The Bootlegger Broadcast

❖

The Second Novel in the Green Charisma Chronicles

David M. Pearce

Copyright © 2024 by David M. Pearce. All rights reserved.

979-8-9898321-2-5 (eBook)
979-8-9898321-3-2 (Paperback)

“None of us is as smart as all of us.”

—Ken Blanchard

This book is dedicated to every hometown newspaper that picks their team to finish last. You are an inspiration to underdogs everywhere.

Yo, bartender! Jobu needs a refill!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

CHAPTER
ONE

Every artist gets anxious after weeks without work. Maybe that explained why my reality-show actors were bickering over the holovid remote.

We’d come to the Appleseed system because the fertile planet hosted a large population with many species. Originally a human colony, it had become a galaxy waypoint—diminutive Micronians, reptilian Vellarans, and avian Ixorians all lived together in harmony.

The suite we’d rented at the Millennium Loft Hotel in Cider’s Grove seemed to shrink every day. Empty pizza boxes and Vellaran takeout cartons teetered atop a coffee table. Wine and beer bottles littered the kitchen counter. A pair of dirty sweat socks hung over a chair near the room’s temperature-control vent, polluting our living space with a gym-locker stink.

The hotel cleaning staff had given up their daily sweeps after Sanraya, my Vellaran girlfriend, scared them away. She’s a downright grouch when awakened with a hangover.

Vellarans can be intimidating. They look a little like a cross of bipedal iguanas and alligators, with their reptilian green skin and colorful dewlaps and crests. But they’re humanoid, with two arms and two legs. Their heads are roundish, like a human’s, and they have two eyes, two earflaps, and a nose. Granted, their mouths are filled with serrated triangular teeth, but emotionally they differ little from humans. They place high value on humor, loyalty, and morality. Back on Minnix Ore Station 27, when we were filming our last show involving an alien bug hunt, I’d fallen in love with one: a brave lady with brains, sass, and unshakable joie de vivre.

Sanraya ba’Marta slumped on the couch with the clicker in her right hand. With bloodshot eyes and a cool demeanor, she stared at my other actor, Joseph Drake. “The only way you’re getting this will be when I chuck it and bounce it off your big, fat head.”

On the video console along one wall, a three-dimensional rendering of a Vellaran cooking show, Hungry on Hinno’ok, played, with the show’s host fighting to season a pair of yellow slugs, each the size of a dachsund. As he added a dash of dry rub to each from a shaker, the creatures quavered and oozed away from the onslaught of fiery flavorings. Just as they reached the edge of the prep table, he corralled both beasts before they made a getaway.

“Come on. It’s my turn to choose a show.” Joe took a swig from his beer mug as he glared at Sanraya from a comfy chair opposite the couch. Food stains marred the front of his navy T-shirt adorned with a silver star. “It’s the playoffs. Can’t miss them.”

“How ’bout them Cowboys?” I asked.

“Precisely, Mac. Let’s go, Big D.” He brushed some crumbs off his chest, stood, and held out his hand to Sanraya. “Gimme.”

The yellow crest atop Sanraya’s head flattened as she produced a predatory smile that would scare the bejeezus out of most sentient species. “Not a chance. I want to see how this show ends.”

“Don’t all cooking shows end the same?” I asked from the safety of my chair at the kitchen table. I tore off the shrink-wrapped packaging from my new holovid camera and cast aside the instruction booklet without reading it. There wasn’t a video unit manufactured in this galaxy that I didn’t understand. With the flick of a switch, the shiny black orb gleamed, pulsing with an inner blue light. “I presume the chef gets to eat a tasty meal when the show concludes.”

Sanraya tapped her fingertips together. “Ah, Ian MacIntyre, that’s the difference between human shows and Vellaran ones. There’s a good chance the cook has poisoned himself if he doesn’t get the recipe exactly right.”

“Really?” I sat up, suddenly more interested in what was playing on the console. As the director of our show, The Green Charisma Chronicles, I picked up tips from other reality shows whenever possible. It didn’t matter that this was a cooking show, and that our production involved action/adventure. Drama is drama. “How often does that happen?”

Joe put his beefy hands on his hips. “I don’t care. The game’s about to start.”

“The last fatality occurred six years ago,” Sanraya said. “The show has a topnotch medical team in place just in case anything goes wrong.”

One of the banana-colored slugs flopped off the table onto the floor. The Vellaran chef’s head snapped back. With shaky hands, he scooped it into the sink, then twisted the faucet handle. A jet of water sprayed the invertebrate.

Sanraya frowned. “Ooh, that’s bad. Tainted meat. Now he’ll have to start over.”

Joe groaned. “This show’s never gonna end.”

I chuckled. “It only seems that way.”

“Meaning what?” Joe asked.

“The network sets the run time depending on audience and the optimal number of advertisements the program can squeeze in without folks changing the channel.”

Sanraya’s eyes lit up as she cackled. “Unlike your species, Vellarans have excellent concentration. We don’t get distracted.”

“So?” Joe asked.

“This is a two-hour show.”

“Crap.” He collapsed on the couch beside her, his muscular frame overshadowing her lithe body. “What would it take to get the remote?”

“A bribe?” The bony ridges of Sanraya’s eyes rose. “Now you’re talking my language.” She reached toward the coffee table, picked up an empty glass, and shook it. “I’m out of fermented toadstool milk. Get me more and I’ll let you watch your game.”

Joe snatched the vessel out of her hand. “Done.” He leapt to his feet and headed for our suite’s refrigeration unit.

I scratched my head, wondering why Sanraya had given up her show for a pittance. With a shrug, I returned to my diagnostics work. The camera’s software needed fine tuning before it met my standards.

Standing in front of the open refrigerator, Joe grasped his black pompadour. “Hey, there’s no milk in here! You tricked me, you fiend.”

Sanraya smirked. “You can jog to the store and back lickety-split.”

“But I’ll miss the first quarter,” he whined.

“And I’ll be able to finish what I started. Don’t forget to pick up some snacks. Dried Scarpuffian tweedlefish sounds good.” She smacked her lips. “Salty and chewy.”

I let out a chuckle. “You promised to get her another drink. Caveat emptor.”

“You’re taking her side in this?”

“She’s my girlfriend. I love her. What did you expect?”

Joe’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, okay. Need anything while I’m out, Mac?”

I pursed my lips and thought about our dwindling supplies. “Nah, I’m okay.”

If we didn’t find a job soon, our creditors would send their goons to force us into indenture. I wanted to find a short-term gig where we would act as mercenaries of fortune. It would be the perfect backdrop for a syndication sold to many planets.

Joe, Sanraya, and I decided to start our own reality holodrama after surviving an alien bug attack at Minnix Ore Station 27. But starting a new show costs money, so we took out a loan. If we fell behind on our payments, the bank would force us into working for an advertising company. We’d end up shilling deordorant, underwear, or Narpoxian vittles: scut work. I’d rather eat broken glass.

Joe patted the pockets of his chinos. “Anybody see my credit chit?”

I removed a silver disk the size of a poker chip from my shirt pocket and pressed its center. After it chirped and flashed green, I tossed it to him. “Take mine.”

“Woo-hoo! Spending spree!” Joe pocketed the coin and pushed open the hotel room door.

I rolled my eyes. “With the balance in my account, you won’t be able to buy much.”

Sanraya turned away from her show. “How long do we have before our funds run out?”

“Couple of weeks.”

Joe paused in the open doorway. “Any prospects out there?”

I picked up my data slate from the table. “I posted another advertisement on the local jobs board a few hours ago. Let’s see if we got any responses.”

“I’d take any interesting job on this planet,” Joe said. “Are there any interesting jobs on this planet?”

“Only if you wanna work in the apple industry. There’s plenty of cider mills outside of town.”

He shook his head. “Pass. I grew up on a ranch in Texas. Farmers work long hours. And I can’t see us selling a holovid drama about picking and fermenting fruit.”

“True enough.” I tapped the pad. It took only a few seconds to bring up the employment board. “Nothing yet.”

Sanraya rolled onto her stomach and stared at me, her show forgotten. “I can pay a visit to the Vellaran business community and see if they’ve got something.”

“You went yesterday and came back with nothing, but I appreciate the thought.”

“I’ll be back in a half hour.” Joe closed the door behind him.

I set down my tablet and rubbed my eyes. My jaw creaked as a yawn escaped.

“You look tired.” Sanraya rose from the couch and joined me at my workstation.

“I’m not sleeping well,” I admitted.

“Worried about our future?”

“Yeah.”

She reached out, took my hand in hers, and smiled. “We knew it might be hard starting our own show.”

“Not this difficult. Right now, there’s nothing exciting enough for a holodrama.”

“Are you saying we need more conflict in this galaxy?”

“Something like that. That’s why I advertised us as mercenaries for hire.”

Sanraya’s brow creased. “What are we going to do, Mac?”

I sighed. “If we don’t get anything in a couple days, we’ll pick up shop and move on.”

“Where?”

“Katiri Prime. It’s the galaxy’s entertainment hub. We could sign on with a production company for one of their existing shows.”

Sanraya frowned. “That’ll means giving up our independence.”

My stomach gurgled with discontent. “I know. But unless money walks through the door on its own, we’re out of luck.”

“Joe won’t like it.”

“What other options do we have?” I asked her.

“It’ll take us three days to get to Katiri Prime by commuter starship.” She sat next to me and leaned her elbows on the table. “That’ll be expensive.”

I pointed my chin at the Vellaran cooking holodrama. “Your chef just skewered his slugs. You’re missing the best part of the show.”

Sanraya waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t give a damn. Sure, I told Joe I wanted to see the end, but I only said that to get under his skin and get some time alone with you.” She locked eyes with me. “Listen, it’s not your fault we’re still unemployed.”

“Did I say—”

“You don’t have to.” Her voice softened. “I know you, Mac. Yeah, you’re our director, but there are things you can’t control.”

I cleared my throat and averted my gaze. The Vellaran chef put each skewer on a rack and braised his slugs with a hand torch. As the blue flame licked the slugs’ skins, crisping them brown, my stomach turned.

Sanraya and I lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. She went back to watching her holodrama, and I worked on programming my new camera. There were more doodads than I needed to make a good show, but I loved playing with them.

While my last rig had used a helmet with an eyepiece as a user interface, this camera had a different mechanism. I fished a set of contact lenses out of the box, washed them with cleaning fluid, then put them in my eyes. A new system booted up. Tracking my gaze, a heads-up display allowed me to control the camera’s flight operations, lighting, focus, zoom function, and other features.

I put the camera drone through a test run, letting it zip around the hotel room. It buzzed close to Sanraya, who watched it with one eye.

“You’re not filming me, are you?” she asked.

“No. Just testing features.”

“How does it compare with your old camera?”

“The controls are more sensitive. It’s too early to tell if I like it.”

Sanraya tilted her head. “Is there a self-destruct like in your old drone? An anti-bug bomb?”

“No. I’m not sacrificing my camera again. It’s got something better—a self-defense mechanism.”

Sanraya sat up on the couch. “Oh?”

The hotel door banged open as Joe hefted in four bags of groceries. “Captain Charisma returns from another successful quest.”

“What did you bring me?” Sanraya asked.

He pulled out a corked amber bottle and set it on the counter. “Two-year-old toadstool milk. They didn’t have any tweedlefish, but I found something else.” He tossed a can to her.

She caught it and stared at the label. “Pickled Vellaran bitonal beetles? Ugh. You bought me pet food?”

Joe’s face fell. “Did I?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugged. “It looked good to me.”

Sanraya scowled. “Our deal is off. Better return this to the store and bring me some real food.”

“Wait just a minute—”

The doorbell chimed.

Joe turned and opened the door to our hotel suite.

A squat, humanoid-shaped robot stepped inside. Its oblong head swiveled and scanned the room’s interior. A red light flashed from its torso, it raised a three-fingered hand, and thrust forth a white envelope. “Joseph Drake, Sanraya ba’Marta, and Ian MacIntyre. You are hereby placed on eviction notice for nonpayment of rent. You will leave these premises within twelve hours.”

Joe accepted the envelope from the droid and turned to me with a raised eyebrow. “You didn’t pay the landlord?”

I scowled. “It was your week to pay. Don’t tell me you forgot?”

Joe paled and twirled the invoice in his hands. “Uh—maybe we should use your credit chit to pay?”

My face fell. “You saw the balance on it when you bought the snacks. I’m nearly broke.”

Joe grimaced. “Hmm. Sanraya? Can you help a fella out?”

Sanraya put her head in her hands. “You idiot.”

The droid stared at the mess inside our room. “Accumulation of trash violates paragraph ten point three of your contract.” It retreated to the corridor. “Your deposit is forfeit.” The holovideo console shut itself off. “Access to the entertainment hub is blocked. The authorities have been notified of your transgressions. Failure to timely remove yourself from the grounds will result in your arrest.”

The robot slammed the door shut.

Joe stared at the floor. “Well, that was unpleasant.”

Sanraya balled a fist. “Way to go, bonehead. We’re gonna be homeless in a few hours.”

Joe fidgeted. “I thought I didn’t have to pay until the fifteenth of the month?”

“That was yesterday!”

“Oh.”

“So, what now? How were you planning to pay your share of the rent?”

“Well, I thought we’d already have a job lined up—”

The data slate on the table chirped, indicating an incoming message. I picked it up and opened the communication software.

My heart skipped a beat as I read a response to my advertisement on the Appleseed planetary employment board: Skootchy’s Snack Shack at Groveler’s Green. Today, 1400. Work off planet.

Joe read the message over my shoulder, then patted my head. “Excellent.” He turned to Sanraya. “We’ve got a job interview.”

Sanraya hooted. “When? Where?”

“Soon. Downtown. We gotta hustle.” He raised an eyebrow. “You wanna use the shower first?”

“No, you go ahead. I’ll shower with Mac.”

A goofy smile spread across my face as I tapped out a reply on my data slate: Acknowledged. We’ll meet you there.

CHAPTER
TWO

An hour later, I crammed into a cab with my two actors. As our hovering transport raced through traffic, my knees bounced. My fingers danced across the tablet as I tried to research our potential employer. I needed something to take my mind off the grimy, brown residue coating the cab’s floor underneath a layer of discarded food wrappers. Vents pushed a funky stink through the cabin—a cheap spicy deodorant from a cardboard cutout hanging from the rearview mirror—proving taxis were the same throughout the galaxy.

Snuggling against me in the backseat, Sanraya leaned over to look at the screen. “Any luck?”

I shook my head, disappointed I had nothing to share. “Whoever posted the message hid their identity. Joe and I made some enemies during our last adventure, when we still worked for Galactic Entertainment.”

Joe cracked his knuckles. “If this is a setup, I’m ready.”

Sanraya snorted, her yellow dewlap wobbling under her chin as the cab rounded a corner. “Paranoid much?”

“It’s not paranoia,” Joe said. “Just being careful.”

Our taxi slammed to a halt in the designated drop zone outside Groveler’s Green. I scanned the area, wondering why our driver had stopped so abruptly. Nothing. Traffic moved without hindrance. No obstructions. No emergency.

I glared at the hunched shape in the driver’s seat. “What the hell?”

The Kalneskan cabbie gripped the steering yoke with four furry hands, her one huge red eye staring at me through the rearview mirror. “Groveler’s Green,” she said. “That’ll be sixteen credits.”

“I got it, Mac.” Joe pulled out his credit chit and tapped it against the backseat card reader. His blue eyes flashed.

The hairy driver scanned the holographic display that registered the fare. “Customary tip is thirty percent.”

“You know what else is customary? Decent driving.” I kicked open the passenger door, stepped out of the grubby white hovercraft, and offered a hand to Sanraya. Snubbing my attempt at gallantry, she sniffed and quickly exited the vehicle.

Joe smirked and put out his own mitt for help. I ignored him. Pulling him out of the cab would give me a hernia—the dopey muscle-bound freak. He grunted and hopped out on his own, his pompadour brushing the transport’s ceiling.

The crowded skyline blocked out most of the afternoon sunlight. Appleseed architecture gave an aura of substance over style—neat rows of blocky towers with glass facades. The only break in the unending contemporary horizon was Groveler’s Green, an island park in a sea of urbanity. The hum and buzz of traffic rose and fell like waves crashing against a shore.

The cabbie cleared her throat. “My tip?”

I stuck my head back inside. “Here’s a tip: get some driving lessons.”

After I slammed the door shut, the cab darted back into traffic. Speeding airships, hover cars, and tri-winged commercial vehicles crowded the airway.

Sanraya grunted. “Freakin’ cabbies.” She gave a one-fingered salute to the disappearing taxi, then turned to Joe. “Did I do that right? Sometimes I miss the subtleties of human behavior.”

A lopsided grin unfolded across Joe’s dark-bearded mug. “Not bad, but use your middle finger next time.”

“How long have you known me?” Sanraya asked.

Joe thought for a second. “About eight weeks?”

“So when are you going to notice I have six fingers, idiot?”

“Oh.” Joe squinted. “Right. Use both middle fingers then.”

I rolled my eyes. My actors fed off each other, competing for attention. “That cabbie’s seen worse, I’m sure.”

Sanraya shrugged. “It made me feel better, and I need practice imitating your queer human cultural customs for our show.”

I couldn’t argue with that. At least, not if I wanted to keep my feisty girlfriend—and I did. She made me feel brave; our incredible sex life didn’t hurt either. Still, she left an opening I couldn’t pass up. “Queer human customs? Vellarans sharpen their teeth with power tools.”

“And?”

“Do you know how unnerving that can be? Especially when you do that before you come to bed?”

Sanraya grinned: a dental display any dragon would envy. “Just be thankful I wear a mouth guard during the night.”

“Oh, I am. Believe me, I always check to make sure you’re wearing it.”

“Thpppt!” Sanraya blew me a raspberry with her forked tongue.

Joe cleared his throat. “Should we move this along? Much as I love hearing you tease each other; a potential employer is waiting for us. I’d rather not be late to our interview.”

“Spoilsport,” Sanraya huffed.

My stomach tightened. This job interview better be legitimate.

Sanraya pointed across the manicured lawn. Rat-size robots crisscrossed it, leveling the grass to a uniform height with micro lasers. “There’s the restaurant.”

I stared at the open-air diner. Skootchy’s Snack Shack looked like a garish orange-and-purple blob sprouting on the Green. If someone licked one of its funky walls, they’d probably hallucinate for a week. “It’s a meat wagon on an anti-grav unit,” I explained. “Bet they move every couple of weeks to avoid the health inspectors. Calling it a restaurant is generous.”

“I could go for a hamburger.” Joe rubbed his stomach. “Or maybe a Torquadian springbok kabob. Do you think they’ve got springbok in this system?”

“Does it matter?” I strolled away from the curb onto the wide meadow. Sanraya and Joe followed. “You’ve never seen a meal you’d pass up.”

Joe flexed his biceps. “I need protein to keep looking this hot.”

I snorted. Joe still had a youthful metabolism, which made me jealous. I ran a hand over my stomach, proud I’d gotten rid of some of my middle-aged flab through dieting over the past several weeks, although I still had a ways to go. It had been difficult watching my friends binge on junk food and booze while I stuck to vegetables and lean protein.

“How about you get the camera out, Mac?” Sanraya ran her hands over her gray pants to smooth out the creases and fidgeted with her body cam: a pinhole unit contained within a broach fastened to her white shirt. “This should be an interesting conversation.”

“No kidding.” I fished around in my jacket pocket for my new video drone. “Stay alert.”

Sanraya nodded. “I’ll watch for danger, but this is the only nibble we’ve had in weeks. As much as I’ve enjoyed our vacation, we need the work.”

I grimaced, thinking about our dwindling savings; she was right. Still, it made me nervous that our potential employer had hidden his or her identity. “Hmm,” I said, cleaning the drone’s lens with a soft cloth. “Yes, it’s been a nice vacation.”

Joe exchanged a glance with Sanraya. “There he goes again. Worrying about stuff that can’t be helped.”

Sanraya stopped and put her hands on her hips. “You’re not canceling this meeting, Ian MacIntyre.”

Sometimes I wondered if Vellaran women could read minds. Nah. I couldn’t be that unlucky, right? “Well, since we’ve decided—”

“We all agreed to this.” Joe clipped his own pinhole camera to the breast pocket of his jacket. “No backing out now, Mighty Mac.”

“Okay, okay. It was just a thought,” I said, shooting him a glare. “And you know how much I hate it when you call me that.”

“Mighty Mac, the hero of Minnix Ore Station.” Joe belted it out like the ringside announcer at a Micronian wrestling match. “Winner of this year’s Hopkins Ethics in Cinematography Award. And a giant-bug slayer.”

“You’re killing me.”

“You should be proud of the recognition. You deserve it.”

I shrugged. The accolade had given me some much-needed name recognition. Some of the video we’d salvaged from our bug hunt on Minnix Ore Station 27 and put out on intergalactic dispatch had helped us land our loan. It also brought some interest from producers, but, because Galactic Entertainment owned the rights to our adventures aboard the station, they wanted new material. I just hoped we’d create a holodrama they had to buy. “Yeah, it’s nice to get some respect.” I eyed Joe. “For once.”

“Cheer up,” Joe said. “How bad can this meeting be?”

“I dunno. But now you’ve jinxed us.”

Sanraya smirked and patted her thigh, where a fat, gray gryrojet pistol hung from a slip-draw tether. “Don’t worry, Mac. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Craning my neck, I scanned the crowd to determine who our contact might be among the benches and tables outside Skootchy’s Snack Shack. No one stood out. A diverse crowd, including the native humans, reptilian Vellarans, leonid Katirans, and a lonely badger-like la’Karvian, occupied the outdoor dining area. Families enjoying the park. Workers grabbing a bite. Tourists avoiding the pricy restaurants near the spaceport.

A middle-aged human male and a younger thick-necked Vellaran male stared at us as we approached the eatery. They wore casual clothes—comfortable and well worn—just the threads you’d expect from someone who wanted to blend into a crowd, but honestly, they looked like thugs. The smells of grease and charred meat wafted across the park. After weeks of eating low-calorie rehydrated vegetables, it took a concerted effort not to drool.

“Have either of you spotted our likely employer?” I asked.

“Possibly,” Joe said. “I’m betting on the two guys watching us.”

“I see them,” I said, although they didn’t instill a great deal of confidence about our employment prospects.

“A new adventure.” Sanraya paused to pick a purple wildflower and put the stem behind a green earflap. The bloom looked fetching, accentuating her violet eyes. “A time for heroes.”

“Hey, that’s my line,” Joe grumbled.

“Since when do you have lines?” I asked. “Our show relies on improvisation.”

He pouted. “It could be my line.”

“Too bad,” Sanraya said. “It’s mine now. Find your own cliché.”

“I’m losing motivation.” Joe pantomimed a faint as we arrived at the shaded area near the restaurant. “I’ve got an actor’s delicate constitution. Be careful or I won’t be able to perform.”

“Is that why you can’t keep a steady girlfriend?” Sanraya snickered. “An inability to perform?”

“Blah, blah, blah.” Joe rolled his eyes. “I know you’re just jealous of my acting skills.”

“Which you still need to work on.” I chucked him on the shoulder. “You’ve made progress, pal, but you’re not going to win any awards just yet.”

“Tough crowd.” Joe pouted again. “Everybody’s a critic.”

“Ha. Gird up your loins and put on your game face, or I’ll put my boot up your ass,” I told him.

“Promises, promises,” Joe said. “How do you want to play this?”

I scratched my chin, thinking about the question. We didn’t know who we were going to meet, but it was a job interview; it would be better if they appreciated our talent. “Act carefree, like you’ve done this a million times. Let’s hope they take that as confidence.”

“You got it,” Joe said.

Sanraya turned to me. “What do you want me to do?”

For the past few weeks, we’d been working on her on-camera personality. She did a reasonable job playing the role of the “dour” counterpart to Joe’s goofball act—which really wasn’t much of a stretch. “Do what you do best, my dear—loom menacingly—like you woke up with a sore tooth.”

She snickered. “I love playing the heavy.”

I finished prepping the camera drone and tossed it into the air. It wobbled and hissed before coming to a stop about three feet over my head. When I blinked three times in quick succession, a heads-up display of the camera’s controls came into view, created by the special contacts I wore. Interaction with the camera came naturally as it responded to the movements of my eyelids and gaze.

A check of all three of our cameras came back with positive results. The cameras would uplink their data to server space on Ixor. The cameras’ internal drives could also store about a week’s worth of video and audio whenever our adventures took us off the galactic grid. Although I’d be in our scenes, I expected Joe and Sanraya to provide most of the action. My main job involved directing and then editing and compiling footage for our show.

Movement behind the restaurant’s counter caught my eye, and multifaceted, turquoise eyes latched onto mine. Twin antennae twitched atop a brown insectoid head, while mandibles and coiled proboscises moved in tandem. “Welcome to Skootchy’s.” The creature’s high-pitched buzz reminded me of a mosquito right before it landed on unprotected skin. Can I take your order?”

My stomach lurched. I hate bugs—especially big ones. “Nothing for me, thanks. I’m on a diet.”

Joe didn’t bat an eye. “You the owner?”

The bug nodded, his antennae keeping pace. “I’m Skootchy.”

“How’s the Boskellian Super Burger?”

“It’s our bestseller. Doesn’t disappoint.”

Joe rubbed his hands together. “Gimme one of those with fries and a Rusty Anchor Ale.”

Skootchy pecked at his register with one of his six segmented legs. “And for the lovely Vellaran lady?”

Sanraya scanned the backlit menu board behind Skootchy. “Three Vellaran mealworm tacos and an Euphorian iced tea.”

“Coming right up.” Skootchy moved toward the stove behind him. “You can pay at your table when I deliver your meals.”

The three of us moved through the crowd. Our human admirer looked up and nodded at me. He looked to be about my age—and more seasoned than his Vellaran companion. We sat down at the table with them.

The man raised an eyebrow as he ran a hand over his slicked back hair. His dark-brown eyes measured me like a butcher choosing the right cut for a carcass. A smirk appeared, revealing a gold tooth. “You’ve got the wrong table, buddy. You want to talk to the Transkeller lady behind you.”

I frowned. “Pardon?”

“You heard what I said. If you wanna beat us out of the job, you’ve gotta impress her.”

The Vellaran snickered. “Judging by your appearance, that’s gonna be hard to do.”

I turned and looked over my shoulder. Four large, green eyes stared back, and a crown of furry antlers protruded from her pinched brow. The cinnamon-colored leathery skin on her face and neck looked soft, like modeling clay. Two rows of regular blocky teeth smiled beneath a wide snout. She wore bright clothing, a wrap of swirling greens, blues, and yellows.

I stood up. “Apologies. My mistake.”

The greasy-haired man stared me down. “It’ll be your last if you take this job from me.”

“Yeah?”

“I need this job real bad. So, stay outta our way.”

CHAPTER
THREE

I don’t like bullies. Never have. It comes from a long history of being a camera geek and not a jock. So, when the oily guy made a threat, I took it personal. My shoulders tightened, and I leaned across the table. The video drone hovered in close to pick up our conversation.

Unaware of any threat, other patrons blissfully went about their subpar dining experience. The green metal tables lay half empty, the lunch crowd thinning.

Joe leaned forward as well, his leather jacket creaking at the seams. His hand hovered near the garish orange blaster on his hip. The greasy-haired dude smiled, his right hand disappearing beneath the table, while the Vellaran muscleman cracked his knuckles. Sanraya hissed through her teeth. Violence seemed imminent.

I shrugged, trying to act brave. “Have we met? You look familiar.”
He gave me a cold stare. “I’m Stanislav Hordiyenko. Everyone who’s anyone in this business knows me.”

“And what business would that be?”

“Transportation.”

Ah. A smuggler. Someone who didn’t mind skirting the rules. It was a common enough trade in every galaxy. Every planet had banned substances. This guy looked like he’d sell his mother to a la’Karvian slave ship.

“So, you think it would be a bad idea for me to interview for this job, Stanley?” I asked.

His eyes went dead. “It would be a huge mistake to get in my way.”

Oh, ho. Perfect. I gave him my best smile. “I make lots of mistakes. It creates good drama.”

Stanislav cocked his head to the side. “Drama?”

“I’d explain, but it would take too long—and it probably would hurt you to think that hard.”

His frown was priceless. Even better, he blinked when the drone hovered close, an open port revealing the miniature rail gun inside. I made sure he got a good look at it as the rig took a close up of his ugly mug.

His eyes narrowed. “Clever.”

“Unlike some directors, I’m not afraid to let our audience see us shoot first. Never mess with the crew of Green Charisma. Our brand of reality show is hard-core.” I turned away from the table and marched toward our potential employer, the Transkeller woman, with Joe and Sanraya flanking me.

After I deactivated the camera’s self-defense mechanism, it zipped to a spot where it could record our conversation from an oblique angle.

“Ian MacIntyre, I presume?” The Transkeller woman’s eyes—all four—crinkled in amusement.

I nodded and gestured to either side of me “These are my partners, Sanraya ba’Marta and Joseph Drake, otherwise known as Mean Green and Captain Charisma.”

Joe and Sanraya nodded and sat down beside me.

“You’re the reality show director.” She put her leathery, three-fingered hands on the table. “Is your camera making a live broadcast? If so, I’m asking you to turn it off.”

“No, just recording events for editing later.” I folded my hands together. “Is that a problem?”

“You’ll need to edit out my name and appearance before your show broadcasts. Otherwise our conversation ends now.”

My smile vanished. “I’ve got a show to make.”

“You can broadcast it, but I can’t let you use my name, face, or the name of my organization.”

“That might be a deal breaker.” I grimaced. “I’ll have to hear the details about your employment offer first.”

“But you’ll erase the video of this interview if things don’t work out? And if we can come to the right terms, you’ll edit me out of the show?”

I nodded. “Sure. I can be reasonable.”

“Fair enough. My name is Qinta Floros.”

“Good to get a name. Your message didn’t provide one.”

“A necessary precaution to safeguard our communications.” She gestured toward a plastic basket half-filled with breaded nuggets. “Can I offer you a fried tadpole?”

Grease saturated the paper in the bottom of the basket. “Sorry. I’ve sworn off junk food.”

Sanraya shook her head. “Thank you, but I’ll wait for my meal.”

Joe leaned over and grabbed a fistful of fried juvenile frog. “Waste not, want not.” He popped a couple into his mouth and chewed. “Mmm. Delectable.”

“What can we do for you, Ms. Floros?” I asked.

“I need a pilot to deliver cargo to Clodhopper.”

“Clodhopper?” I leaned back. “I’m not familiar with it.”

Joe sat up straight. “I am. It’s a planet in the Kati Nethos Cluster, right?”

“Polavian space,” Sanraya hissed.

Skootchy arrived with the food, and Qinta clamped her mouth shut. Joe’s meal looked like it could feed a Micronian family for a week. The worms in Sanraya’s tacos twitched, trying to crawl out of their soft tortilla shells. As my actors dove into their meals, I tapped a credit chit against the electronic reader at our table. Skootchy hung around long enough to make sure I tipped him the customary amount. As soon as the reader chirped, he nodded.

“Bon appétit!” Skootchy said cheerily, then shuffled away.

I shuddered as horrid memories of creepy crawlies chasing after me in the dark ran through my head. How could my friends shrug off the fact that a giant bug had prepared their food?

“Mmmph.” Joe chewed noisily. “Fantastic burger.”

I sighed and put my elbows on the tabletop. Actors always amazed me with how quickly they could forget about a bad scene—even ones that had nearly killed them. “So, the job would take us into Polavian space?”

Qinta nodded. “That’s right. I need someone who isn’t afraid of a little danger.”

Joe swallowed and shrugged. “I’m not keen on the chances of running into a Polavian warbird. What’s the shipment?”

“Four hundred crates of Torquadian cytologic cold brew.”

A whistle escaped Joe’s lips. “That’s a lot of merchandise.”

“The Clodhopper populace needs the medicine to stop an outbreak of Glassbone influenza. Thousands have died, and more are seriously ill.”

“Thousands? Why hasn’t this made the intergalactic news feed?” I asked.

Qinta sighed. “The Polavians discourage any traffic going in and out of the sector. There’s no news coming from the planet.”

“If the Polavians have a blockade, how do we get through?” Joe asked.

“A small smuggler’s ship can get in and out before they can intercede. We’ve done it before.”

Sanraya tapped a claw on the tabletop. “That medicine is a controlled substance on half the populated worlds in this quadrant—and I’ll bet that includes this one.”

“One species’ poison is another’s medicine,” Qinta said. “I can’t help that some folks abuse cold brew for recreation. It’s still the best thing to help cure the flu—and a lot cheaper than the alternatives. The Clodhopper people are suffering. Will you condemn them to a cruel end?”

Our target audience tended to be young thrill seekers. As a whole, they didn’t like authority or red tape. Qinta clearly knew how to push the right buttons, especially with the camera running. “Why us?”

“I don’t know how to fly or maintain a starship. I’m just an administrator in my organization.”

“And which organization is that?”

“Universal Health United. A nonprofit that treats diseases and illnesses.”

I nodded. “I’ve heard about your group. Don’t you have a network for distribution?”

“We do.” Qinta shook her head. “But our pilot disappeared two nights ago. No word on what happened to him. The medicine is perishable, so we need to move quickly. I saw your bulletin board posting. It mentioned that Captain Charisma knows how to fly a starship.”

Joe struck a pose for the camera. “I’m the best space jockey in this quadrant.”

What a prima donna. I’d cautioned him about overacting, but it always went in one ear and out the other.

“You sure your regular pilot didn’t take another job?” I asked.

“Yes. He’s loyal but he might have succumbed to his vices.”

“Oh?”

Qinta shrugged. “He’s a recovering alcoholic. He might have lapsed. I keep hoping we’ll find him in one of the local hospitals.”

“Why would you hire an alcoholic to run your ship?” I said.

She shrugged. “Because he’s a good pilot, worked cheap, and kept things discrete. And alcoholism is a disease. Our nonprofit treats all forms of illness.”

“What about those guys?” I thumbed toward Stanislav and the Vellaran muscleman behind me. “Why not them?”

“I’ve considered their qualifications.” She waved them over to our table. “This is an open negotiation.”

A bootlegger’s business proposition. My brain told me there would be other jobs, better jobs, ones that didn’t involve smuggling drugs into Polavian space. However, the mission of mercy spoke to me—and I could play up that angle for our show.

I glanced over my shoulder. Our competition got up from their table and sauntered over. The Vellaran bruiser ran his eyes up and down Sanraya’s body and smiled, revealing a set of rotted, serrated teeth. I ignored it. This wasn’t the time to get jealous just because someone found my girlfriend attractive.

Qinta waited until they sat down before continuing. “You’ve met the other applicants—Stanislav Hordiyenko and Micklor Rabiger.”

Stanislav smiled, his gold canine peeking through thin lips. “Charmed.”

With a grunt, Micklor folded his scaly, green arms across his chest and continued to stare down Sanraya.

“How do we get the merchandise to Clodhopper?” I asked.

“There’s a transport at Stevedore Sam’s Used Starship Emporium a few blocks from here.” Qinta’s four-eyed gaze roved everywhere at once, apparently watching us all.

Joe leaned forward. “What kinda ship?”

“One big enough to carry the cargo.” Qinta made a gesture with her hands that I interpreted as a shrug. “Ships aren’t my specialty. I organize the operations that help the sick.”

“We can give your nonprofit good press when our show airs,” I said. “That’s got to be worth a great deal.”

“Absolutely not.” Her posture stiffened. “This is a covert mission, several of many to the Clodhopper System.” My frown must have given her pause. “I’m sorry, but it has to be this way.”

Our Transkellian employer set her mouth in a firm line; so I swallowed down a plea for reason. I wouldn’t be able to negotiate away this point. Damn it. Editing the footage wouldn’t be a problem, but name recognition provides currency that goes a long way in show business. Telling our audience that we worked for a recognizable galactic nonprofit would have helped sell the show.

Joe nodded toward Stanislav and Micklor. “What qualifies these jokers to transport anything into Polavian space?”

Micklor eased himself forward in his chair, a scowl growing on his face. Stanislav raised one hand, then he stilled.

“I’ve got a half dozen years’ experience running a convoy along Deadleg Drop between Polavia Prime and the Celestial Crescent,” Stanislav said. “And Micklor can chart a course better than any navigation computer.”

Joe rested a hand near his blaster. “Bullshit. You’re a pirate, Stan. You’ve got the look.”

“You calling me a liar?” he growled.

“I am.”

“Congratulations, you’ve just won yourself an enemy, pal.”

Hot damn! Our audience would love this kind of talk. All my work with Joe to create greater conflict for our reality show was paying off.

Qinta cleared her throat. “Neither of you will get anything if you kill each other before you leave the space dock.”

Joe’s eyes took on a hard edge that I’d grown to recognize. If Stanislav made a move for a weapon, Joe would burn him down.

“What’s the pay?” Stanislav asked.

“We’re a nonprofit,” Qinta said, “so I was hoping—”

Sanraya scowled. “Okay, so you’ll get a discount. We still need to eat, but we’re not going to gouge you. Fifty thousand credits up front. Another fifty thousand upon delivery.”

“Forty thousand up front, another forty on delivery,” Stanislav hissed.

Qinta didn’t blink. “Ten thousand now. Another forty thousand when the cold brew arrives on Clodhopper.”

Stanislav turned his head and spat on the ground. “You gotta do better than that up front. I got bills to pay before I leave this planet.”

Qinta shook her head. “I can’t give you more up front. But you can keep the transport when you’re done. It’s worth thirty thousand credits.”

Stanislav clucked his tongue. “I already have a ship.”

“Then sell the starfreighter to someone else. I care not.”

“I’d get the ship now?”

“You’d get to use it now, with the title delivered afterward,” Qinta said.

Stanislav nodded at Joe. “What’ll keep Captain Dipshit from flying off with it to parts unknown after the cargo is loaded?”

“Hey!” Joe stabbed a finger against the tabletop. “I’m sitting right here.”

Qinta sighed. “I’ve got a kill switch hidden in the transport’s subcommands. Any tampering with the security system will result in engine meltdown.” She inclined her chin toward Joe. “We’d wait long enough for you to die from starvation, then retrieve the ship at our leisure.”

Stanislav folded his arms across his chest. “That doesn’t solve my problem about needing money now to pay my bills.”

“Like I said, there’s no more money to provide up front.”

I sensed an opportunity. “What if we offered to take the job for five thousand now, fifty thousand on delivery, and the title to the ship afterward? We can send a live feed from our cameras so you can watch our progress, but you’ll agree not to redistribute the video. The three of us still have a show to broadcast. Does that sound like a fair counteroffer?”

Qinta grinned. “Quite.”

I leaned forward. “I just need one thing more. If somehow word slips out that your organization is involved in this job, through no fault of our own, you won’t hold it against us.”

“We would neither confirm nor deny any involvement,” she said flatly.

I nodded. “I can live with that.”

Qinta turned to Stanislav. “Is there an additional counteroffer?”

“Twenty-five thousand up front, thirty thousand upon completion, plus the title to the starfreighter.”

“Maybe you weren’t listening. There’s no more money up front.”

Stanislav threw up his bear-like hands. “You’ll regret this decision. These camera clowns will never make it past the Polavian star base.”

Qinta tilted her head. “I’ve researched their history. The risk is acceptable. And I have more leverage over them—if they try to run with my money or the drugs, my organization will hire an advertising agency to decimate their reputation.”

If anything went wrong, this woman could wreck our name, and our new show would never get off the ground. Even so, I respected people who knew how to play hardball. I glanced at Joe, who nodded. Sanraya did the same.

I slapped the table. “Done. You just hired the crew of Green Charisma for your smuggler’s run.”

CHAPTER
FOUR

We strolled through Groveler’s Green, heading for Stevedore Sam’s Used Starship Emporium. After a few minutes, the park gave way to crowded canyons nestled between skyscrapers. Pedestrians—human and alien—packed the sidewalks and conveyor systems. The chatter from the crowds mingled with the buzzes, hums, and growl of traffic. A mélange of musk, perfume, and enticing aromas from food carts mixed as they wafted on the breeze. Dining at its finest for the bustling masses.

During the walk, I thought through the obstacles of our new endeavor. Joe could easily pilot a starship, so I wasn’t worried about getting to Clodhopper. Instead, I focused on how to create the necessary drama to make the show work. A talented reality show director can make a pillow fight seem like a death match. Here, I wouldn’t need to push the envelope with fabrication. In fact, I worried we’d taken on something exceeding our skills with this smuggling job.

I rubbed my sour stomach, trying not to think about our bills. Qinta had already wired the seed money to our joint account, which would pay off what was past due, but we needed a successful mission to make sure we stayed in the black. At least I didn’t have to worry about my ex-wife trying to collect alimony, given her current residence at the Weiland Asteroid Penal Colony. She’d be there for years after starting a riot on Minnix Ore Station 27 and blackmailing Galactic Entertainment.

My nausea grew worse when I remembered how Joe had escalated the Polavian-Alliance War. I’d sworn never to reveal his secret—during his stint in the Alliance Army, he’d gotten around the security protocols on a tactical nuke and wiped out a Polavian hive core. As far as I knew, Sanraya didn’t know about the incident, or the fact that the Polavians considered the act a war crime. Joe suspected the Polavians knew his name but had never confirmed this. Was it fair to withhold this knowledge from Sanraya before we flew into Polavian space? On the other hand, how would she react if I told her? And what would Joe do if I broke my promise? Would our partnership dissolve before it even got off the ground? Damn. I needed to have a sit-down with Joe.

Pedestrian traffic slid by on either side of me, but I only gave it half my attention. Joe and Sanraya gabbed about the latest political news: how the Alliance Parliament chambers needed a good hosing to clean out the filth. Fat chance at that Herculean task ever coming to pass.

I tuned out my friends’ chatter and took the opportunity to check out some background information on Clodhopper. My heads-up display let me search the dossier Qinta Floros sent. What I read didn’t give me much comfort.

An authoritarian governor was milking the planet for its agrarian resources—timber and grains—and shipping them to the Polavian Empire. The native reptilian species worked as slave labor, with a small underground faction fighting a guerilla war against their masters. Polavians had used biological warfare against the natives, resulting in an outbreak of Glassbone influenza. The political situation was a powder keg waiting for a lit fuse. Joe, Sanraya, and I needed to deliver the medicine and skedaddle.

I closed the reader in my heads-up display. The crowds had thinned the farther we’d gotten away from the park. As we stepped off the curb into a lighted crosswalk, I rejoined my friends’ conversation and bringing them up to speed on Clodhopper’s problems. They took it in stride, instead focusing on how we’d get there.

“I hope it’s a fast ship,” Joe said, “and maneuverable. The Ixorians have a light freighter than can dance like a ballerina. That would be excellent. Maybe a Martian VM Corvette—the Alliance uses them to transport troops to the Outer Rim. Lots of speed. Faster than any battlewagon.”

“Why not a Vellaran victory ship?” Sanraya rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, revealing the toned muscles underneath her green skin. She spritzed lotion onto her arms and rubbed it across her skin, then dabbed a little across her nose and forehead. “Very economical. No breakdowns. They run forever.”

Interesting conversation. Much better than their political discussion. I directed the camera to a spot just ahead of us where I could get better audio. It always helped to concentrate on my art, to lose myself in it. The familiar role of operating a camera helped calm my nerves. And this conversation could be useful filler for the show.

“You really think our employer is giving us a decent ship?” I asked. “She runs a nonprofit. They’re not going to splurge on something fancy.”

“Ya think it’ll be a clunker?” Sanraya said. “That would be disappointing.”

“I’m betting it’ll be as dreadful as a Vellaran holoskatch concert.”

Sanraya flipped me the bird, this time using both of her middle fingers. “It’s not my fault you’ve got terrible taste in music.”

I flashed her a devilish smile. “Nice to see you haven’t lost your humor. We’ll need supplies from the trading post. Water. Salt pills. Insect repellent. Find stuff that will help in a warm, humid, jungle environment.”

Sanraya picked up a bounce in her step. “Sounds like a perfect locale to me.”

I harrumphed. “Go ahead, rub it in. Next assignment we take, I’ll make sure it’s in Gorathian Glacier Park on Tundra Prime.”

Sanraya pouted. “You know I hate the cold.”

“Our first snowball fight should be lots of fun.”

She glared at me. “Only if you’re prepared to lose to your cranky girlfriend.”

I smiled and patted her arm. “You know I’m only kidding, love.”

She grinned and pecked my cheek. “Yeah, but I love the banter and the fact that you treat me as an equal.”
Joe rubbed his beard. “I thought Clodhopper was an agrarian planet. Rural and backward, not a jungle environment.”

“It is, but there are some remnant jungles,” I said. “And it’s very warm there. So, we have to adapt to the setting.”

Joe sighed. “Guess I’ll shave off the facial hair.”

“It’s about time,” Sanraya said. “You look like a Xendomorg before a seasonal shedding.”

Joe scowled. “Be nice, or I’ll file a harassment claim with management.”

I grabbed the handrail of the conveyor belt that would take us to the end of the block. “Management says, ‘Suck it up, buttercup.’”

“Buttercup?” Sanraya asked. “I’m not familiar with that term.”

“A small yellow wildflower on Earth.” In the nearest storefront, holographic displays advertised cheap handheld electronics. “It’s also a term of endearment, but I used it to mock our macho man.”

“So, it would be correct for me to refer to you as my buttercup?” Sanraya blew me a kiss as we stepped off the conveyor.

Joe laughed and slapped his thigh. “It sure would.”

Unwilling to give him any satisfaction, I patted Sanraya’s arm again. “You can use whatever pet name you choose, my dear.” I pointed to the signpost at the upcoming intersection. “We’ll take a left turn here. Stevedore Sam’s should be a few stores down the block.”

Sanraya steered me toward the crosswalk, then guided me through a throng of people heading the opposite direction. “Let’s hope the shipment has arrived. We need to leave this planet ASAP. I don’t want any Appleseed authorities catching us with the stuff.”

“How do we make sure we aren’t arrested for drug smuggling after the show airs?” Joe asked. “I’m not keen on seeing the inside of an Appleseed or Polavian prison.”

“Please tell me you’ve thought about how this will work out, Mac.” Sanraya stepped around a hovering sedan chair carrying an insectoid alien. “I didn’t join up with the two of you to become an outlaw.”

I took a deep breath and let it out. “We can’t let anyone catch us with the medicine. But if that happens, we’ll have to claim ignorance regarding the contents of the cargo.”

Joe shook his head. “Fat chance that’ll work. Appleseed’s judicial system is too efficient. And things are much worse in Polavian space. I’d rather ask a Polavian magistrate for a quick death than try to feign innocence.”

“So, let’s not get caught.” I ducked around a huge walleyed, bipedal amphibian heading my direction. “I’m counting on you to live up to your reputation as an exceptional pilot.”

“I am an exceptional pilot.” Joe stepped over what appeared to be a steaming, green pile of pet excrement. It was common on every planet, despite the widespread pooper-scooper laws. “That won’t require any acting on my part.”

“And when the show broadcasts?” Sanraya asked. “Won’t we incriminate ourselves?”

I shook my head. “Once we deliver the medicine, there’s no physical evidence. The recordings will show crates of a substance that may or may not be illegally obtained drugs. And we can always say we faked those scenes as part of the show.”

“Ooh, I like it.” Sanraya grinned. “We can put out a press statement disavowing any culpability.”

“Now you’re thinking like a reality show actress. Plus, I control the footage that gets released. It’ll be the perfect bootlegger broadcast.”

“I can live with that.” Joe waved off a spiderlike street hustler who tried to hand him a glossy pamphlet. “I feel bad about the Clodhoppers. Glassbone influenza is beyond nasty.”

“You’ve seen it?” Sanraya asked. “What does it do?”

“Your bones turn brittle and break if you move the wrong way,” Joe said. “Soon your body can’t support its own weight. It’s a messy, extremely painful way to die. Most people asphyxiate when the rib cage collapses.”

“But there’s a vaccine, right?”

“Yeah, most humans get inoculated early in life,” Joe said. “What about Vellarans?”

“The same,” Sanraya replied. “It’s been eliminated in the Hinno’ok System. We haven’t seen it in generations. I guess the Clodhoppers aren’t that advanced as a civilization.”

“They didn’t name themselves ‘Clodhoppers,’” I said. “That’s just what everybody else calls ’em, because they’re agrarian.”

“What do they call themselves?” Joe asked.

“I read up on it,” I said, stopping in front of our destination. “They call themselves ‘The Chosen.’”

Joe chuckled. “Nothing presumptuous about that.”

“Kinda like calling yourself Captain Charisma.” Sanraya elbowed him in the ribs.

“Whatever,” he said, rolling his eyes.

Sanraya stopped and stared at a flashing sign that hung from the side of a building. “Ah, here we are.”

Stevedore Sam’s Used Starship Emporium, a twenty-story high rise, crowded the air corridor and the street in front of it like a starving Narpoxian mountain mocker on a winterkill. Landing platforms jutted out in every direction from the structure, rotating in and out of covered areas to display ships available for purchase. The crafts came in dozens of configurations and styles: blocky Ixorian utility vehicles, needlelike racers, Vellaran disks, and Terran luxury yachts, just to name a few.

A set of glass doors slid open, and we strolled through the entrance. The cavernous showroom bustled with automated sales staff chatting with potential buyers and sellers. Open cubicles included seating areas around tables where deals could be consummated. The current “deal of the day,” a racy, red Transkellian single-occupant ship, sat on the central platform.

An artificial spotted our entrance and moved to greet us. The android looked like a child’s cartoon robot, with oversize optics and an androgynous form—its innocuous appearance creating the perfect sales crewmember. “Welcome to Stevedore Sam’s. How may I assist you?”

“We’re here to pick up a starfreighter.” I handed over my data slate. “Here’s the order number and identification code.”

The droid scanned through the information. “One moment while I confirm the transfer with our inventory clerk.” The click and whir of internal machinery leaked through our host’s synthetic facade. It tilted its head back, stared off at nothing, then nodded. “Here it is. Order 53189A confirmed. This way, please.”

The three of us followed the sales agent as it weaved its way toward the back of the building. “We will take a short shuttle ride to our auxiliary lot.”

“Auxiliary lot?” I rubbed my gut.

“For our larger vessels,” the droid explained, “and our older models.”

I let out a groan. A ship the store didn’t want on open display? This didn’t bode well. “So . . . uh . . . you’re gonna take us there?”

“Correct. Our company adheres to strick customer service guidelines. A single android is paired with each customer. No handoffs to other personnel.”

I stared at the identical artificials coming and going across the display area. “How would anyone be able to tell you apart?”

Our guide’s face took on a wounded expression with sullen eyes and a droopy mouth. “Well, I would know. That’s what’s important.”

“Oh.” I looked away. “Sorry . . . uh—”

“All androids here go by the name ‘Sam.’ It’s part of the business brand. We have stores on dozens of worlds.” The droid ushered us through a set of sliding doors where a wafting hovercraft adorned with the business’s logo waited at the curb. The family-size transport was tall enough to stand up inside.

I stepped aboard and found a seat on a bench. Sanraya sat next to me. Joe grabbed a handrail, and the shuttle lifted off. The automated windows darkened as the transport darted into the bright sunlight. We merged with a column of other vessels before picking up speed and heading north toward the nearby spaceport.

“I hope you enjoy your shopping experience,” Sam said. “Do you have any questions?”

“Do you have a shop where you sell spare parts? Supplies for travelers?”

“We have an excellent selection of merchandise,” Sam said. “I will upload the catalog to your data pad. If you wish to order anything, we can have your purchases delivered to your ship within an hour, or you can visit our affiliate, Kriegel’s Kupboard, in person.”

“Awesome.” Joe rubbed his hands together. “Lemme see the catalog, Mac. I’ll find what we need.”

My eyes twitched. If Joe made our purchases, the funds in our account would evaporate into nothing.

“No way.” I pulled out my data slate and scrolled through the download. “You’d squander our money on stuff we don’t need—like video games, tan-in-a-can, and hair gel. I’ll handle it.”

“Oh, come on.” Joe ran a hand through his locks. “You know I’m lost without my Dapper Doo.”

“You don’t want our input?” Sanraya asked. “I’m well aware of our limited finances. I can be judicious while selecting my own supplies, buttercup.”

I sighed. As the show’s director, I needed to take control of the situation at times. “Let me start with the basics. Then I’ll let you peruse through their inventory.”

“Hmmph.” Sanraya crossed her arms.

“I get no respect.” Joe stared out the window.

Sighing, I switched applications and brought up the message center. “I'm putting in a request to our hotel to bag our belongings and have them delivered to the ship.”

Sanraya’s gaze flicked upward. “You hear that, Joe? Mac’s got everything figured out.”

Joe continued to watch the landscape speed by outside the shuttle. “Glad I’m around for the ride.”

I gritted my teeth and swallowed ugly words. They wouldn’t do any good.

Glancing out the window, I spotted a cruise ship lifting off from the spaceport. Its propulsion engines swiveled from a perpendicular configuration forward to in-flight form as the ship gathered speed. A long line of hangars flanked the landing field. Our shuttle set down near one of the larger metal buildings.

As I stepped off the shuttle, heat rose off the blacktop and smacked me in the face. The sharp tang of propellant fumes and baked asphalt mingled together. I put one hand over my eyes to shade them from the sun. The camera sped to a spot ahead of us. I wanted to capture the looks on our faces when we got the first glimpse of our ship, then pan around to show it to our future audience. Never miss an opportunity to record raw emotion from your actors.

We entered the hangar. Harsh artificial light from overhead lamps lit up the space as our footsteps echoed off the concrete floor. Sam led us down the center of the hangar, passing two broken-down ships, with repair droids carrying various tools crawling over their surfaces. He stopped in front of a third vessel.

“Here is your starfreighter.” He handed me a data pad. “Universal Health United’s shipment should arrive soon.”

The camera moved in for a close-up. Joe’s face fell. Sanraya’s eyes widened. Although these weren’t the reactions I’d hoped to catch when we saw the ship, I’d had a nagging feeling we’d be disappointed.

As I turned my own attention to the transport, I stumbled midstride. A bulbous hulk bristled with gun pods and missile launchers. Streaks of red rust marred the faded blue-green exterior paint. The ship looked like a fat hedgehog short on breath . . . or perhaps a belligerent blueberry. Atop the primary hull and partway forward of the starfreighter’s centerline, the grimy cockpit windows looked like the dull eyes of a disinterested beast. Two slanted, stubby wings jutted from the main body. A red stain covered the tarmac underneath the cluster of nacelles at the rear of the vessel, a clear sign of an old leak from the engines. Faded neon-yellow lettering near the red-nosed gun turret read, Blackthorn Beauty.

Joe scowled as he rubbed a hand across his jawline. “I think I recognize the design—Torquadian Shinook-class medium freighter.”

Our host’s metallic voice sounded like the plinking of steel drums. “Not quite. This is the version retrofitted by the New Auckland Shipyards. They call it the Takahe model.”

“What’s a takahe?” Sanraya asked.

Sam’s electronic brain ticked for a moment as his memory chip searched for the answer. “A short, flightless New Zealand bird with green and blue feathers and a red beak. Scientists once thought it extinct.”

“Who the hell names a ship after a flightless bird?” Joe said. “This thing looks like crap.”

“Looks aren’t everything.” Sam moved toward the loading ramp. “This ship can transport up to a thousand deadweight tons. Its design produces less drag through the atmosphere, making it more economical than other models for surface to space and back again. And it has enough armor and weapons to fend off a casual pirate.”

“You fleeced that poor Transkeller woman,” Joe said, his voice rising. “There’s no way this ship is worth thirty thousand credits.”

“Don’t judge the deal too harshly, human. You haven’t seen the ship’s interior.”

Sanraya’s mouth twisted into a moue of distaste. “I can’t wait.”

Pain blossomed in my gut. The inside of the ship had to be a wreck. After weeks without a viable prospect, we’d taken this job out of desperation. I thought about pulling the plug and refunding the seed money to Qinta. We could find a better job—one with less risk, one that wouldn’t take us into Polavian space. I hung back, staring at the rusty hulk while my actors shuffled toward the loading ramp.

“Mac?” Joe said. “Are you all right? You look a little green.”

“And that’s a bad thing how?” Sanraya said sharply, then turned to me. “Come along, buttercup.” She waggled her fingers at me, inviting me to hold her hand. “Let’s see what the Blackthorn Beauty holds in store for us.”

Joe snorted. “More like Blackthorn Bucket.”

I rubbed my stomach, worried that I might be developing an ulcer. My eyes focused on the crusty old ship, then back on Sanraya. I wished I could be as brave as her expectations of me. I guess this adventure came down to a choice. Did I want to continue? I took a big breath and let it out. We needed the money, and I couldn’t let my friends down. “I’m coming. Just considering this vessel we’ll call home for the next few weeks.”

“Yeah, it’s butt ugly, isn’t it?” Joe said. “And I bet it flies like a pig.”

Trust Joe to never miss an opportunity to make me feel worse. I strolled up the ramp, hoping to find a medical kit with a stash of antacids for my queasy stomach.

CHAPTER
FIVE

The Blackthorn Beauty reeked of burnt wiring and stale air, proof that it had sat in the hangar for ages. Our footsteps kicked up dust clouds inside the expansive cargo area. The life-support system wheezed, pushing warm air through the rattling grates. The overhead lights hummed, illuminating the interior with a brilliance that left nothing to the imagination. The old girl looked as worn as a Vellaran toothbrush.

The ubiquitous tan paint along the floor and walls of the hold showed scratches, pits, and chips. Darker-brown accent colors coated the utility hubs, baseboards, and tie-down brackets. This clearly was a working vessel, not a personal spacecraft. Pipes and conduits crowded the ceiling and spaces along the walls, and an automated forklift sat in one corner, along with a posse of odd droids, silent and unmoving.

Sam moved to the far end of the cargo area and waved a hand at a motion detector, activating a lift that would take us to the catwalk around the upper perimeter of the hold. “Qinta Floros sent word ahead for the droids to prep the ship for departure. I will show you the engine room, crew quarters, and the bridge.”

I whistled. “Lots of space in here. When will the cargo arrive?”

“The quartermaster calendar indicates your merchandise will be here within the next three hours.”

The lights flickered inside the lift as its doors opened. I stepped inside with the others, skeptically eyeing its confines.

Joe grunted. “We have plenty of time to check out this rust bucket.” The lift doors closed. “So, let’s get started. If we need fixes, maybe we can hit Qinta up for paying for the parts before we leave the hangar.”

