apartment building across the street. If anyone else decided to shoot at them, their crappy day was only going to get worse.
Sammie sprinted across the open area and slid with all the grace of a drunkard on the slick street into Vince, who practically threw him against the stone pedestal of the massive statue. The larger man ducked down next to him as Jerome pointed at the church across the street.
“Keep an eye on that area, Vince,” Jerome ordered.
“What’s down there?” Sammie whispered, terrified. His hands were wet from sweat and rain, but he kept a firm grip on the pistol.
“Do you hear that?” Jerome asked.
Sammie cocked his head and listened. There was nothing but the rhythmic poppoppop of constant gunfire from above. He shot a glance back at Jerome, confused. The older man tapped his ear and pointed his right. Sammie looked down the narrow street—nothing more than a small parking garage, some broken down cars blocking the road, and other buildings beyond that. Then he heard it.
Wailing.
Not just any wailing, though. It was unearthly, a scream full of pure primal rage. Pain and anguish, inhuman. The very edge of the keening wail set his teeth on edge and caused every hair on the back of his neck to stand up. Fear gripped his bowels like nothing else ever had in his life. The sound echoed off the walls of the nearby buildings as it drew closer, ever closer.
The zombies were coming.
Inside the SUV, the zombies hunting cries had sounded different. They’d been muffled, separated from the reality inside the large vehicle and the outside hell which seemed intent on swallowing Richmond whole. Out here, it was real. Too real. His bowels clenched and he suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to pee.
“Focus,” he whispered to himself, partly to regain control but mostly to take his mind off the howls of the zombies. Sammie checked their surroundings again. No zombies could be seen, but he knew they were close. Glancing around the base of the statue, there still were no signs of them. The piercing, unearthly howls, though, were growing louder with every second. The infected were coming, and Sammie and the others were out in the open and exposed.
Still, the only gunfire appeared to be coming from the apartment complex behind them. Sammie knew they had to get back to the vehicle and get away, but Alpha stopped at the one clear point they might have been able to push through. Bravo wasn’t doing anything to help. Not that he blamed them, really. They were supposed to secure the lieutenant governor. Jerome had said that it was their job to protect Bravo—even if it meant doing something stupid like this.
They were a little fortunate, though. Nobody at VCU had tried to take over the church across the street. The two bell towers would have made the current situation even worse. They were excellent spots to rain gunfire down on their position.
“Moving,” Vince said and sprinted towards the apartment building where the gunfire was coming from. Either those inside hadn’t expected him to pull such a stupid stunt, or they simply lacked the time to respond. Either way, Vince was able to make it to the base of the apartment building without being shot. He pointed up, drew a line across his throat, and made a peculiar motion with his head that caused Jerome to sigh. Vince then gave them both a jaunty salute and slipped inside the apartment.
“What?” Sammie asked. “What’s he doing?”
“I count three shooters,” Jerome said, ignoring the question. He poked his head around the base of the monument. He was rewarded with a fusillade of return fire, forcing him to duck back and press himself against the heavy marble base. The large man looked up, seemed to have a moment of stark realization, and guffawed. He slapped the base of the statue with an open palm, the noise a wet thwack in the midst of the raging gunfire above and behind them.
“Bet ol’ Jeb never thought he’d one day get to save my black ass, eh?”
“Huh?” Sammie'd known roughly where they were but without the iron railing around the statue of General J.E.B. Stuart and in the steady rain, he hadn’t really recognized it. “Oh. I guess so.”
“Wasn’t much a student of history, but still . . . this is pretty damn funny.”
“We’re being shot at by people I probably have classes with who think that terrorists are awesome and assassinations are totally cool and a necessary thing in society, with zombies running around eating people, and you think this is funny?” Sammie called out as a round smacked into the wet pavement near his feet. He brought them in tighter and pressed his back against the base of the statue. “I don’t think it’s funny at all. I think we’re pretty fucked, sir.”
“Maybe. Probably. Gotta clear that barricade before I decide on that,” Jerome said as two figures from Alpha popped out of the rear of the SUV and began lighting up the apartment complex. Unlike the people in the apartments, the shooters on the ground fired in short, controlled bursts with lethal efficiency. In moments the gunfire from the apartment waned, then ceased all together. Jerome’s smile widened. “This is why you train, kid. Remember that. Always train. All right. Let’s do something about that fucking barricade before the zombies get here.”
More gunfire erupted from the apartment. The two shooters from Alpha slumped to the ground as heavy rounds tore through their body armor. One, bleeding profusely from multiple holes in his legs, crawled back behind the SUV. He made it halfway before he stopped.
“Shit. That sounded like a Browning .30 cal. Where’d those fuckers get that?”
The back of Charlie popped open a second time and Tom slid out. He began firing at the window where the large gun was located. There was no return fire. He signaled clear and quickly moved around to where the two men from Alpha were lying on the ground. A quick check and shake of the head told Sammie all he needed to know.
“Moving to support,” Zeke called as he slid out of the passenger side front seat. He quickly scanned the area, waited a moment, then started to cross the open section between Charlie and Bravo to make it to Alpha. It was a bold, brave maneuver which was promptly rewarded with a single shot to the head. The security agent dropped to the ground without so much as a twitch.
“Zeke’s down.” Jerome’s tone was flat, dull.
Sammie stared at the body, shocked into silence by the view. The man, who less than five minutes before had been sitting in front of him, so full of life and energy, was just gone. There’d been no last words, no heroics. No evil laughter from a villainous enemy from the shadows. One second he was moving, the next . . . gone. It wasn’t like he’d ever seen in the movies.
“Zeke . . . ?” Sammie whispered. The detail from Alpha had been all but wiped out from the look of things, Vince had disappeared inside the building, and now Zeke was down. He had no idea what to do, or what was going on anymore. These men were pros, and they were getting cut down by college students.
Then there were the zombies, looming in the shadows, closing in on them . . . 
“This convoy’s gotta move.” Jerome poked his head out and waited for a moment before tucking back behind cover. Nobody fired at him. Gunshots were evident, but . . . they sounded as though they were coming from inside the apartments. Which Sammie found more than a little odd. Jerome grinned. “Sounds like Vince is finally taking care of our little apartment problem. Looks clear-ish.”
“We need to move Alpha,” Sammie reminded him, tearing his eyes away from Zeke’s still form. Focusing on the entire reason they’d gotten out of Charlie in the first place helped clear his mind, even if it was just for a moment. The lead SUV’s engine was still running but there wasn’t any indication that those still inside were alive—something he didn’t really want to dwell on. He could silently celebrate the fact that Vince was still alive, though. “The front tire’s flat.”
“Yep.” Jerome exhaled sharply. “Whatever they shot up the tire with didn’t punch through to the engine block, so that wasn’t the .30 cal. That means it should still drive, just with shitty handling. Do a quick eyeball check and see if anyone in there is alive. Tell Tom to get his ass back in Charlie, driver’s seat. I’ll swap out and take rear. If anybody in Alpha is alive but bleeding out, leave ‘em. Callous, but we got a job to do. Priority one is the package, remember? Use the mass of Alpha and pushed through the barricade.”
“Use the mass?”
“Put it into gear and fucking floor it.”
“Oh, okay.” Sammie nodded. He looked back up at the apartment. There were shadows moving inside, barely visible in the rain, but there. Nobody was shooting at them anymore, though. Was he going to die the same way Zeke had? The thought was a tiny, cold ball of uncertainty in his gut. “What are you gonna do?”
“Me? I’m going to make sure your skinny ass doesn’t get shot or eaten while you go be the hero.”
Sammie gave him an incredulous look. “The fuck?”
“Yeah. Being a hero ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, Sammie. On three, break for Alpha. One, two, move your ass!”
Duffel bag in hand, Sammie sprinted across the open traffic circle to the idling Alpha, which was pressed firmly against the makeshift roadblock. As he drew near, it was obvious that Allen was not going to be the one to drive the SUV through the obstruction. Or anyone else, for that matter.
The door was unlocked, thankfully, so he yanked it open and grabbed Allen by his shirt, all the while ignoring the bloody smears across the dashboard. Muttering his apologies, he pulled the dead security officer out of the vehicle. Allen was a thick, broad man and landed heavily on the wet street with a splash. Sammie apologized again before climbing inside. His hand felt something warm and wet. He did his best to ignore it and looked at the others in the rear.
He really wished he hadn’t.
Shifting the SUV into reverse, he carefully backed away from the barrier until he was about ten feet away and parallel to Bravo. Glancing over, he saw Marcus frantically waving at him. Sammie nodded. He had to clear a path, no matter what. Shifting the large vehicle back into drive, Sammie stomped on the gas and floored it.
The barrier wasn’t much, but it was enough to give a regular vehicle pause. The big 8.1-liter engine and heavy weight of the Suburban made short work of the barrier. Something heavy within the obstruction, though, caused the engine to make a hideous grinding noise. In moment there was white smoke coming from beneath the hood. Sammie, uncertain what to do, kept driving before turning left and jumping onto the grassy center median beyond. Behind him, he heard Bravo and Charlie both roar past and move on, leaving them behind.
It was at that moment the SUV’s engine quit and died.
“Damn it!” he shouted and climbed out. Jerome came running over to him, smiling.
“Good work, kid!”
“Out truck is dead and they left us!” Sammie protested. Jerome smirked and shook his head.
“They’re meeting us at the rendezvous point. We need to boogie.”
“They were all dead inside,” Sammie told him. “Two of them looked . . . eaten.”
He looked Sammie in the eye. “Don’t let that shit happen to me, you understand?”
“Sir?”
“Don’t you dare let me turn into some mindless howling monster, you get me?”
“Yes, sir!”
“I promise I’ll do the same for you. Now . . . time to skedaddle.”
The howls of the zombies were growing louder, ever closer. A shot of icy cold fear raced through his veins as they began to not-quite power-walk down Monument Avenue, Jerome with his MP-5 up and ready while Sammie stumbled along.
“What about Vince?” Sammie asked, panting, as he checked his handgun to ensure he hadn’t shot it yet. In the mad rush, he couldn’t quite remember if he’d fired it or not. He slung the duffel bag under his arm so he could carry it but still fire from the two-hand stance he’d been taught. The zombies were nearby and he was starting to grow more nervous by the second.
“If he’s alive, he’ll catch up.”
“And if he’s not?”
“Then we drink to him and celebrate him as a fucking badass when we get to Deer Creek, and remember him like everyone else who’s fallen on this last convoy outta River City.”
Sammie nodded, though he didn’t fully understand. “More zombies.”
Jerome snarled. “Service them fuckers with prejudice.”
The next ten minutes were nothing but a blur for Sammie. He would squeeze off ten shots into a newly-arrived horde of zombies, eject the spent magazine, slam home a fresh one, then rinse and repeat. Over and over again, every step drawing them closer to the Lee Memorial and their prospective rendezvous with the others.
His hands throbbed from the repeated recoil of the pistol. While he had spent some time at the range familiarizing himself with handguns, he hadn’t quite built up the muscles or calluses yet from constant and repeated practice with the weapon. His forearms were screaming from the repeated action, and his eyes were beginning to itch. Even the ear protectors Jerome had found for him down in the armory were starting to glitch out, thanks to the constant rain.
Around them, the tightly-packed brownstones were burning. Not all of them, not yet, but enough. A few people not infected were trying to put out the fires, but the rest were fleeing them. The flames cast long shadows across the streets while the rolling smoke polluted the sky above, which was already dark thanks to the cloud coverage. Rain continued to fall, but not heavy enough to dampen the heat coming from the burning buildings.
“Contact front! Friendly!” Jerome said. Sammie half-turned his head and blinked. Rafe, who’d been assigned to Bravo, was sprinting towards them, his boots splashing in the growing puddles with each step.
“Wassup!” Rafe shouted as he slipped into position next to Jerome, his MP-5 up and tracking.
“Wazzzzzup!” Jerome called back, sticking his tongue out.
“Hey!” Sammie called. Rafe looked at him and rolled his eyes.
“ . . . fucking kids these days . . . ” Sammie thought he heard the Ranger mutter as a massive blade appeared out of nowhere and removed the hand of a zombie who’d gotten too close. “No respect for the ancient ways.”
“Quit reminding me how old I am,” Jerome complained as he ejected another spent magazine. “Down to two mags left. Tell me you’re my favorite Ranger, Rafe.”
The other man handed him four fresh mags, then turned and squeezed off five rounds. Three zombies Sammie hadn’t seen rushing them from the left dropped instantly.
“I’ll always be your favorite Ranger,” Rafe announced. “C’mon. Marcus said this little convoy is leaving in five minutes, and I don’t think you want to miss it.”
“He sent you back to save us? I didn’t know he cared,” Jerome crooned and shot a zombie who’d gotten a little too close. The seemingly endless horde was tapering off, with quite a few fixated on the scant civilian survivors who were running down the street, away from the rolling gunfight and towards VCU.
“Yeah, he wants to have your babies,” Rafe scoffed. “Let’s go! Move your asses!”
Their measured and steady walk quickly turned into a run as more zombies began appearing behind them. Sammie, not used to wearing the body armor or running with a heavy duffel bag, quickly began falling behind. He could hear the now-familiar keening wail of the zombies drawing closer, ever closer. In his mind he could feel their fingers grasping at his shirt, his clothes, pulling him down. Fear lent him more energy, caused the aching pain in his legs to fade away. Nothing mattered more than staying alive. But he never dropped his duffel bag.
He pushed harder, faster, trying to open up some distance between the mindless beings chasing him and safety. He tore his eyes off the road, looked up, and he almost cried in relief. In front of him stood a sight he thought he’d never see again—the two remaining SUVs from the Executive Mansion. Behind them stood four men, each armed with a rifle, and pointed at him.
No, he quickly realized. They were aimed behind him.
Jerome and Rafe were already at the SUVs. But beyond . . . another wave of zombies was closing in on the group, and nobody was looking the right way.
“Behind!” He screamed and pointed as he ran, pouring every last ounce of energy into his cry of alarm. Rafe looked in the direction he pointed and his tanned features paled.
“Rear!” the Ranger shouted and opened fire just as the lead runners of the new wave of zombies hit their position.
The next few minutes were a chaotic mess. Sammie turned and began shooting as many zombies as he could. Even a blind man could hit a zombie in this mess, they were so densely packed together. It became machinelike to him: aim, squeeze, repeat, empty magazine, slap in a fresh one, continue on.
Every shot mattered, every round struck true. There were simply too many of them. Sammie continued to slowly give ground, one step at a time, until his back was against the side of Bravo. He risked a peek inside and saw the wide eyes of the lieutenant governor staring back out at him. They were worried, but he noticed there was a decided lack of fear in them.
For some reason this galvanized his resolve. She wasn’t afraid of dying, so why should he be? Here he would stand, no matter the cost. He’d promised to do his job, after all, even if he was supposed to be nothing more than a mail clerk.
More gunfire joined his. The horde began to peter out as the gunfire continued unabated for what felt like hours, though a small part of Sammie’s mind knew it was merely a few minutes.
With an abruptness that was shocking, it was over. The last of the zombies died bloodily at the hands of the security detail, with corpses of the infected stacked two high less than twenty feet from Bravo. Thanks to the quick response to those in Charlie, they managed to hold off the zombies that had ambushed them from the other side.
Darkness was coming quickly, with long shadows touching everything his eyes could see. But beyond the shadows, there was light, a sickly orange that confused Sammie for many moments as his mind struggled to comprehend what he’d just done, what the others had managed.
Something fell on his arm. It was more rain but thick, viscous. The sensation was more like mud than rain. He dabbed his fingers in the drop. It was gray. Mixed in with the rain was ash. Sammie’s gaze tracked upwards to the foreboding skyline, where the orange and yellows illuminated the backdrop, giving everything an unearthly feel. This was no normal sunset. It took him a second longer before he finally recognized the carnage for what it was.
Richmond was burning. River City had fallen and would never rise again. At least, not in his lifetime. His home, gone. Sometime between agreeing to help Jerome protect the lieutenant governor and now, the city had given a last, shuddering breath, striving against the dying light, before giving up the ghost. The zombies owned it now. Zombies, and the kingpins who worked the corners and streets, and the zealots who simply wanted to see the world burn, and then rule as despots upon a pile of ash and bone.
They got their wish, Sammie thought as he glanced over at Jerome. The burly man was sitting on the ground, his back against the front tire of the Bravo. He’d joined Sammie sometime during the mad rush, and had never left his side after.
“We’re good now, kid,” Jerome said, wincing as he rubbed his forearm, his MP-5 on the ground beside him. His hand came away covered in blood. He swore softly. “Home stretch . . . for you.”
“Did . . . did a zombie bite you?” Sammie asked, looking at the bloody wound.
“Yeah. Knew my luck would run out sooner or later. But hey . . . not going to be like one of those bitches on TV who hide it, you know?”
Sammie stared at the wound. It didn’t look too bad, only bloody. Maybe if they cut the wound . . . “We could cut the area out?”
“Too late. It’s already in the bloodstream. It’s only a matter of time now.” Jerome pulled out his .45 and handed it to Sammie. “I need you to do me a favor.”
“No,” Sammie said as the .45 was pressed into his hand. It was heavier than he expected. “I can’t. We might be able to—”
“Naw. It’s okay, kid,” Jerome said and leaned forward. The barrel of the .45 caliber was pressed firmly against his forehead. Sammie’s hand was steady, though his heart pounded heavily in his chest. “Just make it quick, before I turn.”
“I thought . . . you said you had both shots!” Sammie heard himself protest. In his jumbled mind, nothing made sense anymore.
“Only the primer, kid. Only the primer. C’mon, don’t make me suffer. Do it.”
“But—”
“Do it! Don’t let me turn. Kill me, please.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to!”
“But what if—”
“You gave me your word,” Jerome said. He exhaled slowly before he continued. “Make your word mean something. You’re going to have times in your life, kid, that what you stand for is tested. The easy way isn’t always the best. People renege on their word all the time. But the steadfast ones? The ones who earn the trust, respect, and love of those around them? They keep their word. To them, their oath means something. Those are the people who need to shape our future, our society. You swore to me you’d follow instructions, do as you’re told. Do you remember that?”
It'd only been an hour or so since this who craziness had started for him, and his entire life’s course had been abruptly changed. Of course he remembered. Sammie nodded before finding the ability to speak. “I do.”
“Then man up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your mother was right about you,” Jerome breathed and closed his eyes. “You really aren’t like the other kids from the hood.”
“You knew my mom?” This revelation almost caused him to drop the handgun.
“How do you think a kid from the ghetto managed to score a sweet gig working at the governor’s mansion?” Jerome chuckled softly. “She was a friend from high school. When you started searching for internships, she didn’t want to use our friendship, but you weren’t having much luck getting in anywhere else. She also knew what I did and asked if I would write a letter of rec for your internship. Did some digging and found out about your brother, but that you were pretty much a good kid without any brushes with the law. But you getting hired to work in the mail room? That was all on you, busting your ass, never missing a day.”
“Yeah . . . but,” Sammie said and wiped his eyes. The falling ash was starting to make them water, making breathing difficult. His chest hurt. “No. Thank you. For everything. I mean it.”
“Now do me a favor and follow my last order. Kill me before I turn. Don’t let me be a zombie.”
A single, almost gentle squeeze of the handgun’s trigger and Sammie Rameau honored his word. His mother would have been proud.
“You good, mano?” Rafe asked after Sammie holstered the handgun. He didn’t answer for a moment, didn’t know if he could. He stared at the rapidly cooling body of a man he admired, not daring to speak until he had his warring emotions under control. When he was finally ready to open his mouth, it was not to lament the dead.
That could wait. He still had a job to do. Jerome would understand.
“Do we have enough people still?” Sammie asked instead of answering the question. Rafe looked at him for a moment before nodding.
“Barely, but yeah. My guys are steady, but . . . ” He shook his head. “You take the big SUV with the lieutenant governor. Have that Cadet Flores ride shotgun, and put . . . Mike in the back to watch your ass. You make sure Flores watches your surroundings. I’ll be in the chase vehicle with the others. If anything happens to me, you keep going. You keep driving until you reach Deer Creek. Listen to Grace’s directions, but you do not stop no matter what. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.” He understood all too well what could happen if they stopped again.
“Cells are still working for now, but service gets spotty between Lexington and our final destination. I-81 is a mess, but I-64 should be clear after Lexington. You know how to get to Lexington?”
“I-64 west, meet up with I-81 and head south, then back onto I-64 west at Lexington. Keep going until the lieutenant governor tells me which exit to take. If I hit West Virginia, I’ve gone too far.”
“Perfect. Stay safe. Keep your cell charged. I got your number programmed, and hers as well. Not sure how long coverage will last, but might as well milk it for all its worth.”
“Rafe?” Sammie paused, his hand on the driver’s side door. In the back of the black SUV, the swarthy little Italian climbed into the third row seat and closed the door. “Sir?”
“Yeah?”
“Who were they?” Sammie blinked. “Those guys who came out of the apartments? I thought they were guys I went to school with but they were . . . different, you know? Like . . . I don’t know, crazy but not crazy?”
“Not our problem anymore, thanks to those zombies.”
“And Vince,” he reminded the Ranger. Jerome had promised they would drink to his memory. Now, Sammie would drink to both of them when they arrived at their destination. “What did they want?”
“If I had to guess? Her.” The slender man shrugged. “There’s going to be people trying to . . . upset things. Chaos makes them happy, even if it’ll tear them apart in the end. They thrive in the anarchy. Scum, but predictable scum. But others also have grudges, deep grudges, and old hatreds. Those people? Those are the ones which concern me the most. They’re unpredictable and will do anything, and have goals we don’t know much about.”
Sammie nodded. He’d thought as much. “I swore to Jerome that I would protect her with my life.”
“I can tell. He knew that, too. That’s why you’re here. It’s a strange new world in which we live. Get a move on. I’ll be right behind.”
Sammie climbed into the driver’s seat and started the big SUV’s engine. It turned over with only a little reluctance. Violet silently climbed into the passenger’s seat, her hands trembling, the empty shotgun draped across her lap. She might have been in shock, but Sammie was comforted slightly by the fact the barrel was pointed away from him and towards the door. She didn’t speak, but her eyes were attentively watching their surroundings. He slammed his door and locked it. Behind him, the other SUV started up as well. They were ready to roll.
“Are you okay?” a gentle voice asked from the back. Sammie adjusted the rearview mirror and saw the concerned look the lieutenant governor was giving him.
“I’m fine, ma’am.” He had to be. Jerome was right. His words meant something. Otherwise, what was the point of ever promising anything? A solemn oath was more powerful than empty promises. He would remain true to his word. “We’ll get you to your family, and keep you safe. All of you safe. I gave my word, ma’am.”
Shifting the SUV into gear, Sammie led the convoy down Monument Avenue, their final destination somewhere in the mountains to the west.