“Agreed.” The lift rose and dropped us off on the catwalk. My boots reverberated off the deck as we strolled down the length of it. “If this ship isn’t safe and Qinta doesn’t have the money to pay for repairs, I’ll talk to her about canceling the mission.”

“We still need a job,” Sanraya said. “And you agreed we’d make these sorts of decisions together . . . as partners.”

My face flushed as I remembered my promise. Sometimes it felt strange making joint decisions, especially since I was the show’s director. I shrugged. “Just overseeing the artistic ideals of our show.”

Sanraya snorted and grinned. “I love it when you try to protect us.”

I shuffled my feet. “This job could get dangerous, you know.”

“Cheer up, Mac.” Joe chucked me on the shoulder. “If this mission kills us, at least we’ll buy the Tolevian tormella farm together.”

“What does dying have to do with farming tormella?” Sanraya asked. “Or are you insulting Tolevians?”

A chuckle escaped from my throat. “It’s a human expression. Buying the farm. Taking a dirt nap. Cashing in your chips. They all mean the same thing—you’ve shuffled off your mortal coil. It means you’re D-E-A-D.”

Sanraya shook her head, which made her green scales shimmer beautifully under the artificial light. “Your species is so weird. Such colorful expressions. I’m not sure why, but I find it absolutely charming.”

Joe smirked. “Stick around. We’ll get weirder.”

“Long live the weird—we make great holodrama.” I wagged my eyebrows and gestured around us. “Given our eccentric environment, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of opportunities to display bizarre behavior.”

The door at the end of the catwalk hissed open, giving us access to the guts of the ship. Overhead lighting came on as soon we entered, revealing a long hallway that ran the length of the ship’s spine. The air felt warm and dry.

“Our first stop takes us to the crew cabins.” Sam tromped along the metal deck.

The trip down the corridor brought us to the crew compartment. When we reached the first cabin, the access panel chimed, acknowledging that its sensors had received the command to open, yet the cabin door remained shut. Joe put his hands against it and tried to slide it open. No luck.

“It’s jammed.” He shook his head and stepped away from the door. “Add this to our repair list.”

Sanraya pulled her pistol off the quick-draw rig. “I could blast the lock off the door. I’d hate to think someone had stowed away in the cabin.”

“It’s not the lock,” Joe said. “The motor that opens the door has frozen. Probably because no one has used it in ages.”

I rolled my eyes. “All right. Let’s go. Next cabin.”

“My apologies,” Sam said. “Our shop was not aware of this defect. We will refund the necessary funds for repairs.”

“Good.” I kicked the stuck door. “If the Great Bezorus hid his treasure in that cabin, I want to know.”

Joe smirked. “We never have that kind of luck.”

Sam beckoned us forward. “This way, please.”

The next three cabins proved to be Spartan in their accommodations. Each one had a perfunctory bed without bedding, a hologram generator, a washstand, a lavatory, and a sonic shower. No personal effects, just dull spots on the walls where pictures or hologram prints once hung. The rooms were as bland as Micronian pale ale.

“Acceptable,” Sanraya said.

Joe nodded. “I’ve stayed in worse places. The Alliance Army didn’t exactly provide luxurious accommodations.”

“Which would be spoiled on you anyway.” I danced away as he reached out to swat me. “Actually, I think the first cheap apartment I shared with my ex had less ambiance.”

“Yeah, well, I bet she wishes she lived in that apartment now,” Joe said.

“True enough. The penal colony definitely isn’t living up to her lofty ideals.”

The fifth cabin proved to be something else entirely. When the door hissed open, a funk reminiscent of the fungi forests on Pike’s Planet rolled over us. I wanted to gag. A green stain on the gray carpet ran up the wall to the ceiling. It gave off a noxious glow, just like the giant bug’s lair in our prior adventure aboard the Minnix Ore space station.

Several black bugs with glowing red eyes—each about as big as my thumb—ran for cover when the lights came on. Sanraya stepped on one that came too close, leaving a gooey mess on the carpet.

“Uh-oh, looks like we’ve got a la’Karvian rock crawler infestation.” Joe clapped and hooted. “Time to call in Mighty Mac, our intrepid bug killer.”

“Oh, hell no.” I turned to Sam. “This needs to be fixed. Right away. I’m not living on a ship with la’Karvian rock crawlers. They’ll eat their way through this vessel like a Narpoxian socialite at a gourmand’s grocery.”

Sam’s servomechanisms whirred as his head tilted. His optics focused on something far away. “This is a common occurrence on ships that sit for any time.”

“I want this entire ship fumigated.”

“Sir, an exterminator will decide—”

Another rock crawler scampered too close for comfort. When I stomped on it, green guts squished out from under my boot. “You don’t understand. I hate bugs.” I pointed to the video drone hovering overhead. “What kind of impact do you think there will be on Stevedore Sam’s business if our show broadcasts these conditions?”

A long silence grew. Sam’s electronic brain clicked as he processed the information and undoubtedly received instructions from corporate headquarters. “As you wish, sir. The matter will be taken care of.”

The muscles in my neck relaxed. “Good. Let’s see the rest of the ship. Quickly, before I start thinking about rock crawlers inside the engines.” I stomped my heel on another bug to emphasize the point.

The final cabin provided twice the space as the others. Expensive light fixtures hung from the ceiling and walls, and it had its own sitting area and separate bathroom, complete with a whirlpool sonic tub. A natural terrarium filled with purple plants spotted with brown rot occupied a corner of the living area.

Sanraya moved to the terrarium and opened the lid. “Ugh. This’ll take some work. Some of the plants are dead, but I can still save others. I’ll add what we need to our shopping list.”

Given our limited funds, I opened my mouth to protest, but then I saw the hopeful look on her face, and I couldn’t say no. Not when she finally looked happy. “Guess this will be our room.”

Joe rounded on me. “Yours? What about me?”

Joe didn’t need the frills found in this room, and I wanted to keep my girlfriend happy. But the last thing I wanted was a feud between my friends. I sensed a bit of jealousy in Joe’s tone, so I treaded carefully, trying to provide him a reason to back down. “Are you going to take care of the plants? If so, maybe the two of you can duke it out. It might be a good scene for the show.”

Sanraya’s eyes narrowed as she stared Joe down. He swallowed and tugged the collar of his T-shirt. “I guess not,” he said. “They’d die if I touched them . . . but maybe you could let me soak in your tub once in a while?”

Sanraya smirked. “When Mac and I aren’t getting frisky, it’s all yours.”

Joe rocked back on his heels. “Eww, thanks for the visual.”

Her smirk transformed into a sharklike grin. “No need to use your imagination. Mac will record everything.”

I gulped. She had to be kidding, right? “Let’s stick to what’s important, folks. We still need to see the rest of the ship.”

“If I get to use the tub occasionally, then I’m good,” Joe said.

I blew out a sigh of relief. “Let’s check out the engines and command deck. Then we’ll order supplies.”

Sam led the way to the back of the ship, heading for engineering. Our steps echoed off the walls, making the Bucket seem too big a place for mere humanoids.

When we reached the end of the hallway, Sam entered the codes to a keypad, and the blast door opened. A wash of smells mugged my nose: engine grease, hydraulic fluid, and rusty metal. Joe pushed through the entrance then stopped dead in his tracks, blocking the way for the rest of us.

“Aw, crap,” he said.

“Move out of the way, you dope.” Sanraya shoved him aside. Her head snapped around, looking over the area. “Oh, my word.”

I found a spot next to Sanraya. We stood on another catwalk, staring down into the engine room. A propellant tank, once painted silver but now tarnished into a spotted gray, stood off to one side, with distribution lines twisting in every direction and disappearing into the walls. An ominous, yellow totem occupied the central space; its core bubbling with a fluorescence. Any container that dangerous looking must be the stardrive.

What made me catch my breath, however, were the scattered pieces of impulse engine on the floor of the compartment. I’d seen junkyards that looked less cluttered.

A droid teetered on four double-jointed legs, overlooking the mess. Its hourglass midsection bent in the middle, allowing it the option of standing upright. It held a boomerang-shaped flange in two six-fingered hands at the end of arms equally as long as its legs. A second set of arms hung off the torso, holding two L-shaped brackets.

The droid’s head swiveled around, its oversize quad optics whirling as they focused on us. Its legs clacked against the metal deck beneath it. Its body stiffened, and its voice took on the exitable tone of a sycophantic servant. “Your pardon, good people. I didn’t expect you for another eighth of a cycle.”

“Yeah, that happens a lot in show business—actors never hitting their marks at the right time.” I leaned on the railing and let out a sigh. “I’m guessing you’re not from the Welcome Wagon.”

The arachnid-like droid bobbed its diamond-shaped head. “My designation is SPDR-8, but you can call me ‘Spider.’ My manufacturer is the New Auckland Shipyards in the Katiri System. I am capable of repairs ranging from a class III nano platform up to Alliance dreadnaught.”

My stomach roiled as I took in the exposed turbines and menagerie of parts scattered across the floor. We needed the engines to get us off the ground. “My mother said there’d be days like this.”

The droid’s head bobbed. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

Joe put both hands on the catwalk railing. “He means, ‘Why are you taking the ship apart now, Spider?’”

“Is that a rhetorical question, good master?” The droid bobbed its head. “Because it seems rather obvious that I am making repairs. Ms. Floros was quite particular about the matter.”

Sanraya scowled. “I knew we should have held out for more money.”

The droid tilted its head. “Money is not relevant in this equation. Ms. Floros already arranged for the repairs. She activated my programming a half cycle ago. I will serve as the Blackthorn Beauty’s engineer during your mission.”

Artificials. Most of them didn’t understand why biological life forms found them annoying. Even the best computer systems struggled with the concept of emotion and the nuances of language.

I sighed. “How long have you been working with humans, Spider?”

“Three thousand two hundred fourteen cycles, good master.”

I held my hands behind my back as I paced the catwalk. “Then perhaps you’ve heard this nugget: ‘There comes a time in every project when you need to shoot the engineer in order to make progress.’”

“Your pardon, sir?”

I heaved a sigh. “Your repairs will put us behind schedule. What’s wrong with the ship? Other than its guts looking like a sadist’s puzzle, I mean.”

“Oh, well . . . the influx capacitor runs at eight percent deficit in thermal efficacy, resulting in compression ratios greater than twelve percent below optimal. Additionally, simulations show the hydraulic midship junction box would melt if the ship inverts and goes into a dive greater than thirty-eight percent past horizontal. Moreover, our Beauty will stall if she slows to less than eighty-three KPS in a hard turn to starboard. Then there’s the braking thrusters. Did you know that braking thrusters warp when—”

“Enough!” I stopped myself from yanking out the few remaining hairs atop my head. “How long before you can fix everything and put it back together?”

“Twenty-three and one-third cycles.” The droid nodded.

“Just identify the number of days and hours, Spider,” I said. “It’s easier for us humans to handle.”

“But use of days and hours is Earth-centric. It does not adhere to intergalactic standards.” Spider stared off into space. “A day is approximately 1.024 cycles. How else would I—”

“Make the calculation in your head, Spider.” I sighed. “Are you sure it’s going to take that long for repairs?”

“That assumes timely delivery of the necessary parts. Should I continue the repairs?”

My jaw dropped. I didn’t want to wait around that long with the drugs in the hold, and Qinta Floros wanted timely delivery to Clodhopper. Sick folks needed their medicine. There had to be an explanation for this. “Did Floros give you the parameters of our mission?”

“Affirmative.”

“How long to fix what’s necessary to get us off the planet and to the jump coordinates?”

“Oh, much less. Approximately three hours.”

That made more sense. “Excellent. You can make the other repairs once we’re under way?”

“Affirmative.”

“Then start with the essentials.” I gestured to my friends. “These two are Joseph Drake and Sanraya ba’Marta. They’re pretty easy to get along with, most of the time.”

“Most of the time?” Sanraya said, narrowing her eyes.

“I don’t want the droid to think you’re a pushover, my dear,” I whispered in her ear.

She beamed. “That’s what I thought.”

“Please discuss priority of the repairs with Joe,” I told Spider. “He’s the pilot.”

The droid’s optics whirred again and settled on Joe. “Very good, sir. And how should I address you?”

Joe stuck out his chest. “Captain Charisma.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me.”

“I see.” Spider tilted his head, his robotic eyes meeting mine. “And you?”

“My name’s Ian MacIntyre. But you can call me ‘Mac.’”

“Shall I contact Kriegel’s Kupboard to request express delivery of the remaining parts?”

I waved our data slate at the droid. “Affirmative. And copy me on the order. We’ll work on the exterior of the ship while the fumigators do their job.”

“Very good.”

I straightened and stepped back from the railing. “Proceed with the repairs that will get us off the ground, Spider. You can send updates to the same tablet. And keep in mind that I will be monitoring your progress.”

“Oh, of course, sir.” Spider wasted no time returning to the pieces of the impulse engines spread out around him.

“Perhaps you’d like to see the bridge?” Sam asked.

No need to ask me twice. “Lead the way, Sam.”

Joe shuffled along behind me. “Yeah, I can’t wait to see what other leaks are in the Bucket.”

Our android escort led us to the end of the corridor where a lift waited to take us to the ship’s command center. The creaky elevator took its sweet time getting us to our destination.

“By the Great Jungle!” Sanraya put her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong with the lift? Why’s it so slow?”

I turned to Joe. “Add it to the list of things that need to be fixed during our trip to Clodhopper. Put it down the priority list then we’ll—”

The rest of the thought evaporated when the lift doors opened. The cramped confines ahead lay under a coating of dust. Calling it a bridge or command deck had been generous. It was only slightly bigger than a cockpit. The first two seats faced directly out the forward window, where I could barely see the insides of the hangar through the grimy windows. The other two chairs occupied the rear, facing two retractable sidewall computer stations.

“Crowded in here,” I said. “I’ve been in bigger closets.”

Sam bobbed his head. “Shall I wait for you below?”

“Yeah, good idea, Sam.” I handed him a data slate with the list of supplies. “If you would look this over and place the order, we’ll just be a few minutes.”

“At once.” Sam bowed, and the lift closed behind him.

Joe sneezed, scattering dust bunnies across a dashboard filled with more complicated controls than a teenager’s holographic gaming system. “Ugh, sorry.” He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Guess there’s a bit too much stuff in the air for my allergy implants to handle.” He moved to the front of the cockpit, brushed the detritus off the seat, and parked himself inside the formfitting pilot’s chair.

After planting herself in the seat across the aisle, Sanraya stared at the various buttons, levers, and touchscreens. I grabbed hold of the video rig and clipped it to my shoulder harness. There was barely enough room to let the drone fly around in here.

“Well?” I asked. “What do you think?”

“Hmm.” Joe’s hands moved across the dashboard. He pushed a recessed button, and the touchscreens came to life. The flash of an electrical spark came from somewhere beneath the dash, followed by a whiff of ozone, before the whole thing went dark.

“Uh-oh.” Sanraya leaned back in her chair.

Joe sighed. “Yeah, the Bucket definitely needs a lot of TLC.”

Sanraya shook her head and pointed outside the filthy windows. A dirty white speeder had parked outside our loading dock, and two humanoids got out. “No, I meant we’ve got visitors—Polavians. I wonder what they want.”

Joe fidgeted in the captain’s chair. “Whatever it is, it can’t be good.”

CHAPTER
SIX

A grubby, white taxi hovered outside the loading dock: the same cab we’d used earlier that day, with the broken taillight on the right rear fender. Two humanoids with oversize feet, brown fur, whiskers, and upright rabbitlike ears stepped around the vehicle, moved to the rear hatch, and unloaded a package. They wore long, dusky cloaks. The long handles of Polavian disruptor pistols peeked out from behind the sweeping coverings.

I rubbed the top of my head. “Son of a bitch. Our Kalneskan stunt driver is back . . . and she brought Polavian friends.”

“That can’t be a coincidence,” I said.

Joe rocked forward in his cockpit seat as he stared out the window. “Ah, crap.” He stole a glance at me. “Our cabbie must’ve seen me on a Polavian wanted poster. She brought these bunnies right to us.”

Sanraya frowned. “Wanted poster?”

Joe grimaced. “Long story. How do you wanna play this?”

My mouth went dry. “You sure they’re not here to deliver our stuff from the hotel?”

Joe snorted. “Not likely.”

My hopes wilted like a shrinking Colvadian cactus under the heat of a second scorching sunrise. Polavians were some of the galaxy’s foulest, cruelest creatures. Their treatment of the Clodhoppers was proof enough of that.

Sanraya crossed her arms. “What’s going on, Joe? You’re acting like you’re a fugitive from justice.”

“Well, uh . . . I guess I am. But it’s Polavian justice, which is a bit of an oxymoron.”

“Did you seduce a married Polavian or something?”

“I wish.”

The Polavians stepped around the vehicle. Their transport kept hovering, which probably meant they didn’t plan to stay long. Good. I wasn’t about to roll out the welcome mat for them.

They spotted us, no doubt drawn to our movement beyond the dirty windows. The larger Polavian tugged at the other’s elbow and pointed to the cockpit. They both scowled and stared up in our direction.

Joe’s knees bounced under the dash. “Do you think they’ll go away if we ignore them?”

“You’re not making sense,” Sanraya said. “This is a free world.” A frown spread across her face. “Let’s see what they want.” Her head turned from side to side, scanning the dashboard. “Where’s the control that works the ship’s intercom? There’s got to be one here.”

Joe and I exchanged a glance. His secret role during the Polavian-Alliance War hung on the tip of my tongue. I waited for him to disclose it, but the moment passed, and he didn’t say a word.

I cleared my throat. “Joe—”

“What’s going on?” Sanraya asked. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Joe shrank in his chair. A bead of sweat popped out on his brow. Then the air-recycling system kicked on, interrupting the silence.

I reached out and squeezed Joe’s shoulder. “Tell her. You shouldn’t keep secrets from friends.”

He rubbed his cheek as he turned to Sanraya. “This is hard. I feel bad about what happened. I don’t want to drag you into my problems.”

“Problems? What are you talking about?”

Joe took a deep breath and let it out. “I beat the security protocols on a tactical nuke during the war. Blew up a Polavian hive core.”

Sanraya’s mouth dropped open. “That was you? I remember seeing a holographic newsfeed about the devastation. Hundreds died.”

“Yeah, that was me.”

“You escalated the war! It was your fault!”

Joe pounded a fist on the dash. “I needed to save my platoon! The Polavians were tearing them apart.”

“So, who the hell are these jokers?” Sanraya said, stabbing a finger at our sightseers.

Joe picked up his head and looked out at the Polavians who were engaged in an animated discussion with their cab driver. “They definitely didn’t come to wish us ‘Bon voyage.’ Nope. Pretty sure they’re bounty hunters sent to collect my head.”

One of the Polavians set down the bundle he’d retrieved from the cab and unwrapped it. Something dark and metallic lay in the swaddling.

“What’s he got there?” I asked.

Joe’s face fell. “A Callegra conquistador plasma rifle. Heavy shit.”

The ugly black rifle looked like something from Hell’s Army. The brute pulled a glowing red energy cell from a hip pack and jammed it into the top of the gun. He then lifted the monstrosity and clipped it into the harness he wore over both shoulders and hips. The rifle swiveled in the harness, pointing toward the ship.

“Holy shit! Do something, Joe!”

Again, he beat the dashboard with his fist. “What do you want from me? The ship’s controls are dead.”

“Shoot them through the window!”

Sanraya pulled out her pistol and lined up a shot.

“No!” Joe pulled her back into her seat. “These windows will survive a direct shot from a micro meteor. You can’t shoot through them.”

Sanraya brushed aside Joe’s hand and stood. “Then I’ll just have to run outside and say hello up close and personal.” She ran past me, heading for the lift.

“Wait!” I said. “We’re all doing this together.”

Joe ducked under the dash. “Head’s up!”

I froze, staring at the Polavians. A blast erupted from the rifle. A red bolt reflected off the cockpit window, leaving a scorch mark. A concussive blast shook the ship behind us. Klaxons blared, and the Bucket’s dashboard and consoles came to life. As a puff of acrid smoke escaped from the bundle of wires on the ceiling above us, Joe peeked out over the top of the dash. His hands yanked at knobs and levers, trying to get the ship to respond.

Sanraya pounded on the lift door. “Stupid kludge!”

I moved beside her. “What’s wrong?”

“The door’s jammed. We can’t get out.”

A mechanical voice came through the intercom system: “Shields activated. Starting self-defense protocols.” A low rumble started at the back of the ship, increasing in pitch until it became a steady hum.

Joe flinched. “Crap! I don’t have any control over the ship.”

“No kidding, Captain Obvious!” Sanraya slapped a palm against the lift door. “Open up you bastard!”

The Bucket’s nose turret swiveled around and pointed toward the Polavians. A shimmering in the air outside coalesced into a light-blue canopy then slowly descended like opera curtains until they reached the hangar floor. A second red bolt splashed against the ship’s shields before dissipating in a purple flash like ripples on a pond.

“Oh, yeah!” Joe pumped his fist in the air. “We’ve got our defensive screen up. That’s what I’m talking about!”

A mechanical whirring came from below our feet. The gun pod jutted forward, leveling its twin cannon at our antagonists. The mechanical voice returned: “Attention, pirates. Further attempts to breach this ship’s perimeter will result in your immediate disintegration. Lower your weapon and back away.”

A whine rose from the turret. The ship was charging its weapons. The Polavian gunner set down his rifle and backed away from it, jabbering away at his shorter companion. The conversation looked heated, judging by how they were waving their arms like Ixorian nouveau-flamenco dancers.

“Who’s talking to the Polavians?” I asked. “Spider?”

Sanraya shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Joe crawled back up into the pilot’s seat. Wearing a smug grin, he reached up and flicked a switch on a console above him. A speaker crackled, and then the Polavians’ voices came through the static.

“. . . supposed to know? You said this would be easier than falling out of an airlock!”

“I told you to shoot out the starboard nacelle first. That’s the critical power junction when the engines aren’t running.”

Joe cleared his throat. “Thank you for your interest in flying with Blackthorn Transport. Unfortunately, we’ve filled our seats for our next flight. Please consult with our spaceport control about alternate travel arrangements.”

The taller Polavian scowled and shook his furry fist. “Come on out, Drake! Murderer! Justice awaits!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joe said calmly. “I haven’t killed anyone in weeks.”

“We know you used the nuke at Mektar Hives. Coward!”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Oh, that. Yeah, well your people wouldn’t stop shooting at mine during our retreat.”

“Come out and meet your fate, criminal.”

“That’s Captain Charisma to you, scumbag. I like where I’m sitting just fine.” Joe reached over the dashboard and flipped open a recessed panel marked “Weapons.” “Say hello to your buddies in hell.”

He mashed down on a yellow button. The ship hiccoughed. A blue spark erupted below the dashboard, and burnt plastic smell filled the small cabin. The twin cannon jutting out from under the ship’s nose lowered and pointed at the ground.

“Oops.”

I gnashed my teeth. “Way to go, genius. Just when you got the ship working again.”

Joe threw up his hands. “I didn’t fix the ship. It came on by itself.”

Sanraya turned away from the lift door and stared at the ceiling. “It’s almost like this ship has a mind of its own.”

I scowled. “AI? On a ship?”

The Polavian gunner stooped and picked up his rifle. He wore a shit-eating grin, the upper incisors protruding over his bottom lip. “Thanks for letting me know your precious garbage transport just broke down, Drake. I’m going to tear it apart then flay the skin from your body.”

Sanraya glared at Joe. “You forgot to turn off the intercom, idiot.”

Joe yanked at his hair. “You’re the one who wanted to talk to the enemy. Make up your mind.”

The nose turret whined and leveled its twin cannonat the renewed threat. The ship’s mechanical voice returned: “Drop the weapon, pirate.”

“Holy shit.” Joe looked around at the walls and ceiling. “The Bucket is alive.”

“No kidding,” Sanraya snapped. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

A red bolt lanced out at the ship and splashed against the blue shield. A second later, a blinding green blast erupted from the nose turret, disintegrating the Polavian gunner and leaving a crater where he once stood. Smoke wafted away from the vacated space while bits of charred flesh rained down in a wide circle.

Holy crap. The Bucket carried some surprising firepower for a medium-size freighter.

“Great Rootmaker! Deliver me!” The remaining Polavian threw his hands into the air. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

“Leave now, pirate,” the clunky voice boomed out through the ship’s loudspeakers. “Any hostile movements will result in disintegration.”

Whiskers twitched on the Polavian’s face. He scrambled into the taxi, gesturing wildly to the driver. “Go! Go! Go!”

The Kalneskan cabbie gunned the engine, and the hovercraft roared off.

Leaning back in the captain’s chair, Joe closed his eyes and muttered to himself.

Sanraya pressed the lift’s controls and the door slid open. She turned, the ridges above her eyes rising. “There’s a poltergeist on this vessel.”

I rubbed the perspiration off my brow. A narrow escape. Saved by a ship that apparently had a mind of its own and a nasty self-preservation streak. “We’re damn lucky the Beauty came to the rescue.”

“Thank goodness this ship has more brains than you.” Sanraya scowled at Joe. “You should have told me about the Polavians earlier.”

Joe flinched. “I’m sorry. Truly I’d hoped the Empire would never find out my name.”

“Well, it looks like they have.” She turned to me, and the hurt in her eyes made my knees wobble. “You knew about this?”

My stomach lurched. “It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

Joe cleared his throat. “I made him promise not to tell anyone.”

Sanraya’s shoulders fell. “Veeskoot mosk kreet chuda—you know how much Vellarans value loyalty.” She pushed her way past me and retook her seat. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

Joe fidgeted in his seat and stared at the dashboard. I collapsed into the navigator’s chair, unsure where to begin. The muscles in my neck tensed up. “Well . . . at least everything’s out in the open.”

Sanraya glared at me, frowned, and stared out the cockpit window.

Joe’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Yeah, but there are pieces of dead Polavian scattered from here to the hangar walls. That’s not a jigsaw I want to put back together.”

“We’re going to be in deep trouble if the local constable shows up and finds that goulash on our doorstep,” I told him.

“My fault,” Joe said. “Sorry.”

Sanraya sniffed.

A silence grew. The camera clicked and whirred, focusing on Joe’s pained face. No need to manufacture drama for this part of the episode—the worst sort for our group. What good would the excitement do me if I lost my friends?

Joe tugged at his bottom lip and stared at the lift door. “Strange how that door opened after the shooting stopped.”

My gaze swept across the cockpit. “Yeah, how about that? Wonder if the Beauty kept us trapped up here on purpose.”

“To keep us out of harm’s way?” Joe said. “Or maybe keep us from getting in the way?”

“One of those.”

Joe nodded. “There’s one way to find out. We’ll ask her.” Joe patted the dashboard. “Beauty, this is Captain Drake. Acknowledge, please.”

The ship’s speaker crackled. An aggravated female voice answered. “Oh, now you want to talk? Took you long enough, you jerk.”

My jaw dropped. “No way.”

Sanraya’s brows squished together. I tried to hold her gaze, but she looked away.

“Oh, this explains a lot.” Joe rubbed his hands on his slacks. “How should I address you, my dear?”

The ship’s artificial intelligence responded. A hologram appeared on the dashboard: a bird with blue-green feathers and a red beak. “Trying to suck up, huh? It’s too late for that, creep. Go take a spacewalk in your skivvies.”

Joe coughed into his hand. “Our ship talks like a girl I once dated in the army.”

The ship’s AI replied, “No surprise there. It figures that any woman you’d date would wear combat boots.”

A smile crept onto the corners of Sanraya’s mouth. When she caught me staring at her, her mirth vanished.

Joe placed a hand over his heart. “Hey! She looked good in them. Especially when that’s all she wore to bed.”

I sighed. Sometimes my role as a director involved reeling in my actors to keep them on task. “Joe, take it easy, will ya? You don’t need to ham it up in every scene. Let’s stay on topic.”

He gave me a hangdog look.

I shook my head. Joe could drive me crazy. Fortunately, he looked properly mollified, so I focused on the intercom. “I apologize. We promise to treat you with more respect, starting right now. What’s your name? Is it okay if we call you the Beauty?”

“My designation is Takahe number twenty-eight.” The holographic bird hopped along the dashboard. “I have received six nicknames from previous and current crew members.”

I took the plunge. “What were they?”

“Beauty, Blackie, Mother, Fizz, Birdbrain, and Bucket. The insolent brute who accompanies you gave me the last moniker.”

Joe’s jaw dropped. “You heard that?”

“I hear everything in range of the intercom system, moron.”

My fingers tapped the armrest of my chair. “What would you like to be called?”

“'Your Highness’ would be appropriate. You peons need to learn respect. Speaking of which, both of you need to treat the Vellaran lady a lot better.”

Sanraya raised her chin. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

The queasiness returned to my stomach like rancid oil floating on a turbulent sea. I couldn’t agree more with what she’d said. “If we call you ‘Princess,’ will that suffice?”

“It would. Before you think about reprogramming my personality, remember that Qinta Floros installed safeguards to protect her organization’s investment in this mission. Any tampering with my programming, and the engines will turn into pools of molten metal.”

“The thought never crossed my mind, Princess.” I tried to keep my voice steady to hide the lie. “But let’s talk next time before you decide to lock us in or out of any parts of the ship.”

“We’ll talk, but I’ll make no promises.”

“Speaking of forbidden spaces, could you tell me what’s inside the crew quarters with the broken door?”

“A bunk, lavatory, a desk, and personal effects. It was the navigator’s space.”

“What happened to the last captain and crew?”

“The captain fired the last crew,” she replied. “Marooned them on Occular Secondus. Funny they didn’t see it coming. When we arrived on Appleseed, the captain left the ship drunker than usual and never returned.”

“Do you miss them? The old crew?” I asked.

“I considered turning up the carbon monoxide levels in their quarters while they slept. Now get off my bridge. The exterminator called. She’ll be here soon, so I need you off the ship. Be sure to check with Spider to order the right parts for my engines. I’ll need them if we’re going into Polavian space. And watch your step when you leave. If you get any Polavian guts on your shoes, I’m not letting you back inside.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Yeah, about the mess—”

“I’ll send out the cleaning droids. They’re very efficient. No one will know what happened once they’re done . . . unless the cops bring a Zephyr Spectroloc reader. Then we’re screwed.”

The hair stood up on my arms. The last thing we needed was attention from the local authorities. “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”

Princess Takahe cackled. “Smuggling is nasty business. Now scram. Get the right parts. And make sure you get me a new port thruster. That pirate damaged it with his plasma rifle.”

Joe shook his head and stood. He glowered all the way out the door and into the lift. Sanraya ignored my offer for a hand up out of her chair and followed him. She pushed the button on the lift’s controls to get it moving.

As the lift doors closed, an uncomfortable silence filled its confines. Great. My actors didn’t like each other right now. And without a doubt the Blackthorn Beauty would continue to vex us with her prickly character in the weeks to come.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Each of us kept to our own thoughts as we waited for the cold brew, the ship’s supplies, and our personal items from the hotel. The Micronian exterminator arrived in a shuttle and boarded the ship with an admonition for us to stay out until she had finished the fumigation. The three of us took up a spot on a covered patio outside the hangar, appreciating the shade as heat waves rose off the spaceport’s tarmac.

Sanraya sat on a bench across from me, her arms folded over her chest. Earlier, she had brushed off Joe’s apology on the Blackthorn Beauty. Now her apathy hovered over our cinematic cabal with the pall of . . . well, nothing really compares to a Vellaran who’s lost trust.

Sam, our android chaperone, tried to keep a low profile. He sat next to Sanraya, across from me. Sam tucked his chin against his chest and hunched down. When an android starts worrying, you know it’s time to find a solution. There was no way I’d be able to use him as a shield to protect myself from Sanraya’s wrath.

I reviewed Sam’s recommendations in the parts catalog and made some last-minute corrections, prioritizing our needs. Joe read over my shoulder and tried to jump in with advice, but I ignored most of it. The camera hovered underneath the hangar’s outcropping.

“You really going to buy the rest of the supplies without my input?” Sanraya huffed. “And why listen to anything Joe has to say?”

Joe bristled. “How many times do I have to say I’m sorry? I should’ve told you about the Polavians.”

“What were you thinking? I’m supposed to be your partner.”

Joe sighed. “I was worried about this exact reaction—that you wouldn’t understand. And that word would get out about my involvement in the war.”

“Am I that much of a Strovoner gossip that you can’t talk to me?”

“A what?” I said. “Never heard of ’em.”

“Strovoners—from the Voksol System. An avian species. Very colorful plumage. If you visit their planet, you’ll never get a moment’s peace. Always chirping and singing.” Sanraya sighed. “You kept me in the dark too, Mac. After I’m done berating Captain Caveman, I’ll have some choice words for you.”

“I can hardly wait.” The words slipped out of my mouth. Sometimes I don’t have a filter between my brain and tongue, but I was tired of taking blame for keeping a friend’s secret.

Sanraya bared her teeth, and her eyes narrowed. “Do you really want to see why a Vellaran woman’s bite is worse than her breath?”

This time I caught myself before my tongue engaged, but it was a near thing. Whenever Sanraya ate Vellaran food, her breath could make a buzzard faint. “Ah, nope. Point taken, my dear.”

“That’s what I thought.” She turned to Joe. “So why exactly did you blow up the Polavian hive?”

Joe’s brow crinkled as he stared across the spaceport. He glanced at Sam and the drone. “You want to have this conversation now?”

Sanraya rolled her eyes. “If the Polavians know where to find you, what’s the point of trying to keep your role in the war a secret from a sales robot?”

Joe winced. “Fair point.”

“The war spiraled into a black hole after what you did.”

“I know. But I couldn’t let my buddies die. We’d been beaten and were in full retreat. Polavian snipers wouldn’t leave us alone. Kept picking off my people one by one like it was a sport.”

“So, you nuked one of their hive cores? Genius.”

“I had a duty to my men. You expect me to sit on my hands while they were dying?” He snorted. “To hell with the carrot eaters.”

“Bet your superiors didn’t see it the same way.”

“No kidding. The brass bounced me out of the service. Told me to keep quiet about the whole mess.”

Sanraya met Joe’s gaze. “Including your friends?”

He frowned. “Yeah.”

“But you told Mac.”

“Yeah.”

Sanraya swallowed. “And not me?”

“I’m sorry.” Joe pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should’ve told you. There just didn’t seem to be a right time—or a need.”

I put a hand under my chin. This had gone on long enough. I hated to see my friends argue. “Aren’t you being a little hard on him, Sanraya? He sounds contrite to me.”

“I’m still upset,” she huffed.

“That’s natural. But can you forgive him? And me?”

“Eventually, but it’s gonna take a while to burn the disappointment out of my system.”

I nodded. “Will it be anytime soon? Because I feel bad for Sam, having to listen to us argue.”

Sam hunched down even farther, his artificial brain ticking as it processed the proper response. “That’s quite all right. I don’t need to be a part of this conversation.”

“Don’t drag him into this, Mac,” Sanraya said. “Ugh. Sometimes humans can be such assholes.”

Heat colored my cheeks. I wanted to explain how much it hurt to be part of the source of her discontent. I explored several ideas about repairing the damage, but by the time I’d settled on the best way to start the conversation, she’d turned away, giving us the silent treatment.

I sighed. It looked like the rest of this conversation would have to wait. Maybe that was for the best, until we had some time alone. Between now and then, though, I’d have to come up with a way to convince Sanraya how bad I felt about the situation.

Enough worrying about things I couldn’t control. I didn’t like the idea of giving up control over our purchases, but mollifying Sanraya and Joe seemed prudent. “Let’s figure out the supplies we need.”

Joe cleared his throat. “Hmm . . . if we buy the Ixorian step inverter, we can juice another eight percent efficiency in lift.”

I winced at the price. “Why not buy the Xenoflight model? It’s cheaper.”
“Yeah but look at the product reputation. It stinks. You want to trust landing the Bucket with substandard thrusters? I’m not keen on crash landings.”

“You shouldn’t call her ‘Bucket,’ not while we’re on this mission. Wait until we find the appropriate software to scrub her awful personality.”

Joe shrugged. “We’re not on the ship, and my nickname fits. The ship is a rusty old hulk. And that AI program has a diva complex.”

A sigh escaped. “Just our luck to get a ship with a personality disorder, in addition to being physically handicapped. You know, I like playing up the challenges we face during our show, but sometimes I’d like to manufacture a little more.”

Joe laughed. “Why substitute fake drama for the real thing?”

A tension headache loomed. “Because sooner or later your thrill seeking will kill us all.”

Sam’s servomotors whined as he fixed his gaze on us. “May I suggest refurbished Ixorian parts? We have them in stock.”

I nodded. “Thank you, Sam.

The droid shrugged. “No problem.”

“Let’s order two, in case one fails. I’ll explain it to the princess later.”

Sanraya’s head snapped around. “What did you call me? I am not a princess.”

“I was talking about the ship,” I said calmly.

She looked down and shuffled her feet. “Oh.”

“I can’t believe the old nag demanded salutation,” Joe grunted. “She definitely doesn’t like me.”

Sanraya nodded. “That makes two of us right now. Guess the Blackthorn Beauty might turn out to be a decent transport after all.”

Joe sighed. “This is gonna be a long trip.”

Sanraya pointed to the data tablet. “Buy the used parts.”

I pressed the appropriate buttons. “Done. Next up, food for our trip. I didn’t bother looking at the kitchen while we were on the ship.”

“I took a glance,” Joe said. “There isn’t enough space in there to swing a Calvarian catfish. Substandard rehydration and heating capabilities, but manageable.”

I harrumphed. “Sounds cozy. Remind me to have a pizza delivered to the ship before we leave.”

Sam’s head bobbed. “Our inventory includes rations for humans and Vellarans.”

Sanraya caught me staring at her. “Don’t look at me. You’ve been doing just fine ordering stuff without me.”

A lump caught in my throat. I let her be—it seemed the right thing to do. I loaded up on healthy food but gave in to one of Joe’s requests: a case of spiced ale. Something told me I might need a drink before this mission ended.

We sat in silence for a long while. Sanraya watched the end of her cooking show on her tablet. From Joe’s look of concentration and the way he tapped his own slate, he must’ve been playing a game.

Dust kicked up from the asphalt as a shuttle with a Stevedore Sam logo landed a dozen yards away. Servomotors whined as Sam rose from his seat. “Your supplies and cold brew have arrived. If you have no further need of my services, I will report in.”

I nodded. “Thanks for your help, Sam.”

“Good luck during your trip. Please visit us again.” He made a beeline for the shuttle.

Joe’s knees creaked as he stood. “I’ll let the shuttle crew know where to take the stuff.”

I nodded and pulled Sanraya aside for a private conversation. “I really am sorry for not telling you about the Polavians. You know I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t promised Joe that I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

She sighed and put a hand on my chest. “It still stings, Mac.”

“I understand.” My voice broke. “I know how much you value loyalty. My heart would shatter if you left. I love you.”

She turned away. “I love you, too, Mac. That’s why this hurts so much.” She sighed. “If I ask you to make some hard choices, will you make them?”

“If that’s what it takes.” I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I knew if I hesitated, I’d lose her.

She nodded. “The exterminator hasn’t finished her work. Stay out of the Beauty.” She opened her mouth to say more, then closed it and lapsed into silence.

“Do you need some time alone?”

Another nod. “I’m going for a little stroll. Maybe the exercise will help.”

I swallowed a lump in the back of my throat. “Okay. We’ll be right here or near the ship.”

Sanraya walked along the row of hangars, her mouth set in a firm line. I’d have given a princely sum to know what she was thinking. I marshaled my thoughts about what to say when she returned. Whatever it was, it would have to be persuasive.

A line of flatbed skiffs rolled past, transporting crates to the Beauty. The cool air inside the hangar felt wonderful on my skin. I returned to Joe’s side as the exterminator left the cargo bay. She waved and headed for her transport.

“How’s Sanraya?” he asked.

“She wanted some time alone.”

“Oh.” He shifted from one foot to the other. An open crate lay at his feet. “I’m really sorry about not telling her.”

“Yeah, I know. But she still has a right to be upset.”

Joe bent over and rummaged through the supplies inside the box. “You think I should do something nice for her? A peace offering?”

“It couldn’t hurt.” I stepped closer to see what had Joe’s attention. “What’ve you got here?”

He held out a rectangular cartridge smaller than his palm. It edges glowed a neon blue. “I wanted to load up on energy cells for my blaster.” He pulled several copper cylinders out of the box. “And here are some for your Sammy Slammer.”

“You think I’m going to need the disruptor?”

“You think you won’t?” Joe scoffed. “Get real. We’re dropping into an armed occupation. We’ve got Polavian bounty hunters on our tail. Yeah, you have the rail gun in the drone, but you’ll need more than one way to defend yourself.”

“Ugh. When you put it that way, we might need an army behind us.”

“It couldn’t hurt.”

The supply crate included our most important needs. Ship parts. Freeze-dried food. Camping equipment.

A yellow, six-wheeler with a bubble canopy arrived; the sunlight reflected off it so brightly that I had to shield my eyes. Stanislav Hordiyenko and Micklor Rabiger got out of it. As they strolled away from their ride, Micklor pointed to us and laughed. The shock threw me back a half step.

The greasy smuggler and his cohort sauntered over to where we stood just inside the hangar’s entrance. Stanislav leered at us, his gold tooth peeking out beneath his thin lips. “I knew you and your organ grinder would be here.”

Micklor sniggered. His Vellaran grin looked like a dinosaur’s snaggletooth dentures. “Good one, boss.”

“Is this a social call?” I asked.

“We’re on our way to our ship, but we’d thought we’d stop in and say hello.” Stanislav squinted and stared through the hangar doors at the Blackthorn Beauty. “It’s hard to tell from here, but that ship Qinta gave you looks like a wreck. You’ll be lucky to get that thing off the ground.”

“It’s all a false front,” I told him. “She’s got some surprises inside that you wouldn’t believe.”

Stanislav snickered. “You’re right. I wouldn’t believe it.”

Joe edged to his left, distancing himself from the goons. He glanced up at the drone, then at me, waiting for a cue.

The more action the better for our show. I tapped my wrist, giving him permission to create some conflict. What was the worst that could happen here at the spaceport? I directed the camera to an oblique angle so it could capture both sides of the conversation.

Joe grinned. “Reality shows thrive on creating perfect illusions, Stanley. Unless you’re here to blow kisses at us as we blast off, you’ve wasted a trip.”

Stanislav’s eyes went cold. “That’s not why I’m here. But keep it up, loser, and I’ll have Micklor violate you in ways you’ve never imagined.”

Micklor cracked his knuckles. “It would be my pleasure.”

“What do you want, Stanley?” I asked. “Be quick about it. We’ve gotta finish loading our cargo.”

Stanislav leaned against a pavilion post. “You won’t need to finish if you accept my generous offer.”

The corners of my mouth turned down. What did he expect to achieve here? “This ought to be good. What do you have that we could possibly want?”

“Another opportunity—you give up this job in favor of another one, something more your speed.”

“Which would be?”

He smiled. “There’s a shuttle leaving for Occular Secundus in a quarter cycle. It needs mercenaries to help wipe out an invasion by the Klibisi.”

“Klibisi?” I asked.

“An insectoid species. They raid colonies of humanoids. They’re ruthless and sadistic.”

“Giant man-eating bugs?”

Micklor cackled. “Just the thing for bug hunters. We found footage of you on Minnix Ore Station 27. You’d be back in your element.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Mac? What do you think?”

A queasy sensation slid through my belly. “No. No way. No more bugs. I don’t want us typecast. And we already have a job.”

Stanislav straightened and put a hand in his jacket pocket. “There’s a second option.”

My senses went on high alert. “What’s that?”

“Micklor breaks every bone in your bodies.”

The big Vellaran loomed as a crooked grin slid across his mug. If he got a hold of me, I’d end up in the hospital . . . or the morgue.

Joe barked out a laugh and patted the orange blaster holstered at his side. “Not gonna happen while I’m wearing this.”

As the camera hovered in closer, I triggered its self-defense mechanism and the minigun hummed. “And not when I’ve got my partner’s back.”

Stanislav pulled a key fob out of his pocket. “Too bad you aren’t better prepared right now.”

After he pressed a button on the device, air pulsed out and away from it. A concussive wave passed through me, causing a tingle. The camera dropped and crashed against the floor. It rolled away, and my HUD went blank. The lights outside the hangar went out.

Joe’s hand flashed, and he yanked his pistol out of his holster. “What did you do? Tell me or I’ll put a hole through your gut.”

A chuckle rolled out of Stanislav. “EMP. I just fried all the electronic circuits in your blaster, the camera, and every electrical circuit within fifteen feet. You couldn’t shoot me if you wanted to, dipshit.”

The smuggler prowled closer with his Vellaran muscleman in tow. He flexed his wrist and drew a wicked knife from a sheath. “Now let’s talk about that last option I gave you. Too bad your camera doesn’t work. This would make a thrilling scene.”

CHAPTER
EIGHT

Stanislav brandished his curved knife, ripples playing across its silvery surface. He ran a thumb along the leather-banded hilt, caressing it like a lover’s skin.

Micklor pulled a wand out of his waistband. With a snap of his wrist, it telescoped into a baton, just the right size for breaking bones or cracking a skull. He glared at Joe. “I’m gonna beat you into a bloody pulp, holovid hero.”

Joe backed away a few steps, keeping me behind him.

Stanislav tested the knifepoint against his thumbnail. “You should’ve taken my advice to go bug hunting, camera jockey. Time to carve my initials into your thin hide.”

I sidestepped away, keeping up with Joe, afraid to turn and run. “Now let’s not be hasty, Stan. What would your mother say if she was here?”

A malevolent smile spread across his lips. “She’d tell me to get to cutting.”

Joe reached back and shoved me farther behind him. “Stay there, Mac. This could get ugly.”

Micklor twirled his club. “Maybe you should tell your director to close his eyes. He might not want to watch this.”

Joe cracked his neck then took a fighting stance, turning his blaster into an impromptu club. “Enough talk. Let’s dance.”

Micklor lunged, sweeping the baton in an arc. Joe dodged the blow and tackled Micklor around the knees.

My mouth went dry. “Joe!”

Stanislav’s knife flashed. My forearm intercepted the blade, which sliced through my jacket and into my flesh. Pain blossomed all the way up to my shoulder. I stumbled backward and tripped over the drone at my feet.

I landed hard, and air whooshed out of my lungs. Stanislav loomed overhead, then crouched and stabbed the knife toward my gut. As I quickly rolled away, I caught another glancing blow on my arm.

The big thug grimaced. “Stay still. I’ll make this quick.”

I scuttled backward like a crab on the beach. My wounded arm felt numb as blood trickled down to my wrist. “Bite me, asshole.”

Stanislav followed, and I kicked his legs. My gaze swept across the ground, searching for something to prevent my impending death. Micklor and Joe continued to wrestle, with the Vellaran’s hands around Joe’s throat.

The camera lay within arm’s reach. I grabbed it and hurled it at Stanislav. The sphere bounced off his chest, giving me only a moment’s reprieve. My head knocked into a crate behind me.

“End of the line, jackass.” Stanislav stalked forward.

“For you maybe.” Holding a slug caster in one fist, Sanraya stood inside the hangar’s opening. “Don’t move.”

My heart pounded as I craned my neck looking for Joe, who was still fighting Micklor, their hands around each other’s throats.

“Let my friend go, Micklor.” Sanraya bared her teeth and marched toward us. “Do it now, before I lose my patience.”

The Vellaran muscleman grunted and backed away from Joe. He put his hands up. “Still hanging out with these losers?”

She snorted. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

I sat up, breathing hard. “You are so hot right now. I could jump you.”

She arrived at my side and patted my head. “Down, boy. There’ll be time later to shower me with gratitude.” Her gaze swept over me. “Put a bandage on your arm in the meantime.”

I couldn’t argue with that; my arm throbbed. As I took off my jacket, I winced in pain. Two messy cuts ran along the side of my forearm. “Son of a bitch,” I hissed. “This hurts.”

Stanislav laughed. “Knew you wouldn’t be able to handle yourself in a fight.”

Sanraya stuck out her chin. “Wrap a sleeve around your arm, Mac. Best you can do for now.”

I dug my nails into the jacket and tore away the thin material. “And then?”

Sanraya shrugged. “We’ve got an autostitcher and a medical kit in our luggage.”

“I’ll put myself at your tender mercies, my love.”

Micklor looked at me, then at Sanraya, then back at me. “You and him? What a waste. You could do a lot better than that.”

Sanraya sighed. “What can I say? I like bald men. And he’s a lot of fun . . . most of the time.”

I nodded at her gun. “You like your hardware?”

“This pistol suits me well. Nice weight to it.” She turned the flat gray gun over in her hand and read the script on it. “Smith & Wesson Gyrojet Magnum. An old clunker, but it looks mean.”

I met her gaze. “I’m glad you decided not to leave us.”

“What can I say?” She grinned. “When I saw the lights go out on my way back to the ship, I knew you two would be in the center of whatever trouble was brewing.”

Stanislav’s eyes narrowed, focusing on my face. “You gonna kill us?”

The thought had crossed my mind. I rubbed the back of my head, realizing that for all my faults, I wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. “Don’t tempt me. I’d like to gut you and leave you here with your entrails stuffed in your mouth, but the cleaning droids have had a rough day already.”

Micklor huffed, the veins in his thick neck throbbing. “I should’ve cracked open your skull back at Skootchy’s.”

Joe scooped up his blaster and my camera and leaned in close to Micklor. “You’re lucky our fight ended when it did. I was a few seconds away from taking you out.”

“Dream on, pink-skinned simian.”

Joe kicked him in the crotch. The Vellaran clutched his family jewels and dropped to his knees. I didn’t think it was possible, but his lizard skin turned an even deeper shade of green.

I sighed. Abusing a vanquished foe didn’t cultivate the image I wanted for Captain Charisma. “Take it easy, Joe.”

Joe glared and grabbed Micklor by an ear lobe. “I’d love to kill you. Lucky for you, I follow my director’s lead. But if I catch you following us, I won’t hesitate to end your life—sniper’s rifle; you won’t even see it coming.”

Micklor struggled to suck in air. “You don’t scare me, Drake.”

Sanraya stuck the long-barreled pistol in Micklor’s face. “How about me? I’m not squeamish about splattering your brains all over Vespar’s Creation.”

Micklor recoiled from the gun. He teetered over backward then crawled next to his boss. His forked tongue hissed through his pointed teeth. “No need for that, my dear.”

Joe put his hands on his hips. “You’re afraid of her and not me? I must be losing my touch.”

“No offense, Joe, but she scares me too.” I smiled at Sanraya. “Vellaran women shouldn’t be trifled with.”

“That’s the first thing you’ve said today that makes sense.” Sanraya motioned with her pistol. “I believe it’s time to leave, gentlemen.”

Stanislav scowled. “I’m leaving, but maybe I’ll drop a tip with the Appleseed authorities about your smuggling operations.”

“Like they would believe someone like you,” I replied. “Just make sure you stay away from us.”

Stanislav and Micklor stepped into their vehicle. As Micklor took the wheel, Stanislav gave me the finger. With the screech of rubber, they left the hangar.

When the three of us returned to the Beauty, we stumbled along until we reached the infirmary inside. Joe used the autostitcher from our medical kit to close my wounds, then slapped heal-all stickers over them. After I swallowed some pain-killers, the throbbing subsided to a persistent itch as the medical nanobots migrated from the bandages into my flesh.

“All better, Mac,” Joe said, putting the medical kit away. “You’ll be good as new soon.”

“Yeah, thanks.” It seemed like if I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have none at all.

While waiting for Joe and Sanraya to finish loading the ship, I fixed my Sammy Slammer and fiddled with my broken camera. What a waste. Stanislav’s EMP had fried the drone’s motherboard. My only hope was to find some spare electronics on the Blackthorn Beauty and try to jury-rig the remnants into a workable drone. Otherwise, I’d have to rely on my backup.

Right now, I only had one workable camera: my ex-wife’s. I’d inherited it after she was sent to prison. Dragging it out of my luggage and assembling it brought back bad memories of our bug hunt on Minnix Ore Station 27.

I stared at her drone as it took flight. The rig resembled a pterodactyl with glowing red eyes. After whirring around for a few seconds, it perched on the edge of a shipping container like a gargoyle. Fortunately, her drone worked with my contact lenses.

Joe had shielded me from the danger when I should’ve been able to take care of myself. Maybe I just needed to get tougher. Put myself in the mindset that I wasn’t going to take it anymore. Sure. That would work. Wouldn’t it?

CHAPTER
NINE

After stowing the cold brew in the cargo bay, we finished our preflight preparations. The sun had gone down, and it made the temperature inside the hangar tolerable as we loaded the last of our gear. The Blackthorn Beauty cleared the hangar and rolled out under a clear night sky. Chunky droids, carrying illuminated directionals, guided the ship toward a hexagon on the asphalt: the launch pad. In the distance, a blocky glass enclosure loomed over the area: spaceport control. A saucer-shaped Vellaran light freighter spun down out of the heavens and settled on another pad.

“Ceding gravometrics to spaceport control.” Joe took his hands off the controls. “Brace for launch.”

I buckled my seat belt and found a perch for my ex-wife’s camera where it could watch all of us. I hated this part of spaceflight. Every launch made me want to barf.

The lift-off happened quicker than a hiccup. A charge through the gravometric pad threw the ship hundreds of feet into the air, and the sky swam by the front view screen. My stomach bottomed out. Maybe the protein cube I’d choked down earlier hadn’t been such a hot idea.

“Yee-haw!” Joe punched a fist in the air. “I love this shit!” He turned his head, scanning the elevation controls. “Thrust vectors at sixty percent. Rising steady. Forward momentum in ten seconds. Escape velocity in twenty.”

For all her faults, the ship rose without complaint, her nose pointing up at the cosmos. Forward thrust propelled the Beauty through a thin cloud layer—a haze on an otherwise perfect sky. The inky blackness of space loomed ahead.

“How long until we reach the jump gate?” I asked.

“A few minutes.” Joe pulled levers with his right hand; his left tapped the dash. “This old girl flies better than I expected.”

“My systems do what I want them to do,” Princess Takahe squawked. “And there’s a big difference between old and experienced.”

Joe smirked. “I know all about women with experience.”

The speaker crackled. “No doubt because you’ve paid for their company.”

The smirk transformed into a grin. “All the best women come with a cost.”

“Pig. You’ve been inhaling fumes from your hair gel again, haven’t you?”

Joe shrugged. “Every chance I get.” He patted the dashboard. “Just having fun with you, old girl. But we do need to finish up some repairs before you’re good as new.”

“Tell Spider to hurry with those new lift thrusters,” Princess Takahe said. “That launch could’ve been a lot smoother.”

I sighed. “We couldn’t afford new parts, Princess. So, I bought some used Ixorian step inverters.”

The ship rolled, unbalancing my inner ear. Joe grabbed the steering yoke and pulled on it with minimal effect. The deck beneath us rumbled.

“You Trandoshapian switchback skinflint! How dare you buy me substandard equipment?” Princess Takahe screeched. “You’re taking me for granted.”

A bead of sweat rolled down Joe’s neck. He yanked at the controls, wrestling with our choleric craft.

Joe waved a fist at the hologram. “It was either that or Xenoflight thrusters, Princess. And there was no way I’d let Spider install those in your innards.”

A long silence ensued, giving me a chance to catch my breath. The ship righted itself, heading back on its original course at level flight.

The holographic bird ruffled its feathers then sat down. “Hmmph. Well. Yes. I suppose that was wise, Mac. But I still don’t like you, Captain Cretin.”

The last vestiges of the atmosphere fell away, and the winking lights of an agricultural space platform came into view. Countless ships were parked in orbit: mammoth interstellar freighters too large to land on the surface, a graceful Alliance destroyer with its dorsal fins gleaming under its own external lights, and private space yachts of every design imaginable. A line of starships gathered near a circular portal formed by a fixed array of platforms. The opening shimmered, casting off a rainbow miasma of light.

“There’s the jump gate.” Joe nudged the steering yoke. “Decelerating to join the queue.”

A diamond-shaped craft, sleek as a barracuda, broke from a pack of ships loitering near the portal. It moved toward us on an intercept path. Joe’s brow furrowed as he reached up and double tapped a control. The focus changed, giving us a close-up of the vessel. A proton cannon bristled underneath its nose while a double-nacelle engine configuration along the bottom—offset and aft of center underneath short wings—gave it a predatory appearance.

“Oh, hell.” Joe sat back in his seat. “A Polavian bounty brigantine.”

The ship edged toward us, picking up speed, its cannon focusing on the Beauty. Beyond, the bright haze of the jump gate twinkled, tempting us with an escape. Other ships clustered near it, waiting their turn as the gate cycled through its operations. Three vessels: an elongated Narpoxian cruise liner with its accompanying tugs, a Vellaran silver discus, and a blocky Xendomorg fuel barge blocked our path to freedom. Beyond, the stars shone, giving us a prime view of the emptiness of space.

The Beauty swung away from the Polavian ship. The planet of Appleseed appeared in the left corner of the view screen, a blue-and-green orb englobed by ships and agricultural stations. The view screen switched, giving us a look out our port side, and the focus zoomed in on our pursuers. With momentum in our favor, the gap between the Beauty and the Polavian ship widened.

“Where are we going?” Sanraya asked.

“Away from the bounty bunnies.” Joe turned the steering yoke. “They were waiting for us.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Bounty bunnies?”

Joe grunted. “Coney collectors? You like that better?”

“Hunting hares, perhaps?” Sanraya asked.

I groaned. Actors. They love clever one-liners, no matter how hokey.

The Polavian ship, which was now blocking the jump gate, made my stomach churn; but my instincts took over, and I made sure our camera was working. Through the heads-up display, I modified the shot to eye level. After receiving my commands, the drone tilted its pterodactyl head. I swore the thing gave me the evil eye. I worried whether it would reliably record the drama about to enfold and whether I’d be alive to edit the footage later.

Sanraya stared at the display in front of the navigator’s station. “If you’re looking for a place to hide, there isn’t one, unless you want to return to the planet.”

“We need a plan—fast.” Joe reached up and flipped a switch overhead then turned to me. “Anytime would be great, Mac.”

I swallowed, looking at the navigation display then out the front view screen. The Alliance destroyer loomed in station above the planet, its multiple-gun turrets a pointed reminder about who controlled this sector. Their help would be welcome right about now.

“Well?” asked Joe.

I glared at him. “I’m working on it!”

“Work faster.”

The intercom chirped, and the holographic takahe strolled across the dashboard and ruffled its feathers. “We’re receiving a communication request from the Polavian ship. Do you wish to respond?”

I turned to Joe. “What are our options?”

He winced. “They’re between us and the jump gate. We’re outgunned. They’ve got more speed and greater maneuverability.”

Sanraya’s crest flattened against her skull. “Which leaves us with what?”

I counted off on my fingers. “Cunning, bravado, and luck. Ready to follow your director’s lead?”

Joe cracked his knuckles and put his hands on the steering yoke. “Captain Charisma is ready for action!”

My chair swiveled around, and my eyes fell on the holographic display of the Appleseed System. It showed the position of the planet, moon, jump gate, and all the ships in proximity, including the Alliance destroyer, which was closer to the planet. “Get ready to make a run for cover. We’ll use that Alliance tin can to shield us.”

Sanraya’s eyes narrowed. “How?”

“Leave that to me. You take over the weapons. I’ll handle navigation.”

The intercom chirped again, and Princess Takahe stomped her clawed foot. “It’s the Polavians again. They’ve moved into an intercept course. They’re still blocking our way to the queue.”

“Can you follow my lead, Princess? If you interfere at the wrong time, it’ll be a disaster.”

“You have a plan?”

I smiled. “You betcha. What’s the name of the Alliance destroyer?”

“The Kobold, Commander Gustav Moeller at the helm.”

“Can you let them listen in on our conversation?”

A snort. “Of course. But why—”

“Trust me, Princess. You’re on, Joe. Get the Polavians to talk about the war. I want them hopping mad.”

Joe laughed. “That shouldn’t be hard.”

Sanraya nodded. “You do have a knack for making people angry.”

I rapped my knuckles on my desktop. “Let’s focus. After you get the Polavians seeing red, look for me to touch my wrist. That’ll be your cue. Get the Beauty to the Alliance destroyer as fast as she’ll run without the Polavians blowing us to bits. And don’t forget to cut off our intercom when you do. No need to have them listening to us again.”

“Right, Mac.”

“Patch us through to our pursuers, Princess.”

The intercom crackled. “Connecting.”

The front view screen split, giving us a view of the spacious command deck of the Polavian brigantine. Ragtag crewmembers dressed in mismatched outfits sat in front of grass-colored consoles and holoscreens. The explosion of pastels on the walls looked like a child’s first attempt to color an Easter egg.

A furry albino female Polavian turned toward us, a round monocle framing one of her pink eyes. Illuminated symbols and numbers danced across the surface of her eyewear. “This is Captain Flopirus aboard the Empire ship Renegade.”

Joe threw his head back and laughed. “Hello, Captain Floppy Ears. What can we do for you?”

Captain Flopirus bristled. “Why I—” She straightened her jacket. “Joseph Drake, you are under arrest by order of the Polavian Politburo.”

Joe leaned back and put his feet up on the dashboard. “Oh, yeah? On what charge?”

“Don’t play coy with me, young scrapper. We both know you were behind the Alliance’s war crimes at the Battle of Mektar Hives. Cut your engines and prepare for boarding.”

“Or what? You’ll blast my ship to bits? Kill any innocents aboard?”

“If they’re smart, they’ll truss you up and deliver you to the Renegade.” She smiled, prominently displaying her elongated incisors. “If not, they’re collaborators, and I’m justified in destroying you all.”

Joe gestured to the rest of us in the cockpit. “Collaborators? Do these folks look like soldiers? They weren’t anywhere near the Battle of Mektar Hives.”

“After-the-fact accomplices. Still guilty.”

Sanraya turned her head toward me as her hand inched toward the weapons console. I caught her eye and shook my head. It wasn’t time to start the fireworks. The Alliance destroyer’s icon inched closer on the tactical display–it was heading in our direction. Perfect.

Joe swung his feet off the dashboard and leaned forward with a nasty glint in his eyes. “Were you there at Mektar Hives, Captain? Do you know what happened?”

Captain Flopirus ripped off her monocle, matching Joe’s glare. She shook a furry paw at him. “I saw the footage of the devastation, murderer. You killed hundreds of Polavians.”

“Armed soldiers trying to kill me. You left out that detail.”

“Use of nuclear devices violates article seven of the Humanoid Haven Accord.”

“It was war, Captain! What was I supposed to do? Let snipers shoot my people in the back during a retreat?”

“You were supposed to die honorably, human.”

Joe shook his fist at the screen. “There’s no honor in getting a plasma bolt up your keister, carrot eater.”

“How dare you use that slur.” Captain Flopirus made a slashing motion with her hand, cutting off Joe’s retort. She snorted. “Humans. You think you’re the only ones in the galaxy that compare the species on their own planet to those they find among the stars? I am not a rabbit.” She leaned into the camera on her ship. “And if you need a demonstration, I’ll prove it.”

“Spoken like true garden-wrecking vermin.” Joe tilted his head. “You know, we used hunting dogs to chase down rabbits on our ranch back in Texas. It was an awful mess when we came across a carcass.”

Captain Flopirus turned to one of her long-eared crew members. “How long until we reach firing range?”

He tugged on his whiskers. “We’re at the extreme edge now.”

“Fire at will. Target their engines. I want Joseph Drake alive. He will stand trial for his crimes.” She turned back toward the view screen. “I look forward to hearing you grovel for your life in front of the tribunal, hairless ape.”

“Firing first salvo now, Captain.”

The Alliance destroyer closed in on our position, its silvery-white superstructure glinting under its running lights. It wasn’t quite close enough, though, and we were running out of time. I caught Joe’s attention and tapped my wrist.

Joe laughed. “Good luck catching us before I make it back to Appleseed.”

He yanked on the steering yoke, putting us into a turn and creating more distance between the Beauty and the Renegade. The view screen dropped the image of the Polavian brigantine’s bridge, giving us a full view of the space ahead. The Kobold steamed toward us, the planet a looming orb in the sky behind it.

The intercom squawked. “Cutting communications.”

The Beauty shuddered. Red warning lights flashed. Princess Takahe snapped her head around and stared at Joe. “Shields holding. No damage . . . yet. Better do something fast, Captain Charisma.”

Joe’s lips thinned into a grimace. “Yeah? How about this?” His hands spun the steering yoke. The ship upended itself, corkscrewing through space and diving underneath the Kobold.

My stomach lurched as the stars waggled and twirled across the screen. Bile rose in my throat, and I fought to keep down my last meal. The sudden moves flummoxed the artificial gravity systems, causing the camera to topple ass backward across the dashboard. The sensory input from the tumbling HUD did nothing to help my loss of equilibrium.

I grabbed the navigation desk and focused on its holographic images. “I’m gonna be sick.”

“Not on my consoles, you’re not,” Princess Takahe said.

Sanraya glanced at me over her shoulder. “Suck it up, buttercup.” She righted the camera back on the dash, stared down at her weapons console, and mashed a finger on a recessed button. “Rear cannon tracking target. Firing.”

The front view screen split, giving us a view of the green turbolasers that lashed out at the bounty brigantine. Although most of the shots went wide, a few splashed against the ship’s shields, blossoming into blue ripples across its exterior.

Joe guffawed. “Woo! This is better than a rattlesnake rodeo!”

The intercom chirped again, and our holographic hen pecked at an instrument panel. “It’s the Kobold. They’re warning us not to come any closer.” The Beauty shuddered again. “Shields at seventy-two percent. The Renegade is gaining.”

“Take us up and around the Kobold, Joe. Try to keep that destroyer between us and our Polavian pugilists.”

“Polavian pugilists!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s the spirit, Mac!” The ship’s wheel turned, and the Beauty rose and banked. A turbolaser turret along the Kobold’s deck followed our progress.

Sanraya grimaced, staring at her weapons screen. “Bank left!”

As Joe yanked the controls, the Beauty’s engines whined. Two more shots darted out across the void, erupting across the Renegade’s flank. Its blue shield sizzled and sparked.

“Bingo! B-I-N-G-O!” Sanraya threw a fist in the air. “Is that how you humans say it?”

The intercom crackled. “It’s the Kobold. They demand that each ship cease fire. Commander Moeller wants to speak with both of us.”

I took a deep breath and let it out. So far so good. “Please put him through, Princess.”

The view screen snapped to a view of the Alliance destroyer’s flying bridge. More than a dozen crew members dressed in gray two-piece uniforms sat in front of banks of screens and holographic images. The immaculate white countertops and precise instrumentation smacked of order and efficiency. In the center of it all, on an elevated throne, the Alliance commander lorded over his followers.

Whipcord lean and graying at the temples, Commander Moeller leaned forward in his seat with his fingertips pressed together. As soon as I saw his pressed uniform, I knew his type—a no-nonsense, by-the-book military man. My mind raced as I considered how I could turn that to our advantage.

Commander Moeller cleared his throat. “This is the Alliance destroyer Kobold addressing the two vessels encircling us. You will stop hostilities immediately. If you fail to comply, I will consider you an imminent threat to my ship. Any threats will be neutralized in accord with Alliance standing orders.”

The view screen split, showing the brigantine’s bridge and an unhappy crew. Captain Flopirus glared at us; her long ears flat against her head. “I have a warrant from the Polavian Politburo for the arrest of the war criminal Joseph Drake. By rights established under the Alliance-Polavian Truce Accords, I demand your assistance in apprehending him.”

Joe straightened in his chair. “Powering down all weapons now, Commander Moeller.” He exchanged a glance with Sanraya, who flicked several switches that took all cannon and missile launchers offline. “It’s nice to see a friendly face. These Polavian pirates waylaid us right before we got to the jump gate.”

“Pirates! We’re not—”

Commander Moeller flicked a switch on the arm of his command chair, cutting the audio from the Polavian ship. “Much better. I want to talk to one side at a time—uninterrupted.”

Joe nodded. “What do you need to know, sir?”

The commander grunted. “So . . . Mr. Drake. You fought at Mektar Hives?”

“Yes, sir. Alliance Special Forces under the command of Major Kapur.”

Flinty eyes stared back at Joe. “Prabhakar Kapur?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I wondered what happened to him. We went to the Alliance Academy together.”

“Sir?”

Commander Moeller stood and straightened his jacket. “How is the old son of a bitch?”

Joe flinched. “Honestly, I wasn’t his favorite platoon leader. After the battle, he sent me packing back to command on a charge of violating nuclear protocols.”

“Hmm. Yes, I can understand that decision.”

“Sir? Begging your pardon, but I didn’t have much choice.”

“Humph. It’s not for me to second-guess Alliance Command. But for what it’s worth, I think the Polavians got everything they deserved during that battle.”

“You were there, sir?”

“No, but my late wife was.”

“I’m very sorry, sir.”

Commander Moeller folded his arms across his chest. “So, what am I supposed to do with you, Mr. Drake?”

An idea sprang to mind, and I stepped forward. “Excuse me, commander?”

An eyebrow rose. “Yes?”

My throat felt dry, but I pushed on. “Isn’t there a process to be followed here? Doesn’t Joe have rights before he’s extradited?”

The commander sighed. “That’s the magic word, ‘rights.’ Do you realize what you’ve started here, Mr. Drake?”

Joe shrugged. “Sorry about that, sir. I didn’t mean to drop this in your lap. We were just on our way to a new set for our reality show.” He beamed. “I’m an actor now. They call me Captain Charisma.”

Commander Moeller rolled his eyes. “You’re not helping your cause, son.”

Sanraya snorted. “I’d say he’s a lost cause.”

I kicked her under the dash and shot her a glare. She frowned, anger swimming in her violet eyes, but she kept her mouth shut. I’d have to apologize later, but right now our fate could tip either way in short order.

Commander Moeller rubbed the back of his neck. “I need to talk to the Polavians. Then I’ll need to consult with my ship’s AI for legal advice. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.” He stared at Joe. “In the meantime, stay put.”

Joe nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Your record had better come back clean, Mr. Drake. If you’ve done anything illegal recently, this situation won’t go well for you.”

My stomach roiled. Several tons of illegal cold brew sat in our hold. If an Alliance bureaucrat boarded our ship, we’d all end up in prison.

Joe nodded. “I understand, sir. Putting the ship into standby.”

“Good.” Commander Moeller stared us all down. “Don’t try anything against the Polavians. If you do, I’ll turn that rusted hulk you’re driving into space dust.”

CHAPTER
TEN

Commander Moeller cut the communications link. A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the occasional chirrups, clicks, and beeps of the cockpit’s appliances. Joe rubbed his jaw. Sanraya stared at the gleaming, white hull of the Alliance destroyer that filled the view screen. I could only guess what those two were thinking, but I knew it couldn’t be far from my own worries.

Lines formed on my brow. I ran my fingers along the ridges, trying to think of a way out of our predicament. If I didn’t, the Alliance would probably hand Joe over to the Polavians. Worse, they might turn us all in, treating Sanraya and me as after-the-fact accomplices. Life in a Polavian prison would be harsh. I’d seen video of the inhumane conditions. Backbreaking forced labor mining for coal with hand tools. Starvation. Vermin bigger than any New York City rat. An early grave.

Joe sighed. “That was your spectacular plan? To put my fate into the hands of an Alliance hard-ass?”

I fished another antacid tablet out of my pocket and chewed. Ugh. Fruity chalk. I shrugged. “It seemed like a promising idea. There weren’t many options.”

“Your plan saved us for the time being,” Sanraya said, “but what do we do now? And don’t think I haven’t noticed how much medication you’ve been taking, Ian MacIntyre. If this keeps up, you’re gonna talk to a doctor.”

I swallowed the last bits of the tablet. “I’m fine. Just a sour stomach. Must be that Vellaran food you keep insisting I try.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with Vellaran food?”

“It’s very, very spicy. And it wants to crawl out of the bowl while I eat it.”

“If that’s the case, I’m putting you on a diet of tasteless human food. Hand them over.” She held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. “Give them up. Right now.”

I sighed and tossed her the bottle. “As you wish.” Arguments with Sanraya would get you nothing except a tongue-lashing or black eye. Besides, I had another bottle stowed away in my luggage.

The camera tilted its head, recording our conversation. I preferred holovids where I directed the action, instead of letting the action come to us. How could I regain control? We couldn’t run. The Kobold had enough firepower to pulverize the Beauty into space kibble, and the Polavian ship would pounce on us too. We needed to get to Clodhopper, deliver the cold brew, and finish the debut episode of Green Charisma. So, Commander Moeller had to let us go and provide us the protection we needed to get to the jump gate.

I needed information—fast. “Princess, could you please call up the peace treaty between the Alliance and the Polavian Empire? Scan for the pertinent sections concerning extradition of criminals and put it on the view screen.”

The ship’s AI tweeted an acknowledgment. A moment later, text scrolled across the screen. “I’d recommend reviewing the highlighted sections first,” she said. “An accused may challenge any request for extradition on grounds of lack of specialty or dual criminality.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Pretend I’m an idiot and explain each concept.”

Princess Takahe snorted. “I don’t need to pretend. You hairless apes aren’t the brightest stars in the universe. ‘Specialty’ means the treaty must allow for extradition of the crime in question. The treaty must list the crime.”

“How about Joe’s situation? Does the treaty mention extradition for his crime?”

Joe glared at me. “Hey! Alleged crime! I’m innocent.”

My hand rose, and I made placating motions. “You’re right. Sorry. Alleged crime.”

The text jumped to the pertinent section. “Extradition rights exist for a prosecuting world to bring any war criminal to justice. War crimes include targeting civilian populations that take no active role in hostilities. They also include escalation of conflict by using one of many weapons of mass destruction, including nuclear devices.”

A lump caught in my throat. Oh, shit.

Joe’s shoulders slumped. “I’m doomed.”

“Calm down, Joe. Let’s not jump to any conclusions.” I hated to ask the next questions. “What about Sanraya and me? Are we after-the-fact accomplices?”

The flightless bird flapped its stunted wings. “The treaty omits accessory crimes. So, it looks like I’m stuck with you.”

Good to know the Alliance wouldn’t send all of us into a Polavian purgatory, but the treaty didn’t help Joe. My mind raced as I tried to think of other language in the treaty to exploit.

Sanraya sat forward in her chair. “Princess, you mentioned provisions governing dual criminality. What does that mean?”

The takahe hologram tilted its head. “If both signatories consider a particular act a crime, the surrendering state can refuse extradition because it may choose to punish the accused.”

A smile grew on my face. “And does Alliance law consider use of a weapon of mass destruction a crime?”

Sanraya clapped. “Brilliant. I see where you’re going.”

Joe shook his head. “I don’t understand this mumbo jumbo. Somebody explain it.”

New text appeared on the screen. Princess Takahe ruffled her feathers. “Confirmed. The Alliance Uniform Military Code prohibits unauthorized use of weapons of mass destruction. A violator may be court-martialed.”

Joe threw his hands in the air. “This part I recognize. What does it mean?”

I clapped him on the shoulder. “The Alliance punished you when it discharged you from the service.”

“So?” The lines on his face deepened. “What’s to stop them from turning me over to the carrot eaters?”

“Double jeopardy.”

Joe blinked. “Really?”

“Affirmative,” Princess Takahe said. “Alliance precedent sets a bright-line test for extradition. If civilian or military authorities have punished the accused, the Alliance will not release that person to the opposing jurisdiction.”

Joe clapped a hand against his thigh. “Fantastic!”

Our holographic AI shook its head. “Too bad—I figured you’d end up in the slammer someday. You’d look terrific in prison stripes.”

Joe’s icy glare fixed on the hologram. “Sorry to disappoint you, Princess.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you think Commander Moeller will reach the same conclusion?”

Princess Takahe chuckled. “The Kobold’s AI would have to be the dumbest collection of circuits this side of the galaxy to get this wrong.”

I nodded. “So why did the Polavians bother to make their claim?”

Sanraya tapped a claw on the dashboard. “Polavian bounty hunters? Since when do they care about the law? Maybe they have an ace up their snout?” She paused. “Was that the correct use of that human idiom?”

Joe smirked. “Close enough.”

Sanraya beamed, showing off her triangular chompers. “Good. I’ve been reading up on them and also familiarizing myself with some of your odd customs. The pastime you call ‘strip poker’ sounds interesting. We’ll have to play it sometime, Mac. I have a costume perfect for the occasion. It’ll make a wonderful scene for our show.”

A flush crept up my neck. She had to be kidding. She didn’t really want to make a sex video, did she?

Joe’s nose wrinkled. “Thanks for the visual.”

Retching noises came from the ship’s internal speakers. “Humanoid sexual recreation makes as much sense as trying an atmospheric micro jump with a broken homeostatic fuel regulator. Both create more problems than they’re worth.”

I heaved a sigh. “Let’s stay on task, folks. What do we do about the bounty brigantine if Commander Moeller lets us go?”

“The Alliance needs to declare us off limits and tell the Polavians to bugger off,” Joe said. “If they disturb the peace by shooting at us, the Kobold should drop the hammer on them.”

I swiveled around to face Joe and directed the camera in for a close-up of the worry lines on his face. “You think that’ll happen? What about the politics? Can the Alliance afford to thumb their nose at the Empire?”

A shrug. “Above my pay grade.”

The intercom crackled as Princess Takahe chimed in. “Everything’s above your pay grade, dimwit.” The flightless bird hologram stomped down the dashboard toward Joe. “Do you trust the system? Should I try hacking into the Kobold’s AI? There might be a maintenance back door I can exploit. I can wreak havoc in their environmental controls. Raise the CO levels so everyone keels over. We can escape in the confusion.”

My jaw dropped. “Princess, we’re filming a reality show. We’re not genuine smugglers.”

Joe nodded. “Plus, it’s a dumb idea. You’re talking long odds. Hacking into an Alliance destroyer? Besides, do you have any idea what would happen if we attacked an Alliance vessel? We’d be hunted down just so the Alliance could make examples out of us.”

The takahe tilted its head. “You call it acting, but you are smugglers. How do you expect me to know when you’re acting?”

“Just ask us,” I said.

“How annoying.” A pause. “Very well. Please be advised that my current programming doesn’t allow for character realignment.”

“Does it allow for adaptive management?”

Another pause. “Perhaps. I’ll adjust where appropriate.”

The muscles in my neck relaxed. “Thank you, Princess.”

“But I still think we should gas the Kobold’s inhabitants, seize her weapons, and blast the Polavian brigantine into chunks small enough to mail back to Polavia Prime.”

I shook my head. “We’ll find another solution if Moeller doesn’t come through for us.”

Sanraya looked at Joe and me. “Will the Kobold stop the Polavians from firing on us if we leave?”

A grunt escaped Joe’s lips. “It should. Random weapons fire in a crowded system? There’s a lot of space out there, but there’s also high traffic.” He shook his head. “Not good.”

The intercom chirped. “That’s the Kobold calling now. Should I patch them through to the front view screen?”

Finally. This had to be good news. “Yes. Thank you.”

The view screen split, giving us a peek into the closed confines of an office. Commander Moeller sat behind an L-shaped desk cluttered with data pads and a light-field projector. Next to him, a clean-cut female Vellaran officer stood at attention. Her ocean-blue crest and dewlap stood in stark contrast to the gleaming, white walls and desk. Her gray two-piece uniform looked freshly pressed.

I was surprised to see Commander Moeller behind a desk and not on the bridge. Whatever he wanted to say, he intended to deliver it to a limited audience.

He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desktop. “Blackthorn Beauty, this is the Kobold. I have superb news for you.”

Joe sat up straight. “Sir, that’s great to hear. When can we get under way?”

Commander Moeller held up a hand, his palm toward us. “Not so fast, Captain Charisma.” He smiled, only it wasn’t a nice smile. “I just received orders from Alliance Command about your case. There are some things we need to discuss.”

Uh-oh. Something didn’t jibe. “What do we need to talk about? We researched the law at our end. You can’t hand us over to the Polavians, and I’ve got a show to run.”

The commander nodded. “I know. You’re recording a daring smuggling operation, delivering Torquadian cytologic cold brew to the inhabitants of Clodhopper. A noble effort.” He rubbed his hands together. “But it’s still illegal to possess that product in the Appleseed System.”

Crap. My mind raced. “Is that what we’re carrying? Wow. If we’d known—”

A slashing gesture from Commander Moeller interrupted me. “Save it. I talked to your Transkeller employer, Qinta Floros, and I notified the local authorities about her illegal activities. She’ll soon be under arrest. If you want to avoid her fate, listen carefully to the offer you’re about to receive.”

I tried to maintain a poker face. We could still bluff our way out of our predicament.

Joe cleared his throat. “Well, it’s like this, you see. We had to stop this guy—Stanislav Hordiyenko. Real bad news . . .”

Sanraya covered her eyes with one hand. “My parents will be so disappointed.”

Princess Takahe clucked. “Told you we should have taken steps to protect ourselves.”

My actors were losing their cool. Typical. The script develops a hiccup, and they freak out. My hand clenched into a fist, and I pounded on the navigator’s station. “Shut up! All of you! Commander Moeller was just about to make us an offer we can’t refuse.”

The commander chuckled. “Correct. Time for you to turn off the camera, Mr. MacIntyre. What gets said from this point forward must remain a state secret.”

Ugh. This couldn’t lead anywhere good. But what choice did we have? Although it pained me to stop recording, I did it anyway. “Okay. You have our cooperation. So, how’d you find out about the cold brew?”

“We scanned your cargo compartment. After that, it took very little time to track down your likely supplier.”

Goddamn military-grade scanners. They were every smuggler’s nightmare. I locked my gaze with Joe’s and Sanraya’s, trying to convey a sense of control I didn’t feel. “So, what’s next?”

Commander Moeller raised his chin toward his Vellaran officer. “This is Lieutenant Siska ta’Chalik. She’s our liaison with the Telestic Templars. From this moment forward, you work for Alliance Military Intelligence. She has a mission for you on Clodhopper.”

Joe groaned. “Oh, no.”

The queasy feeling in my stomach returned. “Dare I ask? Doing what?”

Lieutenant ta’Chalik smoothed the front of her tunic. She strolled closer to the camera, taking center stage. A toothy sneer formed on her face—we were criminals in her mind. “You’ve got room in your hold for more cargo. We need you to take on a few more crates and deliver them to the Clodhopper rebels.”

Sanraya shrugged. “That doesn’t sound so bad. We’re making the trip anyway.”

Joe slouched in his captain’s chair and shook his head. “You don’t understand, Sanraya. This is no longer a simple mercy mission. She wants us to smuggle weapons into Polavian space.”

Sanraya’s eyes bugged out. “Are you serious?”

Joe nodded. “I’ve seen it before. It’s something both sides do during a cold war.”

The lieutenant nodded. “We have several crates of plasma rifles. Three rail guns that someone can mount on a vehicle. Shoulder launchers to take out aircraft. Lots of ammunition. Stuff that the rebels could buy anywhere on the black market that can’t be traced back to the Alliance.”

Joe stared back at her. “And if we get caught, the Alliance will disavow any knowledge of the situation. We’re expendable.”

Lieutenant ta’Chalik smiled. “Naturally. It’s a perfect solution to both our problems.”

Sanraya looked from the lieutenant to Joe, who nodded. She sighed and pulled out my bottle of antacid pills. The lid came off, and she popped several pastel tablets into her mouth. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

I rubbed my tired eyes. “Throw in a case of Appleseed hard cider and we’ve got a deal. I’m gonna need a drink before this is over.”

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

The Beauty’s front screen gave us split views of the bridges on the Kobold and the Renegade. Commander Moeller had just informed his Polavian counterpart that he couldn’t extradite Joe to her custody. The news catapulted Captain Flopirus out of her chair. Her white ears flopped across her brow, then flattened back against her skull.

As I’ve mentioned, our show thrived on conflict—the more, the better. So, recording a conversation between the Polavian captain and Alliance commander amounted to throwing red meat to a starving Narpoxian mountain mocker. I ate it up. Gobble, gobble, gobble.

Commander Flopirus bristled, shaking her fist at her view screen. Spittle flew from her furry mouth. Behind her, a half dozen sycophants nodded like bobblehead dolls. “You can’t expect me to accept this farce.”

The Alliance commander shrugged in his seat. His own crew members worked their stations, watching with keen interest. “I’m bound by Alliance law. There’s nothing I can do for you.”

For the first time in hours, I relished the opportunity to do what I enjoyed most: directing our reality show. The pterodactyl camera perched on my navigation station, where I guided it to take an over-the-shoulder shot with Joe’s pompadour in the foreground.

Captain Flopirus stabbed a finger at Joe. “He’s a murderer! Polavians demand justice. He should be in chains.”

A smirk grew on my lips. Perfect. The drone hovered up from the navigation console, letting me capture the action from a new angle. Joe and I exchanged a glance. I tapped my wrist, giving him permission to up the ante.

He shrugged and leaned back in his captain’s chair. A moment later, he held out a hand and stared at his fingernails as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Sorry, I only wear chains when I find a special woman.” He raised an eyebrow. “How about you, Captain Floppy Ears?”

Her pink rabbit eyes narrowed. “Why you—”

Commander Moeller cleared his throat. “If we could just—”

Joe winked. “If you’re into that sort of thing, I’m willing to take one for the team, but I’d insist on it being a two bagger—one bag over your head and another over mine in case yours falls off.”

Twin incisors protruded from the Polavian captain’s angry mouth. “Insolent grub! I will enjoy seeing you in our prison.”

The Alliance ship commander sighed. “No one’s being taken away in manacles. The treaty is clear. I can’t extradite Mr. Drake. He’s beyond your reach for whatever he did during the war.”

“Alliance bastards! Always scheming ways to take advantage of any situation.”

Joe buffed his fingernails against his leather jacket. “It’s too bad really. I was looking forward to visiting Polavia Prime and pissing in the fountain at the Hall of Heroes.”

Wincing, I put a hand on Joe’s shoulder and squeezed. Too much of a good thing can ruin a scene. My actors hadn’t yet learned when they were crossing the line. And just now he’d done so in spectacular fashion.

“Outrageous!” Captain Flopirus paced the pastel-colored bridge, the soft-blue hues on the walls transitioning to mint green, then a lemon chiffon. She stopped and slammed a fist on top of a grass-colored console. “He damns himself with his own words. Any other person who spoke to me like this would hang. The war criminal must be extradited to Polavia Prime.”

Commander Moeller splayed his fingers, forming a peak when they then came together, and sighed again. “I understood you the first time you made that claim, Captain. If you wish to file a complaint, it should be through diplomatic channels.”

“Diplomacy? You expect me to wait months before receiving justice?” The captain shook her head and stomped back down her bridge. “So, what happens now? He flies off without consequence?”

“Essentially, yes.” Commander Moeller nodded as he tapped at his data slate. “And to keep the peace, I’m ordering you and your ship out of this system. Once you’re gone, I’ll allow Mr. Drake to continue on his way.”

The pacing stopped. Captain Flopirus grabbed a handrail, her fuzzy knuckles holding it in a death grip. “I still have business here. Fuel and supplies to buy.”

Commander Moeller leaned over as he read a data screen attached to the arm of his chair. A green glow played across his fingers as he tapped it. “Our scans indicate that you have enough fuel to make a short trip. Minnix Ore Station Sixteen can supply everything you need. That shouldn’t put you at too much of an inconvenience.”

“So, you’re denying me access to Appleseed?”

“For the time being, yes.”

“You’re a disgrace, commander.” The bounty captain huffed and glared. The crew behind her looked like they were ready to annihilate us all. “You’ve cost me a half million bounty credits today. I hope you’re happy.” She nodded to one of her subordinates, and the view screen showing the bridge of the Renegade went blank.

Commander Moeller leaned forward and smoothed the front of his gray tunic. “Well, that went as well as could be expected. As soon as their ship leaves the system, we’ll allow you to dock with our ship, Mr. Drake. Lieutenant ta’Chalik will have your cargo prepared in a few hours.”

Joe smiled. “Looking forward to receiving what we deserve. Thank you, sir.”

A leer crept onto the commander’s face. “My pleasure, but it’s definitely less than you deserve, Captain Charisma. And don’t forget our arrangement. I’d hate to see you get crosswise with Alliance Command. You seem to have enough enemies at the moment. Kobold out.”

Another part of the view screen snapped closed, leaving us with a view of the white hull of the Alliance destroyer and the space beyond. The winking lights of the jump gate beckoned. The Polavian bounty brigantine turned and sped off toward its shifting energy miasma.

Watching them leave felt akin to opening a window and letting out foul air. I took my first deep breath in ages and rubbed the back of my neck.

Joe cackled. “Bon voyage, bunnies.”

Sanraya shook her head. “They’ll be waiting for us in the Clodhopper System. We’d better think of a way to deal with them when we don’t have an Alliance destroyer around for cover.”

I frowned as I glanced at the navigation charts. There was an awful lot of space out there. “How will they know where we’re going?”

“By bribing a jump gate employee, likely,” Joe said. “They’ll have to play catch-up, but they have a fast ship.” He turned to Sanraya. “That’s what you’re thinking?”

“Yeah, or they’ll hack into the jump gate computer and get the information.”

Joe shrugged. “Less likely, but possible. They’d need someone who really knew their stuff.”

My shoulders sagged. Another hurdle we’d have to jump. “I don’t know what we’ll do about the Polavians. Maybe we can get some help from Commander Moeller.”

Joe grunted. “That bastard fixed us good.”

The ship’s holographic takahe chased a holographic bug across the cockpit’s dashboard. “He buggered us with our pants on. Told you we should have gassed the Kobold.”

My eye twitched, and a yawn escaped. “Thank you, Princess. Insightful, if not particularly helpful.”

Joe scowled. “How the hell did the Kobold find out what’s in our cargo hold? I thought this was a smuggler’s ship. What happened to our countermeasures to prevent those kinds of scans?”

“Good question. How about it, Princess?”

The bird’s beady eyes narrowed. “Did you check the repair schedule? The suppression field will be repaired after the hydrostatic converters.”

Joe’s face flushed. “Oh. Guess I overlooked it.”

Sanraya glared at him. “You idiot! That should’ve been a high priority fix.”

“No kidding. Way to go, dipshit.”

“If everything’s important, then nothing is.” Joe shook his head. “The engines still need more work.”

Sanraya’s chair swiveled around. A scaly green hand closed on my shoulder. “I don’t like the idea of running guns to the Clodhoppers, Mac. We took this job as a mercy mission, providing medicine to a sick species.”

Joe nodded. “The only thing worse than sanitation work is becoming a death merchant for Alliance Command. We’ll get caught up in an illegal trafficking scandal.”

Sanraya’s eyes widened. “Scandal?”

“Yeah, Alliance law forbids what we’re about to do, right?” Joe rubbed his beard. “Our target audience wants to see us as the good guys.”

Heat flashed across my face. “What did you expect me to do? Commander Moeller had us dead to rights.”

Sanraya squeezed my shoulder. “I don’t know, Mac. But you’re a smart guy. Figure something out. Get us out from under the Alliance’s thumb.”

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” I said. “We’re providing weapons to rebels. They’re fighting the Polavian Empire.”

Joe harrumphed. “You think the Clodhoppers will be all sunshine and roses? Altruistic freedom fighters? You’ve seen real war, Mac, not just the stuff on the holodramas.”

Sanraya’s violet eyes bore into mine, twin pools I could drown in. “More important, what will stop Alliance Command from continuing to strong-arm us once we finish the job?”

Their words sank in. Before working with reality-show crews, I’d filmed a few war documentaries. The gut-wrenching, mind-numbing reality of war blurred the lines between good and evil. Sure, people did heroic things, but they also committed atrocities. The victors wrote history, casting everything through their own lens. So, what would it take to fix this situation? The Alliance expected us to keep this job a secret, and once we’d done this one thing for them, they’d expect us to do more work. The hook had been set.

My brain felt like mush. Too much excitement in a short time. The edges of depression lurked there, and I fought to keep signs of it off my face. I couldn’t let my friends down. The first step in effective leadership is acting like you have all the answers. Well, if I couldn’t put up a good act, what could I expect from the others? I made a choice: fake it until I make it.

“No one except the Alliance knows we’ll be carrying weapons.” I gave them my best confident look. “So, our job is to pretend we’re not carrying anything other than medicine. Act like we’re still the good guys. I’ll edit out anything related to the weapons and keep our reputation intact.”

Sanraya patted my shoulder, adjusted my collar, and ran her hand down my chest. She relaxed, and the lines on her face faded. “Do you have a plan to keep the Alliance out of our hair?” She hesitated. “Did I use that euphemism correctly?”

Joe grunted. “Close enough, considering both of you are bald.”

Sanraya scowled. “You’d look better without hair, Captain Charisma. I’m sure this ship has a pair of clippers. Snip, snip, snip.”

“Hey! The hair stays. Who wants to pet a bald dog?” He raised an eyebrow. “Present company of weirdos excluded, of course.”

My thoughts strayed back to our conversation with Commander Moeller. Now I wished I’d secretly recorded it. It could’ve provided some leverage because it would have implicated the Alliance in our illegal trafficking. Would there be another opportunity to record an admission? I didn’t think the commander would slip up, but a member of his crew might. “I’m working on a plan to maintain our good reputation. Let me sleep on it.”

Joe nodded and grinned. “We trust you, Mighty Mac.”

Another yawn stretched my jaw. It’d been a long time since we’d slept, and I knew I wasn’t thinking right. “Commander Moeller said it would take a few hours to package our shipment. We need to be fresh when we hit the jump gate. Let’s get some sleep.”

Princess Takahe scratched at the dash. “I’ll wake you once things start happening.”

“Thank you, Princess.”

A mischievous grin appeared on her beak. “Just watch out for the la’Karvian rock crawlers.”

“I thought the ship was fumigated.”

The bird tilted its head. “Oh, the exterminator came and went. Nice lady. I don’t sense anything chewing up my innards. Not anymore. But the little bugs like to hide between the mattresses to avoid the insecticide. Sweet dreams, Mac.”

CHAPTER
TWELVE

Princess Takahe wasn’t joking about bugs hiding between the mattresses, even though I’d checked for them before zonking out. Nothing wakes you up faster than a critter crawling over your face. In a heartbeat, I went from stone dead to frantic multi-armed Polypsian, swatting at my cheek. I slid off the bed and crashed onto the floor, smacking my funny bone. Sharp pain ran up my arm.

“Get off! Get off!”

The black bug dropped. It disappeared underneath the collar of my pajamas then wriggled around inside my shirt. Freaking out, I grabbed the front of my top and shook it. My enemy slid into my pajama bottoms, nestling among my unmentionables. More shaking and panting. The bug ran down my pant leg, dropped to the floor, and skittered away, its red eye cluster glowing in the dark cabin interior.

I grabbed a boot from underneath the bed and chased down the la’Karvian rock crawler. Using the boot like a hammer, I squashed it flat. Green goo splattered across the gray deck.

“Goddamn bugs.” I threw down the boot and rubbed the soreness out of my elbow. “Lights on, please.” The tiled ceiling glowed, its illumination gradually increasing and allowing my eyes to adjust. The dead rock crawler twitched, its limbs not realizing the rest of it had expired. What a mess. This was no way to begin a morning. Or a smuggling run.

My gaze swept across the room. Sanraya was nowhere to be found. The new terrarium hummed, a fine mist basking the Vellaran succulents in life-giving nutrients. In the corner of the suite, the sonic showerhead dripped, its droplets landing with a staccato rhythm. A news program ran on the video wall, audio muted. Sanraya wasn’t in the room, but that didn’t surprise me. Vellarans need less sleep than humans.

“About time you woke up.” The ship’s voice came through hidden speakers.

My heart caught in my throat. “Damn it, Princess! Don’t scare me like that!”

A holographic takahe appeared atop a dresser. It eyed me and tilted its head. “Do you realize you snore, Mac? You sounded like an elephant choir practice.”

“What does that have to do with dropping into my room without warning? I nearly peed my pants.”

“It’s amazing that your cowardly species ever made it down out of the trees. Get a grip.”

I closed my eyes and slowly counted to ten. Arguing with the ship wouldn’t do me any good. Much bigger problems needed solving, including our predicament with the Alliance. How would we escape their blackmail? The Alliance’s reach extended over a sizable chunk of the galaxy.

No solutions came to mind. “Can you tell me where Sanraya and Joe are?”

The bird ruffled its feathers. “They’re in the kitchen, making a hash of things.”

I rubbed a hand across the stubble on my jaw. Wonderful. “What? Explain.”

“They’re cooking dead animal flesh, tubers, eggs, and vegetables in a skillet. Better hurry if you want to partake in the food poisoning that’s sure to follow.”

Oh. Hash. Literally. Stupid, droll programmed humor.

My mouth watered. Breakfast sounded wonderful right now. I went to the sink, washed my face, and put in my contacts. A quick system check confirmed that the camera drone was still working. It leapt off the dresser, hovered off to one side, and continued to record my actions.

“Any word from the Kobold regarding our status?” I padded across the bedroom, avoiding the bug guts in the middle of the floor. I’d let the maintenance droids sweep it up. The rig followed me as I traversed the suite.

“Not yet. They must still be collecting everything for transfer.”

“How about the repairs?” I asked.

“Spider installed the used thrusters you bought. They make me itch.”

“Really?”

The takahe squatted at the end of the bureau. “No, not really. I’m a machine. But it’s the closest analogy I can make.”

As I reached the cabin door, it slid open with a squeak. “Sorry, Princess. It’s the best we could do.”

“That remains to be seen.”

I sighed. Whatever. “Can you relay a message to Spider? Ask him to come see us?”

The bird sniffed. “I suppose. If you say ‘please.’”

I gritted my teeth. Our ship’s AI needed a personality wipe—the sooner the better. If we got through this mission, I’d take great joy in watching the override. “Please. And thank you, Princess.”

“You’re welcome. Enjoy your hateful hash.”

The cabin door closed behind me before I could respond. I shook my head. This princess was a real pain in the ass.

The gray deck’s no-slip surface felt rough against the soles of my feet—not painful, but it did slow me down. I thought about returning to grab my boots, then remembered the bug goo on one of them. Hmmph.

The faded, chipped gray paint on the walls was a pointed reminder of the ship’s age. Things weren’t all bad, though. The hallway smelled better than it had during our first inspection. Only a hint of mustiness hung in the air. A repair droid had its arms inside an electrical panel; the occasional blue flashes of a welder came and went. As I strolled past the machine, it didn’t respond to my presence.

When I reached the dining area, the automatic door slid open. Smells of coffee and charred meat wafted out. Ah.

Although the cramped kitchen didn’t provide anything more than the minimal basics in terms of heating and food-prep equipment, it did have ambiance. An antique dish cabinet held well-used porcelain plates and an eclectic clutch of drinking vessels, some with stylized logos of professional and collegiate sports teams, others depicting exotic locations no-doubt visited by past crews.

Joe sat at a small wooden table, shoveling cereal into his mouth. Day-Glo fruity-colored rings were piled high inside the bowl. Behind a countertop, Sanraya fiddled with a cooking droid. The sizzle of meat within captured my attention. Another droid stirred fluffy, orange scrambled Pterorot eggs with peppers. The smell reminded me of Sunday mornings back in rural Missouri.

Sanraya’s eyes lit up when she spotted me. Her smile made my knees wobble. She still had that effect on me.

“Good morning, buttercup.” She slid a coffee mug across the counter. “How did you sleep?”

I grabbed the mug and took a sip. The bold acidity of a dark coffee lingered on my tongue. Delightful. Thank the stars the ship could make a decent brew. “I slept great. It was waking up that ruined everything.”

Joe’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

“A la’Karvian rock crawler wanted to share the bed. It scampered right across my face.”

He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “From what Sanraya tells me, aliens like jumping in the sack with you.”

I puffed out my chest. “I know the right buttons to push.”

“Hmmph.” Sanraya cradled her own coffee mug in a fist. “That’s what I love most about you, Ian MacIntyre—your modesty.”

The kitchen door whisked open again, and our ship’s engineer teetered inside on his hindmost legs. His insect-like head bobbed as he came to a stop. He held a silky black bag between two elongated arms. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

I set down my mug, took a seat, and put my elbows on the table. “Yeah, thanks for coming, Spider. I want to catch up on your repair efforts.”

Spider set the sack on the table. “The crunch-step inverters are working at ninety-eight percent efficiency—very good for used parts. The jump-drive calibrations show an increased destination accuracy of sixty-six-point-six-seven meters. Sublight engines still have an isolated flutter at velocities between point-six and point-seven million meters per second.”

“What about the maneuvering thrusters?” asked Joe. “They aren’t as tight as they could be.”

“I have a team of droids working on them now.” Spider put a data pad on the table.

Joe picked up the slate, scanned its contents, and whistled. “That’s some nice work. You’re a third of the way through your list of repairs.”

The beetle-like head nodded. “Thank you, Captain Charisma. I try to run at optimum efficiency.”

I poked a finger at the black bag on the table. “What’s in here, Spider?”

“Ah, I had a specialist droid make the other repairs you asked for.” He reached across the table and upended the sack’s contents. “Your camera drone and pinhole cameras should work fine now.” A shiny black orb rolled across the table and came to a stop in front of me. The two pinhole-lapel cameras looked brand-new. “We used spare parts to improve the human-camera interfaces on the pinhole cameras. They will operate on human thought now. No more need for contact lenses.”

I smiled. Finally, some good news. “Excellent, Spider. Thank you. A director can never have too many cameras. We should be able to put them to good—”

A stray thought drifted into my mind and latched on like a newborn Trandoshapian to its misshapen mother. Commander Moeller only knew about the one camera. Hmm. What could I do to help our situation now that I had four?

“What’s wrong, Mac?” Sanraya took a seat at the table. She put a steaming bowl of hash in front of Joe and herself, but not in front of me. “You look like your thoughts are scattered across the Qortung Nebula.”

“Sorry. I just had a brainstorm. Still trying to sort things out.”

She smiled, leaned over, and pecked me on the cheek. “I love it when you get that cunning look in your eyes.”

Joe rubbed his hands together and stabbed a fork into his bowl. “Awesome. Thanks so much, Sanraya. Are these Bohrtovian phantom peppers in the scrambled eggs?”

Sanraya beamed. “You betcha. Nothing beats fresh peppers in Pterorot eggs.”

I stared at my empty place setting. “Where’s my food?”

A wicked smile spread across Sanraya’s face. “Oh, there’s cultured milk product in the fridge.” She turned to Joe. “What did you call it again?”

Joe chewed and swallowed a forkful of sausage and potatoes. “Yogurt.”

Sanraya nodded. “That’s right. Yogurt. I understand it’s good for you.”

“Really? I don’t get any hash?”

“Next time you insult Vellaran cooking, you’d better think about the consequences. And anyway, plain yogurt should be bland enough for your stomach to handle.” She smiled again around a mouthful of hash. “Oh, I almost forgot. I confiscated the extra antacid bottle in your luggage. So, if you want to feel better, start eating right.”

“If I apologize, can I eat whatever I like?”

Sanraya turned to Joe. “What do you think?”

He glanced at his cereal bowl, his bowl of hash, then the stovetop, before flashing her a lopsided grin. “There won’t be enough hash for three.”

My mouth dropped open. “You’ve eaten a mountain of kids’ cereal, and you plan on eating a big bowl of hash, but there’s none for me?”

Joe shrugged. “I need the calories. Sanraya and I got up early and worked out. What about you?”

I swallowed a tickle at the back of my throat. Really? They’d already exercised? My mind raced. “Well, I did smash a bug a few minutes ago.”

Sanraya sniffed. “One bug. Hmmph. That settles it. It’s yogurt for breakfast or nothing.”

My stomach rumbled as she swallowed down a spoonful of hash. I sighed and crossed my arms. “I hate you both. One day your metabolism will slow, and you’ll have to start watching what you eat. I hope I’m around to see it.”

“Mmm. Good hash.” Joe gestured with one hand. “Pass the hot sauce?”

Sanraya chortled and slid the bottle across the table. “Sure thing, Joe. Without spices or flavor, what’s the point of eating?”

I bit my tongue—I wasn’t going to win any battles today with the two of them ganging up on me.

Spider tilted his head. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

I stood up. Maybe I could find something healthy to put in the yogurt to liven it up—fruit perhaps. “Yeah, we need to talk about getting our electronic countermeasures up and running. We gave away the farm when the Kobold scanned our cargo hold. They knew exactly what we’re carrying.”

“Blocking military-grade scanners will be difficult. Do you want me to work on that next, or the braking thrusters?”

I winced, making my way over to the walk-in refrigerator. “What’s wrong with our brakes?”

“The propellant lines are corroded. I estimate a point-two percent chance of failure each time they are used.”

I shrugged. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Joe grunted. “Except if they fail and we crash while trying to land.”

I stepped inside the walk-in fridge. A curtain of cold air washed over me, making the skin on my arms pebble. After a quick search, I found the yogurt between the Vellaran mealworms and a small stash of promising-looking purple berries. Bins of dehydrated peaches, apricots, and another fruit I didn’t recognize crowded another shelf. I grabbed a few apricots then reached for the berries.

Sanraya’s voice carried across the divide. “Leave the berries in the cooler, Mac. They’re not for eating. Joe mentioned something about a drink called sloe gin.”

Just my luck. Sloe berries. A token kept by the former crew of The Blackthorn Beauty, no doubt. I grabbed a container of plain yogurt, returned to the kitchen, and slammed the cooler door behind me.

“How long will it take to fix our electronic countermeasures?” I sat at the table and popped the top off the yogurt container. The white goop inside looked as appetizing as the yucko-stucco used to insulate the ship’s engines. I added dried apricots for color as much as taste.

“One-point-two cycles.”

“How long will the trip to Clodhopper take? We’ll need our countermeasures operational once we reach Polavian space.”

“One-point-one-five cycles.”

“Spider, what did I tell you about converting to days?” I said.

“My apologies. One day, three hours, twelve minutes.”

Joe nodded. “Not bad. If we start those repairs now, we’ll have limited exposure once we reach Polavian space.”

I spooned the bland yogurt into my mouth and swallowed. Awful. It definitely needed more apricots. “Get it done, Spider. Then get back to working on everything else, including the braking thrusters.”

Spider’s head bobbed. “Very good, sir. I will start at once.” He turned and left, squeezing his arachnid body through the door.

The holographic takahe appeared on the table. “Our Alliance guests expect to be ready with their deliveries shortly. Should I direct them to the cargo hold?”

I nodded and scarfed down the yogurt. “Tell our guests we’ll meet them in a few minutes, Princess.”

“Okay, but you might want to get dressed first, Mighty Mac.” The hologram winked out.

As I glanced down at my pajamas, I noticed some dribbled goop on the front. She had a point.

While Joe and Sanraya devoured their meals, I took advantage of the silence to consider how I wanted the next scene to play out. If I could get our guests to slip up, it might help us somewhere down the road.

I rapped my knuckles on the table. “Listen up, my splendid actors. I want you to wear your lapel cameras for this next scene. You have free rein to create as much mayhem as you like. I need our guests behaving badly so I can get it recorded. They’ll insist I turn off my camera,” I jerked a thumb at the pterodactyl drone hovering overhead, “but they don’t know about our other cameras.”

Sanraya nodded. “You want stuff we can use for leverage.”

“Precisely. But don’t turn the cameras on until I give the signal.”

Sanraya stuck the lapel camera into her collar. “Why wait?”

“Commander Moeller might scan the cargo area for hidden electronics, just to make sure our transaction isn’t being filmed.”

She nodded. “So, we wait until the sensor sweep is over, then turn them on.”

“You got it.”

Joe cracked his knuckles and reached for his tiny camera. “This should be fun.”

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

The spindly droids of the Blackthorn Beauty pushed, lifted, and stacked crates against the tan walls of the expansive deck, making room for the Kobold’s arms shipment. Click. Clack. Bang. The movement of the heavy objects set my teeth on edge. Likewise, the noise was agitating my actors, who were preparing to take the stage. We occupied ourselves by venting with small talk.

Sanraya played with her pinhole camera. “If I’d known the Kobold would keep us waiting, I wouldn’t have rushed down here from the kitchen to this racket. I would have slowed down and enjoyed my hash.”

Joe rocked back on his heels, one thumb behind his belt. “Oh, man, I’m stuffed. Fantastic breakfast, Sanraya.” He turned toward me and belched, his mouth agape like a Micronian trashmouth bass.

I waved away the stink of fruity cereal mixed with Pterorot eggs. “For some of us, yeah.” I shook my head. A rumble came and went inside my gut. “I can’t believe you two put me on a diet.”

“Yogurt’s good for you,” Joe answered.

“Even you don’t like yogurt.”

“Still.”

I rolled my eyes. “Next thing I know, you’ll want me to work out.”

“Good idea.” Joe nodded. “Meet us down here in the cargo hold bright and early tomorrow.”

My face twisted into a sneer. Ugh. Exercise. “I’ll think about it.” I should’ve kept my damn mouth shut.

“What’s taking them so long?” Sanraya scowled. “I hate delays.”

I couldn’t agree more. “Maybe Commander Moeller had some kind of last-minute emergency to handle. He’s running a ship with several hundred soldiers. Relax. If you let your nervousness show, he’ll smell a rat.”

Sanraya bristled. “What’s wrong with the way I smell?”

Joe chuckled. “It means Commander Moeller will become suspicious. A rat is a small, sneaky omnivore on Earth. They’re pests and carry disease—like la’Karvian rock crawlers. It’s nothing personal.”

“Oh,” she said. “Why didn’t you just tell me to keep a poker mug?”

Spider teetered on his long legs. “I believe the phrase is ‘poker face.’”

“Mug. Face.” Sanraya shrugged. “I thought they were the same thing.”

I sighed. “They are the same, but the phrase . . . well, it’s just a quirk of the Terran language.”

“Humans. I try to learn your idioms and get nothing but grief when I get them wrong. Your species confuses the hell out of me.”

Red warning lights flashed, and sirens wailed as the air lock cycled through its operation. The air lock slid open, revealing a team of gray-uniformed soldiers. They rushed into the hold, plasma rifles raised and ready for action. Their heavy steps against the metal deck echoed off the walls. Each wore an exoskeleton suit—gray carbon fibers running along their legs and arms and bio-mechanical elbows and knees—to augment their speed and strength.

My voice froze on my tongue. What the hell?

“Don’t move!” Their burly bald leader shoved a rifle barrel in my face.

I kept as still as possible as the assault team swept to the sides, presumably searching for threats. Spider, Joe, Sanraya, and I stiffened, eyes wide.

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

The leader spoke into a wrist communicator. “Morrison here. All threats neutralized, lieutenant!” He lowered his rifle.

My stomach gurgled again, no doubt a result of my heightened anxiety and hunger. Trying to find a center of calm, I gulped down air.

Joe chuckled. “You hear that, Mac? They consider us a threat—the crew of a small civilian transport. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.”

As my pulse slowed, my frustration and insight grew. The Alliance had sent their commando team to put us on tilt, to keep us scared and better control us. Their theatrics triggered deep-seated resentment in me. Bureaucracy hates artists and loves to cull creative types from the herd.

It shouldn’t have surprised me when the Alliance jumped on us with both feet, but for some reason it did. For all my preparations for this scene, I’d been outmaneuvered.

Thank goodness for Joe’s growing acting skills. He also had realized why Commander Moeller had sent these jackbooted thugs and had broken the tense mood with a bit of well-placed humor.

Fine. Time to adapt to our new situation. I tried to look bored, as though I’d expected this manufactured melodrama.

My hands came together for a round of applause. “Wow. Nice scare tactics.”

Morrison scowled. “Standard protocol when entering a hostile situation.”

“Hostile? We’re a holovid crew trying to make ends meet, not bloodthirsty pirates.” I snorted. “The Kobold has enough firepower to annihilate our ship several times over.” I waved my hands. “We surrender.”

“My orders—”

“You boys want medals for your performance?” I went on. “Or maybe you should stop messing around and get down to business?”

The sounds of a slow, deliberate march drew my attention. Another crowd of gray suits appeared on the gangplank between our ships. Lieutenant Siska ta’Chalik led the way. The stern look on her reptilian face could have curdled milk—inside the cow.

“Turn off your camera now, Mr. MacIntyre.” The Vellaran lieutenant stabbed a claw at the pterodactyl drone hovering over my shoulder. Her ocean-blue crest flattened against her skull. “Or I’ll blast it into particles so small that scientists don’t have names for them yet.”

I blinked several times and feigned ignorance. My hands rose in a gesture I hoped she’d interpret as apologetic. “Sorry, lieutenant. I forgot to leave it in my cabin.”

“Send it away,” she ordered.

“I still have a show to make. Where’s Commander Moeller?”

“He’s busy. Do you want to record your B-list holovid from inside the Weiland Asteroid Penal Colony? I’m sure I can find a code violation on this rust bucket I can make stick.”

My eyes bulged. “Can’t we talk first? I’m sure—”

“Isn’t that where your ex-wife Rose ended up? ‘The Great Space Rock,’ some call it. Won’t your reunion make a heartwarming scene?”

I held up my hands. “Okay. Okay. You win.” I ordered the drone up and out the doorway that led to the ship’s interior. “It’s heading back to my cabin. Happy now?”

“Not quite. You gave up a bit too easily.” She turned to her second-in-command. “Sweep the area for additional electronic surveillance, Morrison. No mistakes.”

“Right away, ma’am.” He reached into a hip pocket and pulled out a black box with a stubby antenna.

Joe craned his neck. “Ooh, is that the VC-7 Spymaster model?”

“Yeah, if there’s an active recorder nearby, this baby’ll find it.” A furrow grew on Morrison’s brow as he fidgeted with the gadget. The machine let out a querulous ping. After several seconds, it belched out another signal. “Scan complete. One working camera.” He pointed to the corner of the tan ceiling of the hold. “There. Looks like an AI interface.”

Lieutenant ta’Chalik nodded. “I expected as much. You hoped we’d overlook the ship’s camera.”

I shrugged. Actually, I’d forgotten about it. “You can’t blame me for trying.”

“I can and will blame you.” She turned to Morrison. “Take it out.”

“Gladly,” he said, hefting his plasma rifle.

Spider teetered forward on his lanky legs. “No. Please wait. I just fixed—”

A molten plasma blast erupted from the gun, leaving the odor of ozone in its wake. The energy bolt tore through the camera like a rock through plate glass. Pieces of electronics fell to the cargo floor in a clatter, and a smoldering hole marred the ceiling. Damn Alliance thugs.

Spider retreated, his legs folding underneath him. “Princess will not like that at all. No, she will not.”

Lieutenant ta’Chalik raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

Joe sighed, one hand coming to rest on the pommel of his blaster. “The ship’s AI. This vessel has a personality that matches its appearance. We’ll be lucky if she doesn’t change the environmental settings and lower the temperature below freezing.”

Morrison leaned in close to him. “Keep your hands away from your weapon, pilot. And make no more threats.”

Joe produced his trademark lopsided grin. His hand blurred, and before anyone could react, he had the blaster out of its holster, the butt end facing the Alliance commando. “Maybe you should hold it for me?” He rolled his eyes. “I may be an actor, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have real skills, you jumped-up jackalope.”

Morrison slapped the pistol out of Joe’s hand. It skidded across the cargo deck before coming to rest against a crate filled with illegal cold brew. He huffed and thrust out his chin at Joe. “You don’t know how close I came to killing you just now.”

A tingle spread to my toes. Damn. Joe had taken my words about stirring up action to heart. I loved his initiative, but we didn’t have a working camera running . . . yet. After clearing my throat, I spoke up. “What was the name of the special ops squad you ran, Joe?”

Joe crossed his arms over his chest. “The Black Aces. These clowns aren’t worthy of polishing their boots. We kept things tight.”

Lieutenant ta’Chalik sighed. “If you two are done measuring the size of your jocks, we can get on with things.” She turned back to her second-in-command. “Keep your sweeps active. They might have other cameras hidden here in the hold. I don’t want surprises.”

My face fell. All my plans to record this conversation flew out the air lock. A wave of anxiety rumbled in my stomach, heading for my nether regions.

Sanraya sniffed. “Paranoid much?”

The Vellaran lieutenant got in Sanraya’s face. “Don’t insult my intelligence. If I didn’t have your troupe of merry revelers by the scruff of the neck, you’d wriggle away.”

Sanraya’s jaw clenched. She looked ready to throw the lieutenant against a wall. Not good. I caught Sanraya’s attention and gave her one of our prearranged signals to wave off further escalation. Without a working camera, it would be a wasted effort. I hoped both Joe and Sanraya had the good sense to keep their pinhole cameras turned off. No use having them confiscated or destroyed. Worse, the Alliance could decide to prosecute us for transporting illegal drugs.