A 2019 Dragon Award finalist and 2015 John W. Campbell Award finalist, Jason Cordova has traveled extensively throughout the U.S. and the world. The author of the Kin Wars Universe and over 40 novels and short stories, he is a U.S. Navy veteran, a former teacher, and avid videogamer. He currently resides in North Carolina. This story is set in John Ringo's Black Tide Rising universe. Watch for Cordvoa's Black Tide Rising novel Mountain of Fire coming in September!

The Wish Doctor 
by Arlen Feldman

The amount of silver she offered was less than I usually spent on a single meal. But she was young and very pretty, so I agreed to see her. What can I say? I’m old, but I’m not dead.
She placed the jar on the table. It was garishly decorated with gold paint and paste gems, and I recognized it immediately—it belonged to a minor djinn who reveled in mischief. This also explained how the girl had acquired something so precious. Ordinarily, only the very rich and powerful managed to acquire such objects, but this djinn went out of its way to entice the innocent and desperate.
“Tell me,” I said, leaning back in my chair in a pose that made me look thoughtful and wise, “what is your wish.”
“I want to speak every language.” She looked defiant, as though I would argue with her, but I had heard far stranger desires than this. It was also reasonably trifling—something that the djinn would be able to handle. If she’d wanted power, or everlasting life, or one of the other great gifts, it would have been beyond the little djinn’s abilities.
There was also a glaring flaw in her request, so it was well that she came to me. I nodded at her.
“In return, you will translate for me whenever I need.”
“Ten times,” she said.
“One hundred times.”
We settled on twenty translations. I could have easily got more, but I rarely have need of translations, since I knew a dozen languages myself. Besides, it was worth it for her smile. Of course, I could have had her translate something so long that it would take the rest of her life, but I wouldn’t do that—I was not a djinn or a demon.
I filled in the details on a standard contract, adding her name, Laiha, and my own, Doctor Kaled Mahmoud ibn Hatim ibn Ashraf. I examined her signature through a lens that I kept for the purpose. It made the text glow red if there was deceit, but as I expected, the ink on the page stayed black. I put the contract onto a stack of other papers that my clerk would organize later.
I sat down behind my desk, which had been carved from a single ebony tree and was inlaid with silver and gems. Sitting behind it gave me a little bit more gravitas—and hid my spreading belly. I steepled my fingers in a way that made me look sagacious and learned, and pretended to think about her wish—although honestly it was a simple problem.
“So, you wish to speak every language. I suspect that you also want to understand every language as well? And to choose when you speak the language, rather than babble in a random alien tongue?”
She put her hand to her mouth in horror. Then she bowed to me.
It didn’t take long for me to write out the words for her. I included the ability to read and write every language. Djinns are stingy with their acceptance of complex clauses, so I had to be careful with the wording, but it was nothing I didn’t do every day. I handed her the piece of paper to read.
She said a brief prayer, then rubbed the jar. The djinn appeared slowly in a cloud of gray smoke—all theater of course. But the girl, at least, was impressed. Finally, he stood before her, looking like any man—albeit in clothes that were out of date a hundred years ago.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum,” he said, bowing ever so slightly to her. I imagine his smile was meant to look friendly, but to me he looked like a merchant trying to sell week-old fish.
“Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,” said Laiha, bowing herself.
“Have you decided upon your wish, young one?”
“I have.” She lifted the paper I had given her, which made the djinn look around suspiciously.
He spotted me and his smile disappeared. “You.”
I nodded to him equitably.
Laiha read out her wish. The djinn listened, scowling all the time. I could practically hear his brain grinding, trying to find anything to twist, but then I saw his shoulders fall and I knew that I’d won. Some more powerful djinn might have disguised his feelings, but this spirit was a simple one.
There was the very slightest pop, and the djinn vanished. Laiha looked up, said “Oh,” and then “Putasne me intelligis?”
I replied, “Latinum facile est. Türkçeden anlayan var mı?”
We went through all of my languages before she was satisfied. Laiha walked around my desk, then bent down and kissed me on the cheek. Before, she’d been pretty. Now she was radiant.
And I would see her at least twenty times more. Old goat that I am, it seemed a worthwhile bargain.
* * *
The following morning, Hassam, my servant, woke me early and then fussed around me as I dressed in my finest court clothes. I would be meeting with the crown prince today. Hassam was far more nervous about the meeting than I, and chided me strongly for getting sauce on my collar.
To escape his ministrations, I finally decided to go to my office and wait there until the appointed hour. This might have been a mistake—I didn’t really have anything to work on, so I started getting nervous myself.
Which was ridiculous. I was one of the most accomplished wish doctors in the city. Rumor was that I would be chosen as the leader of our guild when death finally sat at Indalecio Kazemi’s gate. I had written and reviewed the most intricate of contracts and had not once failed a client.
But I’d never worked for the Palace before. And the summons had not exactly been detailed—just to be there to review a contract. If it was for the prince, then it would be with a major power, and I would have to be especially careful.
There was a knock at my door and the head of my clerk Nadim appeared.
“You have a visitor.” Normally I wouldn’t see anyone without an appointment, but honestly, I was glad of the interruption.
“Who is it?”
The door swung open, and a tall figure dressed all in black stepped into the room. “Let us not speak of names,” he said, with the very slightest of bows.
This was all the height of rudeness, and normally Nadim would be furious, but he just stood there meekly, as though he was the interloper’s servant rather than mine. This impression was increased when the man waved his hand and Nadim left the room, closing the door behind him.
I scowled at the man—well, not a man, obviously. Unless I missed my guess, he was a demon, and not a minor one. I was not worried, though. The members of my guild are well protected against such creatures.
“Well, what do you want?” I asked, matching rudeness with rudeness.
He held up his hands. “My apologies, Dr. Kaled. I did not mean to offend you. As-Salaam-Alaikum.”
“Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,” I replied automatically. I gestured him to a chair, and the demon bowed slightly deeper before sitting.
“You are the greatest wish doctor in the city. Quite possibly in the world. This is not empty praise, but fact.”
Despite myself, I felt a burst of pride. But I didn’t say anything. If speech is silver, then silence is gold. I knew that I had to be very careful with every word I said.
“Because of your stature, you will be reviewing a contract this afternoon. A contract between two . . . princes.”
It shouldn’t be possible to choke when you haven’t eaten or drunk anything, but somehow I managed it, going into a coughing fit. The demon watched me with polite interest until I was done.
There could only be one meaning of the demon’s words. Surely the crown prince wouldn’t be so foolish as to enter into a contract with—
But of course he would. And I would be the one to review the details. I was at once horrified and excited by the opportunity. It would be the crowning glory of my career thus far.
If I didn’t make a mistake.
“There is a detail in the contract. One that any lesser wish doctor would miss.”
“I look forward to finding it.”
This got me a slight bow.
“There may be a good reason for you not to find it.”
Every now and then a djinn—usually a young one—would attempt to bribe me. It was pointless. The oath we made to our guild was very specific and was binding under every meaning of the word. But the creature in front of me was no childish djinn. I was now sure that the creature in front of me was a major power, sent by the greatest—and worst—of his kind. I was honestly curious as to what he might offer.
“You see the most miraculous wishes granted to your clients on a regular basis, yet you are not allowed to use your prodigious skill to benefit yourself. That seems unjust.”
“I am well enough rewarded for my work,” I said.
“And, of course, you are barred by your oath from your due rewards.” The demon stroked his beard and looked straight into my eyes. His own eyes were dark black holes that seemed to have no end. “What if there were a loophole in that oath? What if, in gratitude for doing a remarkable, but not quite perfect job this afternoon, you might earn the wishes of the most powerful of the djinn?”
I looked away from those terrifying eyes. It was a lie, obviously, but such a tempting one. Only the knowledge that we were exempt from wishes made our guild trustworthy. But it also meant that we frequently attended the undeserving as they became immensely rich and powerful.
“Even if I believed in this loophole,” I said, suddenly breathing heavily, “there is no way that I would destroy my reputation in learning it, and no way that I could trust that you’d provide it anyway.”
The demon pulled a folded piece of parchment literally out of the air and placed it on my desk. “The details of the loophole are here. I swear it by my name.” Then he spoke a series of syllables that no human throat could utter. As he did, the letters appeared in angelic script in the air between us, burning bright red before settling on the outside of the paper as scarlet ink.
“All you have to do is open and read it to seal our bargain.” He stood and walked towards the door. “I leave it in your hands.”
* * *
I stared at the folded piece of parchment, terrified to even touch it. In all my years, I had never heard of such a thing. Finally, I used two other documents to pick it up and put it in the secret drawer where I kept my most private correspondence and the few enchanted items that I had managed to acquire over the years.
Not long after, my clerk informed me that the palanquin was here to take me to the palace. On the ride over I spent my time thinking about the demon’s offer rather than the official work that awaited me. Perhaps that distraction was its intent all along?
My preoccupation stopped me from being overwhelmed by the opulence of the palace, but there was no way to avoid being awed by the prince. He was a tall man with thick black hair and prodigious moustaches. A beard might have hidden his weak chin better and pulled attention away from his too-large ears. But it would have been hard to hide the coldness in his dark eyes. His outfit sparkled with diamonds and other gems—so many that it was hard to look at him. Not that I had more than glanced—I was prostrated on the marble floor in front of him, waiting to be recognized.
Thankfully for my knees, he didn’t leave me waiting long. One of the guards tapped the floor with his staff, and I rose to my feet. The prince gestured for me to approach him.
“Dr. Kaled. Your reputation precedes you.”
I bowed deeply at this, but he waved his hand irritably at me, and I stood up straight.
“I have a contract that I have not yet signed. The wish doctors of the court have already reviewed it, but any mistake could have disastrous consequences for the kingdom.”
And for yourself, I added mentally. I knew enough of the prince’s reputation to know that he wouldn’t risk his immortal soul if he didn’t personally benefit greatly from the bargain.
The prince scowled at me, as though reading my thoughts. “The contract must be signed within seven days. You have six to find a flaw, if any. If there is a flaw and you miss it, the consequences will also be severe for you.”
I bowed again and tried to ignore the sudden churning in my belly at these words.
“I am honored by your faith in me, Your Highness. I will take the contract with me back to my office and spend every minute making sure that there are no flaws.”
“No,” he said flatly. “You will work here.”
“But . . . my books, my clerk . . .”
“You can work in the library here. Your clerk will join you. Anything you need will be provided.”
“As you command, Your Highness.” There was nothing else I could say.
He turned away, an obvious dismissal, and I scurried out of the room. As I followed a servant to the library, I couldn’t help but notice that the discussion of a fee had not come up. There were standard rates, of course, and if my earlier visitor was right, then an agreement between a prince and—another prince—would command the highest rate. Assuming I was allowed to deliver a bill.
The library was magnificent—two stories high, shelves made of rare woods, items of extreme value on display throughout—but I barely noticed. I was introduced to the head librarian, who led me to a marble table on which the agreement sat—a single giant sheet of vellum covered in minute writing in a rusty-red ink. A janissary stood guard next to the table, a massive, curved sword at his side. I nodded to him, but he didn’t so much as blink.
Sighing, I took a seat at the table and began to read.
* * *
After three days, I had found nothing.
Oh, the agreement itself was monstrous—guaranteeing numerous powers and victories to the crown prince in exchange for the soul of his firstborn child. But, despite the twisted clauses and multiple languages used, I could find no obvious trap.
Yet I knew there had to be something there. Otherwise, why the offer from the demon?
There was one section—related to what the crown prince would pay in return—that did have me slightly worried. It was written in Akkadian, which was not one of my strongest languages. I was fairly sure of my translation, but it suddenly occurred to me that there was someone who would be able to translate it perfectly.
Wary of speaking in front of the janissary, I wrote a quick note and handed it to Nadim. He read the note quickly, his eyes going wide, then folded it and rushed off.
It was almost two hours later when he returned with Laiha in tow. She seemed slightly terrified to be here, but smiled when she saw me, which made my heart miss a beat or two.
“All these books!” she said. “This must be what Paradise is like.”
It was not exactly my image of Paradise, but I smiled back at her.
“I’d like you to check my translation of something.” I indicated the section of the contract. “Can you write down your interpretation of the text?”
“My first payment. Only nineteen more after this.” The words might have stung, but she touched my shoulder when she spoke to let me know she didn’t really mind the obligation.
The janissary twitched when she sat at the table, and for an instant, I thought he was going to object to someone else reading the contract, but he stayed in place as Laiha pulled a blank piece of parchment and quill to her and started to write. After a moment she gasped—she’d obviously understood the price the prince was willing to pay.
I let her write in silence. There was nothing worse than being badgered when you were working. Although I was eager to see what she was writing, watching her write was a pleasure in itself, her brow faintly scrunched up in concentration, her chest moving in time with her quill.
It took her much less time to finish than it had taken me to go through the same text, and it suddenly occurred to me how wise a wish she had made. There were no books in this library that she couldn’t read. I was very slightly jealous.
Her calligraphy was also beautiful. That had not been part of the agreement with the djinn. She obviously had hidden depths. Her translation was essentially the same as mine, except for a few words here or there. But then one word jumped out at me. Where I had translated firstborn child, she had written son and heir.
My heart jumped again, but this time out of fear. The crown prince had dozens, possibly hundreds of children, most illegitimate. Many resided in the palace, doing little more than taking up space.
But there was only one legitimate heir.
I crumpled up her note, thinking furiously. This was obviously what the demon didn’t want me to find. But I likely would not have found it if not for the demon’s warning. Had the demon made a mistake? Or was the game deeper than that?
It didn’t matter. I’d made an oath and needed to inform the prince. I summoned the head librarian and told him I needed to speak to His Majesty. Laiha was watching me, her eyes wide. I’d like to think that she was impressed by my person, but I suspected that it was more that I was soon going to be in the presence of the prince.
“Since you are already here, I’d like you to go through the rest of the agreement. Check it against my translation.” I showed her the stack of my scrawled translations. Sadly, my calligraphy was not nearly as neat as hers—something I’d been berated for more than once by my master.
I’d expected a long wait, but the majordomo arrived within minutes to lead me into the presence. As I followed him, I mentally played the “wish” game—if I had three wishes, what would I wish for? When I’d been young, it had all been about wealth and power, but now, I’d likely settle for knees and joints that didn’t creak, and the ability to eat whatever I wanted without getting fat. Not that I’d word it like that—knees that didn’t creak might not bend at all, and I still needed to get nourishment from my food. The wishes were modest and silly and not worth the risk. But . . . if I were young again, it is possible that someone like Laiha might be interested in me for something other than my legal skills.
All nonsense, of course. I, of all people, knew that wishes rarely worked out the way one hoped—no matter how carefully worded.
I didn’t even have a chance to prostrate myself before the crown prince called me forward.
“You found something?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” I explained about the translation of firstborn vs. heir.
Most men learn to hide their inner thoughts from others. Apparently, the prince had never bothered to learn that skill—or I was so unimportant that it wasn’t worth the effort. Either way, it was obvious that the prince was not surprised. He already knew.
“You have done good work, Doctor Kaled. I trust you will keep looking for other snares in the text.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” I, at least, was good at hiding what I was thinking. His heir—the shahzadeh—was far more popular than the prince. As unlike his father as it was possible for a son to be. The sultan—father to the prince and grandfather to the shahzadeh—had been gaga for years, leaving the prince to do what he liked. And what he liked was . . . not popular. Although the rumors were probably greatly exaggerated. Probably.
“The girl,” the prince said suddenly, breaking into my thoughts.
“She is a great translator.”
“So, you allowed her to read the agreement?”
Again, there was no subtlety in the prince’s face. I had been a fool to involve Laiha. Her life was now in danger.
“She is my apprentice, Your Majesty, and is bound by the oaths of our guild.”
“Ah.” The prince nodded once, then turned away. I was dismissed.
* * *
“There may be a few little things here and there,” said Laiha, when I returned. “But overall, I think your translation is sound.”
I went around the table and stood close to her, pretending to examine her notes, then leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “If anyone asks, you are my apprentice. Life and death.”
She stiffened slightly, but to her credit, she didn’t argue or respond. Instead, she pointed at the document. “See here, master, where you wrote ten thousand fire sprites, I think the meaning is ten thousand fire weapons, although I don’t know what that means.”
“It means that the prince must provide men to carry the weapons rather than sprites that will act upon orders. That is well spotted.” And it was—raising ten thousand soldiers for an invasion was a major undertaking, even if they had magical weapons. I wasn’t about to run back to the prince about this one, but it was something he should know.
“There’s also this,” she said, and pointed to some words in my translation. “I can’t think that can be right.” I read where she was pointing.
“No. That is correct. The prince has certain . . . proclivities that he wishes to be able to extend.”
Laiha was blushing scarlet now. Sadly, wishes related to that sort of thing were so common in my world that it hadn’t occurred to me how a young girl would react to them. I felt shame being associated with it, even knowing that the prince would not. I had been so tied up in the technical challenge that I had ignored the meaning behind the words.
Overall, this was a monstrous document between two monstrous creatures. The prince would gain massive power and weapons and other things in exchange for a few rituals and a noble soul that was certainly not his own. Only a prince could make an agreement about another’s soul, and only for his own flesh and blood. And the prince was happy to do it—didn’t care.
He would probably care more about the fire weapons, but something told me that wasn’t the mistake that the demon had warned me not to find. Laiha was the one to notice it, and none of the prince’s people had seen it, but I was confident I would have found it eventually. Probably.
“What happens if the agreement is broken?” asked Laiha suddenly.
“The prince’s life and soul would be forfeit, and all that is his would pass into nothingness.”
“Ah.”
Laiha was looking thoughtful. It seemed that every look she had was beautiful in another different way. I was pretty sure that something had occurred to her, but she just shook her head.
“Do you want me to stay, master?”
I desperately wanted her to stay. “No, thank you. I’ll see you in my office after this is over.”
She bowed slightly to me and turned to go. She seemed less friendly towards me than she had, but it might have just been shock over the agreement. Or over her sudden apprenticeship. I was pretty sure she’d have to go through with it, or the prince would find out. I watched her leave. I noticed that the janissary, who wasn’t supposed to react to anything, was also watching her with just the slightest hint of admiration.
* * *
I only had one more day. After Laiha left, I did a much more careful translation and found a few other minor issues to raise with the prince. But at this point I was striking cold iron. There was nothing in this agreement for me to find.
But I knew that wasn’t true.
Oh, the demon could have been lying to me, but that was unlikely. The demon had overestimated me, which filled me with shame. On the other hand, wisdom consists of ten parts, nine of them silence. If the demon hadn’t spoken, I would have stopped searching.
There was a sudden commotion and I looked up to see four janissaries march into the library. Laiha was being held by two of them. I felt my heart sink in my chest.
“This girl claims to be your apprentice.” It was the çorbaci, the head of all the guards in the palace. My heart sank further.
“She is, respected sir.”
“She was wandering unaccompanied through the palace. She said that she was taking a message to the shahzadeh.”
I bowed, thinking furiously. “It is my fault, respected sir. I told her that I wanted to check a fact about the shahzadeh, and she must have misunderstood and thought I had ordered her to find him. She is early in her studies. Please forgive me for her transgression.”
The çorbaci stared at me for several moments. He was a tall man with light hair and piercing blue eyes, which seemed to bore into my skull, but I kept my gaze passive until he finally looked away.
“The prince himself will be informed of this. In the meantime, keep better control of your apprentice.” He sneered the last word, but I didn’t care. Laiha was safe. At least for the moment.
After barking some commands to the janissary who guarded the document, the çorbaci turned and left with his men, leaving Laiha behind. She rushed up to me and hugged me. “I’m sorry,” she said. The hug counted for a thousand pardons.
“You wanted to warn the young princeling?” I asked her in Hebrew, a language I was quite sure the janissary didn’t speak.
“How could that monster sacrifice his own son?” she answered in the same language.
“You are playing with the lion’s tail. We have a duty to our prince and client.”
“Your client.” She sniffed. “And I’ll wait for the prince’s son before I swear allegiance.”
I froze. An idea was floating just out of reach of my mind. A suspicion began to form.
“Did you see the shahzadeh?” I asked. I had never seen him personally.
“From a distance. He is very handsome.”
“Describe him. What color is his hair? His eyes?” I may have been yelling.
Laiha’s face flushed, but she didn’t flinch. “Flaxen hair. He was far away, but his eyes were light—blue, I think.”
Could a dark-haired man have a light-haired child? The mother had dark hair—was famed for being a dark-haired beauty. I bit my lip.
“What about his ears?” I forced myself to keep my voice calm.
Laiha raised an eyebrow at me, but instead of protesting the triviality of the question, closed her eyes. Trying, I hoped, to picture what she had seen of the shahzadeh.
“Small,” she said finally, “and round, with lobes that hung down.”
That forced me to close my own eyes to try and remember—she had noticed a detail on the princeling that I had not noticed on the prince. I thought that he had no hanging lobes, but I wasn’t sure.
But with everything else—what else could it be? I suddenly understood the fiendishness of the demon’s plan. If I was right, it was truly diabolical: If I told the prince, great evil would be done. If I didn’t tell the prince, great evil would be done. And then there was the inner snare—if I kept silent, I would tacitly be accepting the agreement with the demon, even if I never opened the paper sitting in my office. The jaws of the trap were closing around me.
I smiled.
“What?” asked Laiha, caught somewhere between anger and frustration. Even that was beautiful.
“The greatest skill of a wish doctor is to make sure that the words are right.” I signaled the majordomo and told him I needed to see the prince again.
“And you”—I pointed at Laiha—“do not move from this spot.”
* * *
“You cannot sign the contract, Your Majesty.”
The prince stared at me, then smiled. I felt my legs turn to jelly. If you see the fangs of the lion, don’t think that the lion is smiling at you.
“Cannot?” He said it mildly, like he was experimenting with the sound of a word he had never heard before. I dropped to my knees and pressed my forehead to the cold marble. He left me there for some time before speaking again.
“Why cannot I sign the contract, Doctor?”
I swallowed. My eyes were watering, although that was as much from the pain in my knees as from fear.
“There is a trap, your majesty. A most insidious trap.”
“Tell me.”
I glanced up briefly. Just long enough to see that the prince’s large ears had no hanging lobes. I had been right.
I put my hand on the seal that hung around my neck. While holding it I could not lie. The prince raised an eyebrow at the motion. “Great harm will fall on you if you sign the contract. And great harm will fall if I tell you the reason.”
This was the moment where I would succeed or fail. The prince knew that I could not lie to him while touching my seal—that the evidence of the lie would be immediate and obvious.
But I had not lied. Since the heir was not actually his son, the contract would be violated, and the prince’s life and soul would be forfeit, so great harm for signing. And if I told him the reason, great harm would also fall, just not on him. It would be very bad for the shahzadeh, of course, and quite possibly for the future of the kingdom, but not bad for the crown prince himself. Would he notice the omission of those two words, “on you,” from my second sentence?
The prince stared at me for a long time, as if I were some sort of interesting but disgusting insect. Perhaps he was waiting for my skin to begin to boil, or some other evidence of a lie.
Then he waved a hand at me as though we had been talking over some minor matter of court etiquette. “Very well. You may go.”
I struggled to my feet, bowed as deeply as I was able, then backed out of the room.
The çorbaci led me out of the palace personally, although not in an entirely direct route. He took me to a wing of the palace where I had not been before. A handsome man with thick, flaxen hair was sitting at a writing desk, working diligently on some paperwork. He looked up when we approached and nodded at me, examining me with bright blue eyes. I started to go down on my knees, but he gestured for me to remain standing.
“I understand you have done good work. For my father,” said the heir, very slightly emphasizing the last word.
“I have done my best to serve the kingdom, Your Highness.”
That got me a smile, which was also a dismissal. The çorbaci led me away. Having now seen the shahzadeh, it was amazing to me that anyone would believe that the handsome youth was the son of the crown prince. Honestly, he looked more like the çorbaci than the . . . 
Oh.
* * *
“I can’t tell you unless you sign the oath. Probably not even then.”
This got me a scowl. “But you said that, since he’s not signing the contract, I’m probably not in danger from reading it, even if I don’t become your apprentice.”
“That is probably true.”
“But I want to travel, see the whole world. I don’t want to be a wish doctor.”
Part of me wanted to offer to take her around the world as my apprentice, but I knew that I didn’t have the energy for that. Besides, I was old enough to be Laiha’s father. Her grandfather. I enjoyed her company, but I was not so foolish as to think that she thought of me as anything more than a gray-bearded friend.
“You still owe me nineteen translations, don’t forget. It wouldn’t hurt for you to learn a few more things while you waited.”
I saw her thinking about it, scowling. She hadn’t realized that the translations were an onus on her that would prevent her travelling. Which meant that I was an onus on her.
I sighed, pulled out a blank contract, and filled it in. I, Doctor Kaled Mahmoud ibn Hatim ibn Ashraf will allow my apprentice, Laiha, to travel as much as she deems appropriate, so long as she studies the materials I provide and, further, that she will only be required to translate if I can reasonably contact her.
It was the most one-sided contract I’d ever written—although there were a couple of little trick clauses that she probably wouldn’t notice—something to aid her on her road to becoming a wish doctor.
She read the contract, then smiled and signed it.
“Can I read the oath before I sign that?”
“Be my guest.” I gestured towards the large document spread out on my desk. Laiha would be one of the few apprentices who could completely read the text before signing.
She read it through quickly, then more slowly.
“Why all the archaic terms and language?”
“Doctors are naturally conservative. Once we know that a piece of language works, we tend to stick with it.”
“But words change their meaning over time.”
I raised an eyebrow at that. It was true—the original oath was said to be five hundred years old. Was it possible that the meaning of some of the words had changed in that time? If so, was that what I would read on the paper hidden in the secret drawer in my desk—that a change in language had opened up a loophole?
Laiha read the document one more time, then smiled broadly and signed the oath with a flourish.
If I asked, Laiha would tell me what she’d spotted. If she wouldn’t, I could have her translate the document as part of her commitment to me. But if I was any good, I’d be able to find the loophole myself. I relished the opportunity. It suddenly occurred to me that this was a second trap set by the demon—if the wish doctors weren’t fully bound by their oaths, all sorts of chaos would be unleashed.
“Enjoy your travels, apprentice. Don’t fall in love with any young buck while you’re out there.”
She touched her heart, then gestured towards me, which was charming of her, and made me smile. I resolved to study the oath while she was gone. Perhaps, by the time she got back, I would have found the loophole and could be young and handsome myself. A little chaos is not necessarily a terrible thing.
End