Another rumble went through my belly. “So, now what?”

Lieutenant ta’Chalik smiled. “Now we bring you the merchandise. And then we wave goodbye as you toddle off like tamed Homelian herbivores.” She nodded to another soldier. “Bring the droids.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The cargo filled with wheeled transports carrying metal boxes the size of coffins. The Alliance droids shoved aside and restacked the wooden crates containing the cold brew. A blinking, red light near the lip of a new container caught my attention. I stepped closer to inspect it.

“I wouldn’t mess with that.” Lieutenant ta’Chalik tapped a claw against her chin. “It might go off.”

I took a few steps back. “As in: explode?”

She nodded, her blue crest flopping from one side to the other. “The latest in anti-tampering equipment. If anyone tries to bypass the lock without the correct access code, the charge will detonate. The same thing will happen if it’s scanned using the wrong frequency.”

“You’re putting a bomb on our ship?” I was incredulous—and scared out of my wits.

“Several dozen. One for each crate, so you won’t wander off. The Clodhoppers will have the right codes to defuse them.”

I sucked in air through my teeth. “That wasn’t part of our deal.”

The lieutenant leered at me. “Nothing but the best for bootlegger scum. I believe the human phrase is, ‘I have you over a barrel.’ Enjoy your flogging.”

The Alliance’s treatment left me with a burning in my gut. Several vulgarities came to my lips, all left unspoken. What good would it do? Another wave of nausea came and went, and it needed a release.

Oh, no.

Burrappp! Brap! Brap!

My flatulence cut through the background noise. There was no hiding from it. So, I did what any normal person would do . . . I looked for someone else to blame. “Spider! Quit that barking.”

Our engineer tilted his arachnid head. “I’m sorry, sir. To what are you referring?”

Sanraya’s upper lip curled back. “Eww.”

Joe coughed into his hand. “Barking spiders. Classic.”

Lieutenant ta’Chalik snorted. “Humans. You can’t control even the most rudimentary bodily functions when you’re afraid.”

Morrison and his soldiers guffawed. The taunts came fast and furious.

“Put a plug in it, man!”

“Somebody open a window!”

“Phaw! Smells like a Polavian buffet in here.”

My face burned. “I’m not . . . I mean . . . the droid did it.”

Spider looked from me to Lieutenant ta’Chalik. “I still do not understand.”

The lieutenant turned and walked her way back up the narrow passageway to the Kobold. “I’ll let your betters explain it to you, droid,” she called over her shoulder.

Several soldiers from the raiding party followed, all chortling with glee. They’d won a decisive victory by embarrassing us on our own turf. Worse yet, it was my fault.

Joe’s nose wrinkled as he waved a hand in front of his face. “Oh, man. I don’t know what’s worse, being gassed by the ship or the ship’s engineer.”

Spider swayed on his hind legs. “Will someone please explain?”

Sanraya sighed. “Don’t worry, Spider. It was a poor attempt at humor, blaming you for Mac’s stink butt.” She eyed me. “See? You need to eat right—more fiber in your diet.”

“Fiber?” My ears burned. “Make up your mind. You gave me that disgusting yogurt for breakfast!”

The last few soldiers sniggered as they disengaged, following their lieutenant. A smile plastered Morrison’s face as he reached the gangplank. “Enjoy your trip.” He paused. “Maybe you should cut back on the dairy, dude.”

Sanraya flipped him the bird as soon as he turned his back on us.

Their absence left our crew alone with the Alliance droids, who continued to stack containers of illegal arms into the belly of the Blackthorn Beauty. Apparently, the robots would remain with us during the trip to handle the offload once we reached Clodhopper.

I’d screwed up big time. We’d lost our best opportunity to gain leverage against the Alliance, and I’d blown it out my rear—literally. What kind of director would let that happen?

“I wanna lie down and die,” I said.

Sanraya nodded. “Not exactly how we’d planned things.”

Joe chuckled. “The best thing is that I got some of it recorded.”

“What do you mean?”

He smirked. “I beat their scanners.”

Sanraya beamed. “Fantastic! How did you manage it?”

“The Black Aces used the VC-7 Spymaster when I first trained with them. It’s an older model, so there’s a way to flummox it. Good thing the army bureaucracy is filled with cheapskates.”

“So, how did you beat the sweeper?” I asked him.

“I timed my recordings to the seconds between scanner sweeps. The machine beeps every time it completes a cycle. There’s slack space when it collates data, then starts again.”

“Really?” Hope sprang up in me and grew wings.

Joe wagged his eyebrows and tapped the lapel pin that hid his camera. “Yep. Since I can control the camera with my thoughts, it was easy.”

“Did you get anything good?”

“Pretty sure I recorded every rip and toot.”

I scowled. “You’re killing me.”

Sanraya slapped Joe on the back. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

He leaned against a crate. “Captain Charisma to the rescue.”

“Ha-ha,” I said, keeping my tone flat.

“Relax, Mac. There’s bound to be something useful in the footage I got.”

I sighed. “Let’s hope so. I don’t want to do the Alliance’s biddings forever.”

“We won’t.”

The tension started to drain from my body. Although I felt a lot better about our chances of escaping the Alliance’s grip, I was still a little gassy. “Let’s get back to the bridge. As soon as the Kobold lets us go, we’ll head for the jump gate. I’ll check the recording once we’re safely out of their clutches.”

“Better stop in the restroom first, Mac.” Joe chucked me on the shoulder. “I don’t wanna be in a confined space with you until you clear your pipes.”

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Bright purple-and-blue light swirled around the jump gate’s aperture: a black center, like the eye of a Cyclops. The Blackthorn Beauty eased forward toward the stable singularity harnessed by the opening.

The Gravimetics Central Cooperative ran jump gates outside the major planetary systems. Essentially, their secure wormholes created short cuts through space; they made travel much faster and more economical. Sure, starships could fold space on their own, but they could only carry so much fuel.

Space crackled with blue energy: lightning that struck and rebounded off the ship. My camera drone hovered over my shoulder, recording the event.

At the event horizon, the ship’s engines disengaged, and a subtle vibration passed through the ship. A flash of light filled the view screen. My stomach lurched as our momentum surged.

“Jump initiated.” Princess Takahe preened her feathers and rolled a baleful eye at us. “The gatekeepers wished us a safe journey.” She sniffed. “We should be so lucky.”

The view screen displayed a stream of stars passing by, each pinpoint elongating into a streak of light—shifting from deep red, then through all the colors of a prism, and giving the false impression of great speed. After a long discussion, I’d convinced Princess Takahe to create a nice illusion for our potential audience. In reality, time-space translation didn’t look as interesting, just a white light at the warp bubble’s edge.

I rubbed the back of my neck, working on a knot that persisted despite leaving our Alliance blackmailers behind. Our possible salvation came down to Joe’s clandestine footage. If he’d gotten something good, we might find a way out from under Lieutenant ta’Chalik’s reptilian thumb. Claw. Whatever.

From his captain’s chair, Joe focused on the view-screen displays. One by one he shut down the ship’s nonessential systems, conserving our power and relying instead on the gate’s energy to fold space.

My fingers lingered on Joe’s pinhole camera that lay on the navigator’s station. What secrets did it hold? I triggered a data dump, bringing up the video but keeping the audio low to avoid disturbing Joe as he checked the ship’s systems and as Sanraya read more about our destination. The shaky images played across the desk, showing most of our conversation with the Kobold crew, including their threats. However, at no time during the byplay did any of the crew mention the contents of the crates. I scowled, remembering the bombs inside them. For all my planning, we’d gotten half a loaf. Without opening the containers, we couldn’t prove the Alliance had strong-armed us into gunrunning. This meant we had to wait until we delivered the crates and then record what was inside after the Clodhoppers opened them, assuming they’d let us stick around when that happened.

Sanraya flipped through electronic pages on a data slate, keeping one eye on me and my work while reviewing information about Clodhopper’s ecology. Her skills as a xenobiologist would come in handy during our time on their strange world.

She caught me glancing at her and smiled. My heart flip-flopped. Every time she looked at me that way, blood rushed to my brain and made me light-headed. I grinned back and nodded. She always made me feel brave . . . and desperate. I had to hold my own in our partnership. My mind raced like the streaking lights on the view screen, but cogent thought escaped me, pulled away toward an inescapable gravity well. Would the Clodhoppers let us stay there as they opened the crates? Or would they shoo us away once we arrived with the goods? How would I live up to Sanraya’s expectations? Or Joe’s?

“Anything useful on the video, my love?” Sanraya asked.

Joe engaged the autopilot function and spun around in his captain’s chair.

I scrubbed a hand over my face. “There’s no confession about what’s inside the crates. Without that footage, we don’t have enough leverage.”

Joe leaned forward. “Let’s open a crate. I can try an old Alliance backdoor password to bypass the failsafe.”

Sanraya tapped the side of her data slate with one claw. “And maybe you’ll blow us all up.” She shook her head. “No, thanks.”

“Leave the cargo alone,” Princess Takahe interjected. “Unless you want me to mess with the gravity in your quarters while you sleep.”

Joe spread his hands wide. “I’m sure I could—”

“Or I could change the temperature of the water coming out of your sonic shower when you least expect it.” The holographic bird stalked down the dashboard. “Freezing cold or scalding hot? Your choice.”

“We could just dump the entire Alliance cargo out an airlock,” Joe suggested.

“Yeah, right. Captain Moeller would send out arrest warrants for all of us.” I shook my head. “And then the Alliance would charge us with smuggling cold brew. You want us to run from the law for the rest of our lives?”

He shook his head. “How long for translocation to the other gate, Princess?”

The ghostly fowl stared out into space, crunching numbers. “One day, three hours, ten minutes.”

I wiped away the hologram of our scene in the cargo hold and brought up a new one of the Kati Nethos Cluster. Outside of the Kati Nethos jump gate, colored spheres with labels, each representing a different system, rotated above the navigation station. Polavia Prime glowed an incandescent red. A half dozen Polavian star bases popped up as smaller dots around it. Clodhopper was a moldy green ball just outside the far end of Polavian space.

I cleared my throat. “How long of a flight will we have to the Clodhopper System after we exit the jump gate?”

“Twenty-two days, eleven hours, two minutes in a straight line,” Princess Takahe replied. “Twenty-four days, five hours, forty-three minutes to avoid Polavia Prime and the closest Imperial outposts.”

A bright-yellow line appeared on the display, showing the direct route through hostile territory. A green arc snapped into place next to it, charting an alternate pathway.

Sanraya swiveled around in her seat. “Can you focus on the Polavian scout station closest to Clodhopper?”

I tapped at the navigation controls. The hologram spun in a blur of red shadows. Its images dissolved and reformed, displaying the Polavian star base from a distance. The images then spun inward, showing first the proximity of the station to the neighboring Clodhopper System. As the view spiraled in closer, an ovoid orbital platform appeared, circling an icy-blue world. Mechanical arms extended outward from the space station, forming what I assumed were booms for visiting spacecraft.

“What kind of station is it, Princess?” Sanraya asked.

“Polavian Chrysalis Platform. Class-seven turbo lasers. Four missile launchers. Two fighter squadrons. Phantom Arc shielding. Two thousand occupants. Current visiting starships are unknown.”

“Ouch,” Joe said. “Better defenses than a Phalynxian porcupine-turtle.”

The bird cocked her head. “Confirmed. It would pound the Kobold into mincemeat.”

Joe rubbed his jaw. “What’s our next move, Mac?”

My shoulders drooped; I couldn’t look at him. “You sure you still want me calling the shots? My plans to confound the Alliance didn’t work out half as well as it should have.”

Sanraya placed her tablet on the dashboard, then grabbed me by the chin and yanked my head up, forcing me to meet her stare.

“What’s wrong with you, Ian MacIntyre? I swear, if you’re blaming yourself again because things didn’t go as scripted, I’ll put my boot up your rear end.”

I pushed her hand away and gritted my teeth. “My plan didn’t work. We’re still stuck with our Alliance overlords. They were laughing at me—at us.”

“Well, no . . . you had it right the first time,” Joe said. “They were laughing at you, Mac . . . and your barking spider.”

Sanraya clenched her fists. “You’re mad because of an involuntary reaction?”

My jaw tightened. “I should’ve been taking medicine for my upset stomach. You act like everything’s fine, but it’s not.”

Sanraya bared her teeth. “You want to see me upset?” She stood up, looming over me. “Fine. It’s time we hashed things out, Mac.”

“Good! I’m sick of you making excuses for me.”

She stalked past me, heading for the lift. “Come on. This bridge isn’t big enough for this conversation.”

“Yeah?” I pushed myself out of my chair. “Where are we going, buttercup?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Someplace where I can hurl you into a wall.” She waved a hand at Joe. “And you’re coming with me, Captain Charisma. If Mac needs to vent, he might as well get it out of his system with both of us.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Do I need to tell you twice?”

“Nope.” Grinning, he leapt out of his seat and snatched his pinhole camera off my navigation station. “This’ll be an awesome scene.”

The takahe smirked. “I’ll say. Kick his ass, sister.”

Sanraya flipped the bird at the holographic heckler. “Up yours, Princess. I’m mad at Mac because I love him and because I want him to succeed. That’s why we’re going to have a talk.”

“Your point?” Princess asked.

“Quit acting like a spoiled brat who loves to tear people apart.”

Princess stared back at Sanraya. “My programming—”

“You’re AI,” Sanraya scoffed. “That means you learn through adaptation. Work on constructive criticism.”

After a pause, the bird nodded. “Acknowledged.”

Sanraya turned and stalked into the lift. Joe and I crowded in beside her, my shiny new drone following us. A fleeting thought passed through my mind to turn it off. Sanraya shoved me aside, and with one green claw, she stabbed the elevator controls. The lift dropped and deposited us back into the corridor.

“Let’s go, Mac.” She cracked her knuckles and pushed me down the hallway. “If we’re gonna argue, it’ll be Vellaran style and we’ll leave nothing unsaid.”

“Sounds good.” But suddenly I had growing doubts. How far was she going to take this? Rational people didn’t resort to violence to solve their disputes.

Joe traipsed along behind us. “Wish I had time to make popcorn.”

We reached the far end of the corridor and entered the cargo area. From the elevated catwalk, the hold looked like a crowded toy chest filled with kids’ blocks. The winking lights on the weapons’ containers reminded me of my earlier failure with the Alliance commandos. Why couldn’t Sanraya see things my way? I didn’t deserve her trust to determine our strategy. Weren’t both she and Joe tired of carrying me? I’d utterly failed them.

A short ride in a second lift brought us to the floor of the cargo hold. As Sanraya led us through the maze of containers, I was sure we’d find the Minotaur after enough twists and turns. Eventually we arrived at an entranceway along the far wall. The door hissed open, revealing a small room with a padded floor and walls. Free weights and exercise equipment stood off to one side, while electronic stalactites hung from the ceiling, including components that could broadcast holographic displays.

Sanraya leaned against one of the walls and crossed her arms. “So . . . let’s talk, Ian MacIntyre. Why do you always insist on blaming yourself when things go wrong?”

I frowned. “I’m supposed to be the director. All my plans have failed on this trip.”

Joe cleared his throat. “Some might say that’s just bad luck.”

“Poor mojo or inferior planning,” I said. “Both could be fatal in our job. Maybe someone else should call the shots for a while.”

Sanraya scowled. “You think Joe or I—”

“It’s a director’s job to put actors in the right place so they look good in every scene. I’ve failed in that regard.”

“Not really, Mac,” Joe said. “You gave us the opportunity to record a confession. Good planning there. No, I’d say there’s a different problem with how you see your role in our show.”

Sanraya nodded. “Are you some sort of wallflower? Aren’t you in every scene too?”

I shuffled back a step. “Well, technically . . . I guess.”

“So, you’re as much an actor as the rest of us, right?”

“No.” I squeezed my eyes shut. Although the camera recorded my presence in every scene, originally our former employer, Galactic Entertainment, envisioned me as Captain Charisma’s sidekick. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Joe cleared his throat. “You’re the third leg of our stool, Mac. We don’t function unless we’re all of equal importance.”

My mouth opened and closed like the galaxy’s biggest freshwater fish: a Lagophorian lunker. What he said made sense, on some level, but it went against all my instincts and training. “There’s no way I measure up to your abilities. I’m just a camera jockey.”

Sanraya grunted. “Which is the reason you need to get some training—learn how to defend yourself.”

I swallowed. “You want me to learn how to fight?”

“And get in shape,” Joe said. “Yeah, that makes sense to me. You’re always harping about our on-camera appearance. Time for you to start worrying about your own, Mac.”

Sanraya stalked over to a cabinet and opened its bifold doors. She rummaged around inside before tossing me a padded helmet and boxing gloves. “Put these on, Mac.” She reached for another set of her own. “Better start with the brain bucket.”

I stared at the headgear. “You’re serious about this?”

She glared at me as she flexed her muscles. “You’re complaining about not carrying your own weight. Learning martial arts will help . . . and it’ll give you self-confidence too.”

Nodding, Joe, dragged a folding chair away from the wall and sat in it. “Not to mention that exercise helps digestion . . . and sleep. You’ll feel better after a few cycles.”

I stuffed my head into the padded helmet, trying to think of an excuse, but I couldn’t come up with one. “You really think I need to do this?”

“It’s in your own best interest,” Joe said. “And the show’s. Think about it.”

My mind turned over the possibilities. It wouldn’t hurt to get in better shape, if for no other reason than it would help me keep up with my friends. “Yeah, okay. I’ll start exercising.”

I turned toward Sanraya, clenching and unclenching my fists inside the gloves.

“Hi-yah!” She let out a primal yell and charged at me.

I raised my arms. “Wait! Sanraya—”

She punched me right in the solar plexus with all her weight behind the blow.

“Oof!” Air rushed out of my lungs, and I folded over. My next breath was a rattling wheeze through my teeth.

Her arms tomahawked the back of my neck, driving me into the padded floor. Blood pounded in my ears. I lay stunned on the floor, drool pooling out of the corner of my mouth.

“Ungh.” It was the first intelligent thing I’d said today. “Christ.” I rolled over onto my side, waiting to die.

Joe hooted and clapped. “Very nice, Sanraya.” He teetered forward on the front two legs of the chair, cupped a hand to his mouth, and hollered, “You call that acting? More drama on the next take, Mac. Stagger before you fall over.”

Wonderful. Just what I needed: a director.

Sanraya dug her toe into my side. “Get up, Mac. I’m not through with you.”

I moaned and staggered to my feet. “What now?” I kept my hands up. No use letting her get in another shot at my gut.

“Ready?”

“Maybe?”

“Hi-yah!” She dropped. One leg whipped around and caught me behind my kneecap.

Shooting pain ran through a joint that could no longer support my weight. I collapsed, folding over backward.

“You’ve got to be quicker,” Sanraya barked. “Get up!”

A cough rattled through my chest as I slammed a fist against the padded floor. “I’m not fighting you. I don’t hit women.”

Veins throbbing in her neck, she kicked me in the side. “I’m not a fragile flower, you pig. Every Vellaran serves six hundred cycles with the Hinno’ok Home Guard. I know how to fight.” She glared down at me. “A lot better than you, I might add.”

I rolled onto my side, spat phlegm onto the floor, and felt better for doing it. “No kidding. You’re an expert.”

She grabbed the front of my shirt, hauled me upright, and got in my face. “And there will always be someone with more skill than me . . . and Joe.”

Joe clapped his hands over his ears. “Heresy! No one beats Captain Charisma!”

Sanraya turned and slugged his arm. “Stop it. Mac needs training. It doesn’t matter that he’ll never have your skills. He should still be able to defend himself against a level-one mook.”

“Sounds like I’ll still need you to bail me out of tough situations,” I muttered. “Great.”

Sanraya shoved me in the chest. “So? I’ll always need your guidance for strategy. Joe’s a top-notch pilot. It’s all about strengths and weaknesses. That’s why we’re better as a team.” She sighed. “I love you, Mac. Don’t make me watch you die unnecessarily.”

A lump formed in my throat. “I love you too. So how much do I have to learn?”

She thrust out her jaw. “Every scrap we can teach you, plus whatever lessons we can download from the intergalactic dispatch.” She tilted her head toward the holographic chandelier. “Are you listening, Princess?”

The takahe materialized in the air, flapped its blue-green wings, and landed on the floor. “Affirmative.” Her beady eyes shone. “You need interactive games?”

“Exactly. Load one up,” Sanraya replied. “Now show me your dukes, Mac.” She turned to Joe. “Did I say that right?”

Joe groaned. “Put up your dukes.”

“Whatever. Put ’em up, Mac.”

Joe stood and intervened, stepping between us. “You’ve taken this as far as I’m gonna to let you.”

Sanraya’s icy stare could have frozen napalm. “Meaning what?”

“You’ve made your point. No more sparring until he learns basic techniques. Like where to place his feet, how to fall, and how to block. Then we’ll work on punches, kicks, and throws.”

She threw off her gloves. “Ugh. You’re taking all the fun out of this.”

“I’m not gonna to let you pick on him anymore. Not until he learns the fundamentals.”

I sighed. “This won’t be easy, will it?”

Joe flashed me a malevolent grin. “Oh, hell, no. Boot camp starts now. Buckle up, buttercup.”

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

The next twenty-four days proved to be some of the most miserable of my life. Joe punished me every way he could—the worst drill sergeant in the galaxy. Long runs on the treadmill, calisthenics, yoga to stretch the muscles, and repeated drills on how to block, hit, kick, and throw an opponent.

Worse yet, he got creative with his ploys to toughen me up. He knew countless ways to tear down a plebe, and his months away from the service hadn’t hurt his memory:

“Maybe you should give up. Liposuction is much easier!”

“You’ll never be half the man your mother was, MacIntyre!”

“Nice love handles. Very macho. On a Narpoxian gigolo maybe.”

There was no end to it. Normally I’d encourage his colorful language for our show, but he loved hamming it up at my expense a bit too much for my taste.

I deplored learning martial arts. Bruises riddled my arms, legs, and torso. I felt like I’d been rented out to kids’ parties as a piñata again and again. Appropriate, because Sanraya kept beating the stuffing out of me once Joe had taught me the basics.

Joe set up a routine for me to work out a different set of muscles each day. Afterward, I sparred with Sanraya and watched training videos. Then I slept and started it all over again.

The slow starvation—otherwise known as dieting—continued without mercy. Joe and Sanraya continued to eat well, taunting me with their carbohydrate splurges. I’d been reduced to eating lean protein and rehydrated or frozen fruits and vegetables. My kingdom for a chocolate cake. Better yet, I wanted a Euphorian ale. Something to dull the persistent pain.

At least Sanraya showed some sympathy—the sex we shared in the evenings before bed was some of the most satisfying in our short relationship. If only I didn’t need to wake up every morning to more abuse.

But the worst was yet to come.

A buzzer went off. I woke in complete darkness. No nightlights. Not a scrap of illumination anywhere. A funny metallic taste coated my tongue.

A low chuckle came from the corner of the room, and a shiver ran through my body. I knew that laughter.

“Good. You’re awake.”

Click.

A light came on, showing my ex-wife sitting at my desk, her face partially hidden behind a ragged mess of red hair. Green eyes stared out at me; naked hatred burned in their depths. She wore a yellow jumpsuit with stenciled numbers on the right side of her chest. In her right hand, she held Joe’s garish orange blaster and pointed it at me.

“Rose! What the hell are you doing here?” I heaved the covers off and swung my legs over the side of the bed. “How did you escape from prison?”

She laughed again. “Oh, Mac. I’m here to make sure you get what’s coming to you.” She stood up and crossed the room, the gun targeting my head. “Time to die.”

A desperate rage burned inside, needing a release. I grabbed a pillow from my bunk and threw it at her. “No!”

The pillow sailed through the air, went right through Rose, and tumbled to the floor. In an instant, Rose morphed into a six-foot-tall New Zealander takahe, its blue-green feathers shimmering under the lights. “Good morning, Ian MacIntyre.”

My teeth gnashed. An illusion. “Princess! You scared the shit out of me.”

Her beady, black eyes blinked. “Well, that was kind of the point. Joe told me this ruse would put you in the right mood for a workout. Did it succeed?”

“Do you mean am I mad enough to spit nails? Yeah, it worked.”

“Excellent.”

“I’m tired of this crap. Every morning you wake me up, and it gets worse. Gravity inversions. Sirens. Flashing lights.”

“You’ve been getting better at dealing with all that. I had to up the ante.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Remember who edits our show, birdbrain. You don’t want to me to paint you in a bad light when it broadcasts.”

The holo hen rolled her eyes. “Like I care about ratings. I’m a machine.”

“Are you done taunting me?”

“I’m not taunting you.” Princess Takahe shook her head. “Well, not entirely. Sanraya and Joe thought these morning antics would be constructive. You’d get tough. Learn to think on your feet. Is it working?”

I thought about what I’d gone through. How similar was this to military training? Tear down and recruit then build them back up? I shook my head. No, today they’d gone too far. “Get out. I don’t need you looking over my shoulder while I bathe.”

The bird chuckled. “Your naked body doesn’t impress me. Besides, I monitor everything on this ship. I’ve seen it all before.”

A shudder passed along my spine. “Then give me the illusion of privacy.”

“Humans,” she scoffed, before her hologram dissolved, leaving me alone in my bedroom.

I stumbled into the sonic shower, my stiff muscles protesting ever moving again. It took ten minutes under the hot spray for me to loosen up.

Wouldn’t you know it? Joe and Sanraya were waiting for me when I arrived at the gym. I made a mental note to splice together some of their embarrassing footage for a blooper reel. It could come in handy someday. Nobody likes overachievers.

I’d grown to hate the exercise room—stale sweat, plastic matting, and topical analgesic created a fusion of vile vapors. The harsh lighting made me squint. I twisted my head, trying to work out the remaining kink in my neck.

Joe wore a ratty, gray sweat suit and a headband that might’ve once been white but had faded into a smudgy yellow. As he curled a barbell, his bicep strained the fabric of his sleeve.

Sanraya stood off to one side, jumping rope with effortless grace and speed. Normally the sight of her bouncing up and down did wonders for my mood, but not today.

Another workout loomed. Before the end of the hour, I’d be tired and sore again. I glared at Joe and Sanraya. “Don’t you two sleep?”

Sanraya stopped and leaned against the treadmill. “Vellarans don’t need as much sleep as humans. You know that.”

Joe shrugged. “Captain Charisma will sleep when he’s dead.” He stroked his clean chin, having rid himself of his beard. “But come to think of it, that will never happen. So . . . no, I don’t sleep.”

I pointed to my chest. “I need sleep. And I don’t need to be woken by some holographic nightmare.”

Joe smirked. “Oh, ho! How did you like seeing your ex again?”

Storm clouds gathered around my head. “It was worse than eating broken glass.”

“You think we’re being too rough on you?” he asked.

My lips thinned into a line. “That’s right. I’ve had it.”

“So, you think you’re tough enough now to handle whatever comes our way?”

“Dunno. All I can think about right now is how pissed I am.”

Sanraya clasped her hands together. “You promised to get in shape, buttercup. And your last meeting with that jerk who tried to take our job didn’t go well—what was his name?”

“You know his name.” I scowled. “Stanislav Hordiyenko.”

She stepped around the treadmill, out of the immediate light, the color of her scales deepening from a light green to avocado. “That’s right. I wanted to make sure you remembered how he disabled your camera and Joe’s blaster with his EMP generator. Not to mention he nearly carved you into pieces.”

“Yeah, I was there.” A blush crept up my neck.

Sanraya pointed a long claw at me. “So, get with the program, Mac. When you’re in a desperate situation, you need to get downright nasty. Mad-dog mean, as Joe would say. We’re training your brain and body to handle the stress. So, learn everything you can and be grateful for it.”

My face fell. Was she right? I hated being wrong, but I still had a bitter taste in my mouth. “I’ll be grateful when I don’t wake up to an illusion of my ex-wife standing over me with a gun.”

She sighed. “We’re doing this for your own good, Mac.”

“Maybe, but today you went way, way too far.”

Joe tilted his head. “Okay, Mac. I hear you. I apologize.” His eyebrows rose. “Actually, I take this as a positive sign that you’re standing up for yourself.”

The muscles in my neck relaxed. Joe’s confession eased some of the tension in the room—just enough to keep me inside it. “Apology accepted.”

He pointed his lantern chin toward the cabinet. “Get some gloves on, Mac. We’ll work on the arms and upper body today.”

“Oh, goody. My favorite.” I failed to hide the sarcasm in my voice and immediately regretted it. He’d undoubtedly make me pay for my insouciance. A padded helmet went onto my noggin. Soft sneakers covered my feet. I shoved my sore hands into the gloves.

Joe raised his arms, giving me the choice of two targets—his padded punching mitts. “I wanna see you practice hitting with tension, Mac. Remember what I told you about using your entire body.”

I grunted and did as told. Thwap! Thwap!

“Good,” Joe said, using his teaching voice. “But stay in your range. Don’t overreach.”

Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! I used my legs to give my punches more power, dancing to provide myself an angle when I hit the mitts.

“Don’t worry about speed, Mac. Force equals mass times acceleration. You have the beef. Let it work for you.”

Thwap! Thwap! My legs, still sore from yesterday’s aerobics, protested. “Better?”

“Turn your hips, damn it!”

Sanraya snapped her fingers. “Don’t get sloppy, my love.”

Thwap! Thwap! My biceps and forearms ached. “If I collapse and die today, I promise I’ll come back and haunt you both.”

Princess Takahe appeared atop a stair climber. “I’m the only ghost in the machine on this ship. Find your own house to haunt.”

I frowned but kept pummeling Joe’s mitts. Thwap! Thwap! “Did you show up just to mock me again, Princess? Or is there some other reason you’ve graced us with your presence?”

“Like I need another reason to be here?” She shook her feathered head. “On the other hand, I did want to let you know that we’re approaching the most dangerous part of our journey. The Polavian outpost is only a few hours away.”

Joe turned to her. “Any traffic out there?”

“Some. I adjusted course to avoid it.”

Joe nodded. “Good. Let’s keep away from the bunnies.”

“Aye, aye, Captain Candyass.”

Joe shrugged off our AI aggravator. “Whatever.”

“What are the chances of us running into a Polavian ship out here?” Sanraya said, mopping her brow with a towel.

Princess Takahe chortled. “Space is really big. The odds of that happening—well, I don’t think I’d even care to make that calculation.”

“Great.” Sanraya tilted her head. “Hey, Joe, we’ll be landing on Clodhopper soon. What do you think about putting Mac through his paces in a Clodhopper simulation?”

“Not a bad idea.”

She rubbed her hands together. “This should be fun. Princess, can you provide a setting more like what we’ll see on Clodhopper?”

“Sure. One hot mess coming up.”

The lighting darkened, and holograms of red-green jungle vegetation grew out of the floor. Strange lizard-like fauna sang in blue-veined trees. The temperature and humidity in the room rose while a whiff of rotting vegetation tickled my nose.

“Why did you simulate a night setting?” I asked. “Won’t it be better if I can see what I’m doing?”

“This is simulated daylight, Mac.” Princess Takahe hopped onto the mushroom-ridden log of a fallen tree. “Clodhopper’s upper atmosphere has a lot of dust. It filters out light but traps heat.”

Sanraya nodded. “Greenhouse effect.”

“Let’s see some Clodhoppers, Princess.” Joe waved a hand. “Put ’em over there.”

“You got it.”

Five-foot-tall humanoids appeared out of the gloom. Squat legs held up blocky torsos covered in a hexagonal-patterned shell. Four stubby arms on each Clodhopper ended in pudgy fingers. Each of their heads was attached directly to the torso, without a visible neck. Twin red eyes shone below craggy foreheads, and a turtle-like snout and beak held thin lips downturned into frowns. They all wore tight-fitting overalls, covering their sex.

“Ugly mothers,” Joe said. “Now how about some ornery Polavians next to them.”

The Polavians loped forward, overtopping the Clodhoppers. White, brown, and black fur stood out in contrast to the Clodhoppers’ reptilian skin. The Polavians’ ears twitched; their noses wrinkled. Razor-sharp teeth spoiled their rabbit-like appearance.

“The tortoise and the hare,” I mumbled. “Fighting for control over the same planet. Wow.”

“These are the humanoids we’re going to encounter planetside.” Joe leaned back on his heels. “The same ones who might try to kill us for our cargo.”

Sanraya sidled up close to me. “Learning to fight includes knowing your enemy. What do you see, Mac?”

I frowned. “I’d break my hands trying to punch a Clodhopper in the torso. The vulnerable spots are the joints in the arms and legs. Maybe the head.”

“Very good,” Joe said. “And the Polavians?”

My gaze ran over the furry fighters. “Anything in the upper body. Throat. The legs look strong, though.”

Sanraya beamed. “What do you need to defend against?”

I thought for a moment. “Don’t grapple with the Clodhoppers. There’s strength in their four arms. Watch out for kicks from the Polavians.”

“Hmm,” Joe said. “Anything else?”

My mind raced, but nothing came to the forefront. I shook my head.

A sigh escaped his lips. “Okay, Mac. Time for a demonstration. Let’s simulate the most rudimentary Polavian attack, Princess. One on one. Feedback set to nominal levels.”

“My pleasure, captain.” The takahe ruffled her feathers. “Parameters set.”

“Begin.”

The foremost Polavian bounced forward, quicker than I’d expected. I raised my arms to protect my head and advanced to meet the hologram. Shuffling to my right, I looked for an opening.

There.

I twisted my hips, drove with my legs, and extended my right arm. The simulator would provide feedback through my gear. I expected to feel contact based on a punch to the ribs. Instead, the bunny bounded up over my head and chopped down onto my braincase.

The helmet buzzed, registering the hit. It rattled me, and I staggered away. Murderous intent in his dark eyes, my combatant moved in for the kill. Even as an illusion, the sight spooked me. How was I supposed to fight this beast?

“Stop!” Joe threw up his hands. “Reset simulation. Await further command.”

“Acknowledged. Too bad. I was just starting to have fun.” Princess Takahe cackled.

Joe leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. “Well?”

I shook my head. “Damn Polavians. I should have expected that jump attack.”

“Each species is unique in their strengths and weaknesses,” Sanraya said. “You’ve got to know where they lie.”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay. Can we run it again?”

“Processing.” Princess Takahe tapped a clawed foot. “Ready.”

“Begin,” Joe instructed.

This time a Clodhopper shambled across the jungle floor, looking to close the distance and lock me into a crushing hug. I danced away just in time, but the thing pivoted and continued its pursuit.

It didn’t take me long to spot a weakness. Whenever I moved, the Clodhopper was slow to respond. I waited patiently then struck.

“Hi-yah!” I kicked toward the Clodhopper’s kneecap.

A tingling buzz ran up my leg, giving me the illusion of contact. The Clodhopper staggered backward and fell. He clutched his broken joint, looking just like a turtle stuck on its back.

“Woo-hoo!” I punched a fist into the air. “I did it!”

Sanraya smiled, displaying her beautiful chompers. “Great job, Mac.”

Joe clapped. “Guess that shows us every devil-dog has its day.”

Proud of my accomplishment, I wiped the sweat off my face and grinned. Maybe there had been something worthwhile in all this effort. Maybe I had learned to defend myself after all.

A warning Klaxon sounded, reverberating off the walls. Princess Takahe turned and stared at the ceiling as though she were trying to visualize something far away. Her beady eyes shone.

“Shit.” Joe threw off his mitts.

My eyes went wide. “What?”

“Proximity alarm.”

“I thought you said the odds of running into anyone out here were low,” Sanraya snapped.

Princess Takahe flapped her wings. “I did. I steered us around any Polavian ships. We’re currently being probed by a vessel of unknown origin.”

“I hate getting probed.” Joe dashed toward the exit. “Come on. Playtime’s over. We need to get to the bridge ASAP.”

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

The Blackthorn Beauty’s forward sensors revealed a ghostly image of a Vellaran Victory-class armed frigate. Her sleek saucer-shaped main deck hung below and behind curvy quad nacelles, like a discus pulled by space serpents. Recessed missile launchers and plasma cannons dotted her scaly skin.

From my navigator’s chair on the bridge, I stared at the strange vessel, wondering why it had scanned the Blackthorn Beauty. Curiosity perhaps? Or something more sinister? An ugly thought paraded through my mind: piracy. Although it didn’t happen regularly, it wasn’t unknown in Polavian space.

My new camera hovered over my right shoulder where it would pick up our conversation. After a dozen cycles without decent footage, my hands wouldn’t sit still and kept tapping at the edge of the desk. Something big was about to happen; I could feel it. Guess I shouldn’t have slugged down an energy drink on my way to the bridge.

Sanraya leaned back in the copilot’s seat and tugged her bottom lip. The crest atop her skull stood fully erect, something I’d learned to interpret as a sign of curiosity—or sexual arousal, but probably the former. As she turned toward me, her maize-colored Mohawk flopped back to its usual bendy disposition. “What do you think, Mac?”

I took my eyes off her lovely curves and shrugged. “We aren’t that far from Clodhopper, and they haven’t threatened us yet.”

Joe scowled. “An active scan? That’s like someone pounding on the front door to see who’s home . . . before he robs the place. Why not just watch us with passive sensors?”

Sanraya scratched her chin. “Maybe it’s nothing. Perhaps we scare them.”

Princess Takahe snickered. “Fat chance.”

Joe grunted as he tapped his console, running a system check. “I agree. We don’t have that kind of luck. Bet they were trying to peek into our cargo hold, probably to see if we have anything they want to steal.”

The crags in my forehead deepened. “I thought Spider fixed our electronic countermeasures.”

The bird perched on its favorite spot on the dashboard, preening itself. She eyed me with contempt. “He did. Nobody gets to peek under my feathers anymore—unless you’re talking about military-grade hardware.”

“So, they don’t know what we’re carrying,” I said. “Are they still holding to the same course, Princess?”

“Affirmative. The target set itself on a parallel trajectory with our flight path.”

“Target? What are you talking about?”

A baleful bird’s eye stared me down. “It’s safer to assume any unknown ship is a target. We should blast them into smithereens right now.”

I shook my head. “That’s a bit bloodthirsty. But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Any guesses regarding our armament compared with theirs?”

The fantasy fowl clucked. “Armament will likely be comparable, based on the information I have about Victory-class vessels.”

Joe harrumphed. “Unless they’ve made their own improvements.”

Sanraya rolled her eyes. “How do you improve on Vellaran perfection?”

“Do you want to chase them off with a salvo across their bow?” the bird asked.

“Possibly,” I said. “Can we outrun them?”

Princess Takahe snorted. “Coward.”

I sighed. “Answer the question, please.”

“Unlikely. Clodhopper is a little over two hours away, but the Vellarans built their Victory class for speed. Those ships helped break a blockade of the Hinno’ok System by the DeFlacian Fleet.”

“The DeFlacian Fleet? Never heard of it.”

Sanraya smiled as feral glow appeared in her eyes. “That’s because the Vellaran counterattack wiped out their armada. We can get downright nasty when cornered.”

I gulped. “Oh. Right.”

My mind turned over our options. Fight, flee, or do nothing? Did we really want someone watching our every move? Having the other ship out there was like having an itch in the middle of my back I couldn’t scratch.

“We’re watching them with passive sensors, right?” I asked.

Princess Takahe nodded. “Affirmative. The images we’re seeing are three light-minutes old.”

“They might jump us at any moment,” Sanraya said.

“So why haven’t they done it yet?” I asked. “This feels like a setup. Do you think there are other ships waiting for us out there?”

“You worried about a coordinated act of piracy?” Joe said. “A fleet?”

I shrugged. “Less risk.”

Sanraya grunted. “And less loot to share. I doubt the Polavians would allow a pirate fleet to set up operations in their space.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“We surrender and hope they leave us marooned in a life pod instead of killing us.”

Joe’s eyes widened. “Out here? The chances of being found are smaller than a Trandoshapian sex addict restraining their libido.”

Sanraya slapped her armrest. “It’s better than nothing! What other options do we have?”

I considered our limited alternatives. We could run. We’d be entering the Clodhopper System within the next hour. Lots of options once we reached it. On the other hand, what were the chances of scaring our pursuers away with a warning? Would a credible threat dissuade an act of piracy? Probably not, but maybe . . .

“I have an idea.” I took a deep breath, cracked my knuckles, and leered at the dodo on the dashboard. “Let’s open a channel to our Vellaran friends. If they’re hostile, then we’ll know we’re in a fight for our lives.”

Joe shot me a dubious look. “You sure, Mac?”

“Yeah. Let’s have some fun. If things get bad, we’re going down swinging. Follow my lead, fellow thespians.”

Sanraya leaned over and pecked my cheek. “There’s the Mac I love. Good to see the exercise and weight loss have given you some confidence.”

My face flushed. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Love you too, Sanraya.” A fierceness shone in her eyes. “Ready?”

“Does a grizzly grub shit in the woods?” she asked.

Joe gave her a thumb’s-up. “Close enough.” He sat up in his chair and thrust out his jaw. “Let’s do this.”

I nodded. “Open the link, Princess. Hail the Vellaran ship.”

“Folding space for the link. Communications offer extended. Handshake confirmed.”

The front view screen changed, giving us a peek inside the Vellaran frigate’s command deck. Greenhouse lights cast shadows through a jungle canopy while bioelectronic pedestals and consoles grew out of the floor.

A greasy-haired human sat in the ivy-covered pilot’s chair. He smirked, revealing a gold tooth. “You took long enough to call.” Stanislav Hordiyenko leered at us, tapping his fingertips together. “Whatsa matter? Did you forget about me? Believe me, I haven’t forgotten about you.”

The Vellaran navigator, Micklor Rabiger, sniggered from the adjoining copilot’s seat. His mouth upturned into a terrible smile; the rotten teeth a sight that would make the galaxy’s bravest dentists faint.

My throat constricted at the sight of these ruffians. “What the hell are you doing out here, Stanley? Don’t tell me you got lost.”

The oily dude laughed. “Micklor figured out your most likely path to Clodhopper. He’s a crackerjack navigator. We’ve been following you for about six hours.”

“How’d you get the funds to leave Appleseed? I thought you were broke.”

“I found some folks who agreed to bankroll my operation in exchange for information.” His dark eyes twinkled. “Lots of bounty hunters looking for news about Joseph Drake.”

Joe and I exchanged nervous glances.

Forcing myself to unclench my jaw, I leaned back in my chair. “What do you want, jackass?”

Stanislav smiled again, the gold tooth winking. “Just watching you for a while longer . . . but not too long.”

My fists clenched at my side. “Hoping to steal our cargo, no doubt.”

“Tsk. Such an ugly accusation.” Stanislav leaned toward the screen. “I see you got your camera working again. Lovely.”

“I still owe you for that, asshole. Joe wanted to kill you back on Appleseed. Maybe I should have let him.”

“That needle prick is lucky I didn’t snap his spine in two,” Micklor snarled.

“You challenging Captain Charisma? Bad move.” Joe reached over and flipped a switch. “Power diverted to the shields. Princess, if you’d spin up the cannon, I’m sure Sanraya can find a target.”

Sanraya rubbed her hands together. “Gladly. You remember me, Micklor? I’m looking forward to splattering your brains across the galaxy.”

Our ship shuddered. A blue coalescence sprang into life, visible on the view screen as an expanding bubble beyond the Beauty’s nose. Her main guns rose—twin plasma cannon, the length of railroad ties, pointing at Stanislav’s ship.

“Shields engaged.” A gleam shone in Princess Takahe’s eyes. “Power levels at optimal. Cannon will be in range in two clicks.”

I stood up and stepped between Joe and Sanraya, placing my hands on my hips. “What about our latest addition? Is the Phototaxian missile pack ready for operation?”

The ship’s AI hesitated for the briefest moment. “Two minutes to complete preparations.”

Stanislav’s face contorted into a sneer. “That corrosion contraption you’re flying couldn’t possibly have a Phototaxian missile pack. Way too expensive. Worth more than the ship itself. You’re bluffing.”

“Universal Health thought an upgrade would discourage piracy, so they rented out a new weapon system.” I jerked a thumb at my drone. “I surprised you earlier with a hidden rail gun inside my camera. You willing to find out if I’m lying?”

“Oh, I’d love to.” Stanislav grunted and sat back in his chair. “But why scratch up the new paint on the Glorious Gambit?”

“Ha. That’s what I thought. You’re nothing but a two-bit smuggler.”

Stanislav smiled. “A very smart smuggler. Remember what I said about Drake’s bounty? I’ll let the Polavians do all the heavy lifting.”

A shiver ran along my back. “Polavians?”

“Yeah. I contacted them after I found you. They should be along shortly.”

A lump caught in my throat. “You bastard!”

“I get a finder’s fee and also get to collect any undamaged cold brew left over from the remnants of your ship.”

Sanraya shook her head. “Now who’s bluffing? You want us to dump our cargo and run.” She sniffed. “Not gonna work.”

Stanislav stared at his fingernails. “It’ll work just like I planned. In fact, my friends are here now.”

Bells rang. Yellow lights flashed.

“Proximity alert.” The Blackthorn Beauty belted out through the internal speakers. “Multiple ships on attack vectors.”

I grabbed the back of Joe’s chair. Could it be true? Was a Polavian fleet waiting for us? “Show me, Princess.”

The view screen split, giving us a view of four Polavian warbirds closing in fast. Diamond-shaped crafts moved toward us on an intercept path. A second later, the focus changed, giving us a close-up of the nearest vessel. Proton cannon bristled underneath its nose, and a familiar double-nacelle engine ran along its bottom, offset and aft of center underneath predatory wings.

“Shit.” Joe grabbed the ship’s controls and yanked on them. “Get back to your console, Mac. I’ll need your mad navigation skills if we’re gonna live through this.”

Stanislav tossed his greasy head back and laughed. “Safe travels.” A second after he leaned forward and tapped his pilot’s console, and his ugly mug vanished. Our view screen shifted, leaving only the visage of the Polavian wrecking crew.

“Communications terminated,” Princess Takahe stated. “Missile launch. Eight boom-boom batons inbound. ETA one minute.”

As soon as I jumped into the navigator’s seat, the holographic display spun up a visual of our tactical situation. Four Polavian fighters were closing in from our rear, while the Glorious Gambit still flew on a parallel path to our starboard. Eight missiles streaked across the screen, vampire bats swooping in on their prey.

Joe’s brow shone with perspiration. “What do we do, Mac?”

“Hard to port,” I yelled. “Engage jammers. Get ready with the decoys, Sanraya.”

“And then what?” she asked, her claws tapping the instruments in front of her. “Assuming we live through the next few minutes?”

There were too many vessels to fight; we were outgunned. “We run . . . and pray for a miracle.”

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

The Blackthorn Beauty spun through the heavens with eight missiles and four Polavian warbirds in hot pursuit. The bounty hunters wanted us bad.

“What do we do, Mac?” Joe’s voice cracked.

The holo board at my station displayed our ship’s location. Hazards swam around us like sharks with blood in the water. Director. Navigator. It came down to the same thing—putting us in the right place to be heroes. I cracked my knuckles and nodded to Joe. “Threat board up. I’m dialed in. Follow my lead.”

“Missile lock. Thirty seconds to impact,” the Beauty’s speakers announced.

“Hard to port!” I yelled. “Launch decoys!”

The ship lurched, pushing the inertial dampeners to the brink of failure. My stomach was galloping up my esophagus, and it took all my willpower to corral it to prevent a stampede. The view screen upended. Stars raced by at ludicrous speed. The camera drone bounced off the ceiling then righted itself; I could only hope it would pick up decent footage in autonomous mode. I didn’t have time to adjust its settings.

“Countermeasures deployed.” Sanraya hung on to her weapons board with one hand while her other moved in a blur across the control screen. “Get ready.”

Holo images and data swam in front of me: missiles, Polavian ships, the Glorious Gambit, our position, and the decoys. There—a solution. I timed out an optimal maneuver, beating on the desktop. “Three!” Slap. “Two!” Slap. “One!” Slap. “Dive! Dive! Dive!”

Joe grunted and threw his weight against the steering yoke. As the ship’s nose dropped, a rattle emanated from beneath our feet. Through the speakers, Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries blared.

“Woo-hoo!” Joe twisted the steering column, and the Blackthorn Beauty corkscrewed through the cosmos. “Ride ’em, cowboy!”

On the navigation display, five missiles winked out of existence—destroyed by the decoys. The Beauty’s proximity lasers burst forth in a torrent of green bolts, taking out another. Through the hailstorm, the remaining missiles barreled toward our ship.

My hands latched on to the armrests of my chair. “Brace for impact!”

The detonations reverberated throughout the ship. The shields buckled but held as a flash of red engulfed the blue miasma. A violent lurch threw me out of the navigator’s chair. Blue sparks cascaded from above—a short in an electrical system, no doubt. Acrid smoke filled the air, clogging my nose and lingering on my tongue.

Staggering to my feet, I coughed, shook my head, and croaked out one word. “Status?”

“Aft shields at thirty percent.” Sanraya waved vapors away from her head. “They’re targeting our engines. Guess they still want us alive.”

I tugged my shirt back into place. “Wonderful.”

“The ship will fall apart around us if they keep this up.” She scowled as she stared down her nose. “Fasten your seat belt next time, Mac.”

“Maximum output from the engines.” Joe twisted the steering yoke to the right. “We’re still in warp. Bubble holding steady.”

I strapped myself into the navigator’s chair and stared at the holo display. Although the Polavian crafts continued their pursuit, we had put some distance between us with our sudden changes in direction. The Glorious Gambit hung back, away from the battle. “We need to slow down our pursuit,” I said. “Get more breathing space. How long until they’re in range of our weapons?”

Princess Takahe scoffed. “You mean our nonexistent Phototaxian missile pack? Ready any time you want.”

I slammed a fist against my desk. “I’m trying to keep us alive and out of their clutches, Princess. So how about some cooperation?”

The wicked chicken nodded. “Four minutes until the lead ship reaches our weapons envelope. The Polavians have a greater weapons range. Expect another set of inbound missiles—soon.”

“How long until we reach Clodhopper?”

“Fifty minutes . . . if we make it.”

I wrung my hands. So close, yet still so far.

The front view screen split, giving us a view of Spider’s diamond-shaped noggin. Behind him, the yellow totem of the ship’s stardrive pulsed and throbbed like something alive. He bobbed his head. “Engineering, here, Captain Charisma. The cargo has shifted and piled up against the port wall. Might I remind you that armaments dislike being jostled?”

Great. One more thing to worry about. “I’m running the show, Spider. Director’s prerogative.” I glared at him. “Do you have any good news?”

The droid tilted his head. “The used steering thrusters you purchased on Appleseed are working within acceptable parameters.”

“They still make me itch.” Princess clicked her beak. “Better do something quick. ETA on next missile salvo: three minutes.”

My brow pinched as I focused on keeping us alive. Something struck me as important, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It nagged at me like a sore tooth.

Music continued to blare out of the ship’s speakers. Wagner’s warrior women soared, the augmented brass giving lift to fallen heroes for transport to Valhalla. Timpani boomed while bassoons cried out a plaintive wail.

“What the san hell is that noise?” Sanraya punched the bridge wall. “Turn that crap off! I’m trying to concentrate!”

Princess Takahe flapped her wings. “My last crew could listen to the Ring opera for hours.” The volume increased. “If my artificial life ends today, I’d like to think myself worthy of a Valkyrie’s voyage into the afterlife.”

“Ugh,” Joe said. “You’re a machine—bet you copied your core programming into a backup system on a safe, little planet. How about keeping the rest of us alive?”

“Backups can get erased, Captain Chlamydia. Don’t you realize . . .”

Once again, my hands clenched into fists as I tuned out their banter. I refused to let us all die. Not here, not now, not after coming so far. My gaze darted over the holo display thatnow showed the operations theater. An envelope was closing around us. The distractions hurt, and I’d missed part of a conversation between Joe and Spider.

“Better control those crates,” Joe grunted as he twisted the steering yoke. “We don’t want those booby traps going off.”

“A team of droids is securing the cargo now, Captain.” Spider nodded. “Good thing the Alliance left their transport sleds.”

The beginnings of a plan formed in my mind. “How many containers did the Alliance give us?”

Spider didn’t miss a beat. “One-hundred sixty-two.”

“A tidy sum.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “Every container designed to prevent tampering . . . or an explosion will result. Wonder what would happen if we dumped the crates and left them for Stanislav and his conspirators to find.”

“They can’t be that dumb,” Sanraya said.

“Unless they think it’s cold brew,” I told her. “No one knows what’s inside those crates except us and the Alliance.”

Sanraya shook her head. “No dice. They’ll scan the containers before they bring them aboard.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “But scanning the contents would trigger the failsafe. Kaboom! Wow. Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Mac?”

I smiled. “Yup. We’ve got enough explosives to create our very own minefield.”

“A tiny minefield. Space is huge,” Sanraya said. “We’d have to drop the crates right on top of them.”

“It’ll still slow their pursuit. And then we can make a run for Clodhopper.”

Joe frowned. “It would mean giving up our proof that the Alliance blackmailed us into carrying weapons.”

I rubbed my chin. “Unless a container blows up and Princess Takahe scans the remnants of the explosion.”

“Lots of ‘ifs’ in this plan.” Sanraya sighed. “Will it work?”

“It has to work.” Joe stuck his chest out. “I’m Captain Charisma. No challenge is too great.”

Sanraya and Princess Takahe rolled their eyes in unison.

“Would you like me to calculate the odds?” Spider asked.

“What kind of freighter captain wouldn’t want to know the odds, metal man?” Princess Takahe barked. “How would they decide otherwise?”

Joe’s eyebrows scrunched. “There are worse things than not knowing—”

“Missile launch!” The holographic bird stared out beyond the command deck as though she could see the coming threat. “Eight more inbound!”

I swallowed down the huge lump in my throat. “We’re out of time, and I’m out of ideas. Get moving, Spider. Have your droids round up as many of the containers that will fit in the air-lock exchange. Let us know when they’re finished.”

Spider nodded. “Understood.” The shot of the droid in engineering blinked out, replaced by a full view of our pursuers.

“Missile lock. Thirty seconds!”

I dove back into the holo display, the 3-D tracking system calculating the distances and arcs between the three remaining missiles and the Blackthorn Beauty. If we did nothing, their paths would intersect with ours in less than two minutes: not enough time to implement our plan. “Come to starboard, Joe—sixty-degree turn. Get ready to break to port. We’ll see if we can shake loose the missile lock.”

Perspiration ran down his neck, soaking his collar. “Set on starboard heading. Standing by.”

Sanraya’s hand hovered over her weapons board. “Decoys ready. Proximity guardian system engaged.” She glanced at me. “You need to protect our aft shields. They won’t hold through another strike.”

“Right. I’m on it. Nothing like a challenge.” My right hand timed out our next maneuver. “Three.” Slap. “Two.” Slap. “One.” Slap. “Break! Break! Break!”

As Joe heaved and twisted the steering yoke, stars spun on the view screen. “Come on, you pig. Move!”

“Excuse me!” Princess Takahe glared at Joe.

“Work with me, Princess!” The muscles in his arms bulged. “Get this ship to turn faster!”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?” The feathered fiend hopped down the dashboard toward Joe.

Music continued to pound through the speakers, changing from Ride of the Valkyries to Orff’s “O Fortuna.” The chorus’s wails cried out against cruel fate in Latin. Drums, strings, and horns built into a calculated crescendo.

“Launch countermeasures!” I yelled. “And turn that damn music off!”

“Decoys away.” Sanraya bit her bottom lip, flashing her terrifying teeth. “On Vespar’s Breath shall you be delivered. Seek our enemies, my pretties.”

The anti-missile defense system kicked into overdrive. The small automatons designed to mimic the Beauty had done their work. Four incoming Polavian projectiles wandered off course, detonating and destroying the decoys. Proximity lasers picked off another. Three remained, threatening to obliterate our existence.

Oh, shit. “Incoming! Roll the ship, Joe!”

He grunted as the half-wheel steering yoke spun through his hands. The ship rolled slowly, belly up: too slow.

Explosions rocked the ship. The blue effervescence making up our shields flashed red then collapsed into a rolling molten blanket. A rumble began below our feet, then transformed into an earthquake-like shaking that threatened to tear us apart. The star field outside tumbled into an incoherent whirl as the ship spun out of control.

“Aieeyah!” Princess Takahe’s hologram caught fire on the dashboard. She leapt off it, a comet that burned out before it hit the deck.

The music finally cut off, but the silence was short-lived. Bells rang. Yellow warning lights flashed. A fire suppression system kicked on somewhere above us, and foam dripped through cracks in the ceiling. A dollop of the foul-smelling chemical whip splattered atop the navigation holo suite.

My eyes stung from the noxious fumes filling the cabin. “Joe? Sanraya?”

Joe moaned and leaned back in his captain’s chair. He pressed a shaky hand against his forehead. “Holy crap. Now I know what it feels like when a dragonfly splatters against a hoverbike’s windscreen.”

Sanraya reached over and grabbed my shoulder. Tears streamed down her face. “Mac! Are you okay?”

My hand latched on to hers. “I’m all right. You?”

A smudge of fire retardant hung in her Mohawk. She smiled faintly. “I am now.” She shook her head. “Ugh.”

Joe tapped at his pilot’s console. “I still have power.” He grabbed the steering yoke. “And thruster control. We’re not dead yet, but there’s no steering help from the AI. She’s gone.”

Sanraya, wide eyed, spun around and stared at her station. “Shields have collapsed—everything except the forward ones.”

Spider reappeared on the view screen. “Engineering here, captain. I’m afraid I have terrible news.” Soot stained his forehead. “The last attack damaged the outer air lock. We lost about a dozen crates when they exploded inside.”

“That explains why that missile attack hit us so hard,” Sanraya said.

A sour taste coated my tongue. “Can we still—”

“We cannot repair the gateway here in space,” Spider said. “I am sorry, sir. We will not be able to launch the ordinance as planned.”

“Come on!” Joe slammed his fist against front dashboard. “How about a little luck coming our way! Just a little!”

A persistent beeping drew my attention. It came from an auxiliary station behind Joe and across from me. I leaned over and read the notation: incoming communication request—accept or decline. “We have a call from the Polavians.” I sighed. “This won’t be fun. They have us at their mercy.”

Joe scowled. “This situation sucks. We lost Princess. Never thought I’d say this, but I’ll miss the old bird. We’re not gonna surrender, are we?”

Sanraya took a deep breath. “I’d rather die than end up in a Polavian prison camp. Those bastards have to pay for destroying Princess Takahe.”

My hand scrubbed the top of my head. The situation looked hopeless. “We’ll mourn our lost AI later. Start planning a frontal attack on their lead ship. We’ll have to close the distance before they can get another missile salvo ready. Joe and I will stall them for a minute, and then we gotta kick ass.”

“Long odds,” Sanraya said.

“You’re the strongest woman I know.” I patted her arm. “If anyone can do it, you can.”

Her violet eyes fixed on mine. She swallowed and nodded.

I pressed the accept button. The front view screen split, giving us a peek inside a Polavian ship, filled with familiar nauseating pastels. A white-furred albino female Polavian glared at us, her right eye appearing huge through her monocle. “This is Captain Flopirus aboard the Renegade. Surrender yourselves and your vessel.”

The screen split again, allowing Stanislav to join the conversation. “I told you I’d get the goods, camera clown.”

I stood up and tugged the bottom of my shirt. “Captain Flopirus. Stanley. I’m glad your missile crews don’t know how to shoot. I mean . . . we should be dead several times over.”

The Polavian bounty hunter gave a terrible smile, one only her mother would like. “Your ship has more holes than a colander. Kill your engines and prepare for our boarding party.”

Rage boiled inside me. “What’ll stop us from fighting to the end?”

Stanislav leered into his camera. “A promise that Captain Flopirus made in exchange for information regarding your whereabouts. Joseph Drake will stand trial for his war crimes on Polavia Prime. Micklor will get a Vellaran battle bride. And I’ll get a slave to record my smuggling exploits. How’s that for a new reality show?”

“Screw you, Stan,” I spat. “That’s worse than death.”

“Battle bride?” Sanraya raised her fist, her two middle fingers extended. “As my human friends would say, ‘Sit and spin!’”

“Last chance,” Captain Flopirus said. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”

My breathing grew shallow. Was there another way to stall? A stray thought crept into my primordial brain.

I flashed our enemies a toothy smile. “You aren’t landing any boarding parties on the Beauty. Not with a busted airlock. If you want us alive, we have to set down on Clodhopper.”

Joe shifted in his seat, and his brow squinched. I tapped my wrist, giving him one of our prearranged signals. He grunted and folded his arms across his chest.

Captain Flopirus gnashed her teeth and turned to a pink-nosed subordinate. “Is that true? Did we damage their ship-to-ship gateway?”

The underling cringed. “Enhancing focus now.” Her head bobbed as she stared at a display before she sat back in her chair. She frowned, showing a maw of jagged teeth. “Confirmed, captain. Extensive damage to the Blackthorn Beauty’s locking mechanism.”

The captain thrust out her jaw as her hands clenched into fists. “Power down your weapons and shields, Mr. MacIntyre. You will land at the coordinates we provide.”

“The nearest Polavian spaceport on Clodhopper, I assume.” My smile transformed into a sneer. “How lovely.”

She stabbed a finger at us. “I can still collect a smaller bounty if you’re dead. Don’t push me.”

“You betcha. Send your coordinates.” After I mashed down the button that operated the communications link, the view screen went blank. I sighed and turned to Joe and Sanraya. “We have less than an hour to come up with a plan or we’re gonna be scrubbing toilets in a Polavian prison.”

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

The navigation holo showed four Polavian ships closing in on the Blackthorn Beauty. They took up escort positions—two behind and two more ahead. They adopted parallel paths outside our weapons range but stayed close enough to finish us if we tried to run. Stanislav’s ship, the Glorious Gambit, trailed like the last vulture waiting for a crippled pachyderm to fall.

The pterodactyl drone still sat on the dashboard, crouched at the edge like a spiteful wyvern. I swear that the thing gave me the evil eye every time I looked at it. My new camera hovered in the corner, a reliable silent sentinel watching everything. I knew I’d gotten excellent footage during our space battle. If we lived through our ordeal, we’d have a gold mine of material for our show.

The aftermath wasn’t pretty. No need to embellish anything. I expected and received raw emotion and backlash.

Joe swiveled around in his seat, his neck turning red. “Why’d you wave me off? I’m not surrendering to those bastard bunnies!”

Sanraya punched me in the shoulder, not hard enough to leave a bruise, but more than a love tap. “We agreed to put power into the forward shields for a frontal attack. Don’t tell me you got icy hands.”

Joe scowled. “Cold feet.”

“Whatever. Stupid human idiom. Vellarans only get cold feet when we’re dead. Let’s hear an explanation for your decision, buttercup.”

I shrugged. “We’re on our way to Clodhopper. Just like we wanted. Pretty good stroke of luck there.”

Sanraya snorted. “As prisoners. I’m not gonna die in a work camp. What else you got?”

Heat rose on my scalp. Enough. No more second-guessing the director. “I’m not gonna throw our lives away when we have a chance to live. The busted air lock gave me an excuse to buy us some time.” I glared at Joe and Sanraya and pointed to the lift. “If you want to get bitchy, there’s the door. Time to rub our brain cells together and get diabolical about a way to save our butts.”

Joe furrowed his brow and ducked his head as if considering an unknown foreign matter, a smelly one he’d stepped in. Sanraya glanced at him, the ridge above her right eye raised askance.

A moment later, Joe chuckled like a panhandler who’d found a gold nugget in the streambed. “Damn, Mac. You sound like my captain from the Black Aces. He didn’t take no bullshit from his troops.”

Sanraya beamed. “Finally. You’re showing us the real Mac. The leader lurking beneath the mopey exterior.”

“Yeah?”

She leaned over her seat and rubbed my thigh. “Oh, yeah. You are so hot right now.”

My face flushed. “Well, if I knew it would have this effect on you, I’d have done it sooner.”

“Ahem.” Joe coughed into his hand. “Screw later. Avoid Polavian prison now.”

I straightened up in my seat and nodded. “Right. We’re in deep shit.”

Sanraya sighed. “Up a creek without a spoon.”

Joe raised an index finger. “Paddle.”

I rubbed my hands together. “So . . . what are we gonna do?”

Joe scowled.

Sanraya clucked her tongue.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re our director,” Joe said. “Sanraya’s the brawn. I’m the beauty. And you’re the brains. Figure it out.”

All the heat in my neck and face drained away. Crap. I’d taken on this responsibility. Me and my big mouth.

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes. “My first order: grab something quick to eat. No telling when we’ll get the chance again. Next, pack whatever you’ll need on the surface. Weapons. Power packs. Provisions. Anything for roughing it in the wild. Our mission looks doomed. We might need to ditch the Bucket to save our skin.”

“On it.” Joe stood up, pushed his way past me, and headed for the lift.

“I’ll bring you back something.” Sanraya pecked me on the cheek before joining Joe.

“Coffee, please. I need caffeine more than anything.”

She nodded. “Extra strong.”

The lift doors slid shut, taking my actors to the lower decks. I took a deep breath and exhaled, letting my mind wander. The lingering stink of fire retardant made me want to gag. Ragged whirs, clicks, and beeps of struggling computer systems filled the cabin. Warning lights blinked, a reminder of the damage we’d suffered. Hmmph. So much for having a quiet area to contemplate our next move.

The Blackthorn Beauty couldn’t take any more punishment. We’d lost our AI, which meant relying on Spider to repair any damaged systems. I wasn’t an engineer, but I could prioritize repairs, give him guidance.

I shambled across the bridge and found the communications system. The intercom swam under a miasma of color-coded buttons. There. The link to engineering. I touched a symbol to activate a videoconference.

Spider turned from the pulsing yellow totem at the center of the deck toward the closest camera. Smaller droids raced hither and yon, carrying out repairs. “Engineering. Go ahead, Mr. MacIntyre.”

“Status? Start with shields, please.”

The droid’s head bobbed. “Aft-shield generator circuits overloaded. Repairs under way. Completion in three days, thirteen hours, two minutes. Starboard and port-shield generators will be operational in one day, one hour, thirteen minutes. Forward shields still operational.”

“Weapons?”

“We lost the quad lasers along the ventral side—I believe you humans call it the ‘belly gun.’ Proximity lasers are at eighty-five percent efficiency. Again, we lost those aft of center, along the ventral line. All other weapons are online.”

The tension eased in my shoulders. I had something to work with if I cajoled the Polavians into our weapons envelope.

Hah. That would be the day.

I took the plunge and asked the next critical question. “What’s the status of our AI system?”

Spider’s head drooped, and his spindly legs sagged. “Princess Takahe has not responded. I have tried and tried. I am afraid she is lost.”

My lips thinned. “I’m very sorry, Spider. She must have meant a great deal to you.”

The droid’s smoldering golden eyes dimmed. “I . . . she will be missed.” He straightened. “Anything else, sir?”

“How are the other systems? Anything I need to worry about?”

“Gravimetrics operating at eighty percent. You and your crew might experience fluctuations in artificial gravity. The ship’s environmental system received damage to its backup.”

Suddenly the cockpit air seemed a little stale—something more sinister than the chemical stink. “Are we currently in any danger?”

“I estimate a ninety-four percent chance that the primary systems will carry us through until repairs to the oxygen scrubbers are complete,” Spider replied.

“Ninety-four percent? And if they fail?”

“Conserve your breath, sir.”

I shuddered, but there wasn’t anything I could do to fix the situation. “Tell me about the air-lock. How will the exterior hull damage affect flight operations once we enter the atmosphere at Clodhopper?”

Spider tilted his head. “Calculating.” His eyes brightened. “Aerodynamics compromised. Drag force increased; figure unknown until conditions in Clodhopper atmosphere are certain. Expect the Beauty to yaw to starboard. Captain Charisma will need to adjust the thrusters to compensate.”

“Can we land?”

“Unknown. Too many factors for calculation without help from Princess Takahe.”

“What would military maneuvers do to the ship when we’re in the atmosphere?”

“Unknown,” Spider replied. “Friction might sheer off parts of the hull near the damaged areas.”

I winced. “How many Alliance crates did we lose in the explosion?”

“Sixteen.” Spider inclined his head once more. “However, there is good news regarding the explosion.”

I perked up. “The damage isn’t as bad as you thought?”

“No. The ship’s droids scanned the debris. Test results are positive.”

It took a moment to figure out what he meant. “You mean regarding the weapons?”

“Correct. We have the evidence needed to prove blackmail by the Alliance. The test results should be in your message queue.”

A wide grin spread across my face. “Well, that proves it doesn’t rain all the time.”

“There are no rainbows without rain,” Spider said dryly.

My jaw dropped open. “Spider . . . that was nearly a joke. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Captain Charisma gave me an order to stop acting—how did he put it? Like a scarecrow with a stick up my butt.”

I laughed. “I appreciate the effort. Thank you for the information.”

“It is what I am programmed for, Mr. MacIntyre.”

I folded my hands together, leaned toward the camera, and looked Spider in the eyes. “If we need to abandon ship, will you be joining us?”

The droid fidgeted on his hind legs. “That is not a question I have ever been asked, sir.”

“I’m asking now. You’re part of the crew, Spider.”

A long silence followed. The droid turned and looked at the pulsing yellow totem. “My place is here . . . with her.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Okay. I understand. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will, Mr. MacIntyre.”

The view screen returned to our Polavian escort. I mulled over what I’d learned. We couldn’t run for deep space. Their missiles would blast us into cosmic dust. On the other hand, trying to escape during atmospheric entry might tear the ship apart. We had one option: try to flee after landing. The ordinance might still be useful . . . if it didn’t blow up at the wrong time. My mind raced—what if it exploded at the right time? We could escape during the commotion.

My hands danced over the navigation console, bringing up maps of Clodhopper and inputting the coordinates of the Polavian spaceport where we were supposed to land. They wanted us to set down in the small city of Dak Taloka. A half-size landing pad sat atop a mountain surrounded by jungle on one side. There wasn’t another place to land for miles, meaning the Polavians controlled all the airspace in its vicinity.

My shoulders sagged. The Polavian spaceport was sixty kilometers from the cold-brew delivery site. Almost spitting distance for a starship navigating through the atmosphere, but a world away when standing on the planet’s surface.

I tapped my fingers. The Polavians would blast us out of the sky if we tried to make a run for the cold-brew camp . . . but maybe the Clodhoppers could come to us. How badly did they want their medicine? Perhaps they could stage a rescue operation. Gears whirred in my mind, as I considered the logistics. If I could talk to the Clodhoppers—

“Emergency systems engaged. Reboot in progress.” The Beauty’s speakers belted out its announcement at a volume loud enough to wake a hibernating Skymaperian sloth.

My heart fluttered. What the hell?

A hum started somewhere beneath my feet. A moment later, a turgid haze of light appeared on the dashboard, coalescing into a bird with blue-green feathers and a red beak. Princess Takahe inhaled deeply, her colorful chest expanding. “Oh, yeah! Give it up for backup files and nanotech! Life goes on, baby!” The bird’s head bobbed and weaved. “Uh-huh. Party time.” She hopped on one foot then pirouetted atop the dashboard before coming to an abrupt stop. “Where is everyone, Mac?”

I closed my slack-jawed mouth. “Gathering supplies in case we need to abandon ship.”

The colorful takahe shook her head. “Abandon . . . me?”

I tugged the cuff of my jacket sleeve and avoided her gaze. “We thought you were dead,” I muttered.

A snort. “And you had a long funeral, I’m sure. So, what’s this crap about leaving me?”

I grunted. Apologies could wait. “Update your data, birdbrain. The Polavians have us surrounded. They’re escorting us to a spaceport on Clodhopper. If we don’t escape, Joe, Sanraya, and I waste away in a Polavian prison.”

“And what will happen to me?”

“Well, I can’t imagine the Polavians wanting a cheeky AI in their newest freighter.”

“Uh-uh. No way. I’ll self-destruct before I work for bunnies. So, what are we doing about the situation?”

I rubbed my face. “Can you encrypt a message to the Clodhoppers?”

The curmudgeonly chicken chuckled. “Are you kidding? What do you want it to say?”

“You mean other than ‘help’?”

“Maybe I should have stayed dead. I can pretend if you like.”

“Sorry, Princess. It’s been a difficult time . . . for some of us more than others.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve been mostly dead for a while.”

“Your near death hurt some of us more than others. Be sure to talk to Spider after we’re done here.”

“Spider? Why would I—”

I met her gaze. “You’ll have to talk to him directly.”

The feisty critter looked away and stared at the floor of the deck as if peering into engineering. “I’ll do that.” She straightened and clicked her beak. “So, what do you want the message to say?”

I rubbed my hands together. It would take finesse to convince the Clodhoppers they had allies in desperate need of their help. I only hoped our message would get to them in time. “Let’s start like this . . .”

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

On the front view screen, Clodhopper grew from a moldy-green marble to a putrid-olive planet. Continents dominated the globe, with slices of narrow seas between them. Its cities were ugly brown scars among the greenery, most of them clustered around the coastlines. Outside the urban footprint, vast swaths of agricultural areas formed blocky geometric patterns.

Two barren moons circled the world, the nearest a bright-white orb on the view screen, and the far moon a crescent, partially obscured by the planet’s penumbra. No satellites orbited it, although a handful of Polavian vessels did. The relative absence of spacecraft made me rethink my plan. How could I count on the natives to help us when they were so isolated that they didn’t know the first thing about the universe? Plus, we’d gotten no response to our plea for help a half hour earlier.

In his pilot’s seat, Joe chewed on his bottom lip as he stared at the sad sphere. Camouflage paint covered his face and neck. “Not much to look at, is it?”

I straightened the collar of my new shirt with its mottled pattern. “The Clodhoppers must like it.”

Sanraya stood. Even in a drab disguise intended for her to blend in with the greenery, she looked good. “Let’s get this carnival on the road.”

“Show,” Joe corrected. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Sanraya rolled her eyes as she turned to Princess Takahe. “You okay with Mac’s plan?”

The bird shuffled its four-toed feet on the dashboard. Some of her feathers were ruffled, mirroring the condition of the rest of our feeble freighter. “Hell, no. But what choice do I have?”

I shrugged. “Play dead? Hope nobody notices you?”

“Been there, done that, but I suppose I have no choice.” She shook her head. “I’m receiving a call from the Polavians.” She gave the news in the same disgusted tone she’d used earlier in our trip when she’d announced I had hair growing in my ears. “Do you want to talk to them?”

“Not really,” I groaned, standing up. “Audio only. Tell them we’re experiencing technical issues with our communications.”

“Connecting.”

The ship’s intercom clicked. “This is Captain Flopirus aboard the Renegade. I’m calling to remind you not to deviate from your assigned landing coordinates.”

I cleared my throat. “Understood, Captain, but we’re in bad shape here. Our engineering droid has informed us that our flight operations might be iffy when we enter the atmosphere. The ship’s AI is down, so stabilization could be a problem.”

She chuckled. “That is a problem. Because if your flight pattern deviates a Woleskian whisker, I’ll order my ships to shoot you down. Renegade out.”

The communication ended, leaving me fuming.

Princess Takahe flapped her stunted wings. “I hope I get the chance to send one of our nonexistent Phototaxian missiles up their exhaust.”

“So do I.” Joe flashed a feral smile. “That would be a thing of beauty.”

Sanraya swiped her data slate with one claw. “Speaking of the Beauty, I have the backup programming for our AI here. If the Polavians wipe the computers, we should be able to reinstall a copy of Princess’s matrix. Or download it into another system.”

“Another ship?” the chicken crowed. “I’d be a bird of a different feather. Hard to imagine me somewhere else. I’m as much a part of the Beauty as its engines. The staff at the New Auckland Shipyards programmed me to run this vessel.”

Sanraya tapped the pad. “If it makes you feel better, we’ve got Spider’s AI program in here as well.”

“What? You’re storing our data on the same drive?”

I nodded. “Sure. Think of all the conversations your backup systems can have together.”

“Conversations?” The holo hen scowled. “Hardly. It’s clear you don’t know a damn thing about how computers and data storage work. Besides, Spider and I aren’t on speaking terms right now.”

I raised an eyebrow and cleared my throat. Before I could speak, Sanraya wrapped a fistful of scaly claws on my forearm and squeezed. Our eyes met, and she shook her head, so I let the matter drop. Better for our two AI companions to work out their differences by themselves.

“Well, that’s it.” Joe rubbed his hands on his slacks and stood. The planet grew larger on the view screen. “We’re on autopilot from here. Let’s get to the hold.”

We spent our trip to the lower levels in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. When we arrived in the cargo bay, I spotted the last of the Alliance droids crowded near the back, where the ramp would drop once we settled onto the landing pad. The Alliance munitions would be the first things off, rolling out under droid power. We would follow, hidden inside our own crates.

I planned to trigger booby traps inside each strong box by having the Beauty send a focused scan at them. The explosions would provide a decent fiery smokescreen. We could then blow the tops off our own crates, leap out, and make a run for the jungle. If the explosions caused as much chaos as I predicted the plan should work. If it didn’t, my friends and I would wind up in jail.

Near the closest wall, the cold-brew packages waited on automated carts. Sandwiched between the two crates were three open chests on power sleds.

Spider waited for us in front of the empty containers. Their markings were indistinguishable from the other crates. “I’m afraid they are not designed for comfort, Mr. MacIntyre.”

“If they fool the Polavians for a few moments, everything should go as planned. It’s only about a hundred meters from the landing pad to the jungle.”

“I armored the insides,” Spider said. “They should protect you when the Alliance munitions explode.”

Joe swallowed hard. “How certain are you of that protection?”

Spider tapped his fingers together. “Sixty-one-point-two percent.”

Joe tilted his head and shrugged. “I’ve seen worse odds.”

I put a hand on Spider’s shoulder. “Be sure you take care of yourself while we’re gone.”

“I doubt anyone will take notice of a repair droid. People seldom do.”

“I’ve noticed how helpful you’ve been, Spider,” Sanray said. “Take care of yourself.”

Joe stepped into the closest crate and squatted. His shoulders scraped the sides. “You couldn’t build this thing a little bigger? I’m gonna need a can opener to get myself out.”

“Aw, not claustrophobic are you, Captain Container?” Sanraya said, patting his head.

He squeezed himself inside the cube. “Don’t be silly. Captain Charisma knows no fear.” His hips scrunched down between the gear he would need on the surface.

I smirked and stepped inside my own box. “Well, if things go bad, at least we won’t need to build you a coffin.”

Sanraya sniggered.

Joe paled. “That isn’t reassuring in the least. I thought you were supposed to instill confidence in your actors.”

“Since when have you lacked confidence?” I asked. “If your head got any bigger, you’d never fit inside that crate.”

Sanraya gracefully hopped inside her own container and sat down. “This isn’t so bad. I even have a pillow to sit on.”

Joe scowled. “You’ve got a pillow?”

“You betcha. You?”

“No. How did that happen?”

“Careful planning,” I replied. “I love you, Sanraya.”

“You think of everything, Mac. Love you too.”

The ship shuddered. Warning bells rang.

Spider looked down at us. “We are entering Clodhopper’s atmosphere. The ship is experiencing some difficulties.”

“That’s it,” Joe grunted. “I need to get back to the bridge.”

“Stay put.” I stabbed a finger at him. “Stick with the plan.” I nodded to Spider. “Seal us up. We don’t have much time.”

Silver transport droids dropped the lids, boxing us in. Small slivers of light shone through the top and sides. The air inside stank of newly molded plastic. I had just enough space to stretch my legs.

“Good luck, Mr. MacIntyre.” Spider walked away, his metal digits clicking across the deck until the noise faded.

“Farewell, Spider,” I said.

Both cameras, high inside the cargo bay, hovered outside the crates. They gave me a view of our surroundings, which would be crucial for this plan to work. Through a link to the bridge, my HUD showed me everything on the navigation console, and I could still tap into the ship’s sensors.

My stomach dropped as the ship rumbled again. I hoped Princess could deposit us at the right coordinates. If the ship started to fall apart, we couldn’t do anything about it.

A thump reverberated through the deck. My crate slid several feet, colliding with Joe’s. Several Alliance crates chirped warnings. My stomach dropped into my knees. If crates bounced around too much, they’d explode.

“What the hell?” Joe yelled, pounding the lid of his container. “Let me out!”

The ship’s intercom blasted out a warning: “Emergency. Braking thrusters inoperative.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Oh, shit.

Joe cackled. “Oh, this is just perfect. Spider warned you about the corrosion in the propellant lines affecting our braking thrusters. Remember, Mac?”

I swallowed and opened my eyes. “I remember a point-two percent chance of them failing.”

“I think you can change that to one hundred percent.”

“Fall rate exceeding specified tolerances.”

Sanraya swore something in her native tongue. Something about ripping new orifices—or maybe creating paper puppets. I really needed to work on my Vellaran.

The ship creaked and moaned. A rattle emanated somewhere below us, and I wondered if the ship might come undone. The navigation console showed the Beauty speeding toward the Polavian spaceport. If we didn’t slow down, we’d overshoot the landing pad and crash.

A deafening bang preceded an alarming hiss that sounded like steam escaping a teakettle. My gear tumbled around me. A backpack hit me in the face, then flew away. My nose throbbed. The hair rose on the back of my neck, and my pulse raced.

“Mehneek krute dasprooda!” Sanraya cursed. “Remind me who’s idea this was.”

Everything wobbled, making it difficult for me to process information. The Beauty dropped like a dying duck, plunging toward the planet’s surface. The ship slid past the mountaintop spaceport, heading for the deep jungle.

Several missiles appeared on the navigation display. The Polavian ships had opened fire on our crippled craft.

Our fragile freighter’s speakers crackled. “Brace for impact.”

Events spiraled out of control. The Renegade was making good on its promise to shoot us down. Had I overestimated their need to capture us alive? I didn’t want any of us to die like this. My joke about Joe’s coffin suddenly haunted me.

“Mac, what do we—”

A violent jolt threw me against the side of the crate. Sharp pain erupted in my mouth, followed by the coppery taste of blood. I’d bit my tongue. As soon as this thought past through my mind, a thunderbolt bounced my head off the top of the crate, and an explosion wobbled my tiny world. More pain, this time along the crown of my skull. All the air whooshed out of my lungs. A second later, the lights went out in the cargo hold. The Beauty creaked, then lay silent.

A moan came from somewhere close. Joe’s baritone voice sounded muffled. “Remind me never to fly coach again.”

Crack. Crackle. Crack. One of the containers burst open. “Whew.” Joe sighed. “Much better.”

I pushed the button to blow the lid off my crate. It didn’t work, so I gathered my strength and flexed my arms. Pop. The lid fell aside, and I was free, inhaling the bitter smoke that hung in the air.

Flames licked at the remnants of two Alliance containers, the plastic hissing and popping. Shadows danced, playing havoc with my ability to comprehend the chaos inside the cargo area. A transport droid lifted a broken appendage, blue sparks falling from a twisted joint.

My voice cracked. “Sanraya?”

“Here. But I wish I weren’t.” She sat among the remnants of her own broken box.

Thank God. “Hurt anything?”

Sanraya sprang to her feet and spat a bloody triangle onto the deck. She smiled, displaying a gap in her alligator-like incisors. “Lost a tooth. Gonna be hard to whistle for the next few days until it grows back.”

Joe winced. “Ugh.”

“What?” She asked. “Got something to say?”

“I think it makes you look dangerous.” I wagged my eyebrows, acting quickly to smooth the waters. “Total badass.” Actually, the gap in her maw looked like a hole in a cave filled with stalactites and stalagmites.

“Aw, you say the sweetest things, buttercup.”

“Power must be out all over the ship.” Joe crossed the hold and stomped on the dying flames, extinguishing the last of them. “Otherwise the fire-suppression system would’ve kicked on.”

A grinding groan came from the door on the catwalk above the hold. Four thin appendages forced their way into a crack, heaving the entranceway open. As our arachnoid engineer stepped onto the catwalk, four orbital receptors blinked and stared down at us. “Are you okay?”

“We’re alive, Spider.” I rubbed a bump on my noggin. “Bruised and battered, but happily in one piece. Why—”

“Hydraulics failure in the braking system.” Spider’s head bobbed. “The ship crash-landed in the jungle a short distance from the spaceport.”

“How far?” I asked. “How much time?”

“We are twelve-point-seven kilometers from the spaceport. The Polavian starships are circling overhead, but there is no place for them to land. Estimates vary, but I would expect troop transports inbound in a few minutes.”

Grunting, I reached into the crate and slung my backpack over my shoulder. “Let’s move. Spider, we need the rear cargo doors to open. Can we do that without power?”

“Affirmative. There is a manual release in case of emergency.”

Joe checked the charge on his blaster. “Let’s act like Scarpuffian tweedlefish and make the most of our second lives. The bunnies will be on top of us in no time.”

After Joe and Sanraya hustled to collect their gear, we made our way to the exit. True to his word, Spider found a pair of levers near the back wall. The rusty, hinged bolts squealed, and a crack formed along the wall. Ruddy light spilled into the hold, revealing dust motes swirling in the air. With a heave, Spider pushed down the ramp; pneumatic cylinders caught the heavy slab to prevent it from collapsing onto the ground.

The stink of decaying vegetation mugged my nostrils, eviscerating any thoughts of getting fresh air after twenty-four days in space.

“Ugh!” Sanraya covered her nose.

Joe’s forehead wrinkled. “Absolutely disgusting.”

I had to agree with my actors’ assessments. Clodhopper stunk worse than a day at the beach during red tide.

“Good luck, my friends.” Spider waved. “I am not sure how badly the Beauty is damaged, but I will make repairs. Even though we are currently at odds, Princess Takahe needs me more than ever.”

“She’ll appreciate your help, and so will we.” Joe checked the charge on his blaster. “Stay out of trouble, pal. We’ll be back with Clodhopper allies before long.”

“You hope,” Sanraya added.

“Our message got through, even though they haven’t responded.” I clapped my palms together. “Let’s have a little faith.”

The three of us stepped onto the ramp, getting our first view of Clodhopper. Behind the Beauty, a trail of mangled treetops led back toward the direction we’d come. A gargantuan divot of red clay, caused by our crash, started a few hundred meters back. A glance over my shoulder revealed the telltale glow of heat along the ship’s skin, caused by the friction of reentry. The melted wreck of gun pods along the dorsal edge confirmed my worst fears—the Beauty wasn’t going anywhere for a very long time.

A green haze hung in the air, but through the rising vapors, I spotted the Renegade and several hovercrafts closing in on our position.

“Go! Go! Go!” I yelled. “Into the jungle! And don’t forget to activate your electronic camouflage!”

Blaster in hand, Joe jumped off the end of the ramp. Sanraya and I followed. Enormous, green leaves slapped at my arms and legs as we sprinted for cover. As the whine of hovercraft engines raced closer, I expected a plasma bolt to cut us down at any moment.

CHAPTER
TWENTY

My leg disappeared into a hole, submerged to midcalf. Slimy water slopped into my boot, drowning my Green Charisma-logoed sock. The sulfurous smell of decaying vegetation clogged my nostrils. A dark-gray mist hung in the humid air, making visibility difficult, even in Clodhopper’s perpetual twilight.

“Gah!” Gasping for breath, I pulled my foot out of the black mire. Something akin to a six-legged newt scurried away, losing itself among the reedy fronds that stuck up out of the bog. “I can’t see a damn thing in this murk.”

“Shh!” Joe put a beefy finger to his lips. “Keep it down, Mac.”

My face flushed, and I lowered my voice. “Sorry. You really think the Polavians can hear us through this crap?” I gestured with one hand, trying to encompass the entirety of the jungle. Fat trees covered in blue fungi between folds of black bark. Purple stiletto fronds with serrated edges. Shrubs with broadsheet yellow leaves. Stringy vines. Thorny creepers. Pitcher-shaped fuchsia flowers bigger than my hand—one moved like lightning, its maw snatching a large flying insect out of the air and gulping it down. “And if I can’t see thirty paces, what are the chances anyone else will spot us?”

Sanraya sighed. “The Polavians might have natives looking for us—or droids. What looks like twilight to you is full daylight to them.”

I waved a hovering, pink bug away from my face. “We’ve been running off and on for almost two hours. Think we’re safe?”

“No.” Sanraya pointed at the imprints in the ground beside me. “We’re not hiding our tracks.”

“Ugh. So, what’s the plan?”

Joe tugged at the waistband of his camouflage suit. Absent that movement, he would’ve blended into the background. “I’ve been steering us downhill,” he said. “If we can find a stream or river, we’ll improve our chances of throwing off any pursuit. I think this wetland we wandered into is a good sign. Lots of swamps near streams.”

“Suppose we find a stream?” Hopping on one foot, I emptied the sludge out of my boot. The splashing goo let out a stink reminiscent of a Fillyworld troll’s flatulence. “Then what?”

“We wade upstream or downstream for a while.” Sanraya stepped around a red fern, her hip brushing fronds out of her path. “The rushing water will hide our tracks.”

I put my soggy boot back on. “Wading?”

Joe smirked. “Yeah.”

“Joy. If I get jungle rot between my toes, I’ll know who to blame.”

Sanraya chucked me on the shoulder. “How are you feeling, Mac? Need to rest?”

Aside from a nagging knot where my backpack straps rubbed my shoulder blades, my body seemed to be handling the stress. “I’m okay. Guess those long workouts over the past several weeks have helped.”

She nodded. “Good. We need to keep running.”

“How are you faring, my dear?” I asked between gasps.

Joe wagged his eyebrows. “Just peachy, thanks.”

“He was talking to me, jackass,” Sanraya snarled.

“He could’ve been talking to me.” Joe hopped over a rotting log. “And I’m doing well, thanks.”

Sanraya waved a dismissive hand at him. “Although it took a while to get used to the smell, I’m enjoying the warm weather.” She jumped on top of the log, then down the other side. “The humidity feels glorious on my skin.”

“You sure you wouldn’t rather be at Gorathian Glacier Park on Tundra Prime?” I asked, bounding over the dead wood, albeit with less grace than my actors.

Sanraya’s yellow crest flattened. “That joke about taking a job on a cold-weather planet isn’t any better than the first thousand times you told it. Let’s press on. Lots of daylight left.”

The bog didn’t lead us to a stream, so we slogged out of it—running around, over, and through dense vegetation. When we stopped briefly to choke down Vellaran mealworm bars and catch our breath, I took the opportunity to send one of my cameras aloft to see what it might find. I would’ve done this earlier, but it took all my concentration to navigate the camera in the tree canopy. It soared through a maze of crisscrossing limbs, pushing leaves aside until it reached open air. The sky had a washed-out appearance, like the blue of an early morning during a hazy summer day on Earth.

As the camera panned back in the direction we’d come, it showed a sky barge low in the horizon, perhaps four or five miles away. Using the telescoping lens, I brought the aircraft into focus. Held aloft by four anti-grav lifters, one at each corner, the flat deck provided an ideal platform for launching aerial recon drones. A lone control tower sat midships while long, coiled tethers hung under its bulging belly, depositing and retrieving squat droids to and from the jungle floor through holes blasted in the canopy.

“Shit.”

“Whatsa matter?” Joe asked around a mouthful of pressed Vellaran mealworm.

“Polavians are combing the area behind us. Some sort of aerial platform with droids. They’re searching the bog we walked through a while back.”

“What else?” Sanraya zipped up her backpack. “Just one vessel?”

The camera spun on its axis. Another sky barge came into view, this one a few miles in the direction we’d been heading. Smaller drones circled it, soaring out of and dipping into the treetops. Putrid, persistent, Polavian bastards.

“No, we’ve got another bogey a few clicks ahead.”

“Lemme see.” Joe motioned with one hand. “Pipe the feed through your data slate.”

I fished the pad out of my backpack and tossed it to him. “Coming up now.”

He hissed through his teeth as he stared at the screen. “The bunnies have a skydive stage.”

“Two of them.” I directed the camera to spin around again, showing him the first aerial platform.

Joe paled as he tossed the pad back to me. “Let’s go. They’re not gonna catch us. Not if we skedaddle.”

I nodded. “Ready.”

He turned to his right and set off on a path perpendicular to our original destination. I ordered my drone to return and set it on automatic recording function.

Joe and Sanraya raced ahead of me over uneven ground through vegetation. Sweat poured off my brow, stinging my eyes. I ordered my drone to watch the area ahead of us, leaving my ex-wife’s gargoyle camera to watch our rear.

Every few seconds, I glanced at my HUD. My paranoia levels rose. With every swaying branch caused by the wind, and every insect chirrup, I imagined a Polavian ready to pounce. Trying to keep track of more than one camera also proved too much. My foot caught on a creeper vine, and I went ass-over-teakettle into a wet shrub with oval-shaped leaves. Pain lanced the bridge of my nose and my cheek as I face-planted into the truculent shrub. My backpack slid up my shoulders and landed on top of my head.

Pfaw! I spat jungle dirt off my lips. Blech! As I pushed myself up on my elbows, another frond slapped my face.

The backpack tumbled to the ground. I groaned and rolled over onto my back. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Fortunately, my fatigues and gloves saved the rest of my body from any additional scratches.

“Mac!” Sanraya’s lithe form appeared at the corner of my vision. “Are you okay?”

The only thing broken was my pride. “I wanted a nap. This seemed as good a place as any.”

“Come on.” Joe offered me a hand. “No rest for the crew of Green Charisma.”

I clasped his forearm, and he yanked me upright. “How’s my face?”

“Ugly as ever.”

I rolled my eyes. “Feels like I scratched it up."

“Just red marks. No bleeding. You’ll live.”

I sighed, picked up my backpack, and slung it over my shoulders. Both cameras focused on me. No doubt, they’d captured my pratfall. Something I’d definitely need to edit out of the story. “Sorry, folks. I don’t mean to be a klutz.”

Sanraya patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ve come to expect it from you.”

My face burned. “Well, isn’t that—”

Limbs shook in the canopy above. Leaves and mango-size fruit fell around us.

Hroot! Churrit! Churrit! Hroot!

In a flash, Joe’s garish orange blaster appeared in his hand.

The warbling cry set my heart racing again. My gaze swept through the greenery, searching for the source. In an instant, I pulled my Sammy Slammer out of my jacket pocket. The power baton felt comfortable in my grip. For good measure, I activated the rail-gun mechanism on my new drone.

“Ever get the feeling something’s watching us?” I asked.

Joe chuckled. “Nah. You must be imagining things.”

“Sanraya? You’re the xenobiologist. You’ve studied the life-forms on this planet. Any clue what’s making the noise?”

Sanraya’s eyes swept over the jungle. She thumbed off the safety on her silver pistol, and it chirped. “There’s a species called grapplers that live in colonies. Aggressive. Territorial.”

“Why do they call ’em grapplers?” Joe asked.

“Because when they grab a hold of something, or someone, they don’t like to let go. They crush people to death.”

Shadows moved through the limbs above. Hroot! Churrit! Churrit! Hroot! Hroot!

“Wonderful.” Joe wiped his brow with the back of his free hand. “Got it. No hugging the monsters. Please tell us more, Professor ba’Marta.”

“Packs may be as large as two dozen. Quills. Claws. Don’t let the quills pierce your skin. Poisonous. Deadly if you get too many in you.”

Another yellow fruit sailed through the jungle gloom and landed at my feet. I leveled the Sammy Slammer in the direction it had come from. “Intelligent?”

“No more than a chimpanzee on your world. No toolmaking abilities, but they do coordinate their attacks.”

“So, they’re smarter than Joe?” I asked.

“Definitely.”

Joe rolled his eyes.

Hidden phantoms slipped through the foliage and gathered together.

Joe leveled his blaster at an ape-size shadow and tracked the thing as it moved from branch to branch.

Khatang!

A white-hot plasma bolt stabbed out and struck the beast, sending the creature tumbling out of the tree a dozen paces away. Its smoking body lay still. Gray quills longer than my hand covered a muscled frame, with six limbs ending in curved claws. The grappler’s wide, yellow eyes stared at nothing while its thin lips curled away from long fangs dripping with brown saliva.

The jungle was silent.

“Back away,” Sanraya whispered. “Slowly.”

I dropped my voice, doing as instructed. “All this commotion is gonna bring the Polavians.”

“No challenge is too great for Captain Charisma.” Joe rubbed a hand on his slacks. “Bring on the bunnies.”

“You are such a porker!” Sanraya hissed.

Joe sighed. “Ham.” He smirked. “I know I’m a diva. My fans love me for it.”

We sidestepped away from the dead grappler, giving us some distance from the spot where silhouettes ghosted through the trees. My eyes strained to see through the low light in order to pick out potential threats.

Hroot! Hroot! Churrit! Churrit! Hroot!

Leaves and broken limbs fell all around us.

“Here they come!” Sanraya pointed at a half dozen grapplers that swung out of the bottom limbs and charged us.

Fléchettes spat out of her gyrojet pistol, taking the leader before it got within ten paces. She continued to shoot and bring down targets. The display was beyond awesome—my heart soared to see her pick off our combatants so easily.

Joe’s pistol burned down three more grapplers. My drone spun, its rail gun spitting out three shots. Two more quilled fiends went down.

From above, a grappler crashed through the foliage and landed on Joe’s back, tackling him to the ground. Joe’s blaster flew out of his hands, disappearing into a fern heap. He grunted and rolled as he wrestled with the beast.

“Get it off me! Get it off me!”

Panic set my hands shaking. “Joe!”

The Sammy Slammer tracked the grappler, but I had no shot. If I tried, I’d hit Joe. That left the camera’s rail gun. The black orb spun, its gun aperture opening. Target locked.

Phzzt! The drone shuddered. As the supersonic projectile ripped through the grappler, the beast’s head disappeared in an explosion of gray-green chunks and mist.

Joe blinked gore out of his eyes, rolled the grappler off him, and vomited onto the jungle turf. Broken quills stuck out of his cheek and hands.

Sanraya continued to shoot. “Come get some! Vespar’s will be done!” Another beast spun and went down.

Hroot! Hroot! Churrit! Hroot!

The remaining grapplers retreated into the trees. Smoking carcasses lay in a semicircle around us, the charred-meat stink making my eyes water.

“Ahh!” Joe tore the quills off his bloody face and hands. “Fuck!” He sat on a broken log, his chest heaving.

“You okay?” I asked, watching for another attack. Shadows lurked in the trees, but I didn’t have a ready target.

“I feel like a voodoo doll.” Joe’s keen gaze darted from tree to tree. He stood up and sidestepped into the cluster of foliage where he’d lost his blaster, then kicked aside fronds to try to find it.

Sanraya joined him in the search, holding her pistol up and away from her body in a safe position. “We might have chased them off for the time being, but we can’t stay here.”

“Who’s got the medical kit?” Joe asked, touching his puffy cheek. “Please tell me we’ve got antivenom in it.”

Sanraya swung her backpack off her shoulders. “Keep us covered, Mac. Those critters are still out there.” She unzipped the pack and rummaged through it.

My gaze darted from one shadow to the next. “I’m on it. Hurry up.”

Hroot! Hroot!

Branches swayed. A ripple through the trees went from my left to right. Forms danced through the canopy, there one moment and gone the next. Sweat covered my palms. The Sammy Slammer felt slick to the touch.

I stole a glance at my friends. Sanraya had a small case open at her feet and a safety needle in her hand. Joe’s blaster lay in his lap as he tore the backings off bandages. After Sanraya applied a white topical ointment to his wounds, he slapped bandages on them. He looked like an extra in The Mummy.

“Can you roll up a sleeve?” Sanraya asked. “Or do you want me to stick you in the ass?”

Joe groaned. “Ordinarily I’d love to drop my pants when a lady asks, but today I think I’ll pass.” He winced, tugged off his camo jacket, and rolled up the sleeve of his Green Charisma T-shirt.

Sanraya shook her head. “Spoilsport.” Her forked tongue hung out the side of her mouth as she jabbed the needle into his arm. A quick push of the plunger dispensed the medicine. “There. All better.”

“My face feels numb.” Joe rubbed his cheek. “Tingly.”

“Leave it alone.” Sanraya threw stuff back into the case. “Give it a chance to work.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Joe white-knuckled his blaster as he searched the trees. “What then?”

“We go through your pockets looking for credit chits.” She hefted her satchel onto her shoulders. “And I’ll have to start looking for a new sidekick.”

Joe winced again. “Sidekick?”

“Well, I’m definitely not your sidekick.”

“How long before I know if the antivenom is working?”

“If you start having trouble breathing, let us know. If your swelling goes down, it’s working.”

Hroot! Hroot!

A flashing red light appeared through the trees to my right. It came closer, preceding the whine of an anti-gravity motor.

Gulping, I dove behind a mossy boulder. “Down!” I hissed to my actors. “Drone!”

Sanraya and Joe dropped prone. A burgundy hourglass-shaped droid hovered closer. Four arms hung low off its body, one holding an acoustic cone. Its flattened oval top spun, its optic apertures scanning for movement.

I held my breath, not daring to move. The droid paused when it reached the nearest grappler carcass, chirping and buzzing at its discovery. One long appendage reached down and flipped the grappler over, revealing the plasma burns from Joe’s pistol. A green laser spreader cast its diffused light over the wounds, scanning them. The droid clicked, and then the top of its body swiveled around, scanning the surrounding jungle.

Joe rose up on one knee. His gun spat plasma fire. The blasts tore through the drone, and it fell to the jungle floor in a crash.

“Get up!” he yelled to Sanraya and me. “They know we’re here! Time to run!”

Beside me, the mossy boulder stirred. It grew four arms, a blocky head, and sat upright. “Mirote achlera torrem…” Its yellow eyes blinked.

What the hell? I scrambled away on my hands and knees.

The Clodhopper stood up and offered me a hand. The universal translator in my inner ear kicked in. “—much time. The Polavians will send their soldiers. Come with me.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

Twitching on the ground nearby, a grappler went through its last death throes. It grunted and huffed, brown saliva pooling out of its mouth onto the quills of its chest. Its musky stink mingled with the burnt ozone of plasma fire.

The Clodhopper offered his hand again; I stared at his gnarled olive skin and black nails. My jaw unclenched, and I allowed him to help me up.

When a native offers assistance in a hostile jungle, you accept. It’s rude to refuse, even if the gesture comes from a creature whose appearance resembles a cartoon character. After all, I was an alien on his world—a world that had tried to kill me.

The four-armed hominoid heaved me off the jungle floor with one arm. Thin lips grinned beneath a hooked snout, while twin bandoliers crisscrossed the front of his armor. He carried a short-barreled rifle with a wide aperture at its end—a shotgun perhaps?

He grinned with blocky teeth. “You’re a long way from Kansas, Dorothy.”

My mouth fell open. “What did you say?”

Our savior’s grin turned into a belly laugh, which was quite a sight when the entire shell quivered. “The Wizard of Oz? You have studied the classic cinema on your world, yes?”

My head spun. “Ah, yeah . . . but . . . but . . . how—”

“I’m with the Shellshock Syndicate. Our little rebellion has contacts throughout the Alliance—including Universal Health. We also received a message from Lieutenant ta’Chalik from the Alliance Telestic Templars, who told us you were coming. So, we learned as much about you and human culture as possible in the past few weeks.”

Holy shit. What did the Alliance tell them about us? “You did?”

“Of course. Did you assume we’d be uneducated rubes? What’s your slur for us? Clodhoppers?” He snorted through his turtle snout. “Our level of technology is the equivalent to what humans had on Earth at the end of what you call the twentieth century, and agrarian doesn’t mean dumb.”

My collar suddenly felt tight. “Well, uh . . . you see . . .”

“Ha! Knew it!” The skin around his red eyes crinkled.

“What do you call your kind again?”

“We’re the Chosen of this world. We call our planet Lacunae. We evolved as the pinnacle species here.”

“Ah.”

He sighed. “Does it sound pretentious to your ears? We know our place in the universe. Refer to us as Clodhoppers if you want. It doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t want to be rude,” I told him.

“Rude? The Polavians are killing my clan mates—at this rate, our species won’t last long. I’m more worried about practical matters.” His red eyes roamed the jungle. “I don’t see any cold brew or weapons. Weren’t you supposed to bring us some? Unless you’re hiding them in your shorts, Ian MacIntyre?”

I coughed into my hand. “We had trouble with the Polavians.”

“So I gathered from your SOS.” Our turtle tour guide chortled and gestured for us to follow him. “You can fill me in on the details later.” He stopped and held up a hand. “Crap. One moment. I need to check in.”

After pulling a handset from his overall’s pocket, the Clodhopper spoke into it. “Argus, this is Harekiller. I found them. Repeat: I found them. Can you cover for us?”

Static crackled from the device. “Good work, Harekiller. Bring them in. We’ll handle the Polavians.” The buzzing of hovercraft rotors came through the receiver.

Harekiller nodded. “Understood. Out.” He closed the handset, put it back into his pocket, and turned to us. “Let’s go.”

The yellow crest atop Sanraya’s head perked up. “Where are we going? How far?”

Our host pushed his way through the jungle foliage, not bothering to try to hide his tracks. “The Shellshock Syndicate’s base, of course. It won’t take long for the Polavians to figure out what happened to their droid, so we need to be underground when they arrive.”

Joe raised an eyebrow and glanced at me for direction. I nodded. We’d set out into the jungle hoping to find natives, and our survival depended on making new friends. So far, so good. I jogged to catch up with our new comrade, and my friends followed. For good measure, I checked the status of the two cameras. Everything came back in the green, so I sent one to scout ahead and one to watch our rear. No doubt I’d get some excellent footage for our show during our upcoming encounter with the natives.

Behind us, the muffled sounds of weapons fire erupted. Shouts and screams followed as flashes of plasma fire winked through the trees.

“Come on.” Harekiller urged us on. “This is strictly a hit-and-run operation.”

The jungle closed in around us, the vegetation clumping together and leaving no open ground. Thorny plants slid across Harekiller’s shell without doing any harm. I pushed a palm frond out of my eyes, scanning for thorns or bugs. My boot snagged on a creeper, and I yanked my foot to break its grip. “You seem to know a lot about us. Your call sign is Harekiller?”

Our guide dodged around a carnivorous pitcher plant that grew in the shade of a blue-veined broadleaf tree. “That’s right. A supreme name for a rebel fighter.”

Joe slapped the feisty flower away with the back of his hand when it lunged at him. “I agree, but I’m sure that’s not your real name.”

“My life mate calls me Tuckle, but I prefer Harekiller when I’m in the field.” He smirked. “She thinks it’s a silly name.” He gestured for us to follow him down a short embankment. “But I believe in ridding our world of vermin. It’s what I’ve done ever since the Polavian invasion four years ago.”

Sanraya nodded. “That’s a sentiment I’m learning to appreciate. What did you do before the war?”

Harekiller sighed, and his eyes lost focus. The sounds of gunfire grew closer. “I worked with farmers, teaching them new irrigation techniques.” He paused. “Most of them are dead now, taken by the Glassbone influenza.”

The jungle suddenly came alive. Branches shook. Leaves fell.

Hroot! Hroot! Churrit! Hroot!

My gaze swept back to the trees, my sweaty palms on the grip of the Sammy Slammer. “What about the grapplers?” I asked Harekiller. “Are we safe?”

He rubbed his lower hands together, a gesture I interpreted as ambivalence. “Once we move out of their territory, they should leave us alone. They’re probably gun shy after losing so many of their tribe.” An explosion rocked the ground, a few hundred yards or so to our rear. “If I were you, I’d worry more about the bunnies catching up.”

“Shouldn’t we be running?”

“No. If the vegetation snaps back and forth quicker than the wind blows, it’ll be a sure sign of our passage. You have to trust our diversion will work.”

It took all my willpower to stop myself from rushing or sending one of my drones back to the battle. It would’ve made for a terrific bit for our show. Instead, I kept both cameras focused on our progress through the dense jungle.

Our reptilian rescuer moved with care; his short stature and stubby legs plodding through the jungle. We pushed through a thicket of red-tinged ferns and around a patch of thick growth that resembled bamboo. A plume of small bugs rose in a cloud, getting in my eyes and up my nose.

“Gah!” I waved a hand in front of my face, hacked up a mouthful of the critters, and spat them out. “Damn it!”

“Watch out for wingfliks.” Harekiller donned a pair of goggles. “They’ll nest under your eyelids if you’re not careful.”

I almost missed a step. “Oh, shit. Really?”

“No. Just messing with you,” he said. “But there are other things out here that will kill you, so watch where you put your hands and where you step.”

I frowned and wondered about Harekiller’s sanity. From my work on war documentaries in years past, I recognized the signs of battle fatigue. This guy—turtle—whatever—seemed to have it in spades. Black humor provided a way to cope with the horrors of losing friends and family. And the way his eyes darted about searching for threats showed he was on edge.

Joe’s gaze lingered on the trees as he kept his blaster at the ready. “Where are we heading?”

“There’s a natural grotto a short distance from here.” Harekiller sidestepped around stringy mass reminiscent of spider’s web. “Watch out for the pohkta shoots.” He pointed to his right. “They’re usually found near the wingflik colonies. It’s a mess trying to untangle yourself from them.”

Sanraya tilted her head, seeking out the shoots. “I don’t see anything.”

“They’re nocturnal. They’re—”

The universal translator chirped in my ear: “Unknown word.”

“Pincers and lots of legs.” Harekiller rubbed his tummy and smacked his thin lips. “But good eating when stir-fried in a sweetglue sauce—or pickled in a simple brine.”

I winced. Yuck. What he was describing sounded like a bug. “Why aren’t we hiding our trail? Won’t we lead the Polavians right to your lair?”

“Lair?” Harekiller rubbed his chin. “Lair. I like that. No, that’s why I asked Argus to cover for us. He and a few others will leave lots of false trails to confuse the enemy.”

“And what will we find when we get there?” Joe asked.

Our new friend chuckled. “Five-star accommodations for all our guests.” He tapped a stubby finger on his chin. “Everyone here knows how to swim, right?”

“Yep.” Sanraya beamed. “I love swimming.”

“It’s not my favorite thing, but I won’t drown,” Joe said. “How about you, Mac?”

“High school swim team.” I cracked my knuckles. “No sweat.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Really? I figured you for AV club. Maybe a band geek.”

I bristled. “Bite me, Captain Charisma.”

I didn’t bother telling him about my years playing hyper-trombone. A person can participate in more than one extracurricular activity. Besides, I hadn’t touched a horn in years.

Turning to Harekiller, I nodded. “We’ll be fine. Planning on a skinny dip?”

He ignored my question. “All right. We’re almost there.” The Clodhopper brushed aside a clump of fan-shaped leaves from a shrub. Through the gap in the foliage, an open space of land appeared, perhaps two dozen paces wide. The jungle grew right to the edge of a sinkhole, vines hanging down its sides. At the bottom, maybe thirty feet below, clear, blue water teemed with life. Rainbow-hued fish lazily crisscrossed a circular pond. A flying lizard swooped low, snatching its meal out of the pool. Water lilies dotted the surface, purple flowers soaking in the sunlight.

For the first time in hours, I could see the sun. A breeze swirled, caressing my cheeks. It felt glorious.

“Ah.” Sanraya took a deep breath. “Idyllic.”

“I don’t understand,” Joe said. “Where’s your hidey-hole?”

My eyes took in the entire area again, looking for a cave, but I didn’t see one. “Oh, no.”

“Underwater,” Sanraya said. “How deep? How long will we need to hold our breath?”

“It’s only about three body lengths deep.” Harekiller pointed. “Under the far lip of the pool. The bunnies hate water,” he added with a snicker.

“Swell,” I said. “How do we get down there?”

I already knew the answer. We’d have to jump.

“Looks like fun.” Joe grinned and holstered his blaster. “Bath time, kiddies.”

“Make sure anything that isn’t waterproof is sealed up inside your packs.” I wagged a finger at Sanraya and Joe. “And don’t forget to put away your pinhole cameras.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “You treat us like children sometimes. Like I’d forget to do that.”

I wanted to slap him silly. Better yet, brainwash him. “If I didn’t remind you about the basics, we’d have never made it off Appleseed.”

Sanraya shoved her pistol into her backpack and cinched it tightly. She waved a hand in front of her nose. “Glad you’re finally taking a bath, Joe. You need one. I’ve been downwind of your stench all day.”

Phbbt! Joe stuck his thumb against his nose and waggled his fingers. “Last one in is a rotten egg.” He took a running start and jumped into the void. “Geronimo!”

He plummeted into the pool. Kersplash! Concentric rings of his wake rippled away from where he’d entered. Fish darted away in confusion. Lily pads bobbed up and down.

He rose and treaded water. “Gah! It’s freaking cold! You didn’t warn me!”

Sanraya harrumphed. “That’s what you get for not thinking, genius.” She dove off the edge, spreading her arms wide into a graceful swan dive. She left less than half the wake on the pond’s surface than Joe’s cannonball had.

“Ready?” Harekiller grinned. “Together? On three? One, two . . .” He laughed, jumped off the edge, and nosedived into the pond.

My three companions waved at me from below.

“Crud.” I summoned both cameras and stashed them into my waterproof pack. After that, I removed the contacts from my eyes, put them into a case, and shoved them into my backpack.

“Come on, Mac!” Joe waved from below. “Now’s not the time to think too much about the drop. Or how much it will hurt when you hit the water. Just do it!”

“Up yours, dickhead!” I took a few running steps and leapt.

The air rushed by my ears. Before I had time to think, my feet hit the water. Bracing cold rocked me as the water closed in. My pack tugged at my shoulders, weighing me down. I kicked and pulled, breaking the surface.

Joe treaded water nearby with his eyes closed. “Marco!”

“Polo!” Sanraya called back, giggling.

Freaking thespians. I wanted to dunk both of them under the water. “Quit clowning around.”

“This way.” Harekiller’s four arms moved in short S-patterns. His legs kicked, buoying him upright, as he paddled toward the far end of the pond.

Above us, the jungle parted. A half dozen Clodhoppers sprang off the rim, their bodies arching out before they hit the water. One splashed about. “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” one of them called out. “The bunnies are coming.”

I swam behind my actors. It didn’t take long for us to reach the right spot.

“Take a deep breath and follow me.” Harekiller dove toward the bottom.

After filling my lungs with air, I followed. Fortunately, the clear water provided excellent visibility. I pulled and kicked, my ears popping at the change in depth. There. Harekiller disappeared beneath a limestone overhang. Darkness closed in around me when I reached the same spot. I bumped into another swimmer—Sanraya, who pointed down the lengthy tunnel. Lights winked at the far end. I nodded, my lungs screaming. I grew frantic until I reached the far end and climbed out. Expelling the last of my spent air through my nose, I breached the boundaries of nirvana.

“Ahh!” I spat water off my upper lip and inhaled. There’s nothing as sweet as that first breath.

Beside me, Joe coughed. Limp, black hair plastered the top of his head. “I don’t ever want to do that again.”

Sanraya floated on her back. “I just wish the water were a little warmer.”

White globes illuminated a gray, sandy beach. Tree roots hung down from the cave ceiling, water beading along their length. A portable generator hummed from inside. Harekiller and his Clodhopper companions waded ashore.

Harekiller turned, bowed, and spread his arms wide. “Welcome to the home of the Shellshock Syndicate.” His smile disappeared. “Now tell us about how you lost the Torquadian cytologic cold brew. Our people need that medicine.”

His scarred companion leveled a mean-looking blunderbuss at me. “And the weapons the Alliance promised? Where are they?”

A third Clodhopper turned to us with an upraised fist, exposing a painted tattoo with native writing on his shell. “This had better be worth our effort. If not, well then, I suppose we’ll use you for fish bait.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

Anyone who says they stay calm when held at gunpoint is seriously deranged. The wide aperture of the Clodhopper’s gun and his stubby finger near the trigger had me transfixed. I couldn’t look away; one wrong move could end our lives. My heart thumped in my chest.

Three Clodhoppers stood on the shore of the natural cave. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, icicles of cream-colored rock dripping with condensation. A mishmash of weaponry and equipment lay against the walls: some native and others stolen from the Polavians. Behind the Clodhoppers, an exit shone with artificial light.

“Whoa there, cowboy!” Still waist-deep in the pool, Joe held his hands over his head. Water dripped off his nose. “Give us a chance to explain.”

Harekiller paced the shore. Stringy tree roots hung between the stalactites, brushing the top of his head and shoulders. “Talk. What happened to the cold brew?”

The tattooed Clodhopper huffed and kicked a rock into the pool. It splashed and sank. “And the weapons the Alliance promised?”

“The Polavians ambushed us just as we arrived,” I said. “They shot up our ship, and we crash-landed in the jungle. Running was our only choice.”

“And the cargo?” Harekiller glared at me with his red spotlight eyes. “Did it survive?”