As well as writing fiction, Arlen Feldman is a software engineer, entrepreneur, maker, costumer, con-runner (cosinecon.org), and computer book author. His short fiction can be found in a number of anthologies and magazines. He lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Website: cowthulu.com. Mastodon: @cowthulu@mastodon.social. Bluesky: @cowthulu.bsky.social

Data Rod I-37 
by Richard Fox

A man’s palm adjusted a camera bulb before pulling away to reveal a mop of greying curled hair. The palm returned and futzed with the angle until the fuzzy feed resolved into a rail thin man with tired eyes sitting in a room laden with data slates and holo maps of dead interstellar nations.
“System, note date and location. This is Francesco Muston of the Umbrian Coalition Scholarship Foundation,” the man said. He sat up straighter, frowning at something, then reached for a brush and tried to tame his unkempt hair. “System, apply my usual filter and recut with my usual introduction.”
A faint chirp sounded.
“Again, this is Francesco Muston and I’ve just now come into ownership of a critical piece of the historical record concerning the Hegemony Collapse of 2658. I want my initial, unvarnished, reaction to the record as my generous patron from the Bayraktar Group insists on undiluted content for his records while I am allowed more leeway when it comes to peer review submissions. While I have paid for . . . numerous . . . copies of already established records and outright forgeries, my source of this document makes frequent trips into post-Hegemony territories and has delivered reliable information in the past. I do hope to make my own fact finding journey once the security situation improves, though that’s been an aspiration for many years, and warfare between factions has gone from a simmer to new conflagration as of my source’s latest field report.”
Muston sighed and held up a small amber colored rod.
“Initial scans confirm this quantum fused data core is of late-Hegemony manufacture and the headers indicate it was sealed on the planet Dahrien, which has been subject to some speculation amongst Hegemony scholars, though the planet is on the other side of the Fire Break and it will be difficult to independently verify this information. Let’s have a watch, shall we? Sure hope this isn’t another Skein soldier snuff film or the more esoteric adult orientated—System delete that last sentence before dissemination.”
A faint chirp sounded.
Muston’s image shrank to a small portrait in the upper left side of the screen as a massive starship in orbit over a garden world appeared, accompanied by a fanfare of horns and orchestral music.
“And we have the usual ‘Hegemony, My Heart’ anthem opener,” Muston said over the music. “We’ve all seen this a thousand times so let me skip ahead . . . ”
The video jumped to an auto-combine harvesting fields of grain, then to smiling, happy soldiers in exo-frame armor marching down a boulevard in a city of skyscrapers, whose tops vanished into a cloudy sky. The final image was of two rows of opulently dressed men and women standing around an Art Deco rotunda beneath a glass dome showing a deep star field above. The anthem ended with a fanfare.
“Those were the final members of the Most High council.” Muston took a sip from a steaming cup of tea. “Consistent with the time stamp.”
The video cut to an apparently habitable world in space, flanked by a pair of newscasters.
“Them again.” Muston rolled his eyes.
“Hello, I’m Chad Storm,” the male with perfect hair and even more perfect teeth said. He had a soulless depth in his emerald green eyes.
“And I’m Vanessa Blanco.” The woman to Chad’s left had a perfect coif of blonde hair that had a timeless quality to it. Her chin was chiseled by the finest plastic surgeons and her exposed cleavage was dangerously close to being indecent by most civilized standards.
“Welcome to the Dahrien Report. Where you learn the truth.” Chad leveled a finger at the camera.
“We begin this evening with excellent news from Governor Van Wyck out of Fort Equity.” Vanessa’s voice was almost sultry.
“System pause.” Muston set his tea down and adjusted his seat as the recording stopped. “Note the vocal fry from the Blanco bot. Hegemony Intelligence Agency would typically modify her vocal patterns to . . . distract . . . male viewers with more primal stimulae when covering up bad news. Interesting. System start.”
The video cut to a city with a skyline of ugly, Brutalist architecture. The sky was thick with humidity and smog. Few air cars moved between the buildings and there were even fewer drones in the sky in and around the city.
The feed cut to a street with slow-moving traffic and the occasional pedestrian walking with heads up, shoulders back and with a great deal of confidence. Pregnant women with one or more children in tow walked without care or concern as a robo-servant carting groceries and other commercial goods trailed behind the safe and secure noncombatants.
“Dahrien City remains as peaceful and prosperous as any city in our Hegemony. We give thanks to the righteous guidance of the Most High,” Chad Storm said.
“Did you know Dahrien residents have a zero point eight higher standard of living quotient than the Hegemony mean?” Vanessa Blanco asked as the video cut to a multi-tiered fountain spouting crystal clear water.
“I did not,” Chad said and broke into forced laughter.
The video froze. Grainy pixels pulsed on the screen as the cheery background music continued. Muston frowned and leaned to one side, then leaned closer to the workstation he’d plugged the data rod into.
The screen jiggled and the impressive fountain changed to a dilapidated wreck, grafitti and garbage strewn about. A man in a tattered Hegemony Army uniform slept against the bottom of the fountain, feet bare and dirt blackened.
Footage of emaciated children in little more than rags in a shanty town, a stream of sewage ran through a dirt street, the same sky line loomed close by.
“What’s this then?” Muston squinted at his screen. “This can’t be a sanctioned broadcast.”
“Dahrien’s void port is always bustling with trade and raw materials generously donated by the greater Hegemony to complete quality of life initiatives laid out by Marshal Van Wyck at the directives of the Most High Council,” Chad Storm’s voice over continued as the video switched to a low drone sweep of commercial shipping vessels moored inside a walled landing dock.
Smiling longshoreman supervised the offloading of massive cargo containers. A Hegemony naval officer and customs inspector shared a belly laugh, hot cups of coffee in hand.
The video pixelated again and the feed changed to a run-down section of the same void port. A tramp freighter crewed by men in common work overalls with no care for uniformity or cleanliness kept a nervous lookout from the ramp. A man handed over a stack of Hegemony credit certificates to a sailor who thumbed through the bills before jerking his head towards the ramp.
The paying customer waved his family out from hiding and they hurried into the ship, carrying their worldly possessions in a few small bags.
A jump cut to a worldwide map of Dahrien showed the many provinces on the main continent and surrounding island chains. An icon of a star inside a white circle pulsed to draw the viewer's eye to the capitol city.
Red streaks shaded surrounding provinces to accompanying threatening music.
“While the peace and prosperity of Dahrien City is a beacon of hope and the efficacy of the Hegemony system, not everyone wishes to be part of the winning team,” Chad Storm said.
“Ugh, who wrote this?” Muston sipped his tea.
“That’s right, Chad. A small insurgency force dubbed the ‘Red Banner’ have attacked civilian population centers in the Quang Tri,” the map shifted from one province to another, “Phu Yen. Kampong Chang, Kampot, Bokeo—“
“That’s too many. Stop there!” a phlegmy voice called out from off screen, cutting off Vanessa Blanco.
The red streaks vanished from several outlying provinces to much fanfare from the music track.
“But thanks to the amazing efforts of our Hegemony’s brave defenders, insurgent activity in almost all outlying provinces has been eradicated!” Chad Storm announced.
The video switched to soldiers in exo-armor flanking taller soldiers in mech armor, the arm holding large rotary cannons oversized and heavily shielded with metal plates, giving them a crablike appearance. Civilians of a different ethnic group than the soldiers stood around clapping nervously. A city smoldered in the background.
The screen pixelated again to low altitude aerial footage outside of a city built at the confluence of several rivers, high levees along the banks made from red stone bore high-water marks from countless flood seasons.
A flash in the sky heralded an object as it descended from orbit.
“Oh no.” Muston set his tea down. He winced hard as a kinetic energy weapon struck near the city center, landing with the force of a nuclear warhead. Blast waves crumbled the façade from buildings, blowing a gray squall through the city. Exposed structures remained after the blast settled, soon marred by black smoke from thousands of fires.
“Pause!” Muston slapped a hand against his desk. “The use . . . the use of dead-head orbital munitions, referred to as ‘rods from God’ by most Hegemony service members, was common place during the later stages of Hegemony control on their outlying systems. The Most High council turned a blind eye to their use while officially condemning any such attacks if the news leaked out to the nets. The media suppression for any and all blatant attacks on civilians was rather effective as reports of their use didn’t reach the Umbrian—or even the Alliance—until after the Hegemony’s collapse. Naturally, this data rod begs the question of just how such footage was spliced into an official record for dissemination . . . hmm.”
Muston spun his chair around and picked up a slate without stopping his rotation until facing the camera again.
“My initial suspicion is that this record was produced by the Elisabeta Richter Resistance. For those of you less up to date on late Hegemony ‘terrorist’ organizations,” Muston gave an exasperated glance at the camera, “it was famous—well, infamous really—for exposing corruption and deceit within the Hegemony, particularly the Most High oligarchy. It had its beginning with a once well connected High Guard family that fell from grace—Elisabeta Richter was executed for high treason five years after the Armistice agreement with the Alliance. But she established a network that outlived her and treated her death as a martyrdom. I suspect we’ll see further fingerprints of the Elisabeta Resistance as the Alliance supplied AI they used to hack Hegemony systems is out of date and its fingerprints should be detectable in a deeper scan. Let’s continue. Hmm . . . I wonder what city that was?”
Chad Storm’s narration continued as the video restarted.
“That’s right, Vanessa, the Skein Corps of enhanced soldiers brought a quick peace to the restive areas.”
Deathly pale soldiers in cut-down uniforms rode atop Wolverine tanks, all carrying carbines. Blood red kill tallies were tattooed to forearms and shoulders. The soldiers leapt off the tank and charged into a village surrounded by rice patties. They fired wildly into the pre-fab homes covered with grass roofs, driving civilians out in a panic.
Launchers on the back of the Wolverine tank coughed, spitting small drones into the air that deployed anti-grav engines and raced towards the civilians. The pale soldiers cheered as the drones exploded over a road leading away from the attack.
“System pause.” Muston rubbed his chin. “System, flag this footage for war crimes and work up a censored version as per Foundation standards for later dissemination. I don’t care to watch such activities but I am a historian and we must take the good with the bad. Those mature enough for the uncensored footage can access it at their leisure. This is what happens when you dedicate your career to the Hegemony.”
Muston sighed.
“System, resume.”
Footage of the pale soldiers throwing bodies into mass graves while some of their number set fire to the village played out. More than one had a bottle of alcohol in hand.
“No doubt those Hegemony citizens are thankful the Red Banner have been driven from their homes.” Chad Storm narrated with barely contained pride. “While search and clear operations continue, some citizens have resisted the mandatory relocation efforts aimed to move them to safer areas.”
Video of burnt out Hegemony tanks on a raised road was in stark contrast to the newscaster’s picture. Dahrien civilians pulled a dying Skein soldier from a tank and set upon her with clubs and feet.
Muston looked away.
“While counterinsurgency efforts continue,” Vanessa Blanco spoke as the video suddenly cut back to canned imagery of Hegemony glory, a galactic view showing the hundreds of star systems of the Hegemony was surrounded by smaller star nations, though the true extent of their size was cut off by the video aperture. “A final offensive will finally defeat anti-Hegemony forces in the more rural areas. Now with news of this offensive, I give you Marshall Van Wyck.”
The screen switched to a pudgy man sitting in an opulent office with a penthouse view of Dahrien City in the background. His face was emotionless and flat.
Muston raised his tea cup to his mouth.
“Hello, I am Marshall Van Wyck. The Most High council, in its infinite wisdom, has granted Dahrien reinforcements from the Hegemony Armed Forces.” His lips moved out of synch with his words. “As victory is near, reserve forces from Bretton will ensure a quick end to hostilities.”
Muston spat out tea.
“System, pause! Pause!” Muston wiped a hand across his mouth and looked down at his wet lap. “Cut back ten seconds and show subtitles.”
“Subtitles are auto-generated.” A computer voice twittered.
“Just do it.” Muston picked up a stylus and slate.
“—granted Dahrien reinforcements from the Hegemony Armed Forces. As victory is near, reserve forces from Bretton will ensure a quick end to—”
“System, pause!” Muston raised a trembling hand. A nervous smile spread across his face. “Oh my. Oh my. Praise to Kaishen I think I’ve finally found it. There’s been years of disagreement over where the Bretton 12th was located within the Hegemony when the Collapse began. While the scholarship of one Yancy Khutughtu led to a general consensus that the Bretton 12th was stationed in the York System as auxiliaries when the governor declared independence following Supreme Marshal Telemachus’s coup—it wasn’t there!”
Muston nearly hopped out of his chair in excitement.
“This is conclusive proof that Dahrien—not York!—was the point of origin for the Bretton battalion that proved to be so pivotal to events across the Hegemony during the Collapse. I’m sorry, Yancy, but you won’t be able to sleep your way into a grant with your dodgy scholarship, horrendous attribution and even worse sourcing. York! Ha!”
Muston raised his chin and adopted an air of superiority.
“Actually, System, erase that last part. The Grant Council hates petty behavior. At least, they say they do. Just tell that to ‘Imperium of Man’ researchers—moving on.” Muston flapped his hand in front of his face. “But it was Dahrien all along . . . who would’ve thought? Perhaps I should float the hypothesis in a few papers then hit the nets with this somewhat definitive proof. Definitive-ish proof. Let’s see what else is here. System, resume.”
Marshall Van Wyck continued speaking, though his lips stopped moving
“—the ongoing rebellion in the outlying provinces.”
Color drained from his skin. A grid pattern revealed itself at his continued speaking.
“The Hegemony will never tolerate any assaults on its soldiers or failure to pay mandated taxes to support the larger war effort. As such, I am forced to announce a new five percent truncation to all savings account balances and an additional two percent surcharge to all transactions through Hegemony Bank.”
“That’s an AI construct, not the actual Marshal.” Muston’s mouth squirmed like he’d tasted something bitter. “I don’t remember his name being on the list of loyalists . . . ”
The video cut back to the newscasters.
“Taxes are the price we pay to live in a civilized society,” Chad Storm said.
“I donate ten percent of my paycheck over and above my usual taxes,” Vanessa said with glee.
“Great job, Vanessa!” Chad’s smile broadened. “Now let’s go to Kenny Kitsune with the man on the street’s reaction to this great news.”
The video switched to a Dahrien native standing on the shoulder of a wide dirt road, thick jungle in the background.
A small microphone drone flew up to the man’s mouth. Muston paused the screen and noted the muzzle of a rifle that dipped in and out of frame, pointed at the interviewee. He spoke in a dialect Muston didn’t recognize but the video provided a computer generated voice over.
“I am grateful for the Hegemony relocating my family to the camps. There is plenty of fresh water and some food. The implants stop itching after a few days and I have no desire to return to my family shrines to tend to their souls as required by the spirits.”
“And how do you feel about the brave soldiers of Bretton coming to help fight and win final victory for Hegemony control?” Chad Storm asked.
“Who?” The man looked to one side.
A boot kicked out and struck him in the thigh. He sucked air through teeth in pain and lowered his head, shielding his head from a follow up strike that didn’t come.
“And how do you feel about the brave soldiers of Bretton coming to help fight and win final victory for Hegemony control?” Vanessa Blanco asked.
“Line? OK . . . The people of Dahrien will welcome anyone and everyone willing to sacrifice their—” the man narrowed his eyes as he read the answer off something out of frame “—their time away from their home worlds and family shrines. May the spirits grant them protection and strong sons from supple wives.”
“That can’t be a real blessing.” Muston narrowed his eyes slightly.
The video returned to the newscasters.
“What a great boost of support! Welcome to the fight, men of Bretton,” Vanessa Blanco nibbled on her bottom lip.
“And with that let’s return to Marshall Van Wyck with an important message,” Chad Storm said.
The screen cut back to the frozen image of the AI construct.
“All Hegemony citizens are reminded to avoid interfering with any and all actions carried out by our Skein soldiers. They remain under formal command of Supreme Marshall Telemachus and any protests, negative reports or any behavior deemed undesirable by law enforcement personnel will result in immediate transfer to an internment camp until the Skien detachment is recalled to Telemachus’ direct command.”
The video pixelated and resolved into an image of a pale-skinned and platinum-haired soldier standing in the command cupola of a Colossus super heavy tank. His uniform was meant for a parade ground, not a battlefield. He lowered binoculars and muted fanfare played in the background.
“System pause.” Muston let out a sigh. “This sort of canned propaganda surrounding Supreme Marshall Telemachus is common through pre-Collapse records. The Hegemony made a hero out of the Supreme Marshall when the Most High oligarchy was well aware of the length and breadth of Telemachus’ . . . atrocities. Myself and other scholars postulate that the oligarchy intended to lay the blame for all of their excesses needed to quell the security issues facing the Hegemony after the Alliance War. Charging Telemachus with the crimes the Most High turned a blind eye to—correction, authorized with a wink and a nod—would turn him into an effective scapegoat and cast the Most High in a better light once their power was solidified. As we all know . . . that didn’t happen. System, resume.”
Video of Skein soldiers parading through a conquered city, boots stomping, heads turned and salutes rendered up to a stage with Supreme Marshall Telemachus before a bombed out capitol building played.
The screen pixelated and light poles bearing hung civilians and soldiers appeared in the background.
“System, are the recent . . . video artifacts original or edited in?” Muston asked.
“Video editing was removed from the playback. The deceased individuals are likely authentic,” the computer said.
“That follows Hegemony Intelligence’s usual modus operandi. The impact of the Skein’s impact in pre-Collapse Hegemony are well documented. Granted, what did anyone think that soldiers genetically incapable of empathy or disobedience would do? We’re not treading into any new ground with this data rod. I suspect it was produced by the Richter Resistance as they were instrumental in raising awareness of those war crimes inside and outside of the Hegemony.”
“And now for sports!” Chad Storm said.
“Thanks, Chad. Back to Kenny Kitsune with the man on the street reaction. Kenny?”
Muston’s brow furrowed in confusion.
The video switched to a decent sized village. Children played in the streets. Soldiers with red cloth wrapped around their heads and bearing crossed bandoliers over black uniforms. One of the soldiers approached the camera and spoke in heavily accented standard.
“My name is Somnang Munsi. The Hegemony has lost all control outside of the capitol province. Do not believe any lies coming from that bone skin Van Wyck. The people of Dahrien will govern ourselves by our own laws and our own traditions. The Hegemony is a rotten khinzir that only steals from us and gives nothing back but misery and death.”
“System pause.” Muston set his tea mug down. “Rewind two seconds and enhance the upper left corner. The figure in white.”
The video rewound as red rectangles appeared around individuals in the background before pulsing over an elderly man in a white tunic over tattered camouflaged pants. He was clearly of a different ethnicity than the Dahrien civilians. The video centered on him as he crossed the back ground. Children scampered away from him. More than one mother covered their children’s eyes so as not to look at the stranger.
“Huh. Huh now that’s interesting.” Muston brought the mug back up to his lips but set it down without drinking. “System, are there any records of the Antares Temple sending their Shepherds to Dahrien? Pre-Collapse.”
“Records incomplete,” a computer voice said with a degree of cheerfulness.
“Another first.” Muston scratched his chin. He sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over his knee. “The Antares typically don’t show up on a planet unless the conflict’s either over or fighting’s been going for at least two years. Typically. Wasn’t the first—System, where was the first recorded appearance of Shepherds?”
“The first recorded appearance of known individuals with Antares religious affiliation was on planet Ayutthaya by Eugenia Kiesling in the year—”
“Just after the Hegemony-Alliance war. No one doubts Professor Kiesling’s scholarship. Take note of that, Yancey, you absolute slut of an amateur. System delete that last part.”
A pleasant chirp sounded from the computer.
“So we have a sighting of an Antares Shepherd. I wonder if the cultural similarities between Dahrien and Ayutthaya led to an early appearance. Granted, insurgencies are a target rich environment for those who specialize in finding lost and presumed dead combatants. That’s an unfortunate phrasing. Remind me to come back to that before I push this out for publication.”
A chirp.
“But if Antares was present on Dahrien when the Bretton 12th was there, then there’s a decent chance the Antares might have records to corroborate the Bretton presence. The unit certainly took significant casualties during the Collapse and they were at nearly half strength before they took part in the Siege of Firenze. I could petition their temple on Colophon but they only accept in person requests and the donation threshold is considerable. But the Grant Council should be excited with these news—Colophon is a bit of a shit hole. Maybe I could get funding to Marmaris? The beaches are amazing. I’ve heard. System, resume.”
“To all Hegemony soldiers on Dahrien. The Flags tell you to leave. We will not shoot you in the back.” He took out a wide bladed knife. “If you don’t leave, we will slit your throats beneath the red moon.”
“Pleasant,” Muston chuckled. “Where . . . where the hell is Dahrien anyway?”
The video cut back to the news room.
“And that was sports!” Chad Storm announced. “I certainly hope—” his voice shifted octaves—“home team wins.”
“I always root for them,” Vanessa Blanco said. “Let’s check in on local weather conditions with ace meteorologist Sofia Garces. Sofia?”
The screen stayed on the two frozen newscasters.
“No Sofia? But she always knows how to turn the weather into something more titillating?” Muston chuckled. “You all can delve into those records on your own. Sofia Garces’ talents weren’t in her ability to give accurate weather forecasts, but from her other ample . . . assets.”
A man with fat jowls, an apple shaped physique and bad skin that looked like it hadn’t been touched by natural light in years waddled into the frame. He wore a Hegemony uniform with several food stains on the sleeves and edges.
“Son of a bitch.” Muston’s face fell.
“Can we do more with this?” the man asked, pointing at Vanessa Blanco’s cleavage. “Because the less attention on the broadcast the better . . . Why not a full on wardrobe malfunction? A what trap? We’re making the easy puns now, are we?”
He walked behind Chad Storm and mussed up the perfect hair. Filaments in the robot’s scalp returned the hair to its original configuration a moment later.
“System, pause,” Muston leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “We’ve got a confirmed record of Neville Harris on Dahrien. I’m going to assume the Richter Resistance was only partially active on the planet and this recording is that much more authentic. The Resistance would’ve killed Harris if his crimes were known at the time of this recording. Later crimes. Why was a high ranking Hegemony Intelligence Directive operative like him on Dahrien? I have to put even more stringent war crimes restrictions on my paper if unedited footage of him is included.”
Muston kicked a desk, wobbling the screen.
“This made my grant that much harder!” He buried his head in his hands and took several slow breaths before sitting back and slapping palms against his thighs. “But I have a lead on the Bretton 12th. We finally have a lead on the beginning of their history during the Collapse. What’s this ‘we’ nonsense? I have a lead and I’m not sharing it. So much more scholarship to do . . . I can practically smell tenure. System! Place this entire recording under War Crimes Act encryption with my gene-lock and end video.
A pleasant chirp and the screen went black.