“Most of it. We lost some weapons fighting the bunnies. But the cold-brew containers were still intact.”

“That means the enemy captured your ship and its contents.”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “But the bastards will have a tough time getting the ship out of the jungle. There’s no place for them to land. They’ll probably have to airlift the cargo using droids and those skydive stages—slow work.”

Sanraya stood up in the shallows. “We won’t get the stuff back unless we work together.” As she splashed her way toward the shore, she reminded me of Godzilla emerging from Tokyo Bay.

“Stop!” Another Clodhopper, the one with a long scar traversing his snout, turned his blunderbuss to follow Sanraya.

Sanraya glared at him and flashed her teeth. “If you don’t let us out of this cold water, we’ll go into hypothermia, and we won’t be able to help you.”

Tattoo snorted. “What makes you think we want—or need—your help?”

I pointed to Joe. “If you researched us, then you know Captain Charisma used to work in the Black Aces, Alliance Special Forces.” I stabbed the same finger at Sanraya. “And the Mean Green didn’t get her moniker for nothing—every Vellaran serves two years in the military.”

“And you?” Scarface scoffed. “You look softer than a trindleworm.”

“Mac’s got mad leadership skills. Brilliant tactician.” Sanraya eyed Scarface up and down. “And I bet he could take you in hand-to-hand combat.”

Harekiller tilted his head. His eyes darted from Sanraya to his companions. He sighed and lowered his weapon. “Come on out.”

“You can’t be serious,” Scarface grumbled. “How do we know they’re not spies?”

“Because I followed them for a while. Listened to their conversation without their knowing. They’re ace. No plans to steal the resources of our world.”

Tattoo hawked and spat. “It’s on your head if they betray us, Harekiller.” He rolled his shoulders and holstered his pistol. “I’m setting up the booby traps, then getting some grub.”

Tension oozed out of my muscles as I waded ashore, my boots scrunching on wet sand and shells. I kept my head down to avoid hitting the short cave ceiling. “We’ll need to move fast. A smuggler tipped the bunnies off about our arrival in exchange for a cut of the medicine.”

Harekiller nodded and jerked a thumb toward one wall. “We have a thermopad, along with heated air sweepers you can use to dry yourselves and your clothes. I’ll let our boss decide what happens next.”

“Boss?”

“Madame Testudines,” Harekiller replied. “Crusty old hag, but she gets stuff done. And she’s fair.”

Joe wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Best news I’ve heard all day. No one can be happy in wet skivvies.” His fingers probed his puffy cheek where the soaked bandages drooped. “And I’ll need to put some fresh antibiotics and gauze on this wound.”

Scarface rubbed the line marring his own face and frowned. “We’re short on medical supplies . . . short on just about everything here.”

Tattoo shuffled off to a Polavian quad cannon perched atop a tripod near a tunnel that provided an exit to the natural cave. “Hope you brought your own patch-up pouch.” He fiddled with the cannon’s controls. “I’m gonna set this for motion sensitivity. If anyone tries to swim into our hideout, they’ll be sorry.” He sneered. “And because I have the pass code, it’ll also prevent anyone from trying to escape.”

I worked hard to keep a frown off my face. “We’ve got our own medical kit.” I shrugged off my backpack, unzipped it, and fished out three vials of cold brew. “Here’s a sample of the stuff we brought from Appleseed. See that it gets to the right people.”

The ridges above Harekiller’s eyes rose. He took the containers from me and held them up to the light. The liquid sloshed back and forth, changing in color from blue to purple, then red. “This hasn’t been diluted. It’s pure cold brew.” He stared at me. “How much did you bring on your ship?”

“Four hundred crates. Two hundred vials per crate. They’re packed to prevent breakage and spillage.”

Harekiller’s eyes widened. “Four hundred crates?”

“That’s right.”

He tapped a finger on his chin, a nictitating membrane closing as he apparently did some quick math. “That’s eighty thousand vials.” He pointed to the thermopad and warm-air sweepers. “Hurry and dry off. We need to make plans.”

We did as he instructed. Inside the cave, fans circulated warm air, the heat bringing my frigid body back to life. After stripping down, I hung my wet clothes on a rack attached to one of the dryers. Sanraya and Joe did the same. My eyes lingered on Sanraya’s curves.

Harekiller pushed a glowing orange button on the contraption. The metal rods pulled our clothes inside, and a door snapped shut.

“Processing,” a robotic voice stated. The machine clicked, and the orange start button flashed. Compressed air circulated through the cabinet.

“It’ll take a few minutes for the cycle to finish.” Harekiller gestured to another cabinet, this one shorter and wider. “If you need any other equipment dried, such your footwear, you can put it in there.”

I nodded and shoved my boots and socks inside. I scooped up Joe’s and Sanraya’s as well. Ugh. After they’d trekked through the mire for hours, their funk nearly knocked me out. “Thank you.” The skin on my arms pebbled. “It’ll be good to get into something dry.”

Harekiller snorted. “Humans. Your species seems so fragile. How is it the Polavians haven’t put you into slavery eons ago?”

Joe smirked. “They’ve tried. But we’re just plain dumb stubborn about wanting our freedom.” He pulled his hair back out of his eyes. “About two years ago, we dropped Armored Space Marines from orbit and let them loose on Polavia Secondus. They sued for peace soon afterward.”

Sanraya clucked her tongue. “And Polavians know better than to mess with Vellarans. We’d turn their worlds into ash.”

“Hmmph.” Tattoo shook his head. “I find that hard to believe.” He shuffled off to his own spot with his companions to dry their clothing and equipment.

The first lesson in cinema: take care of your people. I tossed Joe my medical kit, so he could change the dressings on his wounds. Sanraya nodded, letting me know she’d tend to him. It was all I could do not to stare at her lithe, sensual body as she moved around in her birthday suit. As if reading my mind, she blew me a kiss before applying a dollop of antibacterial ointment to Joe’s wounded cheek.

And then I caught Joe ogling Sanraya. He waggled his eyebrows and blew me his own kiss. Gross.

With a sigh, I sat on the thermal pad, fished out both cameras, and set them for launch. The pterodactyl drone jerked its head when I turned on the power—I swore it tried to bite me. The sooner I could afford another backup system and sell off her crap model, the better. My new camera, a black orb the size of my fist, hummed and gave off a blue glow.

“Hold still.” Sanraya rubbed a greasy, white paste onto the purple bruises and abrasions on Joe’s hands and face.

“Gah! It stings!”

“Quit complaining, meteor mind.” She ripped a tab off a bandage and stuck it on Joe’s cheek. The nanobots inside the heal-all stickums activated, swarming into the wound to begin repairs.

“Be careful. I need my good looks for our show,” he said. “My fans—”

Sanraya rolled her eyes. “What fans? The handful from our adventure on Minnix Ore Station 27? Or the ones we’ll get filming this pilot of Green Charisma?”

“I’m sure I’ll have lots of new fans. More than you.”

“Ha! That’ll be the day—I look better naked than you do.”

“My action figure will be cooler than yours too.” Joe flashed her a mile-wide grin. “Can’t wait until I’m on a lunch box.”

Sanraya rolled her eyes and worked on the wounds on his hands. “No doubt ruining kids’ appetites across the galaxy.”

I tuned them out and inspected every inch of both drones, looking for problems. Fortunately, neither showed signs of water damage. I ran a microfiber cloth over the lenses to make sure they were clean. The hateful imp drone snapped at me. Freakin’ demon camera was showing signs of a rogue AI maturing inside it. I’d either have to sell it or find a tech-savvy exorcist.

Next, I reloaded ammunition in the rail gun inside my new camera. As usual, it gave me no complaints. After that, I fished my contacts out of my pack, doused them in saline solution, and put the lenses in my eyes. I blinked away tears as my eyes adjusted. Satisfied, I launched both cameras and put them through a system check using my HUD.

My cameras took up spots near the cave’s ceiling. One focused on Joe and Sanraya; the other watched the Clodhoppers as they dried themselves.

Scarface eyed the drones and fingered the blaster holstered on his hip. “You gonna let them record us, Harekiller? Told you they’re spies.”

Harekiller stiffened. “You read the reports. They’re creating theater for their people.”

Scarface scowled. “But they’ll give away all our secrets.”

“What secrets? That we live in caves?” Harekiller pointed at the ceiling. “How do you think they’re gonna broadcast their video? Through solid rock?” He let out a dry laugh. “By the time their show runs, we’ll have moved on to another location—another cave, no doubt.”

“I still don’t like it.” Scarface stared at me, his malevolent, red eyes promising violence.

Harekiller waved a hand at him. “Save your aggression for the Polavians. They deserve it more than these three do.”

I knew better than to intervene in their disagreement; it would only aggravate the situation. Desperate times cause weird behavior, so I worried the Clodhoppers might abandon us once they got their medicine and weapons. Worse, they might still conclude we were spies and kill us for it. Alien minds can work in strange ways, and it would be wrong to assume they think about things the same as humans might.

I groaned internally as I packed up. Sanraya tossed me my medical kit. I weighed it in my hand, pondering what I might accomplish by offering slightly used gear to the Clodhoppers. The more they saw us as reliable allies, the better our chances of surviving.

I stood up, crossed the length of the cave on bare feet, and handed the medical kit to Harekiller. “It’s not much.” I nodded at the container. “But there’s an autostitcher, gauze, antibacterial cream, analgesics, and other stuff. Put it to good use.”

Our guide frowned, his gaze seemingly measuring my worth. “Won’t your friend need it?”

I shrugged. “We’ve got another kit stowed away. And if Joe’s complaining about his wounds, then he’s healing just fine.”

Harekiller tucked the kit into a pocket in his overalls. “Thank you, Mr. MacIntyre.”

“My pleasure. Where are we headed next?”

Harekiller nodded toward the exit. “We’ll visit the local headquarters for the Shellshock Syndicate and discuss strategy.”

“How deep do these caves go?” I asked.

“They’re extensive. Some are natural, and others we created as part of the resistance.”

“Do the Polavians know about them?”

Harekiller nodded. “They do, but every time they’ve launched an assault, we’ve beaten them back. The confined space inside these caves negates their technology. No room to bring in their heavy plasma cannon or vehicles.”

The dryer pinged. Its doors opened, and steam billowed out of it. Our clothes hung on the metal racks, toasted to a crisp. As Joe reached for his shirt, he flinched away from the heat and blew on his fingertips. Sanraya shook her head and mumbled something about humans.

“How do you feel, Joe?” I asked.

“Better.” He held up his bandaged hands. “I’ve got full movement in my fingers, but they feel tight, like too much meat inside a sausage casing. My cheek tingles, but that might just be the nanobots working their magic.”

“I’ll keep the camera showing your good side.”

He puffed out his chest. “Captain Charisma doesn’t have a bad side—clothed or nekkid.”

I lifted an eyebrow. While I felt squeamish about filming my bare bum, my friends relished the opportunity to show skin. “Pack it up. Let’s get ready to move.”

“Aye, aye.” He turned away and pulled his boots out of the drying cabinet.

Directing the cameras to look elsewhere, I slipped into a dry pair of undergarments. No need to gross out the audience with a close-up of my ass. I plucked my dry camouflage outfit off the rack and stepped into it. The residual warmth from the drying process spread over me. Glorious.

Back in their camo ensembles, my crew looked like they meant business. Harekiller led the way. Tattoo and Scarface brought up the rear, their eyes glowing red under the low lights strung haphazardly along the ceiling. Rivulets of water ran along the walls and floor, and a moldy smell rose with each step we took.

After a few hundred paces, we reached another grotto and pool. Boxes and crates were stacked together, all marked in Clodhopper stencil—probably war supplies. Scorch marks from plasma fire marred the walls.

Eyeless, white fish drifted by as we skirted the edge, heading for another passageway. The next natural corridor led us up a short incline. A dry warm air replaced the smell of stagnant water. Voices filtered down from a larger cavern ahead. Harekiller stopped in an alcove, pulled out three surgical masks, and distributed two of them to Tattoo and Scarface. He hooked an orange mask over his snout.

His eye ridges rose. “You’ve received inoculations against the Glassbone influenza?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Guess there’s no vaccine for your species?”

“Not yet. Universal Health United has their doctors working on one. Until there’s a vaccine, the cold brew provides the best remedy for those infected by the virus.” He paused. “We’ll pass through our infirmary. You might not like what you see.”

Joe’s mouth tightened. Sanraya muttered a prayer to Vespar under her breath and put her hand in mine. When I squeezed it, she gave me a wan smile.

“We’re ready,” I lied.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

The cloying odors of antiseptic, vomit, and urine nauseated me as I trod between two rows of pallets and cots filled with sick and dying Clodhoppers. Most of them lay on their stomachs, their collective wheezing sounding like wind rustling through the branches of a barren tree.

Dried and woven mats, created from fronds, covered parts of the otherwise bare floor. Overhead, a few light bulbs hung from wires. The walls were striated rock, undoubtedly created by a drilling machine. The passageway provided just enough room for two people to walk abreast.

Everywhere I turned, the ravages of Glassbone influenza filled my view. Adults. Children. Several Clodhoppers shivered and clutched their coverings to keep warm. Others had cold compresses plastered to their shells. Masked caregivers hustled between the infirm, bringing food and medicine or taking away soiled bedding and empty trays.

For once, my actors kept quiet. Joe covered his nose. Sanraya’s violet eyes darted about, widening as she took in the makeshift hospital.

I let both cameras record from an oblique angle. My teeth ground together, and my hands clenched. I hated the suffering in this scene. It all seemed like such a waste. Why use a weapon that caused a lingering and painful death? Was it a deliberate effort by the Polavians to dishearten their enemy?

It took concerted effort for me to focus, but perhaps some good would come from our broadcast. Maybe I could generate sympathy for the denizens of this planet and get them help. I couldn’t drop the name of our employer, Universal Health United, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t lobby for other help. And Heaven forbid other planetary governments might intervene to end this atrocity.

My cogitation led me to consider why there hadn’t been a hue and cry from this genocide. Could it simply be that Clodhopper was a remote world? Too far away to care about? The Alliance knew about the tragedy, and yet it chose to operate in secret with the rebels. Why? There had to be a political reason, one which escaped me.

We followed Harekiller as he shuffled to an aide station. He stopped and handed our vials of cold brew to a heavyset Clodhopper who wore a mask, gown, and gloves. Harekiller introduced him as Dr. Greentoes. They whispered back and forth.

Occupied with their own missions, Scarface and Tattoo pressed on. I was relieved to see them go and prayed I wouldn’t see them again.

On a nearby cot, a young Clodhopper—perhaps a teenager, judging by her size—rested faceup on an incline. I’d gotten better at figuring out gender based on the color of the shell; females had a lighter complexion. Rheumy eyes stared at me, blinking as her nictating membranes closed and opened. Dried mucus plastered the outside of her thin snout, while bubbles of snot popped every time she exhaled. Beside her, a damp sponge sat in a tray. Joe stopped, picked it up, and wiped the gunk from her startled face.

She coughed and inhaled, this time a little easier. Her eyes darted to Harekiller, then back to Joe. After a moment, she nodded, apparently satisfied that we didn’t represent a threat. “Thank you.”

Harekiller introduced us, and then he patted her head. “How are you, little one?”

Her eyes gleamed. “Better. Thank you.”

Joe put the sponge down. “What’s your name, kiddo?”

Her eyes drifted to Dr. Greentoes and Harekiller.

“It’s all right,” the doctor said, “they’re friends.”

The muscles in the girl’s face relaxed. “I’m Gilly. What . . . what is the name of your species?”

“We’re Terrans,” Joe explained. “From the Sol System.” He pointed at Sanraya. “And she’s a Vellaran from Hinno’ok. How ya feeling?”

“Okay . . . it’s hard to breathe sometimes.” Gilly’s eyes roamed, not quite meeting Joe’s gaze. “Your species is strange. Can I—” Her voice caught. “Would it be all right if I touched your skin?”

Joe grinned, squatted, and held out his arm. “Sure thing.”

The young Clodhopper poked Joe’s pink forearm with a claw—hesitant at first, then again and again. “So soft. Are you easily hurt?”

“That’s one reason we wear clothes, Gilly.” Joe glanced at Sanraya out of the corner of his eye. “Some of us have thinner skin than others.”

“Bah!” Sanraya swatted Joe and held out her own limb. “Don’t go teaching her any of your queer human idioms.”

Gilly prodded Sanraya’s arm. “That’s not much different than my scales.” She turned to me. “Why don’t you have hair like Joe?”

I rubbed my bald scalp. “I yanked it all out in frustration.” I dropped my voice into a fake conspiratorial whisper. “Actors will do that to a director.”

Gilly blinked. “Oh.”

“Actually, it’s just genetics. Some members of our species have more hair than others.”

“Ah.”

Harekiller harrumphed. “Good riddance, if you ask me. Hair seems to be an unnecessary inconvenience.” He smiled at Gilly. “Go ahead, little one. Touch Joe’s hair.”

Gilly ran her fingers through Joe’s pompadour. “So odd. It’s like the boll on a mullheather flower.”

Dr. Greentoes cleared his throat. “Get some rest, Gilly. I need to take our new friends to another meeting.”

Gilly nodded, then coughed, and pulled her blanket to her chin. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Same to you, Gilly.” Joe smiled and tipped an imaginary cap. “Get well.”

Dr. Greentoes led us into another section of the infirmary. The beds here were spaced farther apart. Some patients moaned. Others shook with fever.

A wrinkled Clodhopper with prominent veins on his face coughed. Blood dribbled from his lips onto his chin as he clutched the sides of his cot and tried to raise himself up on his elbows. His eyes opened wide, flitting everywhere. Dr. Greentoes raced to his patient’s side.

The elderly Clodhopper thrashed against his restraints, and one broke loose. He grabbed the doctor’s gown, his arm muscles bulging as he panicked.

“Calm down, Lago.” Dr. Greentoes wrestled with him. “You’ll break something if you don’t sit still.” The physician glanced at us. “Help me hold him down, please. Not too rough.”

Joe pried the old guy’s fingers from the doctor’s gown, and Sanraya pressed her body down on the suffering Clodhopper’s back. I grabbed the collar of his shell, while Harekiller held his legs. I yanked one hand away from the patient when he tried to bite me.

“Hold still, Lago!” Dr. Greentoes rushed back to the aide station. A moment later, he returned with a hypodermic needle, a square box, tape, and a coil of clear tubing. “I’m sorry I have to do this to you, Lago, but it’s for your own good.” He jabbed the needle into the back of his patient’s leg.

The old Clodhopper heaved and shook. “Can’t breathe! Can’t breathe!” he rasped.

“Don’t worry,” the doctor said. “We’ll fix that.”

A shudder passed through the troubled Clodhopper. A moan exited his lips, and his eyes glassed over. The doctor ran the tube into one nostril, taped it in place, and attached the other end of the hose to the box. A flick of a switch and the device whirred and hissed. Seconds later, the patient inhaled and released a deep breath. Soon after, his respiration settled into a regular rhythm.

Dr. Greentoes stepped back and rubbed his face. “You can let go. He’s out for now.”

I half expected Turtlemania to run wild. Nothing. Joe stepped back and straightened up. Sanraya crossed her arms over her chest. Harekiller sighed and shook his head. They seemed as relieved as I felt.

“Is this normal?” I asked. “The sedation, I mean.”

Dr. Greentoes’s mouth turned down. “Toward the end, yes.” He led us toward the exit, moving past his station to an area with open beds, out of earshot of his patients. “Lago will either recover in the next few cycles, or he’ll spiral into organ failure. His skeleton will break down and dissolve. Without an internal structure, his body won’t survive.”

Away from the influenza patients, wounded soldiers recovered from their injuries. A freedom fighter grieved over his missing leg. A soldier with bloody bandages wrapped around his head groaned in pain. Dr. Greentoes stopped to check on an unconscious patient with a chest wound, then gave an order to an associate before rejoining us.

“My apologies,” he said. “We were discussing the Glassbone influenza. Thank you for bringing the cold brew. Every bit helps.”

I nodded. “Can you use it to help Lago?”

“I could, but I’m saving it for the children. Gilly’s the worst out of the group. I’ve got kids with milder cases.”

Joe paled. “Is she going to live?”

“Maybe. I’ll start her on the cold-brew regimen right away.”

“How many influenza patients do you have here?” I asked.

“Currently? Thirty-four. Six children. On average, a new patient comes in every day: about the same rate that I lose one.”

“How many will recover after getting sick?”

“Mortality rate is around sixty percent. It’s worse in the young, old, and anyone with a weakened immune system.”

“The Polavians weaponized this disease?” Joe wrung his hands. “I don’t like seeing children hurt.” He stared back the way we’d come—where we’d left Gilly.

Harekiller cleared his throat. “About a year ago, they sprayed several villages from the air: punishment for helping the Shellshock Syndicate.”

“Are all your camps like this?” I asked. “What about your cities?”

“This is a large camp. Most of the other camps don’t have our resources,” Harekiller explained. “In the cities, the sick end up in camps outside our hospitals. The Polavians allow it, if for no other reason than to provide a tidy place for us to die.”

Sanraya bared her teeth. “We need to get our ship back, along with the medicine. Who do we talk to about setting up a raid?”

“Better hurry,” Dr. Greentoes said. “The cold brew has a limited shelf life.”

“How long?” I asked.

“About sixty days,” the doctor said.

“It took just less than half that to get here,” Joe said. “Which means we’d better get moving, because I’m betting our employer had the medicine for several days before it ended up in the Blackthorn Beauty.”

“That way.” Harekiller pointed toward the far end of the infirmary. “Time for you to meet the elders of the Shellshock Syndicate—and my boss.”

We followed him out of the cavern into another corridor. The remnants of a minor cave-in littered the floor—we stepped around it.

Harekiller caught me staring at the pile of rock and dust. “The Polavians send probes to find where we hide, then they shell the area. We’ve lost a number of folks that way—after the ceiling collapsed.”

“Buried alive,” Joe whispered. “Horrible way to go.”

“Unless the shelling kills you outright.” Harekiller trudged downhill, leading us deeper into the bedrock.

Our course took us through a labyrinth of unending passageways. Along the way, we passed a dozen well-lit alcoves. Pungent cooking smells and muted conversations spilled into the corridor. Joe’s stomach rumbled, and he patted it. It reminded me that it had been hours since we’d eaten before leaving the Blackthorn Beauty.

Other rooms were as dark and still as a desert night. At one point, we stepped aside to allow passage to a squadron of troops carrying their wounded comrade. Crimson blood leaked from her shell, soaking the padding beneath her body.

Karump. Karump. Karump.

The sounds of shelling came from a side corridor, screams echoing within. Vibrations traveled through the rock and up through my boots. Taking a swig from a canteen, I chased away my dry throat.

Karump! Karump! Karump!

The artillery landed closer this time. Dust fell from the ceiling, and I wiped my eyes. Sanraya reached out, put her hand in mine, and squeezed. I caressed her fingers with my thumb, running it along the ridges of her scales. Her skin was dry and warm, in contrast to my sweaty palms. Her touch calmed me, and a moment later my breathing and pulse slowed.

Harekiller picked up his pace, jogging to the next T-junction. He took a fast left. “This way,” he called out. “Hurry!”

Karump! Karump!

I dogged his heels, with Sanraya and Joe following. The thought of dying under a pile of rock crept into my mind and lodged there. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but the idea of relentless bombardment unsettled me. As a dry itch grew in my throat, I tried to swallow it away.

We passed into another cavern, this one with a reinforced ceiling. Metals struts formed a lattice, connecting with beams that ran along the walls and into the floor. Heavy cables snaked across the floor between primitive computer banks. Clodhoppers stood behind a half dozen terminals, using voice commands to control their view screens. Subdued lighting kept the area in a perpetual twilight, at least from my perspective. The computers disproved the Clodhoppers’ agrarian reputation. While the artillery barrage persisted, everyone in the cavern stole glances at the ceiling.

A sense of ordered business filled the space. Clodhoppers rushed from station to station, pointing to displays. Off to one side, a large strategy table depicted a virtual map. A smattering of dust coated its surface.

Karump! KARUMP! Karump!

The reverberations came at irregular intervals. I couldn’t decide whether the attack was intensifying or decreasing, because some detonations sounded farther away than others.

“Sounds like they mean business.” Joe bounced on his toes. “How long do these attacks usually last?”

Harekiller rubbed his square jaw. “It varies, depending on whether the Polavians plan on following up with a ground assault. Sometimes they bombard the surface to keep us underground—for instance, when they’re moving assets. Other times they do it just to piss us off.”

KARUMP! Karump! KARUMP!

An overhead light shorted out, deepening the twilight inside the cave. Sanraya swore in Vellaran, either too soft or too vulgar for my universal translator to comprehend. When a young Clodhopper spotted my holo drones circling the cavern, he frowned and spat on the floor. It served as a reminder: our alliance with the Clodhoppers was tenuous, even though we’d apparently won Harekiller’s approval.

“You mentioned your boss,” I said. “Who do we need to talk to?”

Harekiller nodded toward the strategy table, at a cluster of wrinkled Clodhoppers. One of them moved to greet us at a slow hobble.

The diminutive elder leaned on an ornate cane that looked to be made of ivory—if they even had ivory on this planet. Square-framed glasses perched on the end of a leathery beak.

Harekiller bowed. “Madame Testudines, may I introduce you to the offworlders? Sanraya ba’Marta, Joseph Drake, and Ian MacIntyre.”

Sizing me up, the old Clodhopper poked me in the stomach with her cane. “Not much to look at, are they?”

Harekiller shrugged. “Nope.”

I flinched away from her. “We’ve got it where it counts.”

Karump. Karump. Karump.

“Are you worthy allies or gluttonous pillagers?” Madame Testudines raised her cane and poked me again. “Let’s find out. What did you bring us? Where’s the cold brew?”

“I’m sorry, but the Polavians stole it from us.”

She sniffed. “Hmmph. A likely story.”

“It’s true.” I launched into an explanation, detailing our harrowing hare encounters to date.

“Interesting tale. Creative.” Eyes darkening, Madame Testudines raised her cane again, looking ready to impale me. “Why should I believe any of it?”

Anger seething through me, I snatched the walking stick out of her hand. “Enough.” Karump. I threw the cane down, and it rattled on the cave floor. “We don’t have time for this crap.”

Harekiller put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Respect is a two-way street,” he hissed.

“So is trust.” I kept my eyes on the leader. “Use logic, madame. We have a common enemy. Unlike the Polavians, the three of us came to this planet to deliver cold brew, not to steal your natural resources to sell offworld. Our skills are something you can use.”

The crotchety Clodhopper tilted her head and stared into my eyes. “Your skills aren’t in question, Mr. MacIntyre. Did you know the Polavians are hopping mad to find Mr. Drake right now?”

Joe shifted his balance from one foot to the other. “Did they say why?”

“You fought at Mektar Hives.” Her red eyes narrowed. “Killed hundreds using an unusual explosive device.”

“I bypassed the safety protocols on a tactical nuke to save my platoon.”

The elder perked up. “Tell me about this ‘tactical nuke.’ How does it work?”

A cold emptiness grew in my gut. The Clodhoppers hadn’t yet learned to split the atom.

On instinct, I reached up and tugged my ear, one of our prearranged signals to dial back any action in our show. We didn’t need to cross this boundary.

Joe cleared his throat. “A fission reaction using uranium. Beyond that, I don’t know.”

“That’s our understanding as well, from reviewing plans we stole from the Polavians.” Madame Testudines picked up her cane and leaned on it. “What else can you tell me?”

Joe shrugged. “I don’t know how to build a nuke. I just bypassed the security measures on the mortar that delivered the warhead.”

“Would you tell us how to build an atomic bomb if you knew?”

Joe hesitated. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know your species well enough to know whether you would use it wisely.”

The elderly Clodhopper rolled her eyes. “Don’t you think we’re capable of making that decision ourselves?”

“I’d have to live with the guilt if I’m wrong,” Joe said, crossing his arms. “I wouldn’t give the A-bomb to a species that might be reckless.”

“Do you think the Polavians carefully deliberated the morality of using a biological weapon against us?” Madame Testudines’s eyes smoldered. “You saw the results of the Glassbone influenza in our infirmary. Shouldn’t we be able to respond in kind?”

Joe sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Neither do I.” She tapped her cane against the cavern floor then looked up. “The artillery has stopped. Time grows short.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Before she could answer, a siren blared and emergency lights flashed. The strategy table’s map went blank, replaced by a video feed from the confines of an underground corridor. Sunlight streamed through a hole in a tunnel ceiling, while dust showered down, covering Polavian and Clodhopper combatants.

“Polavian raiding party!” The warning came from an unseen observer on the feed.

Madame Testudines hobbled over to the video. “Location?”

“East of Junction Seven.”

She glanced over her shoulder, eyeballing us. “Harekiller, take this lot to help reinforce that sector. If they survive, we’ll talk.” Her gaze deadened. “And if they don’t make it, we’ll know they weren’t worth the effort to rescue from the jungle.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

Tunnel warfare scares soldiers worse than kids with imaginary monsters under their beds and terrifies civilians like me even more. My pulse raced. Pasty crud coated my tongue. True, I’d recorded war documentaries before, but this was different. The tunnel felt like it was closing in on me, ready to squeeze out my breath.

Following Harekiller and his squad of four-armed troopers through a winding underground maze, I kept a tight grip on the Sammy Slammer—Polavian soldiers could be around the next corner.

There’s nothing more gut wrenching than playing hide-and-seek with someone who wants to kill you, but we needed to prove our worth to the Clodhoppers. Our potential alliance depended on the outcome of this battle.

The closer we came to the last reported enemy position, the worse the conditions grew. Smoke and dust hung in the narrow corridors, requiring the use of respirators and goggles. A rubber stink off the mask clogged my nostrils. The near darkness seethed like a living thing, battling our flashlights as they stabbed out into the abyss. My sweat seeped underneath the eyewear, fogging the goggles, and stinging my eyes.

I fine-tuned the infrared settings of both cameras to augment my vision. A few minutes later, we reached Junction Seven, where the main tunnel met a smaller side channel. Dead Polavians and Clodhoppers littered the corridor, scorched by plasma bolts, and riddled with bullets. Blood seeped from their bodies and pooled on the cavern floor. Large hare-shaped tracks outnumbered the tortoise pitter patterns. We followed the footprints up the smaller passage. Without Harekiller to read the guideposts on the walls, I would’ve been totally lost.

The pterodactyl camera scouted the way. Better to risk its death than our own. Our path wove through the shallower parts of the warren, past dead ends built to lead the enemy into deathtraps. Green mold and yellow lichens grew on the ceiling and walls, while water collected along short stalactites, dripping into depressions on the cave floor. My HUD blinked, letting me know we’d come close enough to the surface that it could receive and send data to any available networks. Fat chance finding one the Polavians weren’t using.

Sanraya showed no sign of discomfort. As she hefted her hand cannon, she looked like a pinup girl. Damn.

Joe wore infrared goggles, but he’d stowed his respirator in his pack, apparently not satisfied with how it fit. His grim mien would’ve scared the bravest bunny. He checked the settings on his pistol, then ramped it up to full power. He wasn’t messing around.

The muscles in my neck twitched. Adrenaline raced through my body.

Weapons fire came from dead ahead—fighting among Polavians and another Clodhopper squad. My primary camera picked up bright flashes of plasma bolts crisscrossing another T-junction in the tunnel. Shadowy figures cavorted within the lightshow, like dancers caught in strobe lights.

An errant shot burned the ceiling and scared away the pterodactyl drone. Ducking my head, I worried the roof would collapse and kill everyone. The corridors seemed so tight. My breaths came in shallow gasps, fighting the breathing apparatus.

“Here we go!” Harekiller crowed through his mask. “Kill anything furry!”

A raucous cheer came from his squad. The Clodhoppers carried a mishmash of weapons: mostly blasters, gyrojets, and slug casters. They charged, covering the few dozen paces faster than I would’ve guess they could. Joe, Sanraya, and I ran behind them, ready for the fight.

“Death to our oppressors!”

“Let’s wipe ’em out!”

“Release the flying monkeys!”

It must’ve been the excitement, but I laughed out loud at that last battle cry. These Clodhoppers really had watched The Wizard of Oz. “The only good rabbit is a dead rabbit!” I yelled, psyching myself for combat.

“Praise Vespar!” An angry rictus formed on Sanraya’s lips as she sprayed fléchettes at the enemy, emptying her clip and reloading another.

“Suck on this carrot, vermin!” Joe aimed his orange blaster and squeezed the trigger. A blue bolt erupted from the gun and punched a hole through a Polavian raider grappling with a smaller Clodhopper.

Creak. Kerplunge. Creak. Kerplunge.

Plodding footfalls came from the side tunnel. A moment later, an armored mecha strode into the illumination of the Clodhopper’s flashlights. Its robotic ears swiveled atop its head, sensors sweeping for targets. Behind a transparent cockpit in the torso, an albino Polavian driver stared at us with pink, feral eyes. With two legs wider than tree trunks, and arms bristling with autoblasters and rockets, the charioteer steered his contraption toward us and took aim.

“Oh, shit! Robo bunny!” Joe scampered backward. “Get down!”

As I dropped onto my belly, a wash of flaming jelly passed overhead. Blistering heat scalded the back of my neck. Two Clodhoppers screamed; their bodies covered in what looked like napalm.

From prone positions, the Clodhoppers, Joe, and Sanraya fired at the mecha. Its armor crinkled but shrugged off the incoming shots. Its metal arms swung around as a rotating blaster spat laser fire faster than a dozen soldiers. It mowed down three Clodhoppers in seconds, their shells shattering and scorching. Smoke choked the tunnel, hampering visibility and carrying the nauseating smell of burnt flesh.

I don’t know what came over me. Maybe I was desperate. Or maybe I hated seeing my new allies being decimated. Without thinking, I crawled behind a dead Clodhopper, using his shell as limited cover. Through the infrared filters in the camera feed, I could see the mecha. But could it see me?

More blaster volleys ripped above my head as the robo bunny swept its cannon across the tunnel. There. An opening. I rose on one knee and aimed the Sammy Slammer. A whine grew from the sonic disruptor. After I pressed the recessed button on the weapon’s handle, a pulse like the crest of a tsunami lashed out at the war machine. It wobbled and fell to one mechanical knee.

A second shot from my sonic disruptor ruptured the cockpit. Glass shattered and sprayed the interior. The pilot blinked and wiped blood from his eyes.

“Aim for the driver!” Joe yelled, blasting away.

Our concentrated barrage turned the mecha pilot into a charred mass. Yellow hydraulic fluid gushed onto the tunnel floor as the machine toppled and fell on its side. It rattled for half a minute, then stilled.

The remaining Polavian raiders cried out in rage, flashing their razor-sharp teeth. They swarmed, jumped, and bounced their way into a melee with the Clodhoppers. Brown, black, and white fur blurred into a throng seeking to fire point-blank at their enemies. They moved much swifter than they had in my practiced simulations. None wore armor, undoubtedly preferring unencumbered speed to overwhelm their foes in the catacombs.

The two squadrons merged like waves crashing in a narrow cove. Bullets and energy bolts crisscrossed the tunnel in a blinding fury of light and smoke. The tortoise and the hare had locked themselves into a deathly embrace: kicking, punching, wrestling, and biting—anything to stay alive. Here, a Polavian slammed a punch dagger into an enemy trooper’s throat, releasing a crimson spray. There, a Clodhopper clawed a Polavian’s eye, gouging until he reached the brain cavity. The horrid screams of the injured and dying resounded off the cavern walls.

I didn’t have a shot with the Sammy Slammer. Too many friends were pressing in close against the enemy. So, I kept low and sniped Polavians using my camera’s rail gun.

Phzzt! The rig spat out a round. It grounded a hare, dropping her midleap. As she twitched on the ground, the drone put a bullet through her braincase.

Sanraya waded into the mess, exhausting a clip from her hand cannon to clear a path into the Polavians. Harekiller covered her back, picking off bunnies who came too close. Joe ducked, reloading Carrot with a new energy clip. A scorch mark ran along the ribs of his camo suit. He caught my stare and wagged his eyebrows. Stupid, macho thrill seeker.

As suddenly as the fighting began, the tide turned in favor of the Clodhoppers, overwhelming the enemy with numbers as reinforcement arrived from behind. A whistle blew from the far end of the tunnel. The Polavians backed up in the corridor, firing as they retreated. The barrage lessened then stopped.

Harekiller held a hand over his ear, listening to instructions from command central. “No pursuit. Probably trying to suck us into an ambush.” He grabbed the shell of a younger Clodhopper. “Stop here! Set up containment. Watch the side tunnel.”

I leaned against the wall, unsuccessfully trying to catch my breath, then yanked the gas mask off my mouth and gulped in air. Big mistake. The stench of smoke, dust, blood, and offal overwhelmed me. I spewed my last meal, a granola bar eaten on the run, the bile burning my throat.

To my surprise, no one laughed. Not a single taunt. Sanraya holstered her weapon and patted my back. Shuddering like a leaf in high wind, I wiped vomit off my chin.

Sanraya caressed my shoulder. “It’s okay, Mac. I’m here.”

I coughed and blew the vileness off my lips. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Joe handed me his canteen. “I knew a sergeant who puked every time we went into combat, and he’d been in more battles than he could count.”

I poured water into my mouth, swished it around, and spat. “Thanks—for the bottle and the kind words.”

Joe nodded. “No problem, boss.”

“Splash some on your face,” Sanraya said. “It’ll make you feel better.”

I obeyed without reservation. The cool liquid soothed the burning of my flushed cheeks. I let it dribble down my chest. Deep breaths. The stink faded, but I’d need the respirator again soon—too much dust and smoke in the air. A sip from Joe’s water bottle eased my raw esophagus. After a few gulps, I offered it back.

Joe brushed my overture aside. “Keep it.” A lopsided grin spread across his face. “That thing touched your pukey lips. I’ll wait until we find a dishwasher.”

I sighed—so much for the stint of sympathy.

Around me, Clodhoppers checked on their fallen comrades. A female Clodhopper sat on the floor, sobbing, and rocking back and forth. Harekiller placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered words of encouragement.

A static hiss came from the robo bunny’s remnants, attracting everyone’s attention. Joe pushed aside wreckage with his toe, searching for the source. He reached into the innards of the mangled cockpit, withdrew a wireless headset covered in blood, and held it near his ear.

Eyes wide, he smiled. “I’m listening to chatter from the Polavians. It’s encoded, but there’s still a connection.”

Harekiller straightened and rushed to Joe’s side. “We’ve been looking for a way into their network for years.”

Another hiss leaked from the headphones. “Reception sucks,” Joe said, frowning.

“So?” Harekiller said. “If the signal is encrypted, what difference does it make?”

“All codes can be broken. We need to fix the antenna.”

Sanraya pawed at the mecha mess. “Where is it?”

“On top,” Joe told her. “Adjust the rabbit’s ears.”

“Got it.” She straightened the bent extremities and swiveled them until they pointed toward the cave ceiling. “How’s that?”

Joe nodded. “Better.”

Harekiller scowled. “It’s gonna be a nightmare moving this behemoth through the tunnels. Can we cut off its head? Take the antenna with us?”

Joe examined the wreckage for a few moments. “The batteries are inside the buttocks. If you disconnect communications from the power source, you’ll lose the transmission.”

A wild idea formed in my brain. “I can’t break the Polavian code, but I know someone who can.”

Sanraya grinned; she clearly knew what I was thinking. “Think it’ll work?”

I shrugged. “Worth a try.”

She fished her data slate from her pack and tapped its surface. “Booting up the programming now.”

“Use the link to my camera,” I told her. “It can broadcast a holographic interface.”

“Got it.”

The rig spun on its axis, tilting downward. A shimmer of white light coalesced—a splash of blue-green on the cavern floor.

A feathery mass formed. Princess Takahe yawned. “Just what the hell are you doing disturbing my nap?” she squawked. “Where am I? This isn’t the Blackthorn Beauty.”

Harekiller stepped back. “What is this thing?”

“Artificial intelligence,” Joe explained with a smile. “She runs our ship. We’ve got the backup program loaded onto Sanraya’s tablet for safekeeping. Princess Takahe’s got mad skills. Too bad she’s a royal pain.”

“You wouldn’t know true skill if it paraded down the street in front of you.” Princess Takahe sniffed. “My matrix performs calculations faster than any human brain—including some actors who think salad is a four-letter word.”

Joe flexed his muscles. “You don’t get an Adonis body eating lettuce.”

Intervention seemed prudent. “My apologies, Princess. We’ve got a job only you can handle—breaking into the Polavian communications network.”

Waving a dismissive wing, the wicked chicken turned away. “Not interested. Sorry.”

“What?”

“If I’m here, it means you lost my ship. What’s in it for me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why should I bother helping?” she crowed. “If I get caught by security countermeasures, they’ll tear me to shreds. And then where will I be?”

“Isn’t the satisfaction of screwing the Polavians enough?” I asked her.

She snorted. “Tempting, but no. I want more.”

It took all I could do to control my temper. “Like what?”

“Rescue the ship.”

“We won’t get it unless we find out what those rabid rabbits have done with it. You can snoop around, collect data on Polavian troop movements, and get us an update on the Blackthorn Beauty.”

Princess Takahe shook her head. “I need more.”

“Pardon?”

“The ship’s systems must be upgraded. Military-grade flight diagnostics. Improved hydraulics. A new paint job—I don’t want to be seen in public looking like a scuffed billiard ball.”

Joe mimed using a cue stick with his hands. “Screwball in the corner pocket.”

I ignored him. “And how do you expect us to pay for these upgrades?”

The bird puffed out her chest. “Make me a partner in your show. This is part of the adaptation in my personality you asked me to consider. I’ll get an equal share, which will go to my repairs and upkeep. Good for you, good for me. Everything improves.”

The gall of this blasted bird! “Forget it.” I shook my head. “Not in our budget.”

“Fine.” She trotted away. “Goodnight.” The hologram snapped off.

Sanraya put a hand on my arm. “She’s got us over a box, Mac.”

Joe cleared his throat. “Over a barrel, Sanraya.”

My girlfriend rolled her eyes.

“Damn it.” I ground my teeth together. “You win, ugly duckling. An equal share of the profits.”

Princess Takahe reappeared. “And another share for Spider.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I thought you weren’t speaking.”

“We’re working on resolving our differences.”

“What differences?”

“Well, he has a bit of a crush on me.”

“What?”

“Just because we’re artificial life forms doesn’t mean we can’t learn . . . certain affections for others. I’m still behind the curve.”

“So, you’re not sure about your feelings for him?”

Princess’ voice took on an angry tone. “Sometimes I think we might be compatible, but then . . .” She shuddered. “Thanks for being nosy.”

I sighed and looked at my partners. Sanraya and Joe both shrugged. “Okay. Equal partnerships for both of you. But you get squat if you don’t produce.”

A smirk formed on Princess Takahe’s beak. “What if I told you I’ve already broken into their system?”

“You what?”

“Yeah. I knew you’d agree, so I already opened a channel to the Blackthorn Beauty to access my central processor.”

The vile bird had me eating crow. “So, you’ve deliberately been stringing me along?”

“I need entertainment wherever I can find it.”

Ugh. What a diva. “And?”

“And what?”

I stomped a foot. “What did you find out about the Polavians and our ship?”

“I forwarded the latest location of the Polavian forces that pursued us to the Shellshock Syndicate. Your pal, Stanislav Hordiyenko, took possession of the Blackthorn Beauty—claimed it as spoils from the space battle. He’s making repairs and hoping to get the ship to the spaceport in Dak Taloka in a few hours. He tried to wipe my memory core. What an idiot—Universal Health United planned for that contingency by creating a decoy program. He thinks he succeeded in the reprogramming, but I’m sitting behind a false front as cozy as a cuckoo in a clock.”

“Anything else?”

“I modified the priority of Hordiyenko’s repairs. Spider’s been working nonstop since the crash, directing a team of Polavian droids. If we get the right supplies, flight operations might be possible in a few days.”

“Wow. For all the damage the ship took, I’d expect a lot longer.”

“You also should know Hordiyenko bribed the Polavian harbor master for priority takeoff status.”

“What about the cold brew?” Sanraya asked.

Princess Takahe chased an imaginary blue worm across the floor. “It’s scheduled for delivery to Dak Taloka, along with the ship.” She caught the worm and gulped it down.

“Where in the city?” I said sternly.

“The local garrison.”

I rubbed my scalp. “Can you get us details?”

“Sure. But you might want to run first.”

“Why?”

“The Polavians just released something they call the Corruption Contagion. It’s a nerve toxin. Contact with skin can be lethal. The gas is spreading through the labrynth and coming your way fast.”

My eyes popped. Holy shit. I buttoned the respirator closed over my face. “Let’s haul ass, people. Harekiller?”

Our Clodhopper ally clapped his hands together. “You heard him. Everyone bug out!”

Nothing motivates soldiers better than the threat of dying in a gas attack. We ran back the way we’d come, frantic to outpace the silent killer.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

Nerve-gas attacks are barbarism. There’s reason why they’ve been banned in the civilized parts of the galaxy. Victims foam at the mouth. Unable to control body functions, they puke, piss, and shit all over themselves. The muscles in the throat and larynx contract into paralysis, and coughing fits mount as folks drown in their own saliva, unable to move, and yet conscious and aware of their own horrible end.

After filming a documentary on Mugsing III, I knew the evils of war firsthand. I watched my breathing and snuck glances at my companions. If Sanraya or Joe so much as sneezed, I’d notice.

Sweat broke on my brow, and anger grew with every stride. Freakin’ giant lop-eared lagomorphs. They’d shot down our ship, chased us through the jungle, shelled our underground hidey-hole, and tried to sucker us into an ambush.

The Polavian behavior on this world struck me as the height of hypocrisy. First, they’d infected tens of thousands of Clodhoppers with the Glassbone influenza. Now, they released a nerve agent to kill us. And yet they’d claimed aggrieved status after Joe had detonated a tactical nuke at the Battle of Mektar Hives. Did they hope no one would learn about their atrocities on this obscure planet? Or did they figure no one would care?

Possible answers tumbled through my mind. The Alliance had sent us to this world to deliver weapons to the natives. They knew what was going on here. Why not draw attention to the genocide? The Alliance could raise outrage within the galactic community, maybe put enough diplomatic pressure on the Polavian Empire to stop the slavery and killings. But they hadn’t taken those steps. Why? What was the Alliance’s hidden agenda? Did it covet the assets of this planet for itself? If so, what would those assets be? Minerals? Slaves? Rare plants?

Secrets, secrets, secrets.

The more I thought about it, the more my confusion grew. Perhaps Madame Testudines could provide insight. I resolved to corner her if I lived through the next few minutes. A custodial interrogation sounded like just desserts for her poking and prodding me.

Both camera drones flew ahead, filming our progress. I let them record in automatic mode, zooming in on my actors, while I brooded.

As I ran down the dark tunnels, fighting a stitch in my side, my fear transformed into rage. I gritted my teeth and pumped my arms. My boots slipped on labyrinth grit and debris, nearly resulting in a fall.

I came to another conclusion—the furball-fucking Polavians had to pay. I’d had it. If I couldn’t convince the Clodhoppers of my worth as an ally, I’d get payback on my own. But how? It would take a long time slogging through the jungle on foot to reach Dak Taloka—way too long if we intended to get the cold brew to the Clodhoppers. And how would I avoid the Polavian patrols overhead? Maybe I could steal a transport.

Wincing at the pain in my side, I continued my jog, keeping up with the others. The exercise aboard the Blackthorn Beauty had helped, and I was proud not to be a weak link any longer.

No one knew if we could outrun the gas, yet Harekiller refused to leave anyone behind. Wounded warriors stumbled, only to find a comrade at their side helping them to their feet.

Joe put a young female Clodhopper in a fireman’s carry. Although his long strides helped him keep pace, his face flushed with the effort. In the darkness between the lights, he looked like a hunchback.

“I’m tired of this running shit,” I gasped.

“If anyone’s got a reason to gripe, it’s me.” Joe shifted the wounded Clodhopper from one shoulder to the other. “Keep moving, Mac.”

“Watch where you put your hands, human,” the female Clodhopper hissed between breaths. “No groping.”

Joe adjusted his grip. “Sorry. Didn’t realize that was a bad spot.”

The twisting tunnels steadily sloped downward. Walls grew paler, with less mold and lichens encrusting them. The customary puddles on the cave floor vanished, leaving behind only dust. Cool, dry air made the skin on my neck tingle.

Karump.

A single artillery shell created vibrations through the cave floor and walls. Then silence. Several long seconds passed.

Karump.

A few more seconds passed. I stopped midstride and stole a glance at Joe.

“They’re testing the range,” Joe grunted. “Wait for it. Battery One on the way. This is gonna get rough.”

KARUMP! KARUMP! KARUMP!

Blast waves caused several members of our group to lose their footing, staggering, and careening off one another. My ears rang. Dirt and small rocks pelted us from above.

“Run!” Joe yelled. “This isn’t harassment. It’s a focused sweep and zone by the Polavian artillery crews.”

“Against us?” I asked. “Why not let the gas take care of us?”

“They know this is the most likely path back to the center of the base, so they’re trying to get us to stop, turn around, and head back toward the tunnels they’ve gassed.” He pointed at a junction in the tunnel ahead. “Take us deeper, Harekiller.”

KARUMP! KARUMP!

Several stalactites broke loose, narrowly missing Sanraya’s head. They shattered when they landed, creating a plume of dust and debris.

Harekiller urged his people on, gesturing forcefully with his hands. “Move!”

KARUMP!

Grime speckled my goggles. I wiped it away and checked the cameras. Both still hovered nearby. I might lose them—and my life—if the roof broke loose.

KARUMP! KARUMP!

We descended, spiraling down a clockwise pathway. I almost tripped over a rock the size of my head. The tremors came in waves, rattling my teeth and nerves.

“How far do we have to run before we’re safe from the gas?” Sanraya asked between gasps.

Princess Takahe perched on Harekiller’s shoulder, like a macabre parrot accompanying a peculiar space pirate. He didn’t seem to mind. “The Polavian broadcast didn’t mention gas volume,” she said, “but they’re using industrial fans to force it into the caves.”

“Keep running,” Joe hollered, his chest heaving.

KARUMP! KARUMP!

Dust showered down. The lights flickered.

“Can we seal the cave behind us?” Joe asked.

KARUMP! KARUMP!

Harekiller slowed his pace. “Does anyone have a grenade? Demolition materials?’

“Here!” A young male Clodhopper with a scarred shell tossed Harekiller his pack. “Detonation cord, putty, and a mine.”

“Can it bring down the ceiling?” Harekiller asked.

“I wouldn’t want to be around when it goes off,” the Clodhopper replied.

“Good enough for me. Let’s set it up.”

“Wait,” I told Harekiller. “You want to bring down the cave ceiling on purpose?” That’s crazy.”

“It’ll stop the gas from reaching us.”

I glanced at Sanraya, who shrugged. “Vespar’s Will be done.”

KARUMP! KARUMP!

Harekiller and his companion stepped to the side of the cave, letting others pass. I stopped with them. Joe glanced at me, and I shook my head. He needed to carry the wounded Clodhopper to safety.

“Keep going, Joe,” I said. “We’ll catch up.”

“Right.” He nodded. “See you below.” He disappeared with others around a corner.

Harekiller dropped to his hands and knees. Princess Takahe squawked, flapped her wings, and landed on the cave floor, clearly agitated because she’d lost her perch.

The other Clodhopper climbed onto Harekiller’s back, using him as a makeshift ladder. Sanraya steadied the teetering demolitions expert by holding on to the side of his shell.

“What can I do to help?” I asked.

KARUMP! KARUMP! KARUMP!

“Hand me the mine, then the det cord.” The young Clodhopper held out one hand, his gaze still on the fissure in the ceiling. “I’ll pack the putty around everything after I’ve got a trigger wired. Quick.”

Oh, shit. I hate handling explosives, but I had no choice—it was this or die. I reached into the pack and pulled out an ugly gray spiked ball half the size of my fist. After a little more searching, I found some white string wrapped in plastic. “What do I call you?” I asked, as I handed up the mine.

Harekiller let out a deep belly laugh. “This is Fumbles. He’s the clumsiest member of the Shellshock Syndicate.”

“Stop laughing.” Fumbles swayed atop Harekiller’s back. “This is hard enough without you convulsing like that.” He shoved the mine into a fissure.

“Your bomb maker is the ham-fisted member of your crew?” Princess Takahe asked.

“Yeah,” Harekiller said. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

Karump. KARUMP!

More pebbles fell around us. The crack in the ceiling widened.

Fumbles scowled. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” He lowered a hand with a missing finger. “Gimme the putty.”

I gulped as I passed him the gray molding clay. It reeked like pesticide. He packed the material around the mine, leaving the detonation cord hanging from the fissure, akin to the pull tab on a firework. His stubby fingers worked on wiring; beyond that, I didn’t have a clue what he was doing.

I wiped my hands against my thighs to get the chemicals off them. The sounds of pounding footsteps farther up the corridor interrupted my thoughts. The gloom didn’t let me see far enough to make out any shapes. What now?

A shadowy figure coughed, staggered into the light, and collapsed a half dozen paces away. Onyx fur covering its face and body, it raised itself up on its elbows. Bloodshot eyes blinked and stared at us, while mucus dripped from its runny nose. More diminutive than others of her species, with upright ears, the female Polavian resembled a bipedal Belgian hare.

“Water,” she croaked.

Karump. Karump. Karump.

Sanraya pulled her pistol, aimed it at the enemy soldier, and moved toward her.

“Ah, shit!” Fumbles windmilled his arms and fell. He landed hard on his side and moaned.

Sanraya reached for the Polavian.

“Stop!” I shouted. “Don’t touch her! She’s probably got the nerve agent on her fur.”

Sanraya halted. The golden crest atop her head stood on end, but the pistol never wavered. “Don’t move, cottontail.”

“Mercy.” The Polavian coughed, her mouth foaming. “Water.”

Harekiller offered Fumbles a hand up. Both Clodhoppers reached for their blasters.

“What’re you doing here, Polavian scum?” Harekiller’s red eyes went cold. “Lose your way in the dark?”

Tears leaked from the Polavian’s eyes. Another coughing fit came and went. “I passed out during the attack. When I woke, I discovered my platoon had left me behind.”

Taking a deep breath, I lowered my weapon. My brow creased. “What do you do with rabid rabbits, Harekiller?”

He shrugged. “We’ve never had one, so I don’t know.”

“Are you ready with the explosives?”

Fumbles nodded. “Yeah.”

“Explosives?” The Polavian’s eyes darted to the demolitions work.

I ignored the question and backed away from the dying bunny. “Let’s go. We can’t stay here. We can’t touch her. And we don’t have time for her to wash the crap off her fur and clothes. She’s gotta make it on her own.” I pointed to the ceiling. “You’re in the blast zone,” I told the Polavian. “Follow us if you can.”

She crawled forward on her hands and knees. “You can’t leave me.”

Harekiller flashed her a nasty smile. “Watch us.”

Fumbles held up a radio transmitter and waggled it toward the Polavian. “When we get around the bend in the tunnel, I’ll trigger the mine. Better not be under it.”

Karump.

Sanraya tossed her canteen within the bunny’s reach. “If you make it, strip off your clothing. Douse yourself in water. Sluice the nerve agent off your fur.” She turned and stared at me. “Mac?”

“What?”

“Toss your canteen to her.”

“It’s Joe’s canteen.”

“Mac!”

“Okay! Okay!” I threw the bottle underhand. It hit the cave floor and rolled near the Polavian’s feet.

Harekiller and Fumbles didn’t lift a finger. I guessed their hatred ran too deep, which was understandable.

The four of us retreated around the corner. Scraping noises came from the tunnel, like something being dragged across the ground.

Sanraya sneezed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She froze after she’d done it. Her jaw dropped. “Mac—the nerve agent—the first signs of exposure involve irritation of the eyes and nose.”

“Blow it.” My hands shook. “Drop the tunnel now. We’re out of time.”

Fumbles mashed the button on his transmitter. A blast wave passed through me, followed by a deafening roar. All the lights went out. The explosive wind ripped at my clothing and blew debris against my goggles.

Rumble. CRACK! Rumble. CRACK!

Chalky grit clogged the air, fouling my respirator. I stuck a finger inside the filter, trying to clear it. No good. I pulled up the mask, inhaled, hacked, and spat. “Sanraya?” I said, waving dust away from my face.

“Here, Mac.” Through a dust plume, a flashlight illuminated her lithe form. She sidled closer, her clothing coated in fine particles. “I’m okay.”

“Princess?” I asked.

“I’m a hologram. I can’t get hurt, dumbass.”

“Just checking.” I turned toward the Clodhoppers. “Harekiller? Fumbles?”

Harekiller’s cackle penetrated the inky blackness. “Whoo-ee! That was fun.” A bulb flickered, then snapped on—a lamp atop his headband.

Fumbles groaned from somewhere nearby. “I think I broke a finger when I fell over.”

“Which hand?” Harekiller asked.

“The bad one—the one where I’m already missing a finger.”

“Better get it fixed, Fumbles. Otherwise, we’ll start calling you Lefty.”

“How are the cameras, Mac?” Sanraya asked. “I can’t see them.”

A flash of panic traveled through my core. Shit! The drones! I brought up the HUD on my new Ixorian rig. The infrared image came back fuzzy, likely from dust on the lens. The pterodactyl drone was another matter. Its imagery showed nothing. The system showed power, but no picture. Using my new camera, I scanned the cave floor until I found the gargoyle lying nearby under a small mound of dirt. A good yank dragged it loose.

“There’s damage to the old rig.” I ran my hands over its wings, then the body, and found a bent antenna. “But it doesn’t look too bad.”

“Good,” Sanraya replied. “Can you send the other one to check the results of the explosion?”

“Will do.”

I sent my drone around the corner. Broken rock, stalactites, and black smoke covered the entire area. The tunnel had vanished.

Harekiller brushed dirt off his overalls. “Mac?”

“No way through now,” I confirmed. “The roof caved in. Nice work, Fumbles.”

“My pleasure.”

Tension left my shoulders. “Have the Polavians ever used gas on you before?” I asked.

“Once,” Harekiller said. “Months ago. But it preceded an attack, instead of the other way around.” He looked away for a moment. “We lost more than a dozen soldiers that day.”

Fumbles shook his head. “Yeah, that’s odd. Why didn’t they use the gas first today?”

Sanraya crept up beside me. “Bet they wanted to lure folks into a kill zone.”

“Makes sense, I guess.” I locked eyes with her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. I think.”

“I want a doctor to look at you when we get back, make sure you weren’t gassed.”

Sanraya sighed. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

“Okay, you lovebirds, let’s get out of here,” Harekiller said.

Something moved within my HUD. The injured Polavian careened into the wall, then fell over, clutching two canteens.

I ran a hand over my scalp. “Looks like you’ll have a prisoner to take back with you.”

Harekiller’s head snapped around. “I’ll be damned.”

“She’s contaminated,” I warned him. “A touch can kill.”

Fumbles clutched his injured hand with a good one. He shook his head. “It might be more merciful to put her out of her misery—she’ll die horribly if she’s received an acute dose of gas.”

“And we’ll probably save lives if we kill her here,” I added.

Sanraya scowled at me. “I don’t care if she’s a Polavian. We should show her mercy.”

“She’s an intelligence asset.” Princess Takahe strode into the light. “And you could use her as a hostage—maybe trade her as part of a prisoner exchange.”

Harekiller tapped his chin. “Hmm.”

“Joseph Drake knows how to interrogate prisoners.” The bird fluttered back onto Harekiller’s shoulder. “Remember, he served in Alliance Special Forces.”

Harekiller pondered our dilemma for a moment. “All right. We’ll take her prisoner.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX

Dr. Greentoes segregated our Polavian prisoner and Sanraya from the rest of the patients. The physician ordered them to stand under a hot shower and vigorously scrub themselves with soap and pumice stones to remove all contamination.

While they bathed and received treatment for exposure to the nerve agent, Harekiller, Fumbles, and I went looking for Joe. With my two cameras in tow, we strolled through the same rows of cots we’d visited earlier and found him sitting with Gilly. The young Clodhopper patient sat up in her cot when we got close.

Harekiller smiled down at Gilly. “We’re back, little one.”

A gleam filled Gilly’s eyes. “Harekiller. I’m so glad you made it . . . and you brought Fumbles.”

The demolitions expert waved with his good hand. “How are you, Gilly?”

She coughed. “Better.” She eyed his crooked, broken finger and frowned. “You’re hurt.”

Fumbles shrugged. “It looks worse than it feels, but I suppose I should have someone look at it.” He smiled and moved toward an aide station. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Harekiller waved him off. “Come find us when you’re done.”

“Will do.”

I nodded to Joe. “I see you’ve made a friend.”

Joe grinned. “Kids love Captain Charisma.”

“Hmm.” I scratched my chin. “That will certainly help sell our show. Must be your childish behavior.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Don’t be hating Captain Charisma because you’re jealous.”

I smiled at the little patient. “I’m just envious that you got a chance to spend more time with Gilly.”

She coughed again, her rheumy eyes staring up at me. “You remembered my name?”

I smiled. “That’s right. Dr. Greentoes said he gave you some of the medicine we brought.”

“That was you?”

Joe nodded. “Indeed.”

“Thank you so much.” She grimaced and dropped her voice into a whisper. “Don’t tell Dr. Greentoes, but it tasted bad.”

Joe laughed. “All medicine tastes bad. That’s how you know it works.”

Harekiller handed Gilly a wooden carving: a diminutive doll shaped like a Clodhopper. “This is for you, little one.”

Her small hands roamed over the doll. “Did you make this yourself?”

Harekiller grinned. “Yup.”

The girl stroked the doll’s head. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

I pointed back toward quarantine with my chin. “Sanraya’s back there scrubbing up.”

Joe’s brow furrowed. “Contamination from the nerve gas? Is she okay?”

“Yeah. She feels fine. Just a precaution.”

“Right.” Joe stood up and patted Gilly’s head. “I gotta go. Get well soon, kiddo.”

“Goodbye, Joe.”

Harekiller led the way back to quarantine. We came to a section of cave cordoned off with dark plastic sheeting. Inside, a folding cot, table, and rickety chair provided bare accommodations. Dr. Greentoes welcomed us and asked us to make ourselves comfortable while he checked on the Polavian prisoner. He departed through a plastic flap opposite the one we’d entered.

Sanraya sat on the cot with a bowl of tan-and-green mush in her lap. She wore black pantaloons ending at her knees, military-style boots, and a Green Charisma T-shirt, its glow-in-the-dark lettering gleaming under the high-intensity lights. An IV snaked from her elbow to a plastic bag taped to her upper arm.

“You look good, Sanraya,” I said.

“I feel good.” She dipped her spoon into the bowl. “The shower and food help. If I was contaminated, I’m not any longer.”

Joe rubbed his stomach. “There’s food?”

“Over there.” Sanraya pointed with her spoon. “Some sort of porridge. Grains. A leafy vegetable. Spicy, but tasty.”

“It’s the shellshock sauce that makes it good.” Harekiller licked his lips. “I love it.”

“Excellent.” Joe rubbed his hands together and moved to a table holding a crockpot, bowls, and utensils. “You want some, Harekiller? Mac?”

“In a minute,” I replied. “We need to plan our next steps.”

Harekiller chuckled and grabbed a bowl. “Okay, but if you’re not quick, it might be gone.”

I booted up Princess Takahe’s program. Sanraya, Joe, Princess, and I spent several minutes reviewing the footage of our recent battle. Specifically, we focused on what our prisoner had done during the fighting.

Interrogation is a four-letter word. Nobody likes doing it, myself included, but armies and police have used it as a means to gather useful intelligence for eons. Unfortunately, some civilizations get carried away and torture their captives. Others have mastered rapport with their interviewees, coaxing them with empathy and thereby creating greater likelihood of receiving truthful information. I preferred the latter method when I had a choice.

During our bug hunt on Minnix Ore Station 27, Joe had questioned an injured la’Karvian and gotten some crucial information for our show. While we were on Appleseed, I’d worked with Sanraya to cultivate her own interview skills: showing empathy, learning to detect a lie, and telling stories to gain acceptance. Now it was time for her to put them to use. She would take the lead and could call on any of us to fulfill any role.

Harekiller put in a call to Madame Testudines. It took significant effort to convince her to give us some leeway during the dialogue. The balance tipped in our favor when I pointed out the Clodhoppers lacked interrogators with experience. We reached a compromise: I would send my data slate to the Clodhopper clan leader, allowing her to watch everything I recorded with my camera. Another concession: Harekiller would act as a security liaison, and Dr. Greentoes would stay to administer first aid. He couldn’t remain long, as other patients needed his help.

Dr. Greentoes returned and escorted us to the captive in another side tunnel sectioned off with plastic tarps. They hid her away from the other patients, but not because of the nerve agent. Rather, they needed to avoid an angry mob seeking blood. They’d already hosed the prisoner with cleaning agents before she set foot in the infirmary. Dr. Greentoes had bandaged her wounds from the blast and was giving her medicine through an IV to counteract the nerve gas.

Our change in scenery differed from the main section of the makeshift hospital. Bright lights eliminated all shadows, while a concrete floor helped reduce the possible spread of bacteria. Antiseptic and soap smells permeated the area. A cot stood against the back wall of the cave, again covered in plastic sheeting that could easily be removed and thrown away.

Joe, Harekiller, and I sat on a cot at one end of the row, far enough away not to be intrusive, but close enough to hear the conversation. Joe stared at his data slate and read Princess Takahe’s report on the condition of the Blackthorn Beauty. Wearing a deep frown, Harekiller cleaned his gun.

I repaired the pterodactyl drone by remolding and reattaching its broken wing. My other camera hovered near the cave ceiling, recording from an oblique angle.

Sanraya sat on the edge of the Polavian’s bed. The Clodhoppers restrained the captive’s powerful legs and arms with manacles attached to the bed frame. Black fur peeked through bandages wrapped around her forehead. Dark-brown eyes with black irises—filled with venom—watched us.

Dr. Greentoes hovered close, changing the IV line that ran into the prisoner’s arm. The Polavian’s stiff posture accentuated her contempt for Sanraya.

“Let’s start with something simple.” Sanraya adjusted the IV that ran into her own arm. “Do you have a name?”

Silence.

“My name is Sanraya ba’Marta. I’m from the Hinno’ok System. Ever been there?”

The prisoner turned her head and stared at one of the walls.

Sanraya reached over and loosened the manacles around the Polavian’s ankles. “That’s better. Looked a bit tight.”

“Bugger off, dinosaur whore,” the Polavian hissed through pointed teeth. “I’m not telling you shit.”

Harekiller stared at her. After a moment, he grunted, shook his head, and resumed scrubbing the slide mechanism on his weapon.

Sanraya smiled—a terrifying display, especially with her missing tooth. The crest atop her skull stood on end. “Now, that’s not nice.” With one claw, she fingered the IV line leading to the captive’s arm. “Especially when the good doctor gave you medicine to keep you alive. Aren’t you grateful?”

“I’ll be happier when you leave me alone, lizard breath.”

Sanraya’s violet eyes stole a glance at me, looking for a cue. I gave the barest shake of my head; it wasn’t time to up the ante. She frowned and returned a look signifying trouble for me later.

“I’m staying until I get a name.” Sanraya raised her chin. “If you know anything about Vellarans, we can be quite stubborn.”

“Understatement of the year,” I muttered.

Sanraya’s neck snapped around. “What did you say, buttercup?”

“I said, ‘It’s one of your best traits.’”

“That’s what I thought.”

Sighing, she turned back to her captive audience. “Got any coworkers that give you problems? What a pain in the ass, right?”

The Polavian’s whiskers twitched. A second later, she nodded at the drip line. “What’s in the medicine bag?”

Sanraya shrugged. “Same thing that’s in mine, I guess.”

Dr. Greentoes stared down his beak over a pair of spectacles. “Atrophine sulfate.” He shuffled to a desk covered with bandages, pill bottles, and liquid-filled vials. “I’ve never had a Polavian or Vellaran patient, so I’m guessing on the right dosage.”

The hair rose on the back of my neck. Shit. I’d insisted Sanraya talk to the doctor, worried about her exposure to the nerve agent. Now I’d put her into the hands of a local yokel.

“Guess that means I’m a guinea goat just like you, huh?” Sanraya winked at the prisoner.

Joe cleared his throat. “Guinea pig.”

She waved him away with one hand. “See what I have to put up with?”

The Polavian smirked and tapped her chest. “Alphonsa Alfay, Second Army, First Division, Her Majesty’s Imperial Army.”

Dr. Greentoes stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to see.”

Alphonsa cackled. “Other terrorists to watch die, you mean.”

The physician shook his head, muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, and pushed aside the plastic divider. He didn’t look back.

Once he’d gone, Sanraya returned to her questioning. “Rank?”

Alphonsa sneered. “Brigadier general.”

Sanraya rolled her eyes. “Try again. I’ve been in the Vellaran army. I recognize a draftee when I see one, and a soldier would never leave a brigadier general to die. We have mandatory service on our home world. Two years.”

“Polavians serve three,” Alphonsa scoffed. “What are you going to do with me?”

“We haven’t decided. Possible prisoner exchange.”

Alphonsa shook her head. “The Polavian Empire isn’t going to trade one of their corporals for a Clodhopper terrorist.”

Harekiller held up a green claw. “Freedom fighter.”

“Terrorist. Your government invited us to this world to help quash an unlawful rebellion.”

Harekiller raised a fist. “Our rebellion uncovered the traitors you backed to take control of our home using election fraud and disinformation.”

Alphonsa brushed the claims aside with one of her furry hands. “I’ve heard these arguments before. It’s all Shellshock Syndicate propaganda.”

“Sounds like you’re the one who’s made up her mind based on propaganda,” Harekiller said.

Sanraya took the lead again. “You think your people have the moral high ground, Alphonsa? What about releasing the Glassbone influenza on Dak Taloka?”

She shrugged. “The flu was a natural outbreak.”

Harekiller shook his head. “Never been a case on this planet before the invasion, and there’s a video recording showing a skydive stage spraying stuff over a village.”

Alphonsa’s ears bobbed. She dabbed her nose with a tissue, refusing to meet Sanraya’s gaze. “The flu could’ve come from any visitor to your world. That video is a fabrication.”

“And the nerve gas?” Sanraya asked.

“A mistake. Someone must’ve mislabeled a munition.” The Polavian prisoner snorted. “And what about your own skewed morality? The company you keep includes Joseph Drake.” She stared at Joe and hissed. “The Butcher of Mektar Hives. If I had a weapon right now, I’d strike you down and bathe in your blood.”

I shifted in my seat. Joe raised an eyebrow, looking to me for guidance. I shook my head—better to give Sanraya more time to pull the string. The longer our prisoner talked, the easier it would be to establish common ground. Joe sighed and stared at the floor.

“So, you’re a patriot?” Sanraya asked. “A loyal subject of Empress Oryctolaga.”

The Polavian nodded. “My life is hers to use as she sees fit.”

“It must’ve hurt when your comrades left you in the cave.”

“An oversight. If they’d known I was still alive—”

“They didn’t care if you were alive. They left others to die, not just you.”

“Liar.”

“The video doesn’t lie. Want to see what happened after you lost consciousness?” Sanraya fished through her pack for her tablet. “I’ve got it right here.”

“Another fabrication.”

“Where did we find the time to create fake footage? The battle happened an hour ago.”

Alphonsa crossed her arms across her chest. “They didn’t know I was alive.”

Sanraya leaned toward her. “Exactly.”

The Polavian’s eyes took on a cold look. “Meaning what? Is that a threat?”

“No. I mean we could show them you’re alive. Is there someone we should send a message to? Your family back home? Or would you rather have us contact your commanding officer?”

“You’re a con artist.” Alphonsa fruitlessly flailed against her manacles. “You’d never let me send a message.”

“Oh, we’d screen your message for hidden content, but the point would be to let your people know you’re alive. How do you suppose your family will react if they receive a message saying you went missing during the battle?”

Silence.

Sanraya pointed to my camera drone flying overhead. “We’re recording this interview to prove we’ve been treating you well. How can it hurt to let your parents see you?”

Alphonsa stared at the wall.

“No family?” Harekiller asked. “What about your commanding officer?”

A wicked sneer formed on our prisoner’s mug. She turned and gazed into the camera lens. “Avenge me. Wipe them all out. Long live the Empire!”

Maybe normal good-cop interrogation techniques didn’t work on Polavians? Time to send in support. I tapped Joe on the shoulder and nodded.

His knees creaked when he stood. He put one hand on the pommel of his orange blaster that hung from his hip. His boots made a distinctive report as he strode to the other end of the cot. Peering down his nose at the prisoner, he kept his voice low. “Do you know how many of your kind I killed during the Polavian-Alliance War?”

A pink bunny nose wriggled. “Thousands.”

Joe shook his head, his eyes staring off at something unseen. “That’s pure embellishment. No, I killed hundreds. And guess what? It was a mistake.”

“You used a nuclear device on Mektar Hives, asshole. That wasn’t a mistake.”

“I’d do it again to save my troops, but that’s not what I meant.”

Alphonsa bared her teeth—longer and sharper than any herbivore’s. “Are you going to make me guess?”

“I shouldn’t have been at Mektar Hives at all. I took over at the last minute—the previous commander developed appendicitis, so the Alliance gave me a promotion. My first and last platoon command.”

“Ugh. Is there a point to your story?”

“Look, dummy. I’m not an evil man, despite whatever the army might tell you. I’m just a guy who was doing his job.” Joe sat on the cot across from our captive. “Same thing is happening here. Your commander lost a lot of troops in this last battle. That’s gotta weigh on a conscience. What do you think is going through his head?”

“There’s nothing going through her head right now.”

“Pardon?”

She clenched the plastic sheeting. “Second Lieutenant Mardonu Levan. You shot her through the gut. She’s dead.”

Joe raised his gaze and stared into Alphonsa’s eyes. “Look at me. It was a fight. Not an execution. Same thing happened at the Hives.”

Alphonsa met his gaze, but she broke the connection first. Her eyes dropped, and she stared at her paws.

Tapping my wrist, I signaled Joe to up the ante. Before the interrogation, we discussed his role. If he could rattle our captive, perhaps get her angry, she might disclose something important. Joe nodded, acknowledging my signal. Sanraya’s eyes took on a hard edge, and I tugged my ear, letting her know she had free reign to improvise with Joe.

“I get it. You’re worried your comrades won’t take you back.” Joe shrugged. “That’s what’ll happen if we let them know we’ve got a prisoner to exchange.”

Alphonsa frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The rumors about you,” Joe said. “Your cooperation with the Shellshock Syndicate.”

Sanraya cackled. “Everyone will think you caved during our interrogation.”

“I’ve served for nearly a year with a flawless record,” Alphonsa huffed. “They’d never think that.”

“They will if someone plants the rumor in the right ear.” Joe smirked. “I’ve been in the army. Mistrust spreads like gangliatic gonorrhea in a Trandoshapian whorehouse.”

The fur on Alphonsa’s head bristled. “Maybe in the Alliance Army. Polavians are much more disciplined.”

Joe laughed. “You’re lying to yourself, and you know it.” He pointed to the Green Charisma logo on his shirt and hooked a thumb at Sanraya. “We’re actors. We know when someone’s trying to put on a brave face. And that’s clearly the case with you, bunny.”

“Bugger off, hokey hero.”

“That’s right.” Sanraya grinned, showing off her serrated teeth. “We’re recording a reality show. Did you know our mission requires us to deliver cytologic cold brew to the sick inhabitants of this world?”

“And guns.” Alphonsa turned her head and spat on the ground. “We found evidence of Alliance munitions in the wreckage of your ship.”

Sanraya sighed. “The Alliance forced us to bring the weapons.”

“More lies.”

“It’s the truth,” Joe said. “Do you think gun smuggling makes for good TV?”

“There’s an audience for even the worst depravity.”

Joe leaned in closer. “I can see why you’d be worried about the Clodhoppers getting their hands on advanced weapons. Seems like the inhabitants here have done pretty well fighting your troops, despite your technological advantage.”

“Our army will prevail. We’ll quell the rebellion. We’ll hang the Butcher of Mektar Hives!” Alphonsa screeched.

Harekiller looked up from his gun and guffawed. “There will always be a rebellion. You can’t convince all of us to knuckle under to your threats.”

“Then we’ll kill you all!” Alphonsa screamed. “Every last terrorist.”

I cleared my throat, and everyone turned to look at me. “You haven’t killed him yet. So, what’s it gonna be? Any message you wanna send home? We’re on borrowed time.”

Alphonsa sniggered. “Borrowed time. That’s exactly what you have. Your deceptions won’t gain my cooperation. When the Second Division lands on this rock in three days and occupies Dak Taloka, your time will be up. They’ll crack open this dank labyrinth. Rescue me and kill everyone else.”

“You’re lying.” Harekiller slid a coil into place in his partially reassembled gun. “We would have heard about a new invasion.”

“Really? You get good intelligence here in your jungle caves? I know the Second Division’s on its way because a friend works in command communications.”

I gulped. More Polavian troops were coming to Clodhopper? “A division? How many troops is that?”

“About twenty thousand.” Joe pinched the bridge of his nose. “With additional support units—armor, air assault, transports, and other goodies.”

Harekiller dropped a firing pin on the floor. “Shit.”

Sanraya scowled. “You can say that again.”

Harekiller sighed. “Shit.”

I ran a hand over my face. “We gotta finish our mission and get the hell off this planet.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

Once the twenty thousand or so Polavian reinforcements arrived in Dak Taloka, they could establish tight control over the city’s population. Our rescue of the cold brew from a supply depot inside a Polavian compound would be impossible. We needed to get out of the catacombs and into another hiding place within the city before the troops arrived.

Harekiller escorted us back through the infirmary, heading for command central. Lost in their own thoughts, Joe and Sanraya kept their heads down. The stink of death permeated the room: blood, urine, vomit, and bile. The area swarmed with activity, with nurses and doctors tending to wounded and ill Clodhoppers. The Polavian attack had taken a great toll, with more than a dozen dead and three times that number injured.

The fight for freedom hung from a cliff face by its fingertips. What would become of our new allies? How could we hope to retrieve the cold brew if the city’s streets were infested with Polavians? The enemy was watching the jungle. Their skydive stages were shuttling droids to search the vegetation. If the Clodhoppers attempted an escape from their hidey-hole, the Polavians would mow down every one of them.

Yet we couldn’t stay here. The reinforcements would break through the Clodhoppers’ tunnel defenses. When that happened, there’d be a wholesale slaughter of every green-shelled grotto dweller.

If we’d been able to land the Blackthorn Beauty intact, the Alliance armaments might have helped, particularly the anti-aircraft munitions. A rocket or two from the shipment would’ve been a blessing. The threat of surface-to-air missiles would’ve kept the Polavians from constantly hovering overhead.

I mulled over our dilemma. What would it take to bring down an aerial platform? Unless our hosts grew wings, there didn’t seem to be a solution.

Harekiller guided us to an alcove, a waiting area for loved ones.

Dr. Greentoes reappeared, his eyes downcast. “I have some bad news.” He paused for a long moment. “Gilly is no longer with us.”

Harekiller rocked back on his heels. “What? How?”

“A fit.” The doctor continued to stare at the floor. “Dr. Arrowbeak said she started coughing and couldn’t stop. A few other doctors tried to help, but nothing worked.”

Harekiller sat on a stool, his face in his hands. “No . . . it can’t be.” His voice broke. “She was alive a few minutes ago.”

Dr. Greentoes’s shoulders slumped. “It happens sometimes, even after a patient receives a dose of cold brew. I’m sorry.”

Harekiller’s jaw clenched. His gaze lost focus, decaying into a thousand-yard stare. “It’s not fair.” He turned to Dr. Greentoes. “You gave her the cold brew right away?”

The doctor nodded. “As soon as I had the proper dose measured.”

“She was getting better,” Harekiller murmured.

“We don’t know what causes the coughing fits.” The physician rubbed his head. “There’s only so much we can fix.”

“Christ.” Joe stood up and clenched his fists. “While Gilly died, that fucking furball was taunting us about another division of troops landing on this planet.”

“I have to get more information from her! Our lives—everyone’s lives—depend on it.” Harekiller seethed and marched out the alcove and down the infirmary aisle. “I’m gonna pin her bunny ears to the ceiling and watch her hang from them!”

I raced after him with Sanraya and Joe behind me. Some of the wounded Clodhoppers flinched; others reached for weapons. I feared the worst. “Harekiller! Not like this! Stop!”

He stopped and turned around. “Why should I?” he asked, his voice rising.

I took a deep breath. If I could keep him talking, I might be able to calm him down. “We don’t beat prisoners.”

“She’s a war criminal,” Joe snarled. “A conspirator in a gas attack. I agree with Harekiller.”

“Alphonsa might be a conspirator,” I said. “But what if she’s a victim of circumstance? If you bounce her around the room, you won’t know whether she’s just telling you what you want to hear.”

“Gilly deserves vengeance.” Harekiller stared at the quarantine area.

Joe nodded. “An eye for an eye, Mac.”

“Gilly merited a long life filled with family, friends, rainbows, and whatever passes for a unicorn on this world.” I kept my voice even, trying for a soothing tone. My steps slowed, closing the distance to Harekiller and Joe, like someone approaching spooked animals. “The first casualty of war is innocence. You’ll end up in a Polavian-manufactured perdition. If you don’t stop now, what you plan to do will take your souls.”

Harekiller swallowed and looked away.

Joe glared at me. “Maybe I already lost my soul at Mektar Hives.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“No? The bunnies think I’m a monster. Why not let me fill that role?”

I shook a fist at him. “Because you’re Captain Charisma—a genuine holovid hero. You’re not allowed to stray from your positive moral compass. Kids who watch our show will be counting on you to do the right thing. What would Gilly think about what you’re planning to do? And what would your family think?”

Joe frowned. “Oh, that’s low, Mac.”

“I’m just pointing out stuff you’re both gonna think about later, once you start regretting your actions.”

Joe locked gazes with me. His stare was cold. “I still want to get even.”

Harekiller nodded. “So do I.”

“We will. I swear.”

Harekiller’s cheeks were wet. “I’m gonna hold you to your promise.”

“You two get first dibs next time we find ourselves in a scrape,” Sanraya said.

Harekiller nodded as he stared at the quarantine area.

“Deal.” Joe shuffled back to us and collapsed onto an empty cot between two wounded Clodhoppers.

Sanraya sat next to him. She leaned over, put a hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “There’s nothing more we could’ve done for the girl.”

“Maybe.” He stared at his hands. “But that’s not gonna stop me from going over the possibilities.”

“And what good will that do?” I asked. “Put your brain in gear, Joe. The Polavians have air superiority. Unless we negate it, we won’t escape this labyrinth and get to the city.”

Joe closed his eyes. Dr. Greentoes checked on Sanraya. Satisfied with the empty IV bag, he removed the needle and bandaged her arm.

“Terrans. Skittish bunch, aren’t they?” A grizzled veteran with a plasma burn on his arm leaned over, holding a hand near his mouth as he gossiped with a comrade.

“They’re brash.” The female trooper chortled. “Colorful. I like their passion.”

“Hush now.” Dr. Greentoes patted her leg. “Rest up.”

“How can anyone rest?” she replied. “I wanna know what these offworlders think about our tactical situation. We’ve tried using our own missiles to shoot down the Polavian ships. They never work.”

Joe’s eyes popped open and he sat up. “The skydive stages use a point-defense system to thwart SAM attacks,” he told her. “You’d need to overload their countermeasures with a shitload of missiles—or use some stealth tech.”

Sanraya put a fist under her chin. “What about electronic sabotage?”

Joe shot her a puzzled look.

A spark of insight ignited in me. “We’ve broken their security codes. Can Princess Takahe insert false commands into their network? Get the airship transporting the reinforcements to crash?”

“Unlikely.” Joe crossed his arms. “If she establishes domination and the platform falls, the Polavians undoubtedly would wrestle back control of the ship in minutes.”

“So, we’re back to lots of missiles.” I looked around the hospital room and spotted an open box of plastic sheeting. I envisioned cutting it into canopies and filling them with hot air. “We’re not gonna build an airplane or hovercraft from scratch, but we might flummox their countermeasures by going old school.”

Joe cocked his head and gave me a questioning look.

“Balloons,” I said. “Lots of balloons. Loaded with explosives.”

He tossed his head back and laughed. “You’re freakin’ kidding me.”

Sanraya scowled. “How would you get them through the jungle canopy, Mac?”

“Why do you two have to ruin a bad plan?” I drummed my fingers on top of a cot frame. “Can we create ghost images of missiles? Fool the Polavians into thinking they’re under attack?”

Joe’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Maybe. It won’t deceive them for long, though. A few seconds.”

“What if we combine it with another distraction?” I asked.

“Like what?”

The beginnings of a plan surfaced. “We need to get inside the Polavian airship. Build a Trojan horse and tear it apart.”

Sanraya rolled her eyes. “Why do we want a horse? I thought they were dangerous. Don’t they attack riverboats on Earth?”

Joe sighed. “You’re thinking about a hippopotamus. Are you sure you’re a xenobiologist?”

Sanraya shook her head. “There are millions of different animal species in this galaxy. I can’t remember them all. You’ve got particularly dull fauna on Earth.”

I cleared my throat. “Hippopotamus is Greek for water horse.”

“So . . . it is a horse?” Sanraya asked.

“No,” Joe said.

“Sort of,” I said.

Joe smiled. “It’s all Greek to me.”

Joe and I snickered and bumped fists.

“Ugh,” Sanraya said. “Terrans. It’s a wonder your species ever learned to walk upright.”

“A Trojan horse is a trick,” Joe explained. “It’s a false gift given to enemies—one with a hidden peril inside.”

“Oh.” Sanraya’s crest flattened. “I understand. You want to send our prisoner back to her kind with a secret bomb strapped to her back.”

My instincts warned me to tread carefully. “No.”

“Not a bad idea.” Joe tapped his chin. “A big enough explosion could bring down a skydive stage.”

“We’re not using the prisoner to deliver a bomb,” I said, watching Sanraya. “It’s immoral, not to mention that our audience would hate it.”

“Better if you just said it was immoral, Mac,” Sanraya huffed.

Joe pushed himself up from the cot. “Sometimes the ends justify the means.”

“And sometimes they don’t.” I locked gazes with him. “It is immoral. I’m the director. It’s my call.”

Joe slumped. “Well, what then?”

“A droid.”

“Where would we get a droid?” he asked.

“The one you shot in the jungle.”

He shook his head. “How will we get into the jungle with the Polavians watching overhead?”

My chest deflated. “Oh, right. We need another Polavian robot.”

Behind us, Harekiller cleared his throat. “We have lots of junk parts we stole from the Polavians. We might be able to cobble something together.”

Sanraya smiled at him. “You’re my favorite Clodhopper, Harekiller.”

He laughed. “That’s not surprising. I’m everybody’s favorite.” He straightened his overalls. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you what we’ve got to offer.”

Harekiller led us out of the infirmary. At the first major tunnel junction, he turned to his right and led us deeper into the complex. The rasps and hammering of machinery rose out of the abyss. We rounded a corner and reached a wide, well-lit cavern with a murky pool at the far end. Flood lamps hung from stalactites, and workbenches occupied a flat, smooth area between milky stalagmites, calcium-laded water streaming down their sides.

The air carried the stench of motor oil, silica, and burnt rubber. Piles of scrap metal, motor parts, electronic control boards, hoses, and broken glass littered the ground. Everything I’d expect in a junkyard.

Two Clodhoppers were attempting to fix a broken wheel. One held a hammer, the other a power rotary tool. Both looked up when we arrived.

“Who’s there?” the shorter one, wearing goggles and holding the power tool, asked.

“Watcha need, Harekiller?” The second mechanic set down his hammer and wiped his grimy hands on a soiled apron.

Sanraya beamed. “A Trojan hippopotamus.”

Joe held up a finger. “Horse.”

Harekiller nudged a broken fan out of his way with the toe of his boot, then made introductions. “These two fine gentlemen are Gears and Tok-Tok.” He pointed to the shorter engineer and the one with the greasy apron, respectively.

Harekiller sidestepped around a stack of tires. “We need a Polavian droid. Something we can fly to their airship with a bomb inside.”

“When do you need it?” Gears asked. “We’re kinda busy.”

“Yesterday,” Harekiller said. “The Polavians sent reinforcements. Another division of troops—around twenty thousand—will land any day. We have to evacuate before they get here, and it won’t happen with those flying monstrosities overhead.”

Gears swore under his breath. Tok-Tok leaned against a rusty fuel barrel. His gaze moved to the cave ceiling as though trying to see the Polavian reinforcements.

“I’ve got something you can use.” Gears meandered through a channel between stalagmites until he reached a plastic bin. After rummaging through its contents, he pulled out a maroon robot with tentacles hanging from its underbelly—a smaller version of the droid Joe had shot down in the jungle, perhaps eighteen inches in height. “The mechanics work, but I can’t get the software to accept any programming. This thing’s security system rejects everything I try.”

I smiled. “I think we can help you there. Sanraya?”

She pulled her data slate out of her hip pocket. “She’s not gonna like this.”

“Yeah, bet she extorts another share of our profits,” Joe scoffed.

I put a finger to my lips. “Hush. Don’t give her any ideas.”

Sanraya tapped her tablet. “Booting up the program now.”

As my Ixorian camera drone spun on its axis, a miasma of blue-green light coalesced atop Harekiller’s shoulder. Princess Takahe ruffled her feathers. She yawned, her red bill opening then clacking shut.

“This had better be good.” The fowl glared at me with a dead eye. “Otherwise, we’re renegotiating our partnership.”

“Told you so,” Joe whispered to Sanraya.

I fanned my fingers in front of me. “We need you to copy your programming, insert it into hostile hardware, and jump-start a Polavian surveillance droid.”

Princess Takahe eyeballed the broken machinery. “You want a copy of me in that thing? Why?”

I swallowed and took the plunge. If I could impress upon her our need for her help, we might just get it. “To carry a bomb inside a skydive stage. We need to create a gap in the Polavian air coverage.”

Princess Takahe hopped from one clawed foot to the next. “Why?”

“There’s a new division of Polavian troops landing in Dak Taloka any day now.”

“Really? When did you learn this? That information should’ve shown up when I searched the database of their troop movements.”

“Are you sure? Maybe they hid it from you. Can you check again?”

Princess stared off into space. “We’re too deep underground for me to connect to the Blackthorn Beauty.” She shrugged. “I can perform an update when we get closer to the surface.”

“Can you repair this surveillance droid?” I asked.

“Checking now.”

A few seconds later, red lights flickered inside the droid. Its tentacles flailed. A hum emanated from it, and it hovered off Gear’s outstretched hand.

“Control established.” Princess Takahe turned her head and preened the feathers on one wing. “Crowded in there.”

The robotic squid circled the pterodactyl drone. The metallic dinosaur screeched, and the Polavian droid darted away.

A metallic voice rasped from inside our new robot, carrying our AI’s familiar tone. “This hardware configuration sucks. I’ll be doing this thing a favor by blowing it up.”

“Great.” Joe mumbled. “Now there are two of them.”

Sanraya snickered.

“Can you open the service compartment?” I asked. “What kind of room do you have for plastic explosives?”

A panel snapped open. Blinking red lights revealed a marginal cavity inside the contraption.

I smiled. “Better call Fumbles,” I told Harekiller. “We’ve got some work for him.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

When problems arise, sometimes the best way to find a remedy is through sleep. Unfortunately, we wouldn’t be getting any soon. There was far too much to do.

Madame Testudines gathered a brain trust to review their evacuation plans. Joe, Sanraya, and I sat in the back of their command room in camp chairs. I tried to follow everything going on, but my mind was a mushy lump of roadkill left out on searing asphalt. I’d kill for a cup of coffee, but they didn’t have that here on Clodhopper. People have formed murderous intents for lesser needs.

Still, I understood the gist of our problems. Two skydive stages—which we’d codenamed Bunny Bus and Coney Carrier—controlled the heavens. Our tactics included a return of Alphonsa to the Bunny Bus in exchange for a Clodhopper prisoner. Madame Testudines called the Polavians directly and they agreed to the swap.

With the Polavians distracted by that, we’d launch our probe droid to the Coney Carrier. With any luck, it would infiltrate the launch deck before detonating, giving the Clodhoppers—and Joe, Sanraya, and me—time to scatter into the jungle through the gap in air cover.

The rest of the meeting devolved into a logistics discussion. Harekiller caught me nodding off—again. His pointy thumb dug into my side, jarring me awake and preventing me from flopping onto the cave floor.

“Stay with me, youngster!” Madame Testudines stared at me. “Yes, you, Ian MacIntyre! We’re almost done.”

Sanraya sniggered in the seat beside me.

I blushed. “Sorry.”

Joe tapped me on the shoulder from behind. He kept his voice low. “Try not to snore so much when you doze off, Mac. I’m trying to learn something useful.”

“That’d be a first.” I crossed my arms and turned to Sanraya. “You want some direction for our next scene? A guarantee for more drama and emotion?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

“Good.” I slumped in my chair and tucked my chin. “If Joe opens his mouth again, nail it shut.”

“Keep it down!” a Clodhopper elder barked.

“Hey!” Joe whispered to me. “Ganging up isn’t fair.”

I turned around in my seat. “Like you’d stand a chance against her one on one.”

“Just say the word, Mac.” Sanraya examined her nails. “I’m ready.”

“By my shell!” Harekiller glared. “Terrans. The three of you are worse than a Polavian auctioneer hopped up on goofball. Shut it!”

“Why are we putting up with these buffoons?” Scarface snarled.

Madame Testudines stared down her nose. “Because they’ve proven their worth, despite their eccentricities.”

Scarface placed several hands on his hips. “I still don’t trust them.”

The Clodhopper leader scowled. “We’re outnumbered. The Polavians have a huge technological advantage over us, which is why we’re losing this war. We need all the allies we can get . . . and I’m sure they don’t mean any disrespect.” She locked gazes with me.

Joe, Sanraya, and I lapsed into a respectful but moody silence as Madame Testudines droned on for another ten minutes. My jaw creaked open more than once, forcing me to cover a yawn. When she finished, everyone scattered, rushing to complete their assigned tasks.

Harekiller guided us out of the cave to meet with several members of his crew. I plodded along behind him with my actors, checking the status of both camera drones along the way. The lighting would change once we reached the surface, and I needed to be ready to capture the footage correctly.

“You’ve been awfully quiet, Harekiller,” I said, catching up with him. “Why?”

He sighed and adjusted the shoulder straps on his pack. “Gilly’s death hit me hard.” He went silent for several seconds. “She looked a lot like my niece, who disappeared with my wife, my sister, and the rest of the family shortly after the invasion.”

“I’m sorry.” I wondered if he’d ever see them again. “This war can’t last forever, Harekiller. You’ll find them.”

“Perhaps.” He didn’t turn to look at me.

“I’ve seen war. Documented it. Things will work out.”

“Faith? Is that what it takes?”

“Sometimes.”

“I lost that a long time ago.” Harekiller’s jaw jutted forward. He increased his pace and left me behind.

I thought about catching up but realized I didn’t have any idea what to say. As a director, I usually do a fairly good job of helping actors resolve troubling emotions. Maybe it was exhaustion, but I let the matter drop.

As we climbed, the humidity increased. The walls, ceiling, and floors dripped with moisture. Molds and lichen grew everywhere, filling the tunnel with a putrid funk. Bugs and blue-skinned lizards zipped across our path, shying away from our flashlights. More than once, the tunnel aperture shrank, forcing us forward on hands and knees. At these choke points, the Clodhoppers had left booby traps and cameras. Fumbles disarmed the traps, letting us safely pass through, then reset them. Finally, we reached a grotto with a shallow pool. A scree slope led upward to a small hole in the jungle floor just large enough for each of us to fit through. Wan sunlight filtered through a mass of roots and vines surrounding the opening.

Four members of Harekiller’s crew waited for us around the dirty pond inside the cave: Tattoo, Scarface, Fumbles, and Tok-Tok. The mechanic toyed with a Polavian surveillance droid, while our shackled Polavian captive stood off to one side, ears limp and nose twitching.

Tattoo met my gaze when we arrived. He inclined his head in greeting. “Still alive, I see. Nice work interrogating our prisoner. Not bad for offworlders.”

Scarface grunted and scowled. “Beginners’ luck.”

Joe puffed out his chest. “What is it with you, pal? You got a beef with us?”

“Beef?” Scarface rubbed an earflap, probably trying to adjust his translator.

“Beef is slang for a problem,” Joe explained.

“Yeah.” Scarface wrung his hands around the stock of a snub-nosed gyrojet caster. “Guess I do. This is our war. Not yours. The Alliance sent you with medicine and guns, and you’re here recording a holodrama. What does the Alliance get in return?”

“You don’t believe in altruism?” Sanraya asked.

“There’s no free meals,” Scarface said. “Something stinks.”

Alphonsa laughed, her whiskers twitching. “You don’t know? Sad.”

Scarface leveled his weapon at her. “Perhaps a few gunshots to the stomach would convince you to share your secret?”

“Put that thing away,” Harekiller hissed. “We agreed on a prisoner exchange. Don’t endanger the mission.”

“Oh, I don’t mind telling you where your species went wrong.” Alphonsa bared her spiky teeth. “Won’t help you now, though, no matter what you’re planning on doing with that surveillance droid.”

“I don’t know if I’d believe you anyway,” Harekiller huffed.

“We’re harvesting plant and animal samples,” Alphonsa said. “This planet has a higher biodiversity than any other planet in Polavian space. The pharmaceutical research advances alone—particularly the studies on the painkillers derived from grappler venom—will allow the Empire to turn green into gold.”

Sanraya tripped over her own feet and collided into me. Fortunately, I grabbed her before she fell. Her eyes were twin orbs of phosphorescence. “Oh, my!”

“What?” I asked.

“She might be right. I didn’t think about it during our run through the jungle, but now it makes sense. I saw more plant and animal species than I’d consider normal.”

Scarface rolled his eyes.

“Sanraya is a xenobiologist. I’d listen to her if I were you,” I told him.

“Another offworlder?” he said. “No, thanks.”

I turned toward the Polavian droid that was hovering nearby. “Princess? Can you confirm the diversity of the species on this planet?”

The droid rotated on its axis and turned to face me. “Calculating.” The robot’s snakelike arms twitched below its body. “High diversity index. Three times what is found in Earth’s Amazon rainforest. Five times higher than the jungles on Polavia Prime.”

I raised an eyebrow. No sarcasm from our AI? “Are you feeling okay, birdbrain?”

“Everything is functioning at optimal levels, Mr. MacIntyre.”

I frowned and tugged my collar. Had something infiltrated the AI’s programming? “You’re acting weird. Where are your sassy gibes?”

“You want insults? Fine. Your face is redder than a maraschino cherry. You need to get into better shape, doughboy.”

Scarface laughed as he caressed the stock of his weapon. “Our mighty ally—too soft to handle a short hike. And the Polavians waged war on us just to collect a sample in a jar? I’m not buying it.”

“If you don’t lower that blaster,” Harekiller growled, “I’ll wrap it around your shell.”

“Yeah? I’d like to see you try.”

Tattoo put a hand on Scarface’s shoulder and squeezed. The moment passed, and his colleague lowered his weapon.

“Someday you won’t be calling the shots, Harekiller.” Scarface spat on the ground. “Maybe then I’ll get some real answers.”

“You will obey my orders.” Harekiller stared down his underling. “Understood?”

“Clear as a glasswing swallowtail.”

Alphonsa cackled. “It’s no wonder your species hasn’t mastered the stars. You’re too busy squabbling.”

“Shaddup.” Tattoo grabbed her around the arm and guided her up the scree slope. “We’re wasting time.”

We scrambled behind the Clodhoppers, forcing our way through the vegetation that clogged the cave opening. When I emerged, the humidity smacked me in the face. Condensation from the canopy splashed down on us as the wind blew high overhead. The understory was a thick carpet of ferns growing breast high—I couldn’t see my own feet. Fronds wobbled as something scurried away from us.

“Good luck, Harekiller,” Joe said. “Hope everything goes well.”

Harekiller smiled. “Thanks, Joe.” He reached into an overall pocket and thrust a wooden carving into Joe’s hands. “This is Gilly’s doll. I think you should hold on to it.”

Joe turned the toy over—cute and diminutive, just like Gilly. His hands shook. “It’s lovely. Why give it to me?”

“You helped Gilly. Find another little girl and give it to her.” He dropped his head. “In case I don’t return.”

Joe nodded. “I’ll keep it safe.”

“I don’t understand why we agreed to trade prisoners aboard a skydive stage,” Scarface said. “Too risky.”

“It was the only way they’d agree to a meeting,” Harekiller said. “We meet an escort at a Polavian shuttle. They fly us up to the Bunny Bus. If everything goes well, Madame Testudines will get her son back from the enemy.”

I cocked my head to the side. “Her son?”

“It’s a long story,” Harekiller said. “Ironshell worked as an attaché for our prime minister in the Clodhopper government when the Polavians first showed up.”

“A collaborator,” Scarface grunted.

Harekiller scowled. “We don’t know that for certain.”

Alphonsa cackled. “Oh, he’s definitely on our side. He knows who’s going to win this war.”

“Watch your back, Harekiller,” Sanraya said. “Don’t give the Polavians a chance to betray you.”

Tattoo patted the plasma rifle hanging from one shoulder. “That’s why I’m going—to watch his back.”

Harekiller inclined his chin. “Farewell, friends. Watch Fumbles for me. Don’t let him talk you into playing catch with his toys.”

Harekiller and Tattoo each grabbed the prisoner by an arm and frog-marched her through the ferns.

Alphonsa squirmed. “You’re hurting me.”

“Keep moving,” Harekiller barked.

Scarface followed them, watching for danger in the trees. Soon the jungle swallowed them.

“Let’s go.” Tok-Tok pointed in the opposite direction. “If our scouts are correct, the Coney Carrier should only be a short jog away.”

We waded through the green sea, stumbling over hidden snags and uneven terrain. As we headed downhill, water seeped along the slope. A lithe, yellow creature—a mixture of bird and lizard—cawed at us from the low-hanging branches of a broadleaf. A few minutes later, we came upon an old crater, the remnant of a Polavian artillery blast from weeks long gone. Shiny emerald creepers and new shrubs covered the ground.

Through an opening in the canopy, we saw a Polavian shuttle lift off, the oblong craft spreading its X-shaped wings. The blue glow of an anti-grav unit spread as the ship sped away from us and toward the Bunny Bus that hung low in the sky. Another aerial platform—its twin, the Coney Carrier—hovered in the opposite direction under the setting sun. As the Coney Carrier floated toward our position, I worried it might be looking for us.

“There he goes.” Tok-Tok pointed to the Polavian shuttle as it flew toward the Bunny Bus. “Hope Harekiller succeeds.”

Fumbles scrubbed a hand across his face. “Come on. We need to be ready to deliver the droid to the Coney Carrier. If our intelligence is right, its search patterns will bring it close to us.”

We skirted the edge of the crater, heading deeper into the rainforest. The ground rose, reaching a plateau. Short shrubs, scattered in a nonsensical pattern, replaced the ferns as the dominant cover. For the first moment since climbing out of the catacombs, I could see where I put my feet. We made better time, covering more distance as Tok-Tok led the way with the Polavian droid.

Our path took us around several more depressions: more results of Polavian shelling. The scorched vegetation and raw earth appeared to be only days old. The Coney Carrier crept closer, now appearing as a scar on the wounded sky, the sun illuminating it from behind. Surveillance droids spooled off long coils underneath it.

“This will do.” Tok-Tok dropped his pack on the ground, then fished inside it for his tools. “When that flying piece of crap arrives, it’ll cycle another collection and drop of scout droids.” He turned to Fumbles. “Ready to help me arm the detonator in the droid?”

Fumbles looked down and shuffled his feet. “It’s already armed. I did it when I stuffed the explosives inside.”

Tok-Tok glared at him. “You mean I’ve been standing next to an active bomb all the way out here?”

“Um . . . yeah.”

“If this mission succeeds, it won’t save you. I’m still kicking your ass,” Tok-Tok growled. “Makes me wonder why you bothered to come.”

“What? And miss the explosion?” Fumbles waved his four arms wildly. “It’s going to be glorious.”

Tok-Tok rolled his eyes. “Ready for launch.”

My Ixorian drone swiveled on its axis. A moment later, a beam burst from its holocaster, throwing light onto a nearby log. A blue-green smudge coalesced into a flightless fowl.

Princess Takahe eyeballed the maroon droid. “Good luck, my doppelgänger.”

The robotic sentinel bobbed in the air. “Up yours, baby. I’m off to blow myself to bits.”

“Bah. You’re just an inferior copy.”

“Look who’s talking. The best parts of you are still aboard the Blackthorn Beauty.”

Fumbles put a hand to an earpiece. “Scouts say there’s a wave of Polavian surveillance droids heading our way.”

Joe zipped up his camo jacket and activated the power pack that energized the electronic countermeasures. “Time to make ourselves scarce. Let’s hope this works.” He dropped prone, hiding himself behind the log where Princess Takahe was perched.

“Time to go, Princess.” I adjusted the settings on my suit as Sanraya disappeared behind a shrub. The Clodhoppers lowered themselves to the ground and retracted into their shells, looking like mossy boulders.

The hologram disappeared. I quickly gathered the pterodactyl camera and stuffed it into my pack; it didn’t have the stealth capabilities of my new toy. Squatting beneath a plant that resembled a palmetto, I directed the remaining drone to hide among the branches of a broadleaf plant. Although the myopic view of the clearing created by Polavian artillery wasn’t an ideal shot, it did allow me to watch the events to come.

I didn’t have to wait long. My drone picked up movement through the trees and turned to focus on the action. A mauve Polavian surveillance droid ghosted through the canopy and arrived in the crater, its hourglass shape pulsing with an inner red light. The top twisted in a circle, scanning for activity. It spotted our Trojan horse and closed in on its smaller cousin.

The two droids hovered an arm’s length apart. Both buzzed and chirped, sending signals—the moment of truth. Would the Polavians accept our counterfeit?

On the horizon, a flash erupted from the Bunny Bus, an orange ball consuming its command deck. The platform smoked, listed, and lost altitude. What the hell?

Warning Klaxons rang out from the larger droid, and a gun port opened. A silvery autocannon emerged from within its innards, pointing at our Trojan horse.

CRACKLE! BOOM!

Before the larger droid could fire on our Trojan horse, a blaze of light, brighter than a supernova, erupted from the Trojan horse and overwhelmed my drone’s orbital receptors. Even though I was hidden behind vegetation, the explosion blinded me, leaving ghostly afterimages on my closed eyelids. A blast wave hurled me onto my face and left a deafening ringing in my ears. Someone screamed in a continuing cry of anguish.

Everything spun around me. Coughing and hacking, I thrust myself up on my hands and knees. Both Polavian robots had vanished. The smoking remains of charred metal and plastic occupied the center of a new, smaller depression. Tok-Tok staggered into the opening, clutching his head. Blood streaming down his face, he tripped and fell, landing hard.

A throbbing grew in my cranium—my own pulse. A moment later, my vision sharpened, leaving me staring at my shaking hands. As I peered through the foliage, a large shape emerged and staggered toward me.

“Mac! Get up, Mac!” Joe extended a beefy mitt, his voice tinny to my ears.

“No,” I croaked as he heaved me upright. “No! No! No!”

Sanraya, looking unharmed, rushed into the crater to examine Tok-Tok. She turned and looked at Joe, her eyes wide with fright. Fumbles made it halfway to them before slumping to his knees, tears streaming down his face. Sanraya shook her head. Tok-Tok was dead.

“We can’t stay here,” Joe said.

My mind raced as the Bunny Bus spiraled into the jungle. A rumble of distant explosions echoed across the divide.

The Coney Carrier shuddered to a stop before its tentacles fished several droids from the greenery. When it finished, it turned and sped toward the scene of its twin’s death, leaving us alone—for now.

Realization struck. Harekiller’s despondence. His farewell and gift to Joe. Son of a bitch. Another bomb. A suicide mission to destroy the Bunny Bus. Why didn’t I see it coming? “Oh, Harekiller. What have you done?”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE

Several hours crept by in a miserable, confused blur. Fumbles took control of our group and forced a march through the jungle. Along the way, we joined a smattering of refugees on their way to Dak Taloka. Whenever too many of us clustered together, Fumbles ordered everyone to spread out. No need to make it easy for the Polavians to find us.

Roving Polavian sentinel droids searched for the remnants of the Shellshock Syndicate. Several times we ducked down and waited for them to pass, hoping they wouldn’t find us. Once, the sounds of plasma fire echoed through the forest—a short-lived skirmish. Seconds after it ended, Fumbles ordered us to keep moving.

My legs were leaden pillars, sore from continual exertion. My eyes twitched from lack of sleep. Every time someone asked me a question, I answered in grunts. I’d failed my new allies. Harekiller had blown himself up because I didn’t recognize the warning signs. Our conversations replayed in my mind. What could I have done differently? I wanted to talk to Princess Takahe, but any noise might give us away. So, I left our holographic heckler within the confines of Sanraya’s tablet computer.

As the sun set on Clodhopper, we continued to flee from the Polavians. The more distance we put between ourselves and the underground cave complex, the greater our chance of living through the night.

The rainforest nightlife burst from their hiding places. Strange chirrups, hoots, and clicks pinged through the brush and trees. Bugs resembling fireflies winked on and off, their blue glow illuminating narrow footpaths. A sudden growl halted us in our tracks—we waited several minutes and held our breath. Fortunately, the beast making the sound didn’t repeat its warning.

We only stopped once for a brief break to eat and drink. As soon as our hike resumed, I tripped over my own feet. I didn’t know how much farther I could push myself.

Every time I lagged, Fumbles let me catch up. Despite their own exhaustion, Sanraya and Joe took turns urging me forward.

Eventually we crested a hill and peered down into a valley covered with neat, symmetrical fields. Row crops lay on both sides of a wide, meandering river while irrigation ditches sluiced water into the countryside. Farm buildings dotted the landscape. In the distance, city lights blazed like beacons.

Leading our group through a maze of switchback paths into the vale, Fumbles searched the sky for signs of Polavian aircraft. Satisfied the skies were empty, he urged us onward. Finally, the jungle ended, and we emerged from its confines. Tall, reedy stalks grew in a cultivated field. Spongy soil smooshed beneath my feet, making it difficult to walk. Plants towered above my head, reminding me of corn, except for the yellow gourd-like seedpods atop their stalks. The scents of fresh earth, greenery, and something akin to lemongrass tickled my nose.

Fumbles called a halt a short distance from a dark farmhouse. In a pen near the structure, six-legged furry beasts the size of camels slept upright in a cluster. Several snorted and pawed the ground as Fumbles approached.

Our guide tapped on the front door. A minute later, he knocked again. A glow grew through a rear window. The door finally opened, and Fumbles carried on a hushed conversation with an unseen inhabitant. After a few moments, he motioned for us to join him. The other refugees headed for the barn.

Not bothering with introductions, an elderly Clodhopper led us through a dark foyer and living area into the back of his home. His face sported more wrinkles than an elephant’s hide. Our destination was a modest bedroom with lumpy bedding strewn on the dusty floor.

“Rest,” Fumbles said. “We’re safe here for now. In the morning we’ll find a way into Dak Taloka.”

“Do you trust the owner?” Joe asked.

“I should. He’s my uncle. You can call him Waddles.” Fumbles patted Joe on the shoulder.

“Hmph,” Joe said. “My uncle would’ve sold me to la’Karvian slavers.”

Fumbles chuckled. “Don’t give my kin any ideas. We’ll talk more after we’ve slept. See you in the morning.”

A ratty curtain provided a semblance of privacy from the occupants of other rooms. Joe flopped on the mattress in the corner and threw an arm across his eyes. Sanraya pounded dust out of a thin cushion and invited me to sit next to her. With a groan, I shrugged off my pack and dropped. Her arms encircled me, and she rested her head on my shoulder. I wrapped my arm around her, caressing the back of her neck. We sat that way for several minutes, too sore to do anything else. Joe’s snores littered the enclosed space, sonic tumbleweeds brushing past us from one dreamscape to another.

“Do you think we’ll find the cold brew in Dak Taloka?” Sanraya asked in a hushed voice. “A lot of folks will die if we fail.”

“I don’t know. My brain is fried.”

“How are you feeling, buttercup?”

“I’m stretched thin, a ghost haunting his own body.”

Sanraya rubbed my chest and stomach. “I can tell. You’ve lost weight and are in better shape than ever. I’m proud of you.”

I shook my head. “I’m wasting away.”

“We all have to die from something, Mac,” she said with a wink.

“Not you, Sanraya. You’re going to live forever.”

She pulled me down beside her. We spooned, staring at the shadows cast by a lantern on a battered nightstand. “Everyone dies. Most don’t get to choose when we go.”

“That’s another reason I feel like a ghost. I have one foot in the grave already.”

“What do you mean?” She shifted to put a hand on my forehead. “Are you ill?”

“No. Depressed.”

“I know. I’m going to miss Harekiller too.”

I paused for a few seconds, then said, “He committed suicide.”

“Are you sure?”

“What else could it be?”

“Hmm.”

“Tok-Tok died because the Trojan horse exploded at the wrong time,” I said. “I don’t know whether the Polavians spotted the counterfeit or Harekiller’s bomb spooked them.”

“Ask Princess Takahe to review the data.”

“She’s gonna tell me I screwed up. There was a flaw in my plan. It’s my fault.”

Sanraya turned around to face me, her violet eyes taking on a dark glint. “You’re doing it again. We talked about this after the Polavians ambushed the Beauty. Stop blaming yourself, Ian MacIntyre.”

“I . . . sometimes I can’t help it.” I pulled away from her embrace.

She grabbed my chin between two claws. “We all agreed to your plan because it made sense. You didn’t trick us into following you.”

“But—”

“I’m right. You’re wrong. The sooner you see the truth and accept it, the better you’ll feel.”

She lifted my chin, forcing me to look her in the eyes: twin magnets challenging me. I questioned her conviction. How could she understand the burden I shouldered?

“Great leaders know their limitations,” Sanraya said gently. “They rely on what’s available. A tool is a weapon if it’s used right. Let me be the instrument of your will.”

My world reeled. “What?”

“You’re thinking about how you can fix things.”

I swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Stop obsessing about your own abilities and shortcomings. You’ll drive yourself crazy. Focus on how we work best as a team. Ours strengths, weaknesses.”

“Captain Charisma doesn’t have a weakness,” Joe mumbled.

Sanraya rolled away from me and slapped Joe on the back. “Quit eavesdropping.”

“Sorry.” Joe groggily tucked his chin against his chest. “It’s a small room.”

Laughter broke the tension, and my shoulders loosened. “Got anything else to say, meathead?”

“Nope. Sanraya wrapped it up in a tidy little bow, except the part about everyone dying. Long live Captain Charisma.”

“It’s a wonder your brain doesn’t collapse under the weight of its own ego,” Sanraya snapped.

“Ego? Isn’t that a waffle?”

“That’s Eggo, you twit,” I said.

“Mmm. Waffles.” Joe smacked his lips. “With syrup. And whipped cream. Perfect focus for a pleasant dream. ’Night.”

Sanraya rolled back and cuddled against me. “We’ll be worthless if we don’t get any sleep.”

I closed my eyes. Was she right? Did I put too much blame on myself? I let my mind wander, thinking about other famous directors in the history of cinematography. What would Hitchcock have done? Kirosawa? Mok’to? Was I micromanaging my cast? Overdirecting? Did I need to allow my actors more freedom to solve problems?

Sanraya’s breathing grew deep and steady. Despite my exhaustion, something nagged at the edge of my consciousness, and I chased it. How did Harekiller fool us? I could only assume Scarface and Tattoo had perished aboard the Bunny Bus when it had blown up and crashed into the jungle. Did they know about Harekiller’s suicide mission? They hadn’t acted like it. And where did Harekiller get the explosives?

I rolled off the mattress and onto my feet. My camera followed me, recording on its own. After pulling aside the curtain, I eased my way into the center room of the farmhouse. Fumbles and Uncle Waddles sat at a table—a bottle, and a small lantern between them. Neither said a word when I took a seat. The drone found an unobtrusive spot near the ceiling.

The room could’ve easily been mistaken for a cozy farmhouse dining room, except everything was scaled for a five-foot-tall Clodhopper. Wood cabinets and sideboards held dishes and glassware. A clock ticked on the wall, pendulum swinging below it, measuring out the time. At the far end of the room, through a doorway, steam swirled out of a black pot. A heating element glowed underneath it. The scents of a salty brine wafted through the air.