Richard Fox is the winner of the 2017 Dragon Award for Best Military Science Fiction or Fantasy novel. He's best known for The Ember War Saga, a military science fiction and space opera series.

His writing draws extensively from his experiences in the United States Army, where he served two combat tours in Iraq and was awarded the Bronze Star, Combat Action Badge and Presidential Unit Citation. He lives in fabulous Las Vegas with his incredible wife and three boys, amazing children bent on anarchy. His latest novel from Baen is Men of Bretton.

Heroes & Survivors 
by Justin Watson

Twin columns of brown-uniformed soldiers trudged across the snow-covered plain into a conifer forest. Deprived of the day’s sunlight by the long shadows of the pines, the temperature in the forest dropped precipitously, affecting even Russian troops known for their indifference to the chill. The winds whistled through the pines and cut through their coats. The slush of snow and mud pulled at their boots with every step. Marching between the two columns, Sergei Chekov, his plain features and black eyes hard and glaring, removed his brimmed cap and ran a hand through his dirty blond hair as he passed into the forest. He let loose a sharp exhalation that turned instantly to smoking vapor, then inhaled deeply, letting the cold sting his nostrils, throat and lungs.
Chekov replaced his cap, stopped under the cover of the trees and counted off the remains of his platoon as they passed into the concealment of the white-clad pines. He did so every few kilometers to ensure none had gotten lost or mixed up with another unit in the retreat.
. . . sixteen, seventeen, eighteen—all accounted for. We marched into Galicia almost two years ago with thirty-six men. Now this is all that’s left, and most of these new men; soft city boys conscripted, or else taken in by the Marxists’ propaganda.
That Chekov himself was from the relatively cosmopolitan city of Yaroslavl failed to soften his disdain for his fellow urbanites filling up the ranks of the new Red Army. Many of them were motivated, but their training was utter shit, and their frequently genuine devotion to ideology annoyed him to no end. Maybe they were right, maybe the communists would usher in a new era of peace and plenty for Russia. But out here, all that mattered was survival, not the fantasies of intellectuals.
As the last man of his platoon entered the woods, Chekov picked up his pace again, closing to the front of the formation. On his way to the front he heard two voices, one the booming baritone of his first squad leader and oldest friend, Anton Dostovalov, the other a younger, higher pitched tenor—one of the new men. What was his name?
“Is it true Feldfebel Chekov earned the St. George Cross?” said the new man, a reedy kid, medium height like Chekov himself; so a dwarf next to Dostovalov. Dostovalov, tall, heavily muscled with frost-dusted thick black hair and mustache, was as handsome as Chekov was plain. He looked over his shoulder to answer the boy, but Chekov interrupted.
“Tsarist trinkets don’t stop German shells, boy,” Chekov said. “Just keep your rifle clean, your head down and do what Comrade Dostovalov tells you. Maybe you’ll live.”
“Yes, Comrade Chekov,” the boy said, voice subdued.
“The platoon commander is quite correct Yevgeny Grigorivich,” Dostovalov said. “And besides, we’re the Red Army now, don’t want to agitate the commissar by asking too much about the Imperial Army days or using the old Tsarist ranks. Gotta survive him and the Germans, then, like Comrade Chekov said, you might live.”
Chekov continued on to the head of the platoon, ignoring Dostovalov’s good-natured admonishment to the younger man. It was true, the boy might live. They might all still live. The war was almost over, all the veterans could feel it. Just survive a little longer and you might make it home.
Even though negotiations had broken down, both rumor and Commissar Golubstov, their only source for “official” news, agreed that Lenin still wanted Russia out of the war. The Bolsheviks had been suing for peace ever since they took power. The Germans were only pushing now for more territory with which to bargain. Personally, as long as Rodina was left intact, Chekov didn’t give a shit. They were so goddamn close to peace, what was the point of it anymore?
I’ve never seen Poland or the Ukraine before, and fuck if I ever want to again. Lenin needs to pull his head out of his ass and sign a goddamn peace treaty.
The mechanical roar of an aircraft engine drew Chekov’s eyes upward. An Anatra D biplane soared over the boughs of the pines, easily visible against the cold blue sky. Chekov didn’t have to squint to make out the concentric red-blue-white roundel of the Imperial Russian Air Service on the side of the plane. The Bolsheviks hadn’t gotten around to replacing the symbols on this particular aircraft with hammers and sickles or whatever communist iconography they were going to use.
The plane rocked its wings side to side in a friendly gesture on its way over the Russian column. Glad it wasn’t some Fritz crate coming to strafe them, Chekov relaxed and kept marching, turning around in his tracks every so often, keeping his eyes on what remained of his men. Some miles ahead of them, to the East, the biplane circled and then slowly descended, disappearing from view below the treetops.
No airport near here, must have landed in a field.
They marched for another hour before Commissar Golubstov came marching back between the columns to meet Chekov. Golubstov was in his early twenties, roughly the same age as Chekov, but was much newer to the Army. The commissars had been dispatched by the Communist Party to ensure the men were exposed to proper communist doctrine and to keep an eye on the Army’s officers because a fraction were retreads from the Imperial Army—many of them minor nobility. Golubstov was tall and thin with a brown bristle mustache and pale blue eyes. He swaggered up to Chekov, no rifle in his hand, just one of those American Colt semi-automatic pistols in a holster at his hip.
“Comrade Chekov, have your men set up security here,” Golubstov said, his voice nasal and grating. “Then follow me. The commander wants to see you.”
“Yes, Comrade Commissar,” Chekov said, his tone flat. He turned to his squad leaders.
“Dostovalov, Bessonov,” he said. “Long halt here.”
Chekov stood stock still for a solid minute as Dostovalov and Bessonov positioned the men among the trees, not because he had any doubt of his fellow noncommissioned officers’ ability to array the platoon but because he could feel Golubstov twitching and glaring behind him. Chekov took some small joy in that. For a man supposed to embody the wonders of their new classless society, Golubstov was as imperious and haughty as any of the inbred, aristocratic twits that littered the Imperial Officer Corps.
Pompous Bolshevik bastard.
Once his eighteen men were all on their bellies amidst the trees, staring down their rifles, Chekov turned and strode toward the tall Marxist fanatic, his expression carefully devoid of the smugness he felt at making the man wait.
“After you, Comrade Commissar,” said Chekov.
Chekov lengthened his stride to keep up with the rangy commissar’s gait as they marched through the woods, past the company’s other two rifle platoons and the regimental machine gun company. The riflemen and machine gunners’ heads hung low, apparently devoid of emotion or thought save to put one foot in front of another. Unlike his platoon, the rest of the regiment wasn’t stopping but continuing their march East.
That can’t be a good sign.
As they passed through the ranks of yet another retreating rifle company, the woods opened up into a clearing long since transformed from snowy blanket to brown-gray patchwork with boot prints and wheel ruts. The Anatra D biplane was parked in the center of the field, its engine quiet, its swept wings seeming to droop at being earthbound. The pilot, apparent by his thick leather coat, and the goggles hanging around his neck, stood with several officers from the regiment gathered around the lower right wing of the craft.
Golubstov led him toward the plane. As they closed the distance, Chekov recognized Colonel Pozharsky, his regimental commander. Pozharsky was bullnecked and florid faced, as tall as the scarecrow commissar but easily twice his mass. He was flanked by his battalion commanders and, Chekov saw, Chekov’s own company commander, Captain Delov.
Delov’s mouth was a flat line, his eyes clouded as Chekov approached.
Not a good sign at all.
Turning his eyes to Pozharsky, the senior officer present, Chekov slung his rifle and saluted sharply. Pozharsky’s lip twitched at the uncharacteristic display of punctilious military courtesy—courtesy out of favor, even illegal in the new Red Army. The Old Man’s eyes flicked to the commissar, seeming to realize for whose benefit Chekov saluted, then returned the salute as crisply.
I advise the new men not to antagonize the zampolit, then do everything I can to provoke the man myself. Do I have some sort of death wish?
Catching a glimpse of Golubstov’s thin face scrunched in anger, Chekov couldn’t regret his action. The war had been bad enough fighting under the incompetent command of the Tsar, may his reign long be consigned to the chamber pot of history. Now, though, the communists had supplemented the aristocratic officer corps, who ranged from terrible to passable, with half-baked commissars and soviets; committees of troops who could vote on their leaders and battle plans. Because the dumbest private in the back rank should always get a vote on how to assault a trench.
What made it all the worse was that the Bolsheviks gutted the discipline of Russia’s military thus before they secured peace with the Germans. With a chain of command that could evaporate at the whim of a zampolit or in a fit of pique from the enlisted men, they were expected to defend the, “cradle of the Revolution,” from the Kaiser’s seasoned, disciplined and well-led troops.
Unlike the war in the West, the Eastern Front had never metastasized into miles-long systems of static trenches. Even with millions of men at war in the East, the geography over which Russia fought against Germany and Austria was simply too immense to fortify and man. The lines shifted back and forth, miles and miles of ground lost and taken with every year.
Now the dying continues, but we only give ground, never take it. It’s a minor miracle this regiment is even retreating in good order.
“Comrade Chekov, good,” Pozharsky said, his voice gruff. “I’ll cut straight to it; you drew the short straw again.”
Motherfucker.
“I see,” Chekov said. “And I wasn’t even there for it.”
“Sorry, Sergei Arkadyevich,” Delov said, using Chekov’s patronymic. “But none of the other platoon commanders have your experience.”
“Of course they don’t,” Chekov said with a snort. “How could they when my boys have been getting all the choice assignments since 1915?”
“I volunteered to command the mission mys—” Delov started, but Golubstov cut him off.
“Comrade Delov, the bulk of your company will be elsewhere,” Golubstov said. “It would be inappropriate for you to leave them unattended. Do not worry. I will accompany Comrade Chekov and his platoon.”
Chekov’s gut clenched. Whatever shit mission they had in mind for him, the last thing he needed was this communist fuck along for the ride.
“Comrade Commissar, that’s hardly necessary,” Pozharsky said. “If Delov should be with his company, so you belong with the main body of the Regiment, that we may all benefit from the guidance of the Party.”
It was mark of the Old Man’s discipline that Pozharsky got the words out without a hint of irony. Either unaware that he was being mocked, or unwilling to admit it, Golubstov responded in earnest.
“Normally you would be right, of course,” he said with a sniff. “But this will be the regiment’s most important mission for the time being and requires personal attention. I understand that Comrade Chekov is an experienced soldier, but I’ve found that he and his men lack the proper revolutionary zeal. Without someone to stiffen their spines they may too easily give ground. Since the Regiment’s officers are required to lead their men, I shall fill in the gap.”
Stiffen my spine? I’ll stiffen yours by turning you into a corpse.
Knowing that words might see Golubstov’s pistol in his face, Chekov contented himself with a cold glare, a glare he knew unnerved better men than the commissar. Golubstov met his eyes for only a moment before his haughty expression slipped. Pozharsky spoke again, giving Golubstov an excuse to look away.
“This isn’t a suicide mission, Golubstov,” Pozharsky said. “Chekov need only buy us some time to get across the river.”
“Comrades, if I may, what is the mission?” Chekov said.
Pozharsky turned to the pilot, who stood with a carefully neutral expression fixed to his face.
“Tell him what you told me, Comrade Kharzov.”
“Of course,” the pilot said. “Chekov is it? Come here to the map and let me show you what I saw on my recon flight.”
Chekov shouldered past the assembled officers to stand next to the pilot. The man spread out a map of the Ukraine. Chekov immediately pulled his own from where it had been folded safely in a pocket. The scales were off, but the symbol keys were similar enough. On both maps irregularly concentric rust-colored curves depicted changes in elevation, blue lines depicted rivers and streams, black lines for roads and towns and green for heavy vegetation.
“I spotted a German column, at least a thousand men, marching hard here,” The pilot stabbed his finger at a spot several kilometers south and west of their current position. “They had an advance guard of about one hundred men forward, moving so fast they were practically running.”
“Bold of them,” Chekov said.
“They can afford to be bold,” Pozharsky said. “The front is collapsing. Their commander probably wants to earn a little distinction by capturing a few Russians before the whole show is over.”
Golubstov, exhaled sharply, earning a glare from Pozharsky.
“Comrade Commissar, it is not defeatist to face reality,” Pozharsky said. “The front is in general retreat.”
“Perhaps we would not be if the troops understood the importance of our Revolution not just to Mother Russia, but all mankind,” Golubstov said, fanatic zeal giving his high-pitched voice a disconcerting tenor.
All mankind can go hang. I just want to go back to Yaroslavl.
“What is it you need me to do, Colonel?” Chekov said.
“At their current rate of march, the Germans will catch up to us before we have found a viable defensive position for the regiment,” Pozharsky said. “I need you to engage their advance guard. Force them to slow down and deploy for contact.”
“Fantastic,” Chekov said, running his knuckles across the stubble on his chin. “I don’t suppose we have any artillery support, or maybe some bombs?”
Chekov turned his eyes to Kharzov the pilot, who shook his head in the negative.
“No artillery, Chekov,” Pozharsky said. “And I don’t want you to get into a pitched fight. I’m attaching Yerokhin and his machine guns to you for the duration. Pick a few off, keep them under fire until they start getting close, then fall back to the next position.”
“How long do you expect us to keep this up?”
“Long enough for us to get across the river,” Pozharsky said. “If we can’t hold the line on the waterfront we’re all fucked anyway. If you can keep them occupied until nightfall, they’re unlikely to launch a major attack in the dark across a body of water, not at this point in the game. In the morning we will be across the river and ready to defend.”
“That’s a long time for a platoon to dance with a regiment, Colonel,” Chekov said.
“I knew Chekov was the wrong man,” Golubstov said. “Is there not a real communist among this regiment who can—”
“Comrade Golubstov,” Pozharsky said, fixing the commissar with a cold glare. “I’m certain the glories of Marxist-Leninism will be apparent to us all in the days ahead, but just for this moment tactical judgment is more important than revolutionary zeal. Comrade Chekov is correct, this is a difficult mission, if he were too stupid to see that then he wouldn’t be the right man for the job.”
Golubstov snapped his teeth down on the rest of his sentence. His nostrils flared on either side of his thin nose, but he remained quiet.
Pozharsky may pay for that remark later. All the old school officers are on thin ice with the Party.
“I know I’m fucking you over,” Pozharsky said, turning back to Chekov. “But of all the platoon commanders I have left, you’re the only one with a chance in hell of pulling this off and bringing your men back alive. If you don’t do this, we’re all going to die, or end up in a prison camp. Even if the peace were signed today, there’s no way we’d get word before the Germans catch up with us.”
Propaganda aside, maybe German prison camps aren’t that bad?
Instead of voicing the thought, Chekov merely exhaled and nodded.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “We’ll get it done.”