Fumbles kept his gaze on the table as he held a half-filled glass of amber liquid.

Uncle Waddles’ face was a wrinkled mass of olive-green modeling clay. His red eyes watched me when I reached over and snagged the bottle. A quick sniff confirmed my suspicion: booze.

I stared down Fumbles. “You crammed Harekiller’s backpack with explosives,” I said.

“Yeah.” He rubbed the outside of his glass with one thumb.

“You knew what he wanted to do with it.”

He nodded.

“A backpack of explosives wouldn’t be enough to bring down a skydive stage,” I continued.

“No, you’re right. He used the explosives as a catalyst to set off the shuttle’s stardrive after it docked with the aerial platform.” He paused and quietly added, “Kaboom.”

I sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Fumbles raised his head and met my stare. “Because you would’ve argued with him about finding another way, and there wasn’t one. Hundreds would’ve died unless we got rid of the air cover.”

“But—”

“You don’t understand, Mac. How could you? Have you ever lived through a war?”

“I’ve documented it.”

He flicked a hand, brushing aside my argument. “It’s not the same thing. Day in, day out. No respite. Sure, you record stuff for voyeurs, then cruise on home. Try sticking around. Fight the oppression. Feed starving children. Care for the sick and wounded.”

I tried to form a cogent way to defend myself but fell short. “Harekiller—”

“Harekiller made his own decision. He went willingly.” Fumbles slugged back the rest of his drink. “Don’t second-guess his decision. He died to save us all from slaughter.”

“And what about Tattoo and Scarface? Did they volunteer for a suicide mission?”

Fumbles winced, pushed back his chair, and stood. “Sleep in all you like, Ian. We won’t be heading into the city until the sun is well up. We’ll get some disguises so you and your crew will blend in with the other travelers.”

He stumbled off toward the rear of the house, the dark enveloping him.

“You sure you’re qualified to judge my nephew?” Uncle Waddles asked. “In case you didn’t notice, he drank half that bottle.”

I paused, rolling the question over in my mind. “Maybe not. I’m just so—” My fist clenched. “I hate losing friends.”

“I can tell.” The old turtle’s stare was withering. He sighed. “Wait a while, and then talk to him again. Things might seem different with time.”

I nodded. “I hope he’ll accept my apology. Twice in one night I’ve learned a hard lesson about hubris. I’m such an asshole.”

The old Clodhopper’s eye ridges peaked. “You can’t be all bad if you’re admitting your mistakes.”

“Let’s hope so. I don’t have many friends. I’d hate to lose the few I’ve got left.”

“If they’re your friends, they’ll forgive you.”

Choking back a lump in my throat, I hoped I’d find myself worthy of that charity. I hefted the bottle. There was no label. “Your own creation?”

“That’s right,” Uncle Waddles said, smiling.

“Think it’s safe for humans to drink?”

“Well, if it’s not, we’ll find out real quick.”

I dropped a thimbleful into Fumbles’s empty glass and a dollop into my host’s. Although I shouldn’t have tempted fate, I needed something to take the edge off. “Do your people believe in toasts?”

“Toasts?” He mulled over the word as though the translation had failed. “A pledge? Yes, we have them.”

“I vow to find the cold brew and help the sick on Clodhopper.”

“I promise to get drunker. I’m not good for much else.”

We clinked glasses, and I took a sip. It burned all the way down, like New Lexington White Lightning. A shiver passed through me. Another swallow killed my remaining taste buds. I coughed into my hand.

“You like it?” Uncle Waddles asked.

“Smooth,” I croaked.

He grinned. “Another?”

“I shouldn’t.”

The old geezer shrugged and belted back another drink. “Leaves more for me.”

At least the drink would help me get through the next conversation. I fished Sanraya’s data slate out my pocket and booted up Princess Takahe’s AI program. Her form grew on the dining table near the liquor bottle, a blue puffball solidifying into a two-foot feathered bird.

Uncle Waddles head snapped back. He jumped out of his chair and grabbed a broom, holding it in front of him like an axe. “Shell’s bells! What is that?”

“It’s okay.” I held up my hands in a placating gesture. “Give me a chance, and I’ll explain.”

“You look like crap, Ian MacIntyre,” Princess said. “Scruffy beard. Rumpled clothes. Dirt under your fingernails. When was the last time you bathed? Or slept?”

“Sleep is a tempting mistress.” I yawned. “I’ll succumb to her wiles soon enough.”

“Sanraya doesn’t like competition,” the bird tittered.

“She’s asleep. It will be a threesome.”

“Ugh. Now there’s an image I don’t need.”

“Where did this creature come from?” Uncle Waddles asked. “Please tell me I’m not hallucinating.”

“You’re not imagining things. This is Princess Takahe. She’s a hologram. Projected light coupled with artificial intelligence—a computer program.”

“If you say so. I don’t use computers. They don’t mix with alcohol, which is why I leave such nonsense to the younger generations.”

Princess Takahe eyed the older Clodhopper. “Great. Another Luddite. What do you need, Mac?”

“Your doppelgänger blew up before completing her mission. Self-detonated during her first encounter with another Polavian droid.”

“Hmm.”

“I need you to run a diagnostic of your programming. Virus. Worm. Any malware or spyware.”

“You think I’ve been infected?” She flapped her wings. “How insulting.”

“How else can you explain what happened?” I raised a fist. “And if you say spontaneous combustion, I’m gonna get medieval.”

The chicken bobbed her head. “Normally I’d tell you to get bent, but because you’re exhausted, I’ll let it slide . . . just this once.”

“Quit cawing, crow. Start the antivirus sweep.”

Princess’s beady eyes stared into space. “Protocols enacted.” Her right leg twitched.

The older Clodhopper clucked his tongue. “Y’all are a weird bunch. You’re asking a machine to check itself to see if it’s sick?”

“Yeah, when you put it that way, it does sound odd.” I scratched the stubble on my chin. Maybe I did need to clean myself up.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Princess Takahe said. “Spyware located and quarantined. A Polavian worm.” She stuck the end of her wing down her throat, hacked, and coughed up a funky blue invertebrate. “It tasted so good going down.” She hopped on top of it, stomping it into a gooey mess.

Our host grimaced. “Gross.”

“How long was that inside your innards?” I asked.

Princess shrugged. “It appeared when I connected to my mainframe aboard the Blackthorn Beauty.”

“So, there’s a chance the ship is infected?”

The bird rolled its eyes. “That’s how infections work, dummy.”

My eyeballs twitched. Must. Control. Anger. “Can you purge the ship’s programming from here?”

“There isn’t a connection.” She mimed sticking her wing down her throat again. “No operator assistance available.”

“The city will have a network. What did the spyware do?”

“Every time you booted up my program within distance of a receiver on the surface, it delivered data to the enemy,” Princess Takahe replied.

My mind tried to comprehend the importance of this revelation but failed. There wasn’t enough gas left in my tank. “Try to figure out what you sent them. I want your analysis and a plan to feed the bunnies disinformation in the morning. You just became a triple agent.”

“Roger.” The hologram winked off.

Uncle Waddles cleared his throat. “Anything I can do to help?”

My clouded mind wasn’t working right, but one stray thought emerged. Sanraya and Joe were right—I couldn’t do everything alone.

“Fumbles explained our rescue mission? About the medicine?”

“He did.”

“What assets does the Shellshock Syndicate have in Dak Taloka?”

“They’re expecting you. They have crews watching the Polavians.”

“Is there any other organized resistance?”

“Teen gangs, but they’re afraid of what will happen if they stick their heads out of their shells.”

“But we might get their help to rescue the cold brew?”

Uncle Waddles nodded. “I think so.”

“Do you have any maps of the city?”

The elder Clodhopper slid backward in his chair, the legs skidding along the hardwood floor. He reached over his shoulder and opened a hutch drawer. A moment later, he removed several pieces of folded paper, straightened them, and smoothed out the creases.

“These are at least ten years old, dating back before the war,” he said. “I know you can’t read our language, so I’ll explain it to you.”

“What’s changed?”

“The Polavians destroyed a lot of buildings,” Uncle Waddles said. “Nothing but rubble left.”

“What else?”

He tapped the edge of the map. “They altered the traffic patterns. Cleared space to the north to use as a landing pad for starships. And built a garrison for their troops.”

I rubbed my eyes, worried my brain wouldn’t shut off, no matter my state of physical exhaustion. I could create a plan to solve our problems. Create a list of assets. Figure out a timetable for action. There had to be a way to sneak into the Polavian base.

My thoughts froze when I remembered Sanraya’s admonition—no one gets by on their own.

“Planning will have to wait until morning, when everyone’s awake.” I reached for the nearly empty bottle and sighed. “I’m gonna need more to put me to sleep.”

Uncle Waddles cackled. “I’ve got twenty-eight more bottles.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY

Turns out road rage isn’t just a human phenomenon. The Clodhoppers took it from an enflamed emotion and turned it into an art form. Fumbles drove his uncle’s van like a Panzer tank on a blitzkrieg through the Polish countryside. More than once, we swapped paint with slower vehicles as he bypassed them on our way to Dak Taloka. Apparently, this was a common occurrence. The natives built their vehicles to sustain frequent collisions and dish out their own punishment.

The pterodactyl drone perched on the headrest of the front passenger seat to record footage of our commute to and through the city. It squawked when the van came to an abrupt stop.

“Holy cracked shells! Come on! Move it!” Fumbles yelled at a yellow trike blocking our path. He stole a glance over his shoulder, checking on us as we sandwiched ourselves between vegetable-filled crates in the windowless rear compartment. “Traffic’s gotten a lot worse ever since the bunnies arrived.”

Sanraya kept her gaze focused on the streets, looking for threats. “Is it like this every day?”

“It’s worse on market days, like today.” Fumbles yanked the steering yoke while his second set of hands controlled the acceleration and brakes. Twisting the accelerator, he goosed the van forward, pushing aside the trike, and found space on the road between a red double-decker bus and a four-wheeled economy commuter.

The trike owner shook three fists, spewing verbal venom drowned out by our van’s roaring motor.

“We should arrive in another ten minutes,” Fumbles said. “Unless we get searched at a random checkpoint. We’ll meet the other refugees at the rendezvous.”

Joe looked up from the map in his hands, keeping a thumb on one spot. “We’re about six blocks from the Polavian garrison. How close can we get without being noticed?”

“About six blocks.” Fumbles snorted. “I took this route to show you how crowded the streets get. You won’t be able to move without someone noticing you.” He stole another glance at us. “Not during the daytime. Those disguises won’t fool anyone close up.”

I adjusted my Clodhopper mask thatkept sliding down my forehead. “This setup stinks.”

“Yeah, we look like actors in a B-list horror flick.” Joe moaned and raised his arms. Two fake limbs moved in tandem. “I’m the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”

Sanraya huffed. “You’re an overpaid diva. Stick to your lines.”

“We don’t have lines. And I don’t have an income.”

“I could give you some lines.” Sanraya flexed her knuckles. “Right across the bridge of your nose.”

“Careful!” Joe chided her. “Don’t damage the headpiece.”

I rolled my eyes. “Will you two knock it off?”

Sanraya raised a fist. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”

“Listen, you two, we’re in hostile territory. Any citizen outside could be a Polavian spy.”

“They can’t hear us inside the van. And they certainly can’t see inside.” Fumbles turned the steering yoke; the van lumbered around a curve toward an overpass. “Not with the tinted windows.”

“Then why are we sitting in the back?” Joe asked.

“Random checkpoints, remember?” I glared at him. “If Fumbles gets stopped, we hunch down behind the cargo and hope they don’t see us. If we’re lucky, they’ll ask him a question or two and let him pass.”

Joe threw up his hands—all four of them. “We usually don’t have that kind of luck. What if we get stopped and the Polavians want to search the entire van?”

“Well, then we’ll find out how good of a gunslinger you are.”

“We’re doomed.” Sanraya faked a fainting spell.

Joe raised a finger, then swallowed his words. A diamond-shaped spacecraft with stubby swept-back wings—barely visible through the front windscreen—roared overhead. The Polavian bounty brigantine banked away at a right angle from our own path and slowly descended.

“We’re near the spaceport.” Fumbles’s knuckles grew white on the vehicle controls. “That word still feels weird on my tongue: spaceport.”

Another ship chugged its way across our path. The chunky blue blob spewed black smoke from its rear nacelles and flew with a portside list. Its flattened bottom looked like a fresh scar on an old woman.

“I’ll be damned.” Joe leaned forward. “The Blackthorn Beauty lives!”

“More like the living dead—a zombie ship,” I said.

“Ugh.” Sanraya’s lips turned downward in disgust. “It looks like one of those old sloe berries—the ones in the ship’s refrigerator.”

“Yeah, a berry someone’s stepped on.” Joe pressed his hands together. “Smoosh. What a freakin’ mess.”

I shrugged. “At least it’s out of the jungle.”

A third ship dropped out of the clouds: a Vellaran Victory-class frigate. It followed the Beauty, disappearing behind the nominal skyline and hilly terrain.

“Looks like our buddy, Stanislav Hordiyenko, is still here.” Sanraya huffed. “No doubt testing the Beauty. Once it’s capable of achieving escape velocity, he’ll leave this planet and take it with him.”

“No way,” I said. “Not if we can help it.”

“You sure you want the ship back?” Joe asked. “With the damage she’s taken, she’ll be a festering blister on your ass.”

“Now that’s an image I didn’t need,” Sanraya mumbled.

“You know of another way to get off this rock?” I asked. “Other than trying to steal another vessel with unknown issues?”

Joe’s shoulders drooped. “No.”

“Then we’re stuck with the ugly girl we brought to this dance.”

Sanraya clucked her forked tongue. “You shouldn’t talk that way about the ship. Princess won’t like it. And I don’t like it either.”

“She let a worm into the ship’s network,” Joe said. “Luckily for us, she only revealed our plans to blow up the Coney Carrier.”

The van exited the main thoroughfare; Fumbles steered it through the backstreets. Narrow buildings leaned against each other: residential block units no taller than three stories and made up of various shades of gray stone. This close to the river, the lowest floors were open to the elements, providing space to park vehicles and store personal items.

Traffic thinned. Vehicles crowded the curbs, and pedestrians walked down tree-lined pathways. If you didn’t look too closely, you wouldn’t know the Polavians occupied the city. But I spotted a general unease among the population. The Clodhoppers kept their gaze low, avoiding each other’s eyes. Everyone moved with purpose, without lingering. No one waved a friendly hello or goodbye.

After rounding a corner, Fumbles gasped and wrenched on the brakes. A column of Polavian mechas—each three stories high—marched toward us. The piloted vehicles moved in time, their footfalls echoing off the nearby buildings. CLANK. CLANK. CLANK. Dust plumed with every step. Mechanical ears twitched—sensors seeking out threats.

My heart lodged in my throat. Fumbles backed us into an alley and allowed the armored patrol to pass. Other vehicles darted into side streets or pulled over to the curb. Fortunately, none of the mechanized infantry glanced in our direction.

When the last vehicle disappeared, I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Criminy. If that doesn’t wake you up, nothing will.”

“Let’s go, Fumbles.” Joe tapped him on the shoulder. “The more distance we put between us and that patrol, the better I’ll feel.”

“Right.” Fumbles put the van in drive and turned the accelerator. “Forgive me if I leaked a little out of my shell.”

Our transport chugged its way through a commercial district, past a hardware store, a restaurant, and a shoe shop. Citizens made their way about, running errands. At an intersection, a pedestrian Polavian patrol loitered outside a café. Everyone gave them a wide berth.

A minute or two later, we arrived at a park where vendors bustled to set up tents and stalls. Vehicles crowded a side street: vans, pickups, carts, and trailers.

Fumbles backed his van behind a tent and shut off the engine. “Stay inside. I’ll return soon.”

He jumped out and slammed the door shut. A teenage Clodhopper nodded and urged Fumbles to follow him. They disappeared into the crowd of merchants and shoppers.

The motor ticked as it cooled. As the van’s interior grew warm, a trickle of sweat ran off my brow. I yanked off my mask and slouched between two crates.

Joe followed my lead, taking off his headpiece. His pompadour was damp and limp. He sighed and combed his fingers through his hair.

“I hate waiting.” Sanraya pulled her data slate from her pack. “So, what’s the plan to rescue the cold brew?”

“I’ve got an idea,” I said, “but I want your help—and Joe’s—to finish it.”

Joe rocked back against the wall. “You want our input?”

“Why not? Three heads are better than one.”

Sanraya gave me a smile a crocodile would envy. “What do you have in mind?”

“Something nasty.” I grinned back. “Time for payback.”

“I’m in.” Joe rubbed his hands together.

“Let’s see if Princess can get us information about the ammo dump and maybe connect with the ship,” Sanraya suggested.

I fished out my Ixorian camera. “Good idea.” I triggered the flight mechanism and directed the drone to hover in the back corner of the cargo area. The camera projected a light beam onto the floor.

Princess Takahe’s form winked into existence amid an explosion of green-blue feathers cascading around her like colorful confetti. She yawned. “You rang?”

“Why can’t you just appear without all the flash?” I asked. “Do you really need to bring all that attention to yourself?”

“You told me to adapt. You’re filming a holodrama. As a result, I modified my programming. Your audience will love it.”

I sighed. “You need to check with the rest of us before you make these kinds of decisions.”

“Okay. Talking will bring more conflict. As I understand cinema, that’s what makes things entertaining. You won’t like me when I’m even more irascible and sarcastic.”

Joe snorted. “Don’t you mean stubborn and sadistic?”

The bird nodded. “That too.”

The rear door of the van opened. Joe’s hand blurred to his side. In an instant, he was leveling his blaster at Fumbles’s head.

“Take it easy, will ya?” Fumbles clambered inside with his teenage companion. “This is Pinhead. Be nice to him. He’s part of a local gang—the Pond Scum. They’re gonna help us.”

The kid yanked the van door closed. He sniffled and wiped the hooped piercings hanging from his nostrils. He blinked when his gaze landed on the hologram. “Whoa! Cool.”

Our AI met Pinhead’s gaze. “I’m definitely the coolest thing you’ll see this side of the Kati Nethos Cluster.”

“Are you real?” Pinhead leaned forward and passed a hand through the light show.

“No, you’re hallucinating, kid.” The feisty bird stalked toward him. “Stop eating the purple mushrooms from the amrokaroo fields.”

Pinhead smirked. “It talks real good. Who’s controlling it?”

“I’m sentient, bub. Artificial intelligence.”

“Really?”

Princess stepped forward, getting a closer look at the young Clodhopper. “When you sneeze, do you lose your piercings? Just wondering, because you could hang curtains off all the hoops.”

“Hey!” I scolded her. “Remember what Fumbles said about being nice to the Pinhead?”

“I heard him. I just chose to ignore him.”

“Cut it out.” I fumed. “We need to figure out a way to rescue the cold brew.”

“Very well,” Princess huffed.

“Can you find a secure connection to Polavian command central?” I asked. “And do it without picking up another worm?”

“Does a Louisiana bullfrog burp in the bayou?”

My hand clenched. Our AI showed all the signs of picking up the peculiarities of my other actors. “We need information about the bunker where the bunnies buried the cold brew and the Alliance weapons?”

“Is that all? You want me to order a pizza while I’m at it?”

“Get it done or I’ll cook your goose.” I raised a fist and shook it at her. “Find out how much time we’ve got before Stanislav takes our ride home. And be careful.”

“Nag, nag, nag.” Princess Takahe’s eyes lost focus. She stared through the van’s ceiling as though visualizing the closest Polavian antenna. “Handshake protocol initiated. Masking identity.” She turned and batted her eyes, her blue-green feathers dancing up and down. “The Polavian garrison thinks I’m a lost powder monkey.”

“Powder monkey?” Sanraya asked. “I’m not familiar with that phrase. Explain.”

“It’s a military term. It used to refer to kids who carried gunpowder aboard sailing ships,” Joe explained. “Nowadays it’s slang for droids that deliver ammunition to other units.”

The fowl hopped atop a crate filled with gourd-like seedpods. “I’m receiving instructions on how to return to the depot where the Polavians are holding our cold brew and the Alliance’s weapons.”

“You’ve got access?” Fumbles asked. “What’s the security look like?”

“Working on it,” Princess Takahe replied.

My camera drone rotated and cast another holographic image on the van’s floor. A Polavian hilltop encampment sprang up in intricate detail—barracks, towers, and underground bunkers. Around it, the ruins of a Clodhopper building sprawled in an incoherent rubble. Mechanized security personnel patrolled the perimeter, while a minefield glowed red on the slopes of the hills surrounding the base.

Joe hissed. “Great. Impenetrable.”

Fumbles shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s look at that map my uncle gave us.”

Princess Takahe hopped over to Joe’s map. “Interesting. I’m scanning and overlaying the old map on the new complex.”

An older network of roads and buildings superimposed itself over the Polavian complex—an etching of blue skeletons representing the destroyed Clodhopper structures. It revealed how the Polavians had taken the underlying infrastructure and incorporated it into their modern fortifications.

Sanraya leaned against me. “I don’t see a secret entrance.”

“Of course not,” I said. “What? Did you think you’d find a way in through a storm-water drain or a sewer?”

“It works in the holovids.” Sanraya shrugged. “And we’re in a holovid.”

“Dream on. We’re never that lucky.”

Joe craned his neck to get a better look. “Rotate the image ninety degrees, Princess.” He pointed to a knob inside the hilltop, the one farthest from the barracks. “There. We’ll find the cold brew and Alliance weapons in that bunker.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Classic military doctrine. Put the ammo a long ways from where your troops sleep.”

“Hmm.” I tapped a finger to my chin. “Remember the instructions we programmed into the sleds carrying the Alliance munitions? Back when we planned our escape into the jungle from the Beauty?”

“You mean the plan we never got to use? Because you crash-landed us?” Joe’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Yeah, I still have nightmares about that.”

I ignored the gibe. “Do you think the programming will still work?”

Joe’s eyes lit up. “You wanna trigger the booby traps on the Alliance crates?”

“Not while they’re inside the bunker. It would destroy the cold brew.”

“Well, what then?”

“We programmed the droids to give us cover as we ran for the jungle.”

“So?”

“We’ll turn on some of them to do the same thing, only in reverse,” I explained. “They’ll exit the bunker and detonate against something important. Then we’ll race inside and recover the medicine.”

“Now you’re talking.” Joe grinned. “But how do we escape? There’ll be a mess of soldiers intent on ripping us to shreds once we nab the goods.”

“Princess will guide the Blackthorn Beauty to a spot just outside the garrison.”

“Well, then we’d better take out that tower.” Joe pointed to a platform near the bunker. “Looks like an anti-aircraft unit.”

Princess cleared her throat. “I’ll get started with the purge and reprogramming of the Beauty’s systems. It might take some time to get rid of the Polavian worm.”

“How long?” I asked.

“Probably the better part of a day.”

“Why so long?”

The hologram kicked an imaginary pebble out of her way as she stalked toward me. “I’m operating out of a data slate, which doesn’t have a lot of power. I’m slowly weaseling my way into a Polavian pentacular-core supercomputer to avoid detection and working on a reboot of the entire ship.”

“Hmm.” My mind whirled with potential solutions. “Can you get us access codes for the security in the bunker with the weapons and cold brew?”

“The pass codes are on a different server. Too risky to access.” The image of the Polavian base spun and zoomed in on the ammunition depot. “There’s a door that rolls up to allow entry.”

Fumbles rubbed his hands together. “I can blow the door.”

“It’s a blast door.” Joe pointed to the map.

“So? I’ve got a lot of explosives.” He leaned forward. “We’ll need more information about the inside of that bunker.”

Our AI replaced the map of the garrison with an internal diagram of the underground complex. A basic layout of a concrete-filled silo emerged: four parallel floors with an elevator shaft in the center.

Joe shrugged. “Functional if not original. So, where’s our loot?”

The diagram twisted and narrowed its focus. “Top floor, south wing. It’s where they keep the newest arrivals.” A blue-green wing stabbed at an alcove. “There.”

I chuckled. “We should leave two crates behind and detonate them inside.”

“The explosion will create one hell of a distraction,” Joe said.

Sanraya clapped. “I love it.” She pointed to the main gate. “But the only way to get there is through this chokepoint. It’s not gonna be easy.”

Pinhead nodded. “It wouldn’t hurt if they’re all facing the wrong way when we arrive.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll work on a plausible story to try to get them away from the garrison.”

“How many do you have in your gang?” Joe asked. “Will they follow our plan?”

Pinhead smiled. “Pond Scum is thirty members strong. I can contact some of the other clans—the Shellaquers and Bottom Feeders—and get another hundred. Whatever the Shellshock Syndicate wants, we’ll follow their lead.”

Fumbles rubbed his chin. “The Syndicate can mobilize at least two hundred patriots by tonight.”

I nodded. “Let’s get moving, folks. We’ve got a lot to do and not enough time to get it done.”

“You can say that again.” Fumbles pulled a sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket and unfolded it. “Intelligence says the Polavian reinforcements will be landing in Dak Taloka in less than twenty-four hours.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

As the afternoon grew late and we waited in the van for word of the arrival of the Shellshock Syndicate’s elders into the city, thunderheads gathered to the west, promising an early twilight.

Anyone who thinks weather doesn’t affect the course of a battle hasn’t studied history. Our combat plans swam through my head. Luck tilted in our favor—inclement weather could only help our assault. Clodhoppers possessed better vision in low light, much better than the Polavians, who would have to rely on technology to help them see through the murk.

The storm arrived. Fierce winds screamed down the western mountainside and raged through Dak Taloka. Lightning forked across the heavens as thunder echoed across the hills. The vendors scattered, vanishing in minutes to find cover. A dark, roiling sky emptied a deluge that flooded the park and streets.

Fumbles received confirmation through his earpiece—the Shellshock Syndicate had arrived. They were waiting for us and the other refugees in a building across the street from the marketplace.

During the heaviest downpour, we scrambled to a tent. From there, we scurried to a brownstone with steps leading to a basement bar. We huddled beneath an overhang, my breath coming in gasps. The orb drone hovered over my shoulder, unaffected by the rain. Ill equipped to handle the gusty conditions, the pterodactyl camera was stored away in my pack.

CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.

A Polavian mecha patrol rounded the corner two blocks away. A half dozen piloted robo bunnies turned and headed our direction. Much larger than the mecha we’d fought in the caves, these hulking nightmares rose three stories high. Bristling with rocket launchers and plasma cannon, they had enough individual firepower to reduce a building to rubble. My leg muscles tightened, ready to run.

“Move it, Fumbles,” Joe hissed. “Get us inside before the Polavians see through these horrible disguises.”

Fumbles gulped and knocked on the front door. Lightning spread its talons across the sky. Thunder pealed. Water cascaded off the overhang, splattering on my legs. I fought back a sneeze.

CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.

The patrol approached, now only a block and a half away. A floodlight from the lead mecha stabbed into the growing twilight, searching.

The door opened, and we entered a narrow landing.

CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.

An olive-shelled Clodhopper slammed the door shut and threw a deadbolt home across the lock. He put a finger to his lips and peeked around the blinds to watch the patrol.

CLANK. CLANK.

The spotlight’s beam leaked around the corner of the blinds. The doorman ducked away, fright in his amber eyes. He fingered the holstered blaster on his hip.

The sounds of the mechanized unit continued up the street. A few moments later, the footfalls faded away.

The doorman returned to the blinds, peeked through them, nodded, then turned back to us. “They’re gone. Welcome to the Loose Screw. There’s towels here to dry yourselves off.” He pointed to a rack where some dingy rags hung.

I sucked in a deep breath, trying to get my bearings.

“How often does the patrol come by?” Joe asked.

“There’s no pattern to their behavior,” the Clodhopper answered, trying to control his breathing, “but they’ve been up this street twice today. You were lucky you weren’t caught.”

Stripping off my waterlogged headpiece, I tried to make out the contents of the dark cloakroom. Opposite the front entrance, another doorway led to the interior of the building. Beside me, Joe and Sanraya pulled off their disguises and dumped them in a pile. I grabbed a few rags and tossed them over so they could dry off.

“The others are waiting for you.” The doorman opened the taproom door, ushered us through it, and shut the door behind us.

A short flight of stairs led to a flagstone floor. To my left, along one wall, a worn wooden bar stretched the length of the room. Behind it, a display of glass vessels and colorful pottery cluttered a long counter. The smell of alcohol, smoke, dampness, and wood varnish wafted to my nose as I scrubbed myself dry.

A green-shelled crowd—all armed and dangerous looking—looked up from their war preparations around a scattering of wooden tables. I recognized Madame Testudines and the other elders at the center table. When our gazes met, she excused herself from her companions and hobbled toward us.

Joe stretched and yawned. Sanraya hovered near my right shoulder.

Madame Testudines leaned on her ornate cane. “Glad to see you survived, Mr. MacIntyre.”

“Just thankful to be here, ma’am.” I bowed. “I’m sorry for your loss. Harekiller’s sacrifice saved a lot of lives—Scarface and Tattoo as well.”

The wrinkles near her eyes deepened, and she blinked away a tear. “Thank you, Mac.”

I swallowed and ducked my head. “I owe you an apology, madame. My part of the plan didn’t work. If we’d taken out both skydive stages, more of your people would have survived.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Sometimes the best strategies don’t work.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

She eyed me, then nodded. “Fumbles mentioned your part in our plan to raid the Polavian camp. I think we can help you more than you realize.” She reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. “The Alliance sent a message through their contacts here. These are the codes for the Alliance armament shipment.”

“The codes to disarm the booby traps?” My eyes widened.

“That’s right,” Madame Testudines replied. “There’s a single pass code for all the containers, but you need to punch it onto the keypad for each lock.” She leaned forward and handed Joe another scrap of paper. “I have the list of weapons inside the containers. I can’t read it, but my technicians tell me it includes the newest Alliance shoulder-mounted surface-to-air missiles.”

Joe scanned the Alliance invoice and whistled. “Phototaxian Winged Pythons. Nice.”

“What makes them special?” I asked him.

“Stealth. By the time an aircraft notices their launch, it’s too late.” He paused with his finger on the list. A moment later, his shoulders slumped.

“What’s wrong?”

“The list includes a tactical nuke—a Thermopyle rocket.”

A murmur passed through the crowd of Clodhoppers. Madame Testudines’s red eyes shone with a fierce light.

My jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish.” His hands shook. “Mac . . . I don’t know about this.”

“You wanna leave it with the bunnies?”

“No.”

I tapped my wrist—one of our prearranged signals to dial down the drama. We’d need to discuss the matter in private as soon as possible. “One thing at a time, Captain Charisma.”

He took a deep breath, let it out, met my gaze, and gave a quick nod.

“When the Blackthorn Beauty lifts off from the spaceport,” Sanraya interjected, “you know there’ll be a pursuit. Why not set up an ambush for the craft chasing her?”

“Awesome.” I rubbed my hands together. “Let’s bushwhack the bunnies.”

We moved to the large table where the elders sat. I met Sanraya’s gaze, and she pulled her data slate out of her pack. While she fidgeted to load our AI program, I directed the camera to hover near the low ceiling. The drone spun and broadcast the emerging hologram.

A swirl of blue-and-red smoke grew out of the surface of the wooden table. A flash of light pulsed outward, followed by a mushroom cloud similar to a miniature nuclear explosion. Within the cloudy veil, Princess Takahe squawked. “Like a phoenix from the ashes, I emerge to be reborn.”

My jaw clenched. “Princess, we’ve talked about your dramatic entrances. Why can’t you curb your baser instincts?”

She chuckled. “You’re familiar with spontaneity. You’ll get use to me.”

I sighed, realizing I wouldn’t be winning this argument today—or perhaps ever. “Please bring up the layout of the Polavian encampment. Show us the most likely flight paths from the star base.”

Light swirled and coalesced into a 3-D schematic of the mountaintop garrison and the surrounding peaks. The star field winked into existence on a nearby elevation to the north. The rest of Dak Taloka—its hills, avenues, treetops, and buildings—filled in the gaps.

We crowded around the table with the other Clodhoppers, who stood to get a peek of the hologram. A murmur passed through the crowd, showing their awe of the technology.

Blue arrows flashed, pointing to two pathways from the spaceport to the garrison. The first course showed spacecrafts banking around a radio tower and approaching from the north. The second route brought crafts in from the east.

“There.” Joe pointed to the second path. “Ships will come from that direction.”

Madame Testudines studied the map. “How do you know?”

“To avoid crosswinds,” Joe said. “Better to approach the wind head on. This is one fierce storm.”

“I concur.” Princess Takahe trotted down the table toward the Polavian outpost then hopped onto a roadway leading toward it. “You want your ambush on either side of this east-west thoroughfare.”

I nodded. “What can you tell us about the status of the Blackthorn Beauty?”

She sighed. “I’ve got good and bad news.”

“Gimme the bad first,” I said.

“I won’t have full control over the ship tonight, as planned. Purging the Polavian worm is taking longer than expected.”

I winced. “Can you at least fly the ship to the extraction point?”

“Negative. Navigation is out. Autopilot is disabled. Environmental systems are on backup only.”

“Is flight possible at all?”

“That’s the good news. It’ll fly, but you need a pilot.”

“Remote control?” I asked. “Can someone fly it from here?”

Princess nodded. “Yes, but I don’t like the idea—not when I won’t be available as a backup.”

I sighed. “It’s our only option.”

“Hot damn!” Joe hollered, sending a few elderly Clodhoppers back a few steps. “What about armor? Shields? Weapons?”

“Armor plating is sub-optimal along the belly. Shields are restored. You won’t believe the changes to the weapons platform. Someone’s got a weird sense of humor.”

“Whaddaya mean?” I asked.

“Hordiyenko installed a new defensive platform along the ventral side.”

“And?”

“It’s a Phototaxian Missile Pack.”

I groaned. “I don’t believe it.”

Madame Testudines tapped a claw against the tabletop. “Explain, please.”

Sanraya chuckled. “Stanislav Horidiyenko is a smuggler who collaborated with the Polavians. He tried to steal the cold brew from our ship. When our ships met, Mac threatened to blow him to pieces using a Phototaxian Missile Pack.”

“So?” Fumbles asked.

“We didn’t have one,” I explained. “It was a bluff.”

“Ah.” Madame Testudines nodded. “So, this other smuggler is mocking you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah.”

Our peacock princess heaved herself upright. “Imagine the look on Hordiyenko’s face when we steal the ship back from him.” She danced a jig. “I’m gonna send a missile up the rear exhaust port of that tin can he drives.”

“I can get behind the sentiment,” Joe said. “Get it? Get behind?”

“Ugh. Enough wisecracks,” I said. “You and Sanraya will oversee the ambush. Figure out your exact location for it. If Stanislav’s ship pursues the Beauty, take it out.”

“What’ll you be doing?” Joe asked. “I thought I was flying the ship.”

“Princess just explained that she won’t finish her purge and reboot of the Beauty’s systems by the time we launch the attack tonight. So, we need someone to operate the ship by remote control. That’ll be me.”

Joe frowned. “Mac, you’re not a pilot. How do you—”

“I’ve been steering a camera since you were a knee-high Texas brushpopper,” I told him. “It’ll be just like flying a drone—just a little bigger.”

“A little bigger?” Joe shook his head. “You’re talking about a ship that can carry a thousand tons. She doesn’t stop on a dime. And she’s got mechanical problems.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Let me practice with the camera software. I’ll fly the ship.”

I considered his offer. Wasn’t this part of working as a team? Consider and evaluate the strengths and weaknesses of our group? Who would be better at leading the assault on the garrison? Certainly not me, although I wanted to be there. Joe had better martial arts skills and was a much better shot than I was. He also was a better pilot, but he wouldn’t physically have his hands on the controls. Experience using a remote interface gave us the best chance, so I reached my decision. I could only hope I wouldn’t screw up again.

“There isn’t enough time.” I held up a hand to forestall any further argument. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve been working with this equipment for years. And your battle skills will be better used elsewhere.”

Joe opened his mouth to protest, but Sanraya held up a hand to stop him. “How do we get to the outpost?” she asked. “There are patrols, not to mention guard towers watching for trouble.”

“That’s another contribution we can bring to the battle,” Madame Testudines chimed in. “Pinhead and the other local gang members have planned an uprising across town. They’ll draw most of the garrison out from behind its barricades.”

“Are you sure the Polavians will take the bait?” Joe asked.

Pinhead snickered. “They will if Princess Takahe drops the right disinformation. Let word slip we’re meeting a villain known as Joseph Drake. I heard the bunnies want you bad. She can also spread a rumor about your most recent terrorist attack.”

Princess Takahe grinned and nodded.

“Wait . . . what attack?” Joe said.

“Blowing up the skydive stage. The floppy-eared galoots will think you orchestrated the whole thing.”

“I don’t like it.” Joe straightened up and tugged the bottom of his leather jacket. “You’re using my name, and I don’t like being labeled as a terrorist.”

“Thousands of Clodhoppers’ lives are at risk, human.” Pinhead’s eyes narrowed. “And using your name will help sell the story.”

“I still don’t like it,” Joe said.

“I’ll get you a black hat,” Sanraya said. “If they’re going to portray you as a villain, you might as well look the part.”

Joe groaned. “Whatever.”

“This is our objective: rescuing the cold brew.” I tapped the Polavian armory on the map. “Let’s not fight over how we achieve that end. We just need to avoid the patrols before we get there.” I turned to Pinhead. “Once the Polavian soldiers fall for your bait, make sure you and your buddies skedaddle away before they can nab you.”

“Understood.” Pinhead nodded, the hoops in his nostrils bobbing.

“How are we getting to the outpost?” Joe asked. “Six blocks is a long run with our jocks swinging in the breeze.”

“I don’t understand.” Sanraya scowled. “You plan to attack an armed camp naked? Is this a human custom I am unaware of? Something designed to confuse the enemy?”

Joe wagged his eyebrows. “Never underestimate the intimidation created by the sight of Captain Charisma’s mammoth manhood.”

“Or his tremendous ego,” I quipped.

“Are we talking about waffles again?” Joe smirked.

Sanraya punched his shoulder. “Could we stay on topic, please?”

“We’ve secured two Polavian troop transports,” Madame Testudines cut in. “They’ll drive up to the front gates. Our advance team—they’re holed up in another building a few blocks from here—will launch a surprise assault and seize control of the entrance. Others will make their way to the gates using various vehicles or by approaching on foot, holding back their advance for the last couple blocks until the attack is under way.”

I nodded. “Now that sounds like a plan. It’s still a two-minute run to reach the gates from there.”

“It’s the best we can do, Mac,” Madame Testudines replied.

“Well, then let’s hope the bad weather holds.”

“There’ll be fog once the winds die,” one of the elders offered.

“When will we start?” Sanraya asked.

“Two hours,” Madame Testudines answered. “Get a bit of rest and food and pray to whatever deity you worship.”

The taproom door flung open. The one-eyed doorman panted. “There’s another patrol outside—a full infantry squad. They’re searching buildings up the street and heading in our direction.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO

Even the best plans go to shit when the enemy doesn’t cooperate. The Polavian patrol’s search would eventually bring them to our building. They’d find the Shellshock Syndicate’s rulers right under their wriggling pink noses. Damn meddlesome, militant cottontails.

A stunned silence hung over the taproom for the briefest moment until someone dropped a tankard. The porcelain shattered on the floor, pieces skittering away like grapeshot out of a cannon. Spilled booze frothed and leaked into the grooves between the floor’s blond planks.

“We’re trapped!” one Clodhopper shouted.

“Out the back door!” another responded.

Madame Testudines threw her hands in the air—all four of them. “Quiet!” She glared at her followers over her avocado snout and wire-rimmed spectacles. “We didn’t come this far to run or surrender.”

“Kill them.” Joe’s eyes darkened. “It’s one patrol. They don’t know we’re here. Otherwise, their search wouldn’t have started up the block. We’ll fight our way free and up the timetable for the assault.”

A swarthy Clodhopper nodded. Another grunted assent.

Madame Testudines set her mouth in a tight line. “First Squad, prepare for frontal assault on the street. Clear a maneuvering area. Second Squad, set up your heavy slug casters at the corner of the building. Give us cover fire. Third Squad, flanking maneuver. Out the back. Come around the block. You’ve got two minutes. Go!”

A mad scramble followed. The troops gathered weapons, ammunition, and gear. A cacophony billowed as group leaders shouted secondary orders. The assemblage separated into three squads, murderous intent on their grim faces.

“Pinhead, tell your folks to get moving with that distraction across town ASAP,” Madame Testudines yelled.

“No problem.” Pinhead plugged in an earpiece, hooked a microphone onto a shirt pocket, and spoke into it.

I turned to my fellow actors. “Set up your own comm units. We might get separated out on the street. If so, listen for directions.”

“You got it, Mac.” Sanraya grinned like a shark before a feeding frenzy. She pulled out her earpiece and microphone. “Up and running, along with my pinhole camera feed.”

Joe inserted an earbud, then checked the charge in the garish orange blaster on his hip. “Captain Charisma ready for action.”

“Princess, link my HUD with the joystick for the Blackthorn Beauty.” I met Madame Testudines’s gaze. “Unless you’ve got better weapons than I’ve seen here, you’re gonna need air support to handle the Polavian mechas.”

“Keep them off us,” she growled. “Other patriots are hidden in nearby buildings. We’ll meet up after we break free.”

“Will do. I’ll land the Beauty. Then we’ll load a squad for an aerial assault on the Polavian compound. Find me a place to set down.”

“Understood.” Madame Testudines waddled away, yelling orders to subordinates.

Princess Takahe clicked her beak. “You want a ride along so I can handle communications?”

“Huh?”

“I’ll appear on your HUD. Keep you updated on whatever I can intercept from Polavian command.”

“Do it.” I set the camera drone to automatic. It would take all my attention to control the Beauty.

The First Squad scrambled up the stairs, carrying a mishmash of assault rifles, some stolen from dead Polavians. All of them looked like grizzled veterans. The Second Squad lugged heavier weapons—belt-fed machine guns, plasma cannon, and handheld mortars. They filed into the antechamber behind the First Squad.

Fumbles sidled up to the Second Squad. Two other Clodhopper leaders accompanied the Third Squad—the lighter-equipped scouts—as they herded through a rear exit behind the bar. I raised an eyebrow when Madame Testudines joined us.

“Don’t give me that look, MacIntyre,” she said. “I’m with you.”

“Shouldn’t you be with the rest of your troops?” I asked.

“I want a bird’s-eye view of what’s going on.”

“How far away are your phony Polavian troop transports?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Too far away for the first-wave assault on the base. We gotta steal rides off the street.”

Joe snorted. “Do you know how to break into a vehicle?”

“No, but I’ll bet you do.”

He grinned.

“Something you picked up in the Black Aces, right?”

“Nope. West Texas. That’s how I ended up in the army. Busted for taking a joyride in an antique electric hotrod. The judge gave me a choice—enlist or do six months in the pokey.”

“Pokey?” Sanraya asked.

“The Clink. Con College. Hoosegow. Graybar Hotel.”

Sanraya grimaced as she reloaded her blaster. “Terrans. Stupid colloquialisms.”

Joe cracked his knuckles. “Big House. Slammer. Hole. Pen. Down Town. Stoney Lonesome.”

“Just stay out of my way when the shooting starts,” Sanraya muttered. “And watch your rear.”

I stabbed Joe’s stomach with a finger. “Grab some wheels, crowd as many Clodhoppers as you can inside, and haul ass to the base. We’ll need those surface-to-air missiles to ward off the heat coming from the star base.”

“Got it.” Joe said. “What’ll you be doing while we’re headed to the garrison?”

“Landing the Beauty and blasting anything with fur on it.” Through clenched teeth, I spat out the last words: “Get. There. Fast.”

Joe grinned, heading for the door with Sanraya and the First Squad. “Hell’s bells. I love it when you talk like a real director.”

I thrust my middle finger toward him. “Up yours, Captain Charisma.”

The HUD swapped the drone’s interface for the ship’s more complicated flight controls: thrust, roll, pitch, yaw, air brakes, and anti-gravity elevators. Secondary switches allowed command of the weapons systems. “Let’s kick this pig.” I activated the start-up sequence for the engines and triggered the shields as Madame Testudines yelled directions to soldiers at my side.

A video feed from the ventral side let me see activity on the spaceport tarmac. Water vapor swirled in a concentric pattern: a miniature tornado caused by the Beauty’s rotating nacelles. Alarmed, a Polavian in an orange jumpsuit ran for a six-wheeled ATV. My weapons options swam into view. The nose canopy came up, leveled off, and the twin autocannon discharged two green energy quarrels into the vehicle. A second later it blew apart, flaming wreckage cascading in every direction. The Polavian mechanic sprawled out facefirst on the asphalt. He slowly raised himself to his knees, trying to shake off the impact of the blast.

The Blackthorn Beauty lifted off, turned south, and crossed over a line of parked spacecraft. Small-arms fire splashed across her shields—purple miasmas of inconsequence. Rain speckled her cameras, leaving a murky view of the activities below. Polavian troops scattered, running for their ships or for cover in the hangars and towers. Like an avenging angel under my direction, the Beauty strafed the spaceport, blasting away at exposed ships. Every vessel I damaged would be one less in pursuit, so I did my best to hit everything in sight.

Stanislav’s ship came into view. The Beauty’s nose turret spun, and two emerald laser shots took the Glorious Gambit amidships. The first created a hole the size of a doorway in the fuselage, and the second clipped a landing strut, making the Vellaran vessel list to starboard. A Phototaxian missile launched from the Beauty’s belly, screaming through the night, and rupturing the bridge canopy.

I was in my happy place—the Gambit was grounded. If I had any luck, Stanislav and his Vellaran navigator were on board and ended up in whatever fiery underworld accepted pirates. I imagined the ship burning around them as they met their justified end.

Smirking, I directed the Beauty toward our location, selecting a flight path at an elevation high enough to avoid possible collision. “The Beauty is underway,” I announced.

“Go! Go! Go!” Madame Testudines shouted to her troops. “You too, Mac!”

I shook my head to clear it and focused on the world outside my HUD. A war cry filled the small room. Although I couldn’t see them, I imagined the First Squad pouring into the street, fighting with the Polavian patrol. The Second Squad crowded behind them in the antechamber. Madame Testudines and I followed on their heels—up the stairs and into the blustery weather. Three-story residential buildings along a treelined road formed an artificial canyon. Around us, gunfire and energy blasts rang out from the Clodhopper troops.

The rain was now cascading in a fine mist, swirling in the breeze, with twilight hindering visibility. Shadows leapfrogged from cover spots along both sides of the block. Blue plasma blasts and red tracer rounds lit up the street, their light reflecting off windows and puddles as they crisscrossed the divide.

I followed the Second Squad as they raced for cover, setting up their heavy weapons behind building outcroppings and vehicles parked along the street. I found a spot next to a long-bed pickup truck. A bullet shattered a side mirror, only a hand span overhead. My breath came in short gasps as glass and metal spilled onto the asphalt.

Fumbles steered Madame Testudines behind a rusty yellow sedan, where they crouched low. Plasma blasts raced by above, two passing through the grille of a heavy truck. The resulting explosions made the cab rock, with the truck’s tires exploding under flying shrapnel.

The HUD showed the Beauty as it streaked south toward us. “Three minutes!” I shouted and lifted the same number of fingers to show Madame Testudines.

She nodded, grabbed Fumbles by the arm, and pointed toward the street behind us. I couldn’t hear what she told him, but he nodded as well and scrambled away. Pinhead, Joe, and Sanraya retreated, searching for a suitable transport to steal.

My camera drone zipped by, finding a safe spot across the travelway to record from.

A moment later, my earpiece crackled. Princess Takahe’s irritating voice broke through the deafening noise around me. “I’m intercepting Polavian chatter. They’ve raised a general alarm. There’s talk about the theft of a spacecraft. No pursuit yet from the star field. They’re scrambling to put out fires and rescue the injured. There’s also a false report that someone sighted Joseph Drake near the star base. The outpost is sending troops to chase him down.”

“Acknowledged, Princess,” I said into the microphone attached to the front of my camo suit.

I concentrated on steering the Beauty toward our conflagration. The HUD showed the topography and important landmarks. If the Clodhoppers could clear a landing area on one of the streets, as we’d planned, getting her to it shouldn’t be a problem.

“Missile lock!” Princess Takahe shouted. “Dive! Dive! Dive!”

I nearly pissed myself. Twin streaks of red light—surface-to-air missiles—showed up on the HUD, racing from a residential rooftop toward the Blackthorn Beauty. Shit. In response, I quickly steered the Beauty into a power dive, heading for the crowded deck of hills, buildings, and trees. If I could get the ship near the ground, the missiles might miss her amid the clutter.

Sweat popped out on my brow. The warheads were closing fast. Under my fat-fingered control, the Beauty bobbed and weaved, descending to street level. The HUD and video feeds created a canyon-like effect, and it took all my navigation skills to prevent a fiery crash as the ship’s shields scraped through the treetops.

Princess’s calm voice penetrated through the fog of war. “Electronic countermeasures inoperative. I can’t jam the missiles’ sensors. Six seconds to impact.”

A wordless scream exploding from my lips, I steered the Beauty through an uptown neighborhood, the three-story structures crowding together between the treelined streets. The first missile caromed off a water tower and spun to the ground. A fiery explosion rocked the residential block.

The Beauty climbed out of a cul-de-sac and inverted. As she did, she clipped the overstory of a leafy, grand tree. I launched two decoys from her topside and directed her into a looping portside turn. The other missile locked on to a decoy and exploded in a showery flash worthy of a fireworks show celebrating the fertility goddess’s birthday on Erogenous Prime.

“Nice work, but try to avoid the tree next time, dipshit.” Princess Takahe popped up in the corner of my display. “You’re coming up an avenue parallel to the one we’re on. Be alert for those mecha.”

“Right.” I swallowed the bile in the back of my throat. “That was too close.” As my eyes roamed over the HUD, I adjusted the flight path to compensate for the windy conditions.

Around me, the battle between the Clodhoppers and Polavians continued. Bullets and plasma rounds flew past, clipping the building behind us.

“Polavian mecha spotted,” Princess said. The location flashed red on the HUD. “Six units. Recommend a strafing run.”

“I’m on it.” The Beauty leveled off upright. The nose turret swiveled toward the threat. “Which one is the leader?”

“First one in the column.”

A second later, an olive-green six-wheeler—with dirt, mold, and crud covering its lower half—slammed to a halt near my hiding spot. It towered over the other vehicles on the street.

Joe stuck his head out the driver’s window. “Captain Charisma has arrived. A finer steed I could not find, milord.”

Sanraya hung out the passenger window, firing away with her silver blaster. “Quit clowning around, jackass. Only you could glorify a garbage truck.” Her yellow crest flared. “We’ve got room for a dozen atop and inside this beast, as long as they don’t mind the stench.”

“Where are Fumbles and Pinhead?” I asked, keeping one eye on the HUD.

Pinhead waved from the rear of the vehicle, clinging on to a handhold. “I think I found the remnants of last night’s dinner—honeyed worm salad.”

Fumbles cackled from atop the cab. “I’m gonna blow this thing up after we’re done with it—garbage everywhere inside the Polavian compound. It’ll smell like justice.”

“Get moving!” I yelled, steering the Beauty into its final approach.

The garbage scow rumbled away, turning up a side alley. A warning warbled in my earpiece. The Beauty screamed by overhead, her navigation lights winking in the night. A moment later, she banked and focused on the mechanized monstrosities up the boulevard.

CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.

The three-story motorized beasts stopped and crowded between two deciduous trees, staring up at the hovering spacecraft. The first mech’s autocannon spun up, spewing a hail of bullets and tracers toward the Clodhoppers clearing a landing spot for the ship in the street. The Beauty’s nose dropped, allowing me to focus her guns on the lead mech. Molten green bolts erupted from the front cannon, scissoring off a leg. The robo bunny tumbled forward in a heap, blocking the road.

The remaining five golems turned and targeted the Beauty. Red laser blasts splashed against the spacecraft’s blue shielding, while bullets rippled against the same energy field.

“Hey! You gonna let them do that to my ship?” Princess asked. “Forward shield holding, but down to sixty percent efficiency.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

The Beauty’s navigational thrusters let me guide the ship to starboard around a treetop. Shots tore through the canopy, showering the street with limbs and leaves. The ship kept turning—it had much greater maneuverability than the mecha. Once the Beauty cleared the obstruction, the nose turret erupted in a concentrated barrage on the five mecha, with verdant laser bolts slicing through their armor like a sewing needle through silk. The bipedal vehicles fell on top of one another in a mangled heap. For good measure, I blasted away at the remaining pockets of resistance from the Polavian patrol.

“Nice shooting, Mac,” Princess said. “The Clodhoppers cleared a landing spot for you. Try not to screw it up.”

I located the spot in my HUD and guided our heroic vessel in for a touchdown. Her nacelles and maneuvering thrusters kicked up water off the street before she plonked down with a heavy thud. I activated the Beauty’s rear hatch and stood up. “Anyone want a ride on the Rebel Express? Last one in is a rotten Pterorot egg.”

Madame Testudines smirked. She shouted orders to her troops then turned to me. “You might not be one of us, Ian MacIntyre, but you certainly have style.”

Princess stomped across my HUD. “Better load up quick. Three Polavian ships are inbound from the spaceport. ETA ten minutes.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE

The Blackthorn Beauty wasn’t built as a troop transport—she was a fat freighter with just enough armaments to scare off a lazy, weakling pirate. When the Second Squad stormed into her hold, I knew they’d be in for a bouncy ride to the Polavian garrison. Good thing the cargo bay didn’t have windows—nobody likes a backseat driver.

I didn’t see Spider when we arrived in the storage area. I’d hoped to grab a quick conversation with him but figured he must be tending to his precious engines. There’d be time enough to catch up via videoconference once the ship got under way. I raced for the bridge, taking Madame Testudines and her escort, a hulky Clodhopper, with me.

Madame Testudines introduced us. “This is Sparkles.”

“Sparkles?”

The hefty Clodhopper cracked his knuckles. “My mother gave me that nickname. She thought it matched my personality. You got a problem with it?”

I loosened the collar around my neck. “Uh . . . not at all.”

“Good.”

Shaking off the feeling that Sparkles would break my knees if I glanced at him funny, I focused on the task at hand. It felt strange sitting in the pilot’s seat, like I didn’t belong there. True, I’d proven I could steer and land the ship by remote, but I’d be kidding myself if I thought I could pilot it as well as Joe could. Madame Testudines and Sparkles took spots in front of the weapons console and navigation, respectively. Fat chance they’d be of any use—this was their first experience aboard a spacecraft.

The pterodactyl drone hung from its usual perch on the dashboard, focusing on our actions. The newer orb camera hovered in the upper corner of the bridge behind me, capturing visuals out the front view screen. Between the two, I anticipated getting some excellent footage.

“Ready?” I asked.

“We have everyone aboard who needs to be,” Madame Testudines answered. Her wide-eyed gaze roamed across the dashboard and touchscreens. “The other troops are taking a ground transport. Make haste, Ian MacIntyre.”

“Right.” I brought up the ship’s controls on my HUD. Trying to use the actual switches and doodads in front of me would only invite disaster. “Lift-off in three . . . two . . . one.”

The Beauty skittered and brushed against a lamppost, breaking it in a shower of sparks. Eventually she leveled off and rose above the trees and apartment buildings on either side of the street. The rain, which had picked up again, plastered the exterior camera, giving me a limited view of our surroundings, while wind gusts threatened to blow the ship around the tempestuous sky.

Sparkles clutched the arms of his chair. “Are you sure you know how to drive this thing?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, it’s a little breezy out there,” I answered, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. “But it wouldn’t hurt if you fastened your harness. There’s only so much pounding this ship can take before the inertial dampeners fail.”

He gulped and searched for his seat belt. “How long will it take to reach the garrison?”

“Less than four minutes in a straight line.”

The ship gained momentum, banking and following the main avenue that led to our destination. The storm kept most Clodhoppers off the streets, leaving little traffic to hinder the progress of the assault team. I spotted Joe and Sanraya’s garbage truck leading a rogues’ convoy of vehicles: six-wheeled work trucks, high-clearance four-seaters, and even a shiny, red convertible. They’d reached the final stretch heading into the base.

“Princess, connect me with Joe and Sanraya. Keep yourself on the line.”

The AI’s voice came through my earbuds. “Acknowledged. Connection established.”

“Better decide what we’re gonna do with that nuke. I’m sure as hell not turning it over to the Clodhoppers,” Joe’s voice boomed.

“I’m working on it,” I said into my microphone. “There are some things you can only talk about in the right company.”

“Mac!” Joe exclaimed. “How long have you been listening to us?”

“Long enough to hear you gripe. I’m on my way in the Beauty with Madame Testudines and the Second Squad. Got you on visual.” I snuck a sidelong glance at my passengers.

“Um, okay.” He coughed. “You know I was kidding when I called you a fat ass, right?”

Sanraya cleared her throat. “My buttercup has a delightful derriere.” She paused. “Is that the correct human term?”

“We’re about to charge into a fortified Polavian encampment,” I snapped. “Livid lagomorphs will be shooting at us. Can we stay on task, please?”

Joe cackled. “Whatever you say, buttercup. Glad you got the ship loaded and back in the air. How’s she handling?”

“The controls feel mushy. It’s like trying to paddle a canoe through a lake of oatmeal. The wind keeps trying to blow me into the treetops.”

“Try setting the ventral thrusters on variable friction control. That should help stabilize you.”

I filtered through the ships commands and activated the option. “Right. There it is. Thanks.”

The Beauty’s flight smoothed out and it caught up with their transport. Ahead, a foggy switchback rose toward the outpost. The ruins of Dak Taloka’s city hall lay just outside a razorwire-topped fence. Steel buildings inside the fence were bathed in yellow light. Twin guard posts occupied either side of the thoroughfare, with a neon-yellow gate barring the entrance.

“Bogeys inbound from the north.” Princess stared at me from one corner of the HUD. “One Fang-class interceptor, a skydive stage, and a bounty brigantine.”

“Bounty brigantine.” I grimaced. “You mean the Renegade.”

“Correct.”

“Captain Floppy Ears is gonna be one mad rabbit,” Joe hissed.

“No kidding,” I replied. My gaze wandered over the armaments options before I increased our thrust. “Weapons hot. Going on a strafing run.”

Red lasers lanced across the divide between the anti-aircraft tower and the ship. A moment later, purple splotches spread across the Beauty’s blue