*****

Chekov took a deep drag off his meager cigarette and savored the warmth and dregs of nicotine he siphoned off the pathetic fag. Though they were in the shadows of late afternoon, he didn’t worry about the cherry or the smoke giving away their position. For one, the snow was falling thick and silent through the air again, and secondly, they were supposed to be spotted by the Germans.
The problem with a baited ambush is that it needs bait. Chekov shivered, and not just against the chill.
With insufficient time and resources to plan anything elaborate, Chekov positioned Yerokhin and most of his gunners in a draw to the southeast of a lightly forested area. A clearing would’ve been a superior engagement area, but also would’ve presented an obvious ambush site—he couldn’t assume the German commander was a complete idiot.
Since the American Lewis Guns of the machine gun platoon were the lion’s share of his firepower, he placed Dostovalov and his squad with Yerokhin to ensure they stayed concealed and, once the shooting started, didn’t retreat until so ordered. Bessonov’s squad and the remaining two Lewis Guns he arrayed perpendicular to Dostovalov’s position in the woods, forming an L-shaped engagement area.
“Remember lads, the first thing running back at you will be us,” Chekov had told each group before departing. “So don’t shoot until I give one long blast on the whistle, then shoot everything in front of you that moves. After that, when you hear three short blasts, you know it’s time to fall back to the ridge.”
Golubstov he left with Bessonov; Chekov had considered offering the commissar a spot with his team, but he was afraid the man’s fanaticism would force him to accept to prove his commitment to the Revolution or some such bullshit. Chekov ensured every man in the platoon was lying in the prone, concealed under blanket, brush, and re-piled snow to the point of near invisibility. Then he’d taken his three steadiest junior men with him to play the part of a scouting team “discovered” by the Germans.
A year ago, he would’ve assigned this job to a good corporal and stayed with the main body of his troops. Now, aside from Dostovalov and maybe Bessonov, all his noncommissioned officers were either too stupid or too smart to do the job properly. The zealots lacked the training and common sense, the veterans were exhausted and just trying to survive, not win medals.
Which is what I should be trying to do, but Dostovalov and Bessonov have fought as long as I have, taken the same risks. I’d feel dirty foisting a shit detail off on them now when we’re so close to the end.
Chekov took one more long drag on the cigarette, then extinguished it on a nearby tree with a shaking hand. He and his three troopers, Privates Rusnak, Dyomin and Igoshin, were on their bellies in the snow, but nowhere near as well camouflaged as the platoon’s main battle line behind them. They peered through the snowy twilight for long silent minutes. The air had warmed a bit when the snowstorm broke, but that respite in temperature was offset by slush that was slowly soaking its way through his uniform.
“Feldfebel,” Dyomin said softly. “Two o’clock, three hundred meters. See them?”
Chekov squinted, peering through the fat, falling snowflakes. Shadows in gray detached themselves from the trees and grew larger in his vision as they approached. The Germans were marching hard, just as Kharzov told them, intent on capturing or killing a few more Russians before the war was over.
Surprise, Fritz.
“All right, lads,” Chekov said, his voice low. “On my shot, get as many as you can. Once they figure it out and start returning fire, we bound back. Rusnak and Igoshin first, then Dyomin and I.”
The men accepted his orders with silent nods. Chekov pulled the buttstock of his M1891 rifle firmly into his shoulder and pressed his cheek to the wood. Breathing deeply, he placed the front sight post of the rifle on the lead German’s chest, then aligned it with the vee notch in his rear sight, and waited, tracking the man’s movement for several more seconds. Chekov slowly squeezed the trigger as he exhaled.
CRACK-FOW-THWIT.
The rifle recoiled into his shoulder and the German went down; dead, wounded, or merely frightened, Chekov couldn’t say. He worked the bolt on his rifle rapidly, ejecting the empty brass case into the snow and chambering another round with a click-clack-clack-click. The reports of the other men’s rifle shots rang through the crisp winter air but Chekov couldn’t see if they hit their marks, he was busy scanning for his next target.
The Germans reacted like veterans, the ghostly gray figures were either on their bellies in the snow or scrambling for cover behind rocks and trees. Chekov led one of the slower shadows and fired again. He was able to fire one more time before a tree five meters in front of him burst into splinters under a hail of machine gun fire and the frigid air around him came alive with the angry-beehive noise of rounds passing entirely too close by.
“All right boys, that’s enough of that,” Chekov shouted, fighting down the sudden surge up his gullet. “Rusnak, go!”
Chekov rolled left several feet to settle behind another tree, soaking his back in slush and mud to match his chest and belly. Looking back down his sights, he fired several more times, fighting to steady his breathing as adrenaline coursed through his body. Chekov’s fear no longer assaulted him as a debilitating emotion as it had in his first few battles. Now the fear was simply as an anatomical condition to account for and bypass so that he could continue his trade—killing Germans.
“SET! COME ON BACK!” Rusnak shouted over the din, his words punctuated by two rifle shots.
“All right, Dyomin, let’s move!” Chekov shouted, slapping the soldier on the shoulder as he sprang to his feet.
Chekov stayed in a crouch as he ran, weaving through the woods. After a handful of ragged breaths, he dropped to elbows and knees, rifle held carefully out of the slush, and crawled rapidly to a tree, then sprang up and sprinted forward, again in a crouch as the German rounds cracked closer and closer, sending up puffs of snow and mud, skinning the bark off of the trees.
As he passed Rusnak and Igoshin, Chekov counted another five seconds, then fell to his belly, turned around, and fired as rapidly as he could at the approaching Germans, less interested in hitting them than trying to keep them honest. They were running between the trees now, close enough he could make out the pink of their hands and faces.
As aggressive as we expected.
Chekov and his men repeated their alternating retreat, two men firing, two running and crawling through the snow away from the Germans. Two more bounds brought them within sight of the platoon’s main line. Just as they crossed friendly lines, Dyomin arched his back, a black jet of blood flying from his abdomen to mingle with the snow and muck. The soldier collapsed, twitched a few times and then was still.
Heart hammering in his chest, body shaking from exertion, Chekov forced his legs to carry him to a large rock. He fell to his back behind the stone, allowing his rifle to lie against his chest, and his eyes to rise to the dark gray sky even as the German fire intensified. No sun was visible. As if God himself had withdrawn the heavens from the atrocity men committed upon one another. Chekov shook that thought away violently.
God is a lie, just do your fucking job and go home.
Chekov drew a deep, searingly cold breath, trying to gather enough wind to shout orders over the constant gunfire and his own exhaustion. As per the plan, now that they were back with the platoon, the rest of the bait team kept running to help sell the notion that they were an isolated scout force.
“Keep running boys!” Chekov shouted, then for the benefit of any enemy who might speak Russian, he added. “I’ll hold them off!”
Popping up just over the rock he began to fire once again. The Germans, whether they’d understood him or not, pressed on harder. A German fell to a well-placed shot, close enough for Chekov to make out his surprised expression. Soon, he was forced down behind the rock by a hail of rounds that whined and ricocheted off his cover. Flying stone shards left thin lines of blood running down his neck.
Thus far his men’s discipline had held, and it appeared the Germans hadn’t discovered them. Chekov risked a peek to appraise the enemy’s position within his engagement area, but nearly got his head blown off for his trouble.
Close enough.
Chekov gave a long, deafening blast on his whistle.
And the forest erupted with machine gun fire.
Chekov thumbed five more rounds into his rifle’s internal magazine then raised his eyes just above the rock. Already, more than a dozen gray-clad enemy bodies lay among the tree, spilling their lifeblood into the snow and mud. The enemy survivors were trying to get organized. A German man with officer’s shoulder boards was gesturing and shouting, inaudible to Chekov over the cacophony of the firefight. The German’s men were responding, finding cover and searching the trees for Russians, until the officer fell to a single rifle shot, and rattling bursts from the Lewis guns perforated three of the soldiers obeying him.
Brave or not, well-trained or not, any unit may break amidst an unexpected killing field. The Germans retreated, in a semblance of good order, of course, but retreat they did. Chekov lined up his sights on a gray clad back, squeezed the trigger of his rifle and claimed another Hun life. Five more Germans joined Chekov’s victim in quick succession as Russian gunners and riflemen scythed through the retreating Germans.
The gray shades retreated West into the forest and the fire died down, leaving only ringing and the sound of his own heartbeat thudding in Chekov’s ears. He rose to a knee and took stock of the situation. His men were out from underneath their blankets and camouflage now, changing the top-mounted circular drums on their smoking machine guns, fingering rounds into their rifles’ magazines. At least sixty gray-uniformed bodies lay broken and bleeding among the trees before them—the better part of a German company dead by ambush, and from what he could see, at the cost of no casualties of their own.
Almost no casualties, he corrected himself, rising to his feet and walking toward the spot where he’d seen Dyomin fall.
The young man’s body lay entirely still, the snow around him stained dark red. Chekov slung his rifle, reached down and felt at the boy’s neck for a pulse—nothing but cold, still flesh greeted his fingers. He exhaled heavily and turned the body over. Their unit hadn’t been issued wooden phials or stamped metal tags for the identification of those killed in action, so Chekov just stripped Dyomin of his ammunition and canteen.
Dostovalov caught up with Chekov as he stood up from Dyomin’s corpse.
“Here, distribute this among the men,” Chekov said, handing the cartridge box and canteen over. “What’s our status?”
“Machine guns are at about sixty percent ammunition, rifles at eighty,” Dostovalov said. “No killed or wounded, besides Dyomin.”
“Okay, cross level ammunition and get them ready to move,” Chekov said. “When the Germans come back, they’ll come back careful and pissed. We need to be somewhere else.”
“On it, Sergei,” Dostovalov said, turning back to the men.
Chekov fished out another cigarette from his pocket along with one of his last matches. The match flared and hissed when stuck, struggling against the cold wind. Chekov cupped a hand around it protectively, set it to the end of his cigarette and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes to savor the life-easing nicotine. When he opened his eyes again, Golubstov’s thin face was a few feet from his, regarding him with an odd look.
“I was wrong about you, Comrade Chekov,” Golubstov said.
“How so, Comrade Commissar?” Chekov said in a carefully guarded tone.
“You are a good communist soldier,” the commissar said. “This was a great victory.”
This was a blindside they weren’t expecting because the vaunted Red Army has been running before them like whipped dogs for weeks. It’s not going down in the history books. And it won’t work twice.
“Thank you, Comrade Commissar,” Chekov said. “We’ll be moving to our alternate position soon.”
Golubstov frowned, but when he spoke, his grating, nasal voice held little of its previous scorn.
“Is that necessary?” Golubstov said. “We seem to have defeated them handily.”
Chekov nodded, puffing furiously on the cheap cigarette as he did so.
“Yes, but the terrain here favors ambush, not a dedicated defense,” Chekov said, lips working around the butt of his cigarette. “This worked well because they weren’t expecting us. Now that they’re expecting resistance, we need better engagement areas and more cover, we’ll get that back at the ridge line. I figure we can fend off their first probes and give the Regiment another hour, maybe two before we risk being overrun.”
Golubstov frowned.
“If you think it necessary,” he said. “Now that I’ve seen your courage in defense of the Revolution, I feel I can trust your judgment.”
You feel you can trust my judgment?
Suppressing his rage, Chekov merely nodded and turned back to the supervising the retreat of his platoon. Dostovalov and Bessonov needed little guidance of course, in moments they were on the march in platoon wedge formation. Dostovalov approached Chekov with a smirk.
“Looks like our beloved Commissar is warming to you,” he said with warm humor. “Don’t forget the little people when they admit you into the Vanguard of the Revolution.”
“Fuck your mother, Anton Yevgennyevich,” Chekov said, using Dostovalov’s first name and patronymic in a deadpan voice. “Just keep your head down and let’s try not to martyr ourselves for the Revolution, eh?”
“Your lips to God’s ears, Comrade Chekov,” Dostovalov said.
“If there was a God, and if he listened to us,” Chekov said, “there’s no way the world would be so fucked up.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dostovalov said, unfazed by Chekov’s attack on his religion. “And what if God listened to Comrade Golubstov?”
“Then he wouldn’t be a god, just the devil,” Chekov muttered, picking up the pace. “Or a cosmic idiot.”
“Then what does that make us?” Dostovalov said.
“Alive, for the moment,” Chekov said. “Let’s try to keep it that way.”

*****

The sun was almost entirely below the horizon now and its last purple rays glinted off the falling snow, casting the hillside and the clearing that stretched from its base to the woods in fey half-light. Like steppe marmots, Chekov and his men burrowed into the ground as quickly and deeply as they could, trying to create protection against their predators. Hacking away at the cold soil with their entrenching tools, most had only completed pathetically shallow fighting positions when Igoshin called out a visual contact.
“Three men in the trees,” he said. “two o’clock, four hundred meters.”
Chekov ceased digging and dropped to his belly, rifle pointed West. He wished the Germans hadn’t retired their pickelhaube helmets, as the spike on top made them easier to pick out against the terrain. As it was, the gray domes of their new steel helmets presented much lower silhouettes as he tallied the shadows spreading through the trees opposite them.
More than two hundred, easily. We won’t hold long.
Keeping his face to the ground, Chekov dragged his body through the snow over to where Yerhokin lay next to one of his gunners.
“It’s going to start soon,” Chekov said. “Set?”
“Yes, Comrade,” Yerhokin said, regarding Chekov with a level gray-eyed stare.
“Remember, only guns three and four should fire before they reach the middle of the clearing,” Chekov said. “Then really dig into them. We’re not going to hold off more than one assault, so once the first wave is defeated, we’re retreating.”
Yerhokin actually smiled. The machine gun platoon commander, though not as close a comrade as Bessonov or Dostovalov, was also one of the men who’d been around since before the October Revolution. He wasn’t one of Golubstov’s zealots or a hapless boy soldier.
“Yes, Comrade Chekov,” he said. “I remember the engagement criteria and the retrograde plan. Don’t worry about us.”
Chekov snorted.
“I worry about all of us Yerhokin,” Chekov said. “Stay alive.”
“You, too.”
Yerhokin’s last word was punctuated by a rifle shot, then another, then several dozen more as the treeline across from them erupted in orange muzzle flashes.
“Remember boys, conserve your ammo!” Chekov shouted. “Acquire a goddamn target before you shoot!”
Chekov spent the next several minutes crawling back and forth across his line. The German machine guns stayed quiet, and so did his. A boy in Bessonov’s squad caught a bullet across his ass cheeks, and one of Dostovalov’s men lost his life and half his skull to a good, or lucky shot, but that was it. Still, the German’s machine guns stayed silent. The last rays of sun faded, though a nearly full moon provided enough illumination to continue the firefight, the volley-counter-volley of rifle fire grew even less effective.
So thoroughly soaked by melted snow and caked in mud that physical misery no longer registered on him, Chekov crawled over to Dostovalov’s hole—keeping his ass low to the ground as he did so. Dostovalov gave him another wide grin when he arrived, white teeth flashing under his big black mustache.
“You still enjoy this shit, don’t you, you sick sonofabitch?” Chekov said over the percussive rattler of musketry all about them.
“Sure, other than a good roll with a round woman, what could be more exciting?” Dostovalov said.
Snorting at his friend’s apparent insanity, Chekov turned his mind to the matter at hand.
“What do you think?” Chekov said. “They’re not pressing the attack or trying to envelop us.”
“Maybe they don’t realize they’re only up against a couple platoons,” Dostovalov said, eyes shifting from the enemy’s position to their own lines. “We bloodied the hell out of their lead company, after all. Fritz over there may want to keep the other two thirds of his battalion more than he wants a medal.”
“That doesn’t sound very much like the Fritz we know,” Chekov said. “Still, if you’re right, what’s the next thing they’ll—”
A distant BOOM cut off Chekov’s words and rattled his guts, followed by five more explosions and a chorus of pop-hiiissss as five stars burst to life in the night sky above them, casting the world around them in hideous orange light.
“Oh, shit,” Chekov and Dostovalov said in unison at the sight of the star shells bursting; the big man turned to Chekov.
“Did that pilot say anything about the German artillery train?” He said, eyes wide.
“Not a thing,” Chekov said. “Time we were leaving. Tell Bessonov, I’ll tell Yerhokin to cut loose with the guns to cover our retreat.”
“And Golubstov?”
“Better figure it out,” Chekov snapped over his shoulder as he crawled away.
Seconds later, the battlefield still cast in eerie orange light from the descending star shells, all eight of Yerhokin’s Lewis Guns opened up on the opposing wood line, tearing great divots out of the snow, mud, the trees and a few of the Germans. It was an impressive display of firepower—until a barrage of high explosive artillery shells landed in the field between the Germans and Chekov’s platoon. Though at least two hundred meters distant, the impacts popped his ear drums, and the concussion shook him to his very bowels.
I fucking hate artillery—especially theirs!
Chekov waited until the last of his riflemen and all but two of the machine gunners had displaced before he sprinted up the hill, thighs burning with the effort of propelling his body up the steep, snowy grade.
“Comrade Chekov!” Golubstov’s nasal screaming was still painfully audible over the ringing in his ears. “Why are we pulling back? The enemy hasn’t even begun their attack!”
Golubstov ran toward him, limbs akimbo like some gangling, fey forest monster. As the commissar spoke, Yerhokin’s last two machine gunners picked their Lewis guns up, folded their bipods and made tracks up the hill.
“Comrade Commissar, we cannot withstand an artillery barrage without proper defensive positions,” Chekov said, gesturing to the slowly setting black debris clouds in no-man’s land. “Staying here is suicide.”
Another star shell popped into life overhead, sharply rendering Golubstov’s thin face and the fanatical zeal in his eyes.
“There fire is inaccurate,” Golubstov said, drawing his pistol. “We cannot so easily give ground before the Imperialists!”
“WE CANNOT STAY HERE!” Chekov screamed over another volley of German artillery. This set of shells shrieked over their position, detonating not quite a kilometer to their East.
“They lob handfuls of shells blindly and you want to run?” Golubstov screamed. “I thought you were a man, not a coward!”
“It’s called bracketing, you fucking moron,” Chekov shouted. “Two more volleys and those shells will be landing on this hill. If we are here when that happens, we won’t be doing much for the Revolution because we’ll all be pulped!”
Golubstov leveled the American semi-automatic pistol at Chekov’s face.
“Get your men back on the line, Chekov,” he said, his voice deadly earnest, almost trembling with excitement. “We will show these imperialists what they’re up against.”
Why, oh fucking why did I get a zampolit with a death wish?
“Comrade Commissar, I suggest you put that pistol away,” Dostovalov said, his rifle barrel appearing from behind one of the fir trees behind Golubstov.
“This is treason against the Party!” The muzzle of Golubstov’s pistol shifted away from Chekov toward Dostovalov, but he never got the weapon trained onto the big man. As more German artillery rounds screamed overhead, Chekov drew his long bayonet with a practiced motion and screamed, “GET DOWN,” as he charged Golubstov.
The scarecrow-built political officer collapsed under the impact of Chekov’s compact but well-muscled body. Thanks to a hundred night-raids, Chekov knew just the spot on the lower back, the spot to thrust the bayonet to make sure he hit the kidney. He felt Golubstov stiffen, and the breath leave the commissar’s body as the bayonet’s point punctured his flesh and the blade slid through tissue and organ all the way to the hilt until the point scraped the ground beneath Golubstov’s stomach. Chekov withdrew the long blade with a mighty heave, then, staying low to the ground with all his weight over the commissar’s chest, he pulled Golubstov’s head back by the hair and slit his throat for good measure, letting his blood fly across the snow.
Then a massive weight pressed down on his body just before the thunder of God Himself assaulted his ear drums and lifted his body, along with the great weight atop it, at least a foot into the air before slamming him into the ground. Dirt and debris clattered about him for several moments. Strong hands gripped his arms and pulled him unsteadily to his feet.
Only the fact that he’d survived bombardment before allowed Chekov to keep his wits about him. Dostovalov was in front of him now, his lips moving, but his voice distant and faint, as if he were speaking from the other end of a long metal tube. Chekov pointed to his ear and shook his head, Dostovalov nodded his head, then pointed East.
Chekov took ragged breaths and held up one finger, trying to regain his bearings.
The air was filled with smoke, the trees around them shattered to splinters and the snow arrayed with blood and viscera. Golubstov lay dead at their feet—Chekov, unable to see his rifle, scooped up the commissar’s pistol, engaged the safety on it and secured it in a coat pocket. As he scanned the battlefield for his men, a scream managed to surpass the ringing in his ears.
Lying by the shattered stump of a pine a few feet away one of the new men clutched at blood welling from a fragmentation wound in his side. Rusnak and Igoshin were sprinting down the hill toward him. Chekov frantically waved at them then pointed at the wounded man, then pointed East.
They ran to the bleeding boy. Rusnak lifted him up, Igoshin put a shoulder under one armpit, Dostovalov grabbed his legs and they stumbled for the river, Chekov picked up the boy’s rifle. They left a trail of blood behind them. Step, by ungainly step they trudged through snow, lungs burning, bodies shaking from exhaustion and the terrors of battle.
Mercifully, the next round of artillery landed on the West side of the hill. Chekov and his men didn’t fall to the ground but continued to hobble toward the river.
“Keep going, boys,” Chekov said between gritted teeth. “We have to make the bridge . . . before the Germans lift the barrage and . . . take . . . the hill . . .”
Only grunts and huffing breath answered him. Finally, brown shadows detached themselves from the bridge, sprinting to meet them. Faint light from enemy star shells revealed Yerhokin and four of his gunners. The men took the wounded new man from Dostovalov, Igoshin, and Rusnak.
“Did anyone else make it out?” Yerhokin said.
Chekov merely shook his head.
“Golubstov?” Yerhokin said.
“Died gloriously for the Revolution,” Dostovalov deadpanned.
Yerhokin looked at Dostovalov, then Chekov for a long moment. He nodded.
“Of course,” Yerhokin said. “I remember clearly Golubstov entreating Chekov with his dying breath to save these heroic men so that they could continue to serve the Revolution.”
Dostovalov smiled. Chekov nodded, stone-faced.
“Right,” He said, standing up to check on the wounded boy. “How is . . .”
He trailed off, what the hell is this boy’s name?
Igoshin looked up and shook his head.
“He’s dead.”
Chekov sighed, wiped some of the blood on his hands onto the snow and started walking across the rickety wooden bridge.
“Come on then,” He said. “Let’s see what our comrade did with the time we died for.”

*****

A half-hour of walking the snow-slick pavement and asking directions of random officers got Chekov to the door of a large, yellow house. The guards posted outside just nodded and waved him inside. A half dozen electrical lamps cast the room in warm yellow light as Chekov stepped into the parlor that now served as the Company Command Post. Something was wrong. The people, the maps, the typewriters, all the detritus of a company headquarters was in place, spread out over a large dark wooden table, but no one moved, or spoke, the typewriters didn’t clatter. Only the humming of the tungsten filaments in the lamps was audible.
Even the company commander, Captain Delov, slumped in a wooden chair, elbows on the table, fingers pressed to his temples.
“Sir?” Chekov said.
Delov looked up at Chekov, his eyes devoid of the searching, analytical quality Chekov had come to expect of his young company commander.
“Chekov, you made it back,” Delov said, his voice held no relief. “How bad?”
“Dostovalov, Igoshin, Rusnak, and I made it,” Chekov said. “Yerhokin and six of his gunners. That’s it.”
Delov didn’t evince shock or ask Chekov to confirm. He merely nodded and ran his index finger from the bridge of his nose to his hairline, then let his forehead rest in his hand.
“Sir, what is going on?” Chekov asked.
“Another division surrendered to the Germans this morning,” Delov said, without looking up. “We got word two hours ago. Apparently, the Germans are calling this the Railway Offensive. They’ve been accepting surrender from Red Army units at each train stop along the line. Hell, Sergei Arkadyevich, for all I know you and your men just put up the only fight on the whole fucking front.”
Delov stood suddenly and turned to face the wall, his head bowed, shoulders shuddering with a deep breath.
Poor bastard. So much easier for the officers who don’t give a shit about wasting men.
“I’m sorry, Feldfebel Chekov,” Delov said, neck stiffening as he turned back to face Chekov. “That was inappropriate. Assuming we are not encircled by tomorrow, we are retreating to Pskov in the morning. Get cleaned up and get some sleep. There’s a room with a bed and a couch upstairs. You and Dostovalov can have them. If Yerhokin needs help finding the Machine Gun Company, they’re set up a couple streets down. The guard can show you.”
Delov turned back to his maps, but his eyes did not focus, nor did his grave expression change. Chekov accepted the dismissal.
Dostovalov and Yerhokin were waiting for him as he stepped out of the house.
“Machine Gun Company is set up two streets down,” Chekov said. “Best to get moving, apparently the regiment is moving again first thing in the morning. Another division surrendered to the Germans today, if we don’t get back to Pskov soon, we’re going to be encircled.”
“Shit,” Yerhokin said.
“Yes. Good luck, Yerhokin,” Chekov said, then he nodded to the rest of the gunners. “Good luck to all of you.”
The machine gunners acknowledged with nods and muttered thanks, then made their way down the street to their unit.
Chekov and Dostovalov took to their temporary quarters in the command post. There was a faucet and a tub in the washroom next door of which both men made liberal use in turn, leaving the washroom floor with a coating of black grime as they removed weeks of campaign from their frost-numbed skin. Dostovalov won the coin toss for the bed, but Chekov had no complaints as he settled into the soft cushions of the sofa.
They did not exchange many words. Chekov was too tired to chat and in moments he could hear Dostovalov snoring. Thus, for a few dreadful minutes, Chekov was left alone with his thoughts, as the loss of the boys he’d tried to shepherd home settled upon him like a cast-iron mantle. Perhaps the warm washing water had revived deadened emotions as well as frozen nerve-endings because the pain was acute.
Damn Golubstov to hell. My platoon is dead. It’s just me and Dostovalov now . . .
To the veteran noncommissioned officer’s relief, the pain of the thought proved no match for the fatigue of battle. Sleep overtook Chekov, and blessedly, he did not dream.
#
“Chekov, Dostovalov,” a brusque voice penetrated the warm haze of sleep. “Wake up.”
Harsh winter sunlight refracted through the window and dazzled Chekov’s bleary vision when he cracked an eye open. He sat up stiffly, neck cracking as he looked about the room. A short, hazy brown silhouette filled the doorframe. As Chekov’s vision came into focus, the ruddy-peach colored patch atop the brown shadow resolved into the blunt, black-stubbled face of Vanzin, Captain Delov’s orderly.
“Ah, Vanzin, you shit,” Dostovalov groaned from the bed. “What do you want?”
“I want nothing, ape,” the little man snapped. “But Captain Delov wants you dressed, with your kit packed, downstairs now.”
“All right, Vanzin, you’ve delivered the message,” Chekov said, levering his legs off the couch, feet landing to the floor with dual thuds. “Now begone unless you want to watch me taking a shit.”
The headquarters man spun on his heel and stumped down the stairs.
“We should hurry, though,” Chekov said once he was certain the orderly was out of earshot. He stood, arched his back and retrieved his uniform blouse from the back of the couch.
“Right,” Dostovalov said. Swinging his bulk out of the bed, he looked back longingly at the mussed blankets. “God knows how long until we see beds again—good-bye, my lovely!”
About five minutes later Delov was moving about the parlor-cum-command post when Chekov stepped off the last stair into the room. If not chipper, he at least looked more alert and energetic than he had last night. He stopped when he saw Chekov and Dostovalov enter the command post and walked around the large wooden table that dominated the space to greet them.
“Ah, there you are,” Delov said, he reached down and grabbed a small stack of papers. “Sorry, lads, no time for tea. Your ride is waiting.”
“Our, ride, sir?” Dostovalov rumbled.
“Yes, your ride,” Delov said, he held out the sheaf to Chekov. “We received an order to provide combat experienced veterans to help form the cadre of new Red Army regiments. These are your orders to that effect, along with the report of your heroic defense last night; endorsed by Comrade Golubstov this morning shortly before he died of his wounds. Very tragic.”
Chekov and Dostovalov exchanged a glance.
“Ah, it was very kind of Comrade Golubstov to put forth the effort,” Chekov said, licking his lips. “And . . . his body?”
“Already interred in the field cemetery. Sadly, although he was able to speak, his face was burned beyond recognition,” Delov said, his voice matter of fact. “Hopefully, the tale, with a zampolit’s blessing, will be enough to put you in line for a good assignment, the Red Army doesn’t have medals yet otherwise we’d write you up for one of those, too. At the very least there should be food, beds, baths wherever you’re going. The truck outside is headed back to Pskov. Report to the Army command there, and they’ll send you on back to Petrograd or Moscow.”
Chekov found himself speechless for a long moment.
“Captain,” he said, then paused, and shut his mouth. When he opened it again, all he could think to say was, “Thank you.”
“You’ve earned it,” Delov said. “Word of advice, keep the extra copies of your orders hidden, and tell every sonofabitch who wants a copy it’s your last, only give out a copy when you really have to in order to keep moving East.”
Dostovalov actually chuckled and even Chekov smiled.
“Sir, respectfully, teach your grandmother to suck eggs.”
“Heh,” Delov gave a faint smile. “Yes, well—"
Seeming at a loss, Delov held his hand out to Chekov, who grasped it firmly. The captain’s blue eyes, so dead last night, seemed to regain light at being able to do something for his men. Delov shook Dostovalov’s hand as well.
“Good luck, fellows,” he said. “Hope the war’s done with you.”
“Good luck to you too, sir,” Chekov said.
“You know,” Dostovalov said in a philosophical tone as they left the building into the freezing night. “Not all officers are completely worthless.”

Justin Watson grew up an Army brat, living in Germany, Alabama, Texas, Korea, Colorado and Alaska, and fed on a steady diet of X-Men, Star Trek, Robert Heinlein, DragonLance, and Babylon 5. While attending West Point, he met his future wife, Michele, on an airplane, and soon began writing in earnest with her encouragement. In 2005 he graduated from West Point and served as a field artillery officer, completing combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, and earning the Bronze Star, Purple Heart, and Combat Action Badge

Medically retired from the Army in 2015, Justin settled in Houston with Michele, their four children, and an excessively friendly Old English Sheepdog.

Lethal Cheer: A TransDimensional Hunter Short Story 
by Lydia Sherrer

Edgar Johnston had a secret. That wasn’t too unusual for a guy in his senior year of high school, or for a guy who’d spent two years on juvie probation for nearly beating a classmate to death back in eighth grade. But the nature of his secret was pretty unusual, especially considering he was a member of Skadi’s Wolves, one of the highest ranked Hunter Strike Teams competing for the championship in the globally popular TransDimensional Hunter augmented reality game. He spent all his spare time—and some time he didn’t have to spare according to his grades—running around his hometown of Cedar Rapids with his four teammates, fighting augmented reality aliens invading the planet.
Not today, though. They had a few days taking it easy from endless grinding because one of their teammates needed to recover from a brief trip to the hospital. They’d decided to jump on the mesh web for a change of pace and play some high-stake matches in WarMonger2050, their favorite in virtual first-person shooter game they’d been playing since forever.
Edgar shifted to find a more comfortable position in the second-hand gaming chair that took up most of the space beside the bed in his tiny little bedroom. The back support was pretty much shot, so he got uncomfortable if he sat in it for more than an hour. It’d been so long since he’d gamed much in virtual he’d almost forgotten how crappy his chair was. On top of that, he used to do all his in virtual gaming with his school-issued AR glasses, which often gave him a headache—his mom wouldn’t allow wall-screens or smart paint in his room. But since Skadi’s Wolves had made Hunter Strike Team, part of the perks was getting outfitted by Tsunami entertainment with the latest and greatest AR gaming equipment, including top-of-the-line AR glasses. They worked great for in virtual gaming, and even better for augmented reality. When Edgar was in combat mode playing TD Hunter, the augmented graphics overlaying his surroundings were so good it was easy to forget the aliens weren’t real. The immersion factor drowned out the sound of occasional paparazzi drones that followed them around overhead like voyeuristic vultures. There were literally people all over the planet who knew his name, or at least his TD Hunter game handle, Maui_YoureWelcome.
Yeah, he knew it was cheesy, but he was half Samoan, so he got a kick out of it.
Keeping secrets when you were internationally famous and had your own stream channel would have been hard for most people, but not Edgar. He had lots of practice. In fact, he had not one, but three major secrets he’d been keeping for years.
“Okay Baconville Bashers, is everybody locked and loaded and ready to lay down the law?”
The voice of Ronnie Payne, Edgar’s friend and gaming buddy since sixth grade, sounded in his earbud. Edgar wondered what Ronnie would think if he ever discovered Edgar’s first secret: unlike his TD Hunter teammates Ronnie, Dan, Mack, and Lynn, Edgar didn’t want to be a professional gamer. He wanted to be a farmer.
Yep, totally lame, especially considering he’d lived in the city his whole life. But he couldn’t deny how relaxing farming sims were, and he genuinely delighted in the idea of growing things. Not that shooting the crap out of stuff wasn’t fun too. He liked big guns and bigger explosions just as much as the next guy. But his life hadn’t been easy, or stable, so the calm predictability of tending plants and animals was peaceful in a way he couldn’t get anywhere else in life. His grandparents owned a farm out in Utah, and he swore to himself he would move out there one day and start his own little homestead. Maybe even start a family, too . . .
“Ronnie, we gotta come up with a different group name in WarMonger,” Dan Nguyen whined. “You picked Baconville Bashers when we were, like, eight, right? Plus we’re pros now, we’ve got a reputation to keep.”
Dan was the second most obsessed gamer in their group after Ronnie—though at times they were equally insufferable. The two argued like an old married couple, and Edgar was glad they had each other. It left him free to keep his mouth shut and focus on the game, both things he preferred over arguing.
Though Dan had a point. Baconville Bashers was pretty dumb. He just didn’t care enough to complain about it.
“Baconville Bashers isn’t that bad,” Mack objected. “Everybody likes bacon, right?” Mack had always been the peacemaker in their group. Always anxious for everyone to fit in and feel supported. He had a good heart, Edgar couldn’t deny that. But sometimes he seemed too ready to forgive without addressing the original problem—something Edgar had learned the hard way never fixed anything. Edgar’s mom was that way too, and his dad took advantage of it whenever he’d been drinking too much.
It was a shame Lynn wasn’t playing with them. Lynn was wicked smart, strong, and brave, even if she forgot to believe in herself sometimes. She was also the best gamer in their group, despite Ronnie’s asinine belief that “girls got no game.”
“Baconville Bashers is a great name,” Ronnie said, sounding testy, “but . . . I guess it wouldn’t hurt to see what else we can come up with now that we’re pros.”
Edgar’s eyebrows rose. Wow. Ronnie actually sounded mature for once instead of arguing about everything like an idiot. Lynn would be so proud of him. Unfortunately, she wasn’t around to appreciate it firsthand. Predictably, Ronnie hadn’t invited her. For all Ronnie knew, Lynn had never touched WarMonger in her life and Ronnie didn’t want a noob pulling down their Baconville Bashers’ rank.
Which led to the second secret Edgar had a lot of practice keeping: his friend Lynn Raven, in addition to being a skilled TD Hunter player, was an internationally notorious Tier One WarMonger mercenary known as Larry Coughlin. She was regularly paid to win high-stake matches for people with more money than gaming skill, and unbeknownst to Mack, Dan, and Ronnie, she frequently crashed Baconville Basher matches to frag Ronnie again, and again, and again. Because Ronnie was a shit sometimes and needed to be taken down a peg or two. Or three or four.
At least, Edgar assumed that was why Lynn ruthlessly terrorized Ronnie in WarMonger any chance she got. Yeah, the rest of Baconville Bashers ate her lead sometimes too, but only when she was paid to do it. It was nothing personal.
She would have made the perfect team captain for Skadi’s Wolves, but the last thing she wanted was to be in the spotlight. So she’d held back and let Ronnie run the show until his pig-headed rashness had finally pushed her too far and she’d led a coup against him. That’d been a month and a half ago, and Skadi’s Wolves had managed with a stand-in, but their team had lost their mojo, and Mack, Dan, and Edgar had lost a friend. When Mack got sent to the hospital, though, Ronnie was there for him, no questions asked. So Mack the peacemaker had asked the guys to play WarMonger, no doubt hoping the act of gaming together would make everything go back to normal. Dan and Ronnie seemed to hope the same thing, because they’d readily agreed without a word about their unresolved Hunter Strike Team drama. Edgar, however, had too much experience with toxic relationships to simply forgive and forget. He couldn’t tell if Ronnie was truly sorry, or just sorry he got kicked off the team.
Only one way to find out.
“We can worry about our group name later,” Ronnie said briskly. “Right now we’ve got a match to win. WarMonger is doing a series of special event matches for December called Lethal Cheer. It’s hold-the-flag mode but with random Christmas-themed bogies on the map as well. Ten-man teams, points are based on flag hold time, each match lasts twenty minutes. There’s a sick bonus for wins by at least a twenty-percent margin that’ll really help get us back on the leaderboards. So, who’s ready to give out some lethal cheer?”
There was a collective groan over their group channel, and Edgar grinned to himself. Keeping secrets was a lot easier when his friends couldn’t see his face. He was pretty good at keeping his thoughts and emotions under wraps, but it was definitely more relaxing gaming in virtual than in the real—though in virtual gaming lacked the physical benefits of augmented reality gaming. He would always be grateful to Lynn for inspiring their whole group to go all in with TD Hunter and achieve Strike Team status. He was fit for the first time in his life, and his mental and emotional health had never been better.
Maybe one day he would even figure out how to express that gratitude to Lynn without sounding like a complete idiot . . .
“Great,” Ronnie said, ignoring everyone’s disparaging comments about his sense of humor. “We’ll be teamed up with six other randos, so we’ll keep to ourselves as usual and go straight for the flag. Same buddy pairs as always. Dan and Mack, you take overwatch and find us a good place to hide and hold once we have the flag. Edgar, you and me’ll strike forward, I’ll grab the flag, and we’ll retreat to our defensible position.”
“Got it,” Edgar said, then took a second to unwrap a stick of gum and pop it in his mouth. He’d programmed his mic to filter out the sounds of his slow, deliberate mastications so he could chew gum during battles without the entire team yelling at him to shut up.
Sometimes technology was awesome.
“Do we know what kind of terrain the map is yet?” Dan asked.
“I’ve heard it’s a random rotation of the usual categories,” Ronnie replied. “Won’t know exactly till we drop. Oh, but some of the bogies are wearing Christmas red, so they’ll pop against the winter background.”
“That’s a relief,” Mack said.
“Don’t get complacent,” Ronnie warned. “Winter-themed stuff includes yetis and abominable snowmen, they’ll blend right in. So if it moves, shoot it.”
“Roger, roger,” Dan quipped.
“Remember, speed is everything. We’ve got to get there first. Just like dodgeball in PE.”
“I hate that game,” Mack muttered dolefully.
“You hate it?” Edgar chuckled. “Bro, I’m twice your size and half as fast, I’m the definition of an easy target.”
“You’ve gotten a lot better,” Mack said encouragingly.
Edgar shrugged, though of course his friends couldn’t see him. “’Sokay. I’d rather soak damage than dodge it.”
“This isn’t TD Hunter,” Ronnie warned. “We go in with no stash. Resupply crates might be few and far between. So stay low, move fast, and don’t get killed.”
“Yessir.”
“Got it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Right, Bashers, I’m dropping our group into the queue.”
Because WarMonger was a variety of MMO—massive multiplayer online game—that meant who they played against depended on who was online at the same time they were. He’d heard that decades ago, before the mesh web, match selection had also depended on ping time, to ensure there wasn’t any lag between players and the server they were playing on. But ever since the mesh web had replaced the legacy internet, lag time was a thing of the past. They could be paired with anyone in the world, which made team balance much more even than previous generations of first-person shooter games. There was a complex algorithm called “the matchmaker” that sorted through the match queue and formed teams based on wait time, individual and group skill levels, leaderboard ranking, and hours logged in the game, among other factors. You could also form a “rivals group” in order to compete against specific players in the open matches.
Average time in the queue was about ten seconds, then the ten players assigned to a team appeared in a team lobby. Everyone had two minutes to form group channels and discuss strategy if they wanted to before the entire team was dumped into the match.
Edgar’s AR display flashed green and the queue screen was replaced by a view of the team lobby with a list of the ten player handles on the left side of his display and a two-minute countdown in flashing red numbers on the right.
“Kas per velnias?!” Ronnie cursed in Lithuanian, a sure sign their day was about to get interesting.
“Uh-oh,” came Mack’s voice, “what is he doing here?”
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod Larry Coughlin is on our team???” Dan said in a high squeal that radiated barely contained glee.
A slow smile spread over Edgar’s face and kept growing and growing until his cheeks hurt.
Oh yeah. This was going to be epic. And tricky. He’d been wanting to play WarMonger with as opposed to against Larry Coughlin ever since he’d begun to suspect Larry was Lynn. Larry was an elite Tier One player, though, so they wouldn’t normally be paired up in matches. Plus, Ronnie loathed Larry to the depths of his soul, and would have an aneurysm if Edgar ever suggested teaming up with his tormenter.
The tricky part was that Lynn had no idea Edgar suspected her alter ego. Talk about friendship land mines. It was a good thing he’d had lots of practice keeping his mouth shut. Otherwise, he’d have blown it a long time ago.
It wasn’t Lynn’s fault he suspected her secret. Being hyper observant was a fun side effect of growing up with an alcoholic dad, and Edgar had never, ever for a single second bought into Ronnie’s stupid “girls got no game” mantra that even Mack had fallen for. You didn’t have to look hard to see how strong and determined Lynn was, even while she was being bullied. If Mack hadn’t insisted Ronnie let her hang with their gaming group way back when, Edgar would’ve found a way to make sure she was included. Once she started spending most of her time with their group, he couldn’t help noticing the phrases she let slip here and there. She was also suspiciously well informed about their WarMonger exploits, despite the fact that she claimed her gaming skills began and ended with Kim’s Diva Princess. Ronnie, Mack, and Dan were too oblivious or too blind to put two and two together.
“That’s it, we’re bailing,” Ronnie growled.
“Don’t be an idiot, Ronnie,” Edgar said. “We can’t quit a match with an elite Tier One on our team! Are you crazy? We’re almost guaranteed a win with Larry freaking Coughlin on our side!”
“I don’t care if he’s passing out bonuses like Halloween candy, I’m not playing on his team! He’s a psychopath! A shiknaskyle kalakutpisa!”
“I dunno,” Mack said. “It’d be pretty nice to watch him frag everybody else for a change.”
“If he’s on our team it means the other side has at least one elite, too,” Ronnie said. “I’ll bet the other players are rich Wall Street dweebs who hired mercs to give them an easy win.”
“Yeah,” Edgar said, “so why not take advantage of that and get an easy win ourselves?”
“Because that’s—that’s cheating!”
“No it isn’t,” Dan scoffed.
“I meant—
Text flashed across Edgar’s screen. Someone had posted a message in the lobby chat, and everyone got quiet for a moment while they read it.
Larry Coughlin: Baconville Bimbos, stay out of my way or I’ll cut off your balls and string ’em on my bandolier. Let the pros handle this.
Edgar barely muted his mic in time to cut off his guffaws of laughter. Classic Larry. And the mental image of Lynn typing it with an evil grin on her face just made it funnier.
Incoherent sounds of fury were coming from Ronnie’s feed, and by the time he was capable of speaking English again they only had fifteen seconds left before the match began.
“All right, that’s it,” Ronnie growled. “We’re gonna to show that nedatupetas we’re not clueless noobs he can push around. We’ve worked hard, we’ve put our time in, and we are going to get that flag first! Baconville Bashers, are you with me!?”
“Hell yeah!” Dan said.
“This is such a bad idea,” Mack moaned.
“Come on, Mack, it’ll be fun,” Edgar said. He grinned in anticipation, leaning forward in his chair and poising his fingers on his omnipolymer controller, ready to rock and roll.
LETHAL CHEER SPECIAL EVENT MATCH BEGINNING IN 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1
The lobby disappeared and the view switched to a bombed-out industrial building, the torn-away roof revealing a gray stormy sky above. Stray snowflakes drifted down to join the thin layer of snow covering the rubble, knocked-over metal cabinets and long rows of factory equipment around them.
A flash of movement in the corner of Edgar’s vision made him turn his avatar’s view to spot two figures in custom body armor and visored helmets moving at speed out of the building, rifles held in tactical carry with the handles “Larry Coughlin” and “FallujahSevenNiner” hovering above their avatars. A gaggle of four other avatars in more generic skins followed them, lagging behind.
“Go, go, go!” Ronnie yelled in their Baconville Bashers group channel, and Edgar sent his avatar dashing for the nearest exit as his attention focused on his overhead display.
They’d spawned in the top left corner of the map, which meant the opposing team had spawned in the bottom right. A flashing green flag icon hovered in the middle of the overhead map, showing their objective.
Edgar stuck close behind Ronnie, letting his teammate worry about leading them through the burned-out urban landscape and looming buildings. Edgar kept his eyes moving, his MAC-50 submachine gun up and ready for contact. It was a heavy beast and chewed through ammo like his friends chewed through taco pizza, but for close range it was the best weapon to make sure whatever he put down stayed down. Permanently. They likely wouldn’t run into the other team until the center of the map, but there were plenty of other bogies around ready to give them a bad day.
His eyes flicked to his overhead again and he saw that Dan and Mack were close behind them, no doubt scoping out the terrain as they went. Those two would peel off near the objective to find elevated ground for Dan to provide overwatch sniper fire while Mack guarded his back.
Edgar took a moment to pull up a side menu and scan the names of the opposing team. He thought he recognized a few of them like YodaMaster and NewCenturion from previous large-scale matches. They were probably the mercs the algorithm’s matchmaker protocol had paired off with Larry Coughlin and that other scary-looking dude with him, FallujahSevenNiner.
“Contact!” hollered Ronnie.
Edgar’s eyes snapped forward and he was firing center mass before he even registered what it was he was firing at. The giant, white-furred yeti that had come around the building corner in front of them roared in fury and charged. A double tap to the head from Ronnie plus the barrage of lead to the chest from Edgar dropped it before it got to them, and they rushed passed it without giving it a second glance.
“Keep an eye out for resupply crates,” Ronnie reminded their group, words clipped and focused.
Another glance at the overhead map showed they were neck and neck with the two blue dots that represented Lynn and that Fallujah guy. Or girl. You never knew who you were really playing, something Ronnie never seemed to grasp. Appearances were all he paid attention to, plus whatever preconceived notions he had.
Edgar hoped the last month and a half had taught him different, but he wouldn’t hold his breath.
“Pick up the pace, man!” Ronnie hollered. “They’re gonna beat us there.”
Edgar sped along after Ronnie, but had to dodge to the side when a pair of red-and-green-clothed elves jumped out from an alley, grenades in hand and pins between their teeth.
“Suicide elves!” Edgar yelled in warning to Mack and Dan before obliterating the bogies with point-blank machine-gun fire while keeping his avatar running backwards. He barely managed to get out of the blast range before the grenades exploded, incinerating the jolly remains of their holders.
“Get up here, Edgar,” Ronnie snapped. “I need cover fire.”
“I’m coming,” Edgar said. “Dan, Mack, you okay?”
“Yeah, we ducked into a side street and fragged some fire-breathing reindeer.” Dan sounded positively thrilled at the experience.
Edgar heard gunfire ahead of him, reminding him he was supposed to be covering Ronnie. He sent his avatar dashing forward, navigating around the burned-out husks of vehicles and over piles of snow-covered rubble. He leapt over the crumpled form of another yeti and caught up with Ronnie where the street opened out into a wide courtyard. Across it loomed some sort of chemical plant or oil refinery, all concrete and sheet metal, with pipes going everywhere and ladders climbing the sides of giant vats. Spindly catwalks ended in midair where parts of the facility had been bombed into chaos and ruin, and in the distance several massive smokestacks reached up toward the oppressive cloud cover like modern obelisks.
To the left, Edgar saw movement. A glance that way confirmed what the overhead map told him: Larry Coughlin and FallujahSevenNiner were frog-hopping across the open space using vehicles for cover.
“Come on!” Ronnie said. “If we hurry there won’t be anyone there to stop us!”
Before Edgar could protest or shout a warning, Ronnie’s avatar had dashed forward straight across the open ground without even an attempt at evasive maneuvers. It was stupid, but Ronnie was right that if they were fast enough there might not be any opposition set up yet to snipe them.
With a sigh, Edgar dashed off after him, trying to keep an eye on his overhead map and his surroundings at the same time, waiting for an ambush.
It came when they were both in the middle of the courtyard without a scrap of cover nearby. Edgar heard the high-pitched whine of an RPG and threw his avatar to the side a split second before it hit. Ronnie was far enough ahead he didn’t go down, but Edgar’s health plummeted.
Cursing Ronnie and not even trying to keep his voice down, Edgar threw a hand grenade over his shoulder as he dashed for the nearest cover. He dove behind a burned-out delivery truck with “Mountain Tiger Beer—The Berries Put the Zip Back” emblazoned on it barely visible beneath the soot. A methodical pop-pop-pop sounded behind him where Ronnie must have found cover as well and was now giving Edgar cover fire. Edgar popped his head up far enough to aim through the broken windows of the cab toward the roofline they’d left behind. He spotted the tip of a red Santa hat, then the ignition flash as another RPG zoomed through the air toward them.
Edgar didn’t have time to worry where it would hit. He centered his aiming reticule and launched three grenades in quick succession after the murderous Santa just as the RPG hit. Ronnie’s WarMonger handle didn’t pop up as killed, so Edgar jumped up and booked it for the chemical plant.
“You good, Ronnie?” he asked as his avatar raced across the last few yards.
“Caught some shrapnel but still half health. Come on, let’s get this thing.”
Ronnie’s avatar joined him as they raced between giant metal vats and Edgar let him take the lead again, finding them a path to their target while he kept his head on a swivel looking for more “Killer Christmas Crazies” as he’d dubbed them in his head.
Their path to the flag, though, was unnervingly quiet. Edgar could see two blue dots on the mini map that looked to be on the far side of the plant between the flag and the southeast corner where the opposing team would most likely enter. Hmm, what was Lynn up to? And why hadn’t she grabbed the flag yet?
Three more blue dots were approaching the plant from the northwest while a singular blue dot was back up in their spawn zone—looked like one of the Wall Street bros had bought it, maybe from suicide elves, maybe from fire-breathing reindeer. Mack and Dan’s dots were directly north of the plant, and Edgar could only assume they’d found high ground or were double-checking the defensive advantages of some building or other.
Edgar had no idea where Ronnie had come by his excellent sense of direction. Maybe he’d been gaming for so long he was just used to the layout logic used by the map-generating algorithm. However he managed it, he guided them unswervingly through the twisted maze of catwalks and ladders, ducking around and under gigantic pipes and dashing down long corridors.
They didn’t encounter a single bogie, and that made Edgar very, very nervous. There was no way Larry and Fallujah could have cleared out the whole building that fast. So when was the hammer going to drop?
“Yes!” Ronnie hissed in triumph.
Edgar followed him out of a close corridor onto a catwalk that ran along the inner walls of a large multistory room. Below them, factory equipment, crates, and other debris was scattered the floor, providing scant cover. Right in the center, though, hovered a glowing green flag with a large snowman face on it, carrot nose and all. It had a jolly brown pipe hanging from the corner of its leering mouth and the words “Lethal Cheer” framed it on top and bottom.
A few paces out from the flag, however, was a ring of a dozen colorful Christmas presents, all tied up with perfect silver bows that glittered innocently in the sickly florescent light.
“If that ain’t a trap, then pigs can fly and Mack’s Japanese bot girlfriend is real,” Edgar said around his chewing gum.
“Hey! I heard that!” Mack said. “Her name is Riko and she is real. When are you guys going to stop being jealous I have a girlfriend and you don’t?”
“When you realize cute girls from halfway around the world don’t randomly pick you to be their boyfriend,” Dan snickered.
“It wasn’t like that! We met on a TD Hunter forum. She said she’d watched my stream a couple times and liked my game analysis. I’m telling you, she’s real. She plays TD Hunter in Japan!”
Edgar ignored the byplay and scanned the room for bogies, but saw no movement. “How are we supposed to get down—”
“To whatever scuttling cockroaches are eyeing the flag, don’t touch it,” Larry’s growling voice interrupted him over their team channel. “We’ve got it handled.”
Edgar checked behind him reflexively, wondering for a split second if Larry was lurking in the shadows watching every move they made. But no, the two dots on the overhead map that he’d pegged as Larry and FallujahSevenNiner were camped out near the southeast corner of the building, probably laying an ambush to catch the slower opposing team as it approached. But would the entire opposing team be gullible enough to approach head on? What about that Yoda guy and NewCenturion? They were probably Tier One mercs too.
“Ronnie, I think we should—”
“Oh no you don’t!” Ronnie shouted in fury, probably forgetting they were still on the team channel. The next second Edgar realized Ronnie wasn’t talking to him, because a player avatar dressed from head to toe in winter camouflage appeared from a side corridor moving carefully but purposefully across the room toward the flag—and there was no accompanying blue dot on Edgar’s overhead map.
He started to raise his rifle to blow the schmuck’s head off, but several things happened in quick succession.
“Stand down! I repeat, stand down!” Larry’s voice, full of cold fury, ordered across the team channel.
The opposing merc took a knee and aimed right up at the catwalk where Ronnie and Edgar crouched, as if he had some secret tap into their team channel, though more likely he’d simply spotted Edgar raising his rifle.
Edgar pulled his trigger, hoping the hasty spray of bullets would force the merc to duck for cover instead of eliminating the two very tempting targets in plain view above him.
And Ronnie, dear old Ronnie, whipped out a hand grenade and dropped it right in the center of the shining circle of presents.
Was he insane? What in the flaming balls of fire was Ronnie thinking?
The clink of it hitting the deck was almost swallowed by the noise of Edgar’s wild firing as Edgar backed up toward the cover of the corridor they’d emerged from, his avatar methodically flashing red from the merc’s precise shots. Edgar was a sliver of health away from death when the grenade below them finally exploded and all hell broke loose.
The entire room shuddered with over a dozen secondary explosions, and Edgar’s view was swallowed up in fire.
NewCenturion has been terminated by RonnieDarko714.
RonnieDarko714 has achieved Punching Up: terminating a player ten tiers above your own.
“Ye-haw! Take that, stupid merc!”
Edgar had lost track of Ronnie, but his hoot of triumph indicated he was still alive somewhere. The corridor Edgar had backed into had shielded him from the flames, but he had to give his avatar time to re-gen some health before he dared stick his nose out again.
“Don’t touch—” Larry’s gravelly voice began, but Ronnie’s excited chatter drowned it out.
“I triggered the booby trap, guys! I’m getting the flag! Whoo-hoo-hoo!”
Ooh boy.
Edgar shook his head and sent his avatar dashing back out on the catwalk just in time to see Ronnie’s avatar vault over the railing and plummet to the floor. It was about a twelve-foot drop, so Edgar couldn’t immediately follow. The fall damage would be minimal but he was still dangerously low on health.
A moment later, the green flag icon on the overhead map disappeared.
“Edgar, get your ass down here! I’m a sitting duck!” Ronnie hollered, still on the team channel.
“Take your time, BigHero232,” said a baritone voice as cold and biting as a winter night. “Better yet, go find some Santas to frag. In about three seconds your friend will be too busy respawning to need your help.”
Ronnie’s gulp of trepidation was audible to the whole team.
“Hey, is that Larry?” Dan asked, sounding excited.
“Ooooh, man, we’re screwed,” Mack said.
“What’s going on? Have we got the flag yet?” asked a voice Edgar didn’t recognize, probably wondering why everyone was suddenly goofing around on the team channel.
A notification popped up telling Edgar that RonnieDarko714 had added Larry Coughlin to the Baconville Bashers group channel. Edgar wasn’t sure if he should be laughing at this point or quaking in his boots.
“H-hey man, you can’t kill me!” Ronnie said in their group channel. “That would damage our team score. And besides, friendly fire is turned off!”
“Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie,” came Larry’s chilling voice, saying Ronnie’s name in the sing-song sort of way you’d expect from a serial killer. “Where’s your imagination? There are more ways to kill a man than there are hairs on your head. I would know, I’ve used most of them.”
Larry’s avatar finally appeared striding out of the same corridor NewCenturion had come from, distinctive in his pockmarked Alice the Strange armor. He stalked purposefully toward Ronnie while a series of muffled explosions sounded behind him, prompting a rolling list of kills to scroll across the bottom of Edgar’s screen.
I_AM_FAUST has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.
0BigStreetBoy0 has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.
KillerCroc_ has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.
BenDover69 has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.
$$Loaded4U has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.
SheWolf14 has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.
A list of bonuses and achievements followed, and Edgar’s eyebrows raised appreciatively. So that’s what Lynn had been busy with.
“I told you not to touch the flag, kid. Now you pay the price.”
Ronnie’s avatar backpedaled, the festive green and red flag clutched in both his hands. You couldn’t equip weapons while holding the flag, though you could attack someone using the flag like a bo staff. Edgar had heard of particularly skilled players killing opponents in melee combat during capture-the-flag, but he’d never seen it done in person.
“Okay, okay, just hold on a sec!” Ronnie protested. “I was doing what was best for the team! We got here first, and you were nowhere around! Then that other merc was about to get it. What was I supposed to do, let him?”
“I told you we had it handled. I’d already boobytrapped the room. You stole my Tier One kill, and now you’re holding my flag.”
Ronnie’s avatar stopped a safe distance from Larry and said hotly, “It doesn’t matter who holds the flag, man. Let’s just get out of here and win the match!”
“It matters when you’re a measly Tier Ten player. Our odds of winning by a twenty-percent margin triple if a Tier One is holding the flag.”
Gunfire broke out faintly in the distance.
RIP_Kostas has been terminated by FallujahSevenNiner.
WhyPahnerWhy has been terminated by FallujahSevenNiner.
“Look, dude,” Ronnie said, anger bubbling under his attempt at civility. “I’ve got my own guys, and we know what we’re doing. We’ve got a safe spot picked out. It looks like you and Fallujahwhatsit have the whole killing-everything-that-breathes handled, so we’ll just hunker down with the flag and you mercs can pile up the bodies. Everybody wins, okay?”
“No can do, kid. I’m not here for kicks and giggles, even if fragging your ass always makes my day. I’m getting paid to win, and win big, and I always fulfill my contracts. You and your little friends can stay out of my way or suffer an unfortunate mishap.”
Edgar knew what Lynn was doing and didn’t hold it against her. Like she’d said, she had a job to do, and it was Ronnie who had dragged Baconville Bashers into Larry’s line of fire. But at the same time, it would be pretty cool if they could manage to work together for once. If only Ronnie would get his head out of his ass and stop being a jerkwad, maybe Lynn would accept the olive branch. Hadn’t the last few months taught Ronnie anything?
Thinking quickly, Edgar pinged Ronnie, hoping to get in a private word before his friend opened his fat mouth again.
“Hey, my dude, I know you hate this guy and everything, but he’s a pro, and he couldn’t care less about a kid whining and mouthing off to him. If you don’t wanna get fragged, try being polite and professional for once and maybe he’ll give us a break.”
Edgar was pretty sure he could hear Ronnie’s teeth grinding in reply. Instead of responding to Edgar, though, Ronnie spoke in the Baconville Bashers channel.
“Okay, okay. I’m . . . sorry, uh, Mr. Coughlin. I wasn’t trying to screw with your plan, and I’d . . . appreciate it if you’d give us a chance to work . . . together.”
Edgar grinned and relaxed. Ronnie sounded like he was sucking on lemons and limes—he could imagine Ronnie’s words kicking and screaming in denial even as they were spoken. But Ronnie was trying, and that was something.
“My guys are no pushovers,” Ronnie continued. “We log serious hours and we work hard. We’ve been through . . . a lot lately, and my guys deserve to play this game just as much as you do. Personally, I think you’re a bully and full of yourself”—Edgar rolled his eyes, knowing Ronnie just couldn’t help himself—“but I’m asking you nicely to please let us do this as a group. You can call the shots, I don’t care. Just leave my guys alone and let’s get this done.”
Come on, Lynn, Edgar thought with all his might. He’s trying. Throw him a bone, yeah?
The silence on the channel was deafening. Edgar was pretty sure every one of his friends was holding their breath. It felt like the moment stretched into eternity, though it was probably only a few seconds.
“I must be getting soft in my old age,” came Larry’s voice finally, even more gravelly and gruff than usual. “But it’s Christmas, so maybe I’m just feeling generous. Otherwise I’d frag your ass and dance on your grave.”
There was an abrupt notification that Larry Coughlin had left Baconville Bashers channel, then he spoke on the team channel as his avatar started forward again toward Ronnie.
“New plan, ladies. This is now an escort mission. Bimbos 1 and 2”—Larry dropped friendly designators on Ronnie and Edgar, something visible only to teammates—“form up and head north toward Bimbos 3 and 4. You kids better have a good hold point picked out because if we lose, you will be paying the hiring fee of me and my colleague.”
“Roger that,” came a new voice, and FallujahSevenNiner’s avatar jogged up to join Larry in flanking Ronnie’s avatar. Edgar cocked his head, feeling strangely like he’d heard Fallujah’s voice somewhere before. But he dismissed the thought and hurried to vault over the railing down to the small group, his health now high enough to take the small amount of fall damage.
“Big guy,” Larry growled as Edgar approached the group, “you stick to your fearless leader like a starving tick. We’ll take care of the rest.”
Big guy, huh, Lynn? Edgar thought, grinning like an idiot and happy no one could see it. Avatars in WarMonger were a standard height, which made Larry’s comment sound a whole lot like a Freudian slip. I see you, girl. Even behind your masks, I see you. Wish you could see yourself from where I’m standin’ though . . . cuz it’s the most beautiful thing I ever saw.
That was his third secret, the one he’d take to his grave, if necessary:
He liked Lynn Raven. A lot.
He wasn’t stupid enough to use the “L” word. He didn’t deserve that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. See, he was pretty sure Lynn wasn’t interested, because she’d never given him even a second glance, at least not like that. So there was no way in hell he was going to ruin their friendship because he got greedy and wanted something that wasn’t there. Lynn needed friends, someone to watch her back, especially after the hell she’d gone through in middle school. He’d be damned if he ever made her feel unsafe. He would never be his father.
He couldn’t say that, though. Not any of it. So instead he said to Larry, “Got it, chief.”
“Watch it, kid. I’m no squid. Not a zoomie either. I like to get in close and dirty, which you’re about to enjoy firsthand if you don’t get your ass in gear.”
“Yessir,” Edgar said, grinning even wider and trying not to let it show in his voice. He sent his avatar jogging after Ronnie’s flag-toting figure while Fallujah took up a position on their left and Larry on their right. When they reached the corridor, Larry took point and Fallujah dropped to rear guard, while Edgar squeezed between Larry and Ronnie, fingers primed and ready to rain down fire on anything that moved.
“Ronnie, we found a great place,” Dan said in the team channel, sounding like an excited puppy on its first walk. “It’s a multilevel building, roof access, only one viable entry point, and multiple exterior escape routes jumping down rooftops. Mack’s holding the entry for us right now.”
Two yellow markers popped up on the mini map where Dan had marked himself and Mack’s locations for the entire team.
“Overwatch?” came Larry’s clipped question.
“Way ahead of you, sir. There’s one building higher and I’m already in it.”
“And what happens when the other guys have the same idea as you? Who’s watching your back?”
“Uhhh . . .” Dan sounded like he was in literature class and the teacher had just asked him to summarize Dante’s Inferno.
“Mr_Smith007, WilliamTheConqueror,” said Larry to two of the four other guys who had been grouped with him at the beginning, “head to DarkRider48’s location and guard his avenue of approach.”
“Hey,” Mr_Smith007 complained, “I hired you to win this match for me and win big. This sounds a lot like me doing your job for you.”
“You’re a battle asset, Smith, and I use all assets at my disposal to get the job done. Now move it, or I’ll return your fee and blackball you from my client list.”
While Mr_Smith007 grumbled and Larry gave orders to the remaining two members of their ten-person team, Edgar focused on sticking close to Larry’s avatar. They ducked through partially collapsed corridors full of rusted pipes leaking ominous trails of steam and navigated mazes of derelict processing equipment in high-ceilinged rooms that were crisscrossed by listing catwalks. Larry’s pockmarked and battle-worn armor was its own camouflage, blending in with the urban decay and destruction around them.
There was a twitch of motion in front of Edgar and he flinched as two shots rang out, only to realize it had been Larry shooting. He hurried to catch up because Larry’s avatar hadn’t even slowed. They passed a side corridor where two Santa’s elves lay, their chests each sporting a bloody hole the size of Edgar’s fist.
Whoa. He knew Lynn was good, but in her role as Larry Coughlin, she seemed nigh on clairvoyant.
And she kept on doing it. Edgar never got a chance to shoot even a single bogie. Lynn smoked every one before Edgar even knew they were there, her speed and efficiency keeping their group moving at a swift clip.
When they reached the north side of the complex, Larry’s avatar indicated a pause at a car-size hole blown in the wall of the plant. He checked their sight lines, then led them across the empty, snow-covered street into the alley beyond.
“Fallu, I’ll take it from here,” Larry said, all business. “Tossup whether Yoda comes for me or you. Keep your head on a swivel.”
“Roger. Happy hunting,” the other merc responded.
“I’ll be happy when they learn to drop out as soon as they see my name. This bunch is too new or too dumb to know any better.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Yoda that when I see him.”
“He already knows.”
There was a brief chuckle in the group channel, and by the time Edgar glanced back at Ronnie, FallujahSevenNiner was gone.
“Hey!” Ronnie exclaimed. “Where’s that other merc going? I’m the sitting duck here, shouldn’t we keep the professionals with the objective?”
“No,” Larry said flatly.
“Why—” Ronnie began, but Larry cut him off.
“Because I’m Tier One and you’re Tier Ten, Ronnie. Or did the years of tea-bagging not teach you anything? I’ve been punching people’s tickets since before you were born—hell, maybe even before your mother was born. The sooner you get that through your thick skull the sooner you might amount to something. BigHero, rear guard,” Larry finished abruptly.
“Yessir,” Edgar said, dropping back behind Ronnie’s avatar. It was an exercise in self-control to keep from snort-laughing at Lynn’s gravelly voice and deadpan comments. Lynn was so good, it was a beauty to watch, and easy to forget Larry wasn’t really a grizzled old combat vet from some bygone war.
Their route to the location marker Dan had dropped was circuitous, which made Edgar think Lynn expected an ambush and was making it as hard as possible for the other team to find them. Since both teams could plainly see the banner at the top of their screens announcing which team had the flag and how long they’d had it, it was a safe bet that all ten of the opposing team was hot on their trail.
Different games dealt with this aspect of a capture-the-flag scenario differently, but in WarMonger, once a team had held a flag for more than five consecutive minutes, the flag’s locator icon popped back up on the overhead map. That way neither team could hide the whole game and call it a win.
The moment the flag hold timer hit five minutes, ten very angry and motivated players would be converging on their location like piranhas on a hunk of meat. If Larry, Ronnie, and Edgar could make it to a defensible location before then, they might manage to keep the flag. Otherwise, they were toast.
“Hey kala—I mean, Larry, can we hurry it up?” Ronnie whined. “Our hunker-down point is right over there and this flag-holder debuff is gonna get me killed. It’s already at two-hundred-percent extra damage.”
Lynn didn’t bother responding, which was probably best. Edgar knew Ronnie was smart enough to realize the importance of their evasive maneuvers, he just needed to do a better job of keeping a lid on his nervous chatter. Though, to be fair, it was rather nerve-wracking being unable to fight and becoming more and more fragile by the second. The flag-holder debuff was another mechanic to help level the playing field. Pretty soon it would get so high that the tiniest amount of damage would kill Ronnie even at full health.
Edgar was just feeling optimistic—the hold point was just across the street—when things got even more interesting.
Interesting like a literal stampede of murderous-looking, fire-breathing reindeer careening down the street they were on.
“Grenade screen!” Larry snapped.
Edgar switched to his MAC-50’s grenade launcher and started walking them across the front of the advancing horde while Larry yelled at Ronnie to “get your pimply ass to the hold point now.” Edgar’s aim was crap while still moving, but he didn’t dare stop. Mack’s avatar stuck his head out the door they were headed toward, saw the reindeer, and started laying into them as well. The front ranks fell or were blown into bloody chunks, but the bogies behind them just kept on coming.
“BigHero, stay with Bimbo, get him to the roof,” Larry said, voice eerily calm despite the cascade of grenade explosions and solid wall of red-eyed and red-nosed bovines about to trample them. His avatar slowed fractionally and his rifle was replaced by a shoulder-mounted RPG launcher. He waited until Edgar and Ronnie passed him and dove toward the door, then started firing, no doubt painfully aware that even a sliver of proximity damage from the explosions might be Ronnie’s end.
Edgar dearly wanted to hang around and watch Lynn at work, but dutifully sped on after Ronnie with the sound of RPGs launching and exploding in a methodical rhythm behind him. Wow, one launch per second? He hadn’t even known that was possible, though it didn’t surprise him. Bonus after bonus scrolled across the bottom of the screen as Larry made mincemeat of the reindeer stampede.
Mack led the way down corridors and up stairs, heading for the roof. As they ran, their flag timer passed five minutes and the green flag icon appeared on the overhead map.
Now the real fun began.
They burst out from the last stairwell to the roof, Mack in the lead and Ronnie still blocking Edgar’s view.
“Crap!” Mack yelled. “How did he get—”
MackTruck35 has been terminated by YodaMaster.
Mack’s avatar dropped like a rock and Ronnie was screaming, shooting, and trying to back up all at once.
“Whereishewhereishewhereishe??” Dan muttered frantically, obviously trying to find the opposing merc in his sniper scope.
Edgar’s tried to get around Ronnie in the tight stairwell, expecting Ronnie to die any second, when a single, heavy caliber rifle report echoed over the chaos.
YodaMaster has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.
“Whoah!” Dan exclaimed. “How did you do that, Mr. Coughlin, sir? Can you teleport??”
“What do you think this is, a garden party social club?” Ronnie yelled, voice high-pitched with tension. “Can you guys focus on the mission instead of chit-chatting like little old ladies? My debuff is up to eight hundred percent!”
“You’re real lucky Larry is being paid not to kill you,” commented Fallujah from wherever Larry had sent him earlier. “That only lasts as long as the match, though, so go ahead, keep digging your own grave.”
“At least I’m here for the love of the game, not to screw people over for money,” Ronnie snapped.
“Shut it, Ronnie, before I come sew your mouth closed myself,” Larry growled. “I hear your old man is out with his buddies tonight, so I won’t have any interruptions.”
Ronnie’s mouth audibly snapped shut and silence reigned. Edgar shuddered despite himself. Sometimes Lynn was too scary for her own good. So scary he had a moment of doubt that Lynn was actually Larry at all. But how else could Larry know about Ronnie’s dad? Unless he really was former specops with secret surveillance capabilities?
Don’t be an idiot, Edgar told himself, shaking his head. No reason for a guy like Larry to give a monkey’s backside for a group of nobody teens from Iowa if not for a personal connection. Nothing else made sense, no matter how scary Larry seemed.
“You two Bimbos get your asses out here so I can booby-trap the stairwell,” Larry commanded. “Everyone else, stay sharp, the vultures are descending.”
Edgar and Ronnie emerged from the stairwell to the sight of Larry’s avatar, and Edgar considered echoing Dan’s question to find out how in the world Larry had beaten them to the roof. Either he really could teleport, or the location had an exterior avenue of approach Dan and Mack hadn’t noticed.
Probably the latter, but the former was more fun to imagine.
The next few minutes were a cacophony of fire, explosions, and shouting. Everyone and everything was converging on their location, including the Christmas-themed NPCs. The only saving grace of the situation was that the NPCs were indiscriminate in their murderous intent, so they helped split the opposing team’s focus. On the other hand, Dan had his work cut out for him sniping the yetis and abominable snowmen scaling the outside of the building and lobbing barrages of snowballs up at them.
It wasn’t long before their teammates guarding the first floor had bought it and the enemy reached Larry’s booby trap. The explosion took out two of them, but three more pushed through. Edgar body-shielded Ronnie while Ronnie yelled frantically about his debuff—Ronnie clearly had a problem with loss of agency. He seemed to think yelling loudly at everyone else was helpful.
Edgar only had a moment to worry about it and wonder where Larry had disappeared to when the lead enemy’s head exploded and the other two went down face-first like they’d been hit from behind.
0BigStreetBoy0 has been terminated by DarkRider48. 
KillerCroc_ has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.
SheWolf14 has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.
Dan’s “Yesss!” overlapped Ronnie’s “Holy shit, that was close!” and Ronnie’s avatar did a little victory dance with the flag.
“Get away from the edge of the roof, you idiot!” Larry yelled.
But it was too late.
A solitary snowball, sparkling white and perfectly round, arced up lazily from below and hit Ronnie in the back with a cheerful crunching sound of packed snow.
Ronnie’s avatar dropped like a rock.
RonnieDarko714 has been terminated by environmental effect [Abominable Snowman].
RonnieDarko714 has achieved Inevitable End: dying with 1000% or more damage debuff.
RonnieDarko714 has achieved Death By Hangnail: being killed by a single point of damage.
Edgar could just imagine Ronnie’s enraged howling and cursing in Lithuanian, something the rest of them were fortunately spared from until Ronnie respawned in about sixty seconds.
Edgar glanced at the overhead map, expecting to see the little green flag icon back at its original spawn point. Instead, to his surprise, he saw another timer banner appear, showing that their team once more held the flag.
Well, now he knew what FallujahSevenNiner had been up to.
Edgar finally looked around and realized he was alone on the rooftop with about five yetis cresting the roof’s edge and Dan was yelling at him to bail. There was no sign of Larry anywhere. But then, there rarely was, unless you counted the dead bodies and kill notifications that followed in his wake.
Time to exit stage right.
Edgar had just reached the ground floor down the interior stairwell when he rounded a corner and his display flashed red with damage. Blood splatters obstructed his view, indicating he’d taken a critical hit. He spun, looking for his attacker, then his avatar dropped and his first-person view pulled back, showing his fallen body with a respawn timer superimposed over it.
BigHero232 was terminated by NewCenturion.
Edgar shrugged and took a swig from his water bottle while his timer counted down. Unlike Dan and Ronnie, he didn’t care much about his leaderboard ranking. He just wanted everybody to have a good time, and so far between Larry being Larry and Ronnie being Ronnie, he’d been having a blast.
Edgar’s reentry screen hadn’t even finished materializing before his ears were full of Ronnie’s ranting. But on the bright side, the timing banner was still present indicating their team held the flag. It had almost hit five minutes, so whoever carried it, likely FallujahSevenNiner, was about to get outed. Cumulatively, though, their team had controlled the flag for a little over fifty percent of the match, so the likelihood of them achieving the coveted victory bonus was fairly good.
The rest of the match passed swiftly with Edgar, Mack, Ronnie and Dan doing their best to distract the other team while Ronnie complained about Larry in their Baconville Bashers group channel. Larry and FallujahSevenNiner somehow managed to tag-team the flag so that every time one of them died—which was far less frequently than they had any right to—the other was ready to snap it up, or slit the throat of any opposing player who snapped it up first. YodaMaster took them each out a handful of times, but NewCenturion didn’t seem to be in the same league as the other three mercs, so wasn’t able to coordinate with YodaMaster as well as Larry did with FallujahSevenNiner.
The match countdown ended right in the middle of an epic free-for-all between both teams and a horde of polar bear-riding nutcrackers led by Santa himself in a tanklike sleigh mounted with machine guns. Edgar was having a grand time and was sad to get kicked back to their team lobby. He only remembered to check their final score because it flashed across the screen, followed by the team achievements and individual scores.
“Yes! We did it!” Dan crowed in their group channel at the sight of their final victory bonus.
“Good job, everyone!” Mack said, sounding almost as excited as Dan.
“No thanks to that shiknaskyle kalakutpisa,” Ronnie grumbled.
“Oh, shut up, Ronnie,” Dan said. “He did, like, eighty percent of the work.”
“He did not! I got to the flag first and made sure we took the initiative. If he hadn’t butted in—”
“We’d’ve been dead within minutes,” Edgar finished for him. “Come on, dude, give it a rest. We all did great. And you getting smoked by a snowball was hilarious.”
Dan sniggered.
A join request from Larry Coughlin popped up for their Baconville Bashers group channel.
“What does he want,” Ronnie said darkly.
“Dunno, why don’t we find out?” Edgar said, a grin spreading across his face. He accepted the request before Ronnie could cancel it.
“Not bad for a group of amateurs,” came the familiar baritone.
“We’re not—”
“Thanks, sir!” Dan said loudly, cutting Ronnie off. “It was an honor to fight with you. Maybe we can do it again sometime?”
“Not a chance, grasshopper. If I wanted to torture myself, I’d go back to the sandbox. At least the food is decent over there.”
“Then why don’t you go?” Ronnie said, finally getting a word in edgewise. “You’re a creepy old guy who gets off on bullying people for money.”
There was a moment of charged silence, then Larry said.
“You know why I pick on you, kid?”
“Because you’re a stinking shiknaskyle!”
Larry laughed, a sound like gravel scraping along the bottom of a deep, echoing pit.
“Nice try, kid, but no. I pick on you because you’re a coward. And I hate cowards.”
Ronnie spluttered, but before he could get anymore insults out, Larry continued, his voice becoming as sharp and deadly as a Yoshindo blade.
“You know how I can tell you’re a coward? Because every mistake you make is always someone else’s fault. Every bad thing that happens to you is because someone else screwed up.”
“That’s not true,” Ronnie gritted out.
“Really? Then tell me one thing you did wrong during our match and how you could have done it better.”
“I—I didn’t—I mean, there was nothing—”
“Yeah, thought so. I’ve known too many people like you, kid—people whose self-worth is tied to performance. You think if you acknowledge any fault, you’re done for. Problem is, you can’t fix something you won’t admit is broken, so you trap yourself in a self-inflicted hell of mediocrity.”
Ronnie’s spluttering and attempted denials didn’t seem to bother Larry, who just kept speaking in that deep, cold voice.
“You’re terrified of personal responsibility, Ronnie, because then there’s no one to blame for your failures but yourself. But you know what happens to people who won’t take responsibility?”
Edgar could fairly feel Ronnie’s death glare through their mics, even though his friend didn’t make a sound.
“They get people killed,” Larry said, his voice a whispered promise of violence.
Goosebumps broke out across Edgar’s skin, and for a moment he forgot Lynn was Larry, forgot that the whole alter ego was a carefully crafted mask. In that moment, Larry really did sound like a war-weary vet who had seen and done things he could never speak of, and who had probably watched friends die in combat, maybe even because of someone else’s mistakes.
“Cowards blame other people, Ronnie,” Larry finished, voice soft. “Heroes take responsibility.”
There was a pregnant silence, then a notification popped up on Edgar’s screen:
Larry Coughlin has left the lobby.
The silence in their group channel stretched on, and Edgar felt no need to break it. The spell Larry—that is, Lynn—had cast over them felt weighty with meaning, and Edgar wondered if something was bothering her to prompt such a speech. Maybe their TD Hunter Strike Team drama was weighing heavy on her mind. Maybe she’d seen an opportunity to tell Ronnie a truth he’d never take from her personally.
Maybe she’d been willing to forgive, and maybe he should be, too.
The question remained, though: was Ronnie willing to step up? Had he learned anything at all?
“Mack,” Ronnie’s voice cracked when he spoke, but he kept on like everything was normal, “get some rest. I’ll see you guys around.”
And with that, Ronnie left the lobby, too.
The rest of them exchanged subdued farewells and went their separate ways. Edgar was too preoccupied to fret that nobody had rallied them to play some more matches like they’d intended. He was busy worrying about Lynn. She’d been under a lot of pressure lately, and their Hunter Strike Team status was still up in the air. What should he do? Ping her and offer some advice? Or would that seem patronizing? Trust her to figure it out and give her space? Or would that be leaving her high and dry when she needed a friend? Would he know better how to support her if he’d been honest with her about his feelings this whole time? Or would that have driven her away for good?
This was why Edgar kept secrets, because half the time he didn’t trust himself, and you could never unsay something you’d already said. You could never pull back that punch you’d already let swing.
And he would never become his father.
Sighing, Edgar levered himself out of his sagging gaming chair and gathered up a few empty bags of chips to throw away. He had homework to do, so he might as well get started. He’d wait and see what Lynn said at school tomorrow and take things from there. Maybe he’d have a chance to talk to Ronnie tomorrow, too. Gauge his attitude. See if he was ready to stop being a dooshnozzle.
He was just settling down with his dreaded math homework when he got a ping notification on his LINC. He pulled it up to see that it was from Lynn, sent to him, Dan, and Mack. As he read it, a slow smile spread across his face:
“Hey, everyone. We need to have a war meeting. Tomorrow after school. My place. You guys in?”
He shot back a quick “hell yeah” and got busy with his homework, feeling lighter and more hopeful.
The future was full of questions, but tomorrow he’d get some answers. And with Lynn at the head of things, he was confident they’d be good ones. Maybe even good enough that, someday, he’d have a chance to share some of his secrets with her.
Maybe.

Lydia Sherrer is the award-winning and USA Today best-selling author of urban fantasy series Love, Lies, and Hocus Pocus—the Lily Singer Adventures. She has most recently written the first in a trilogy of Gamelit novels with New York Times best-selling author John Ringo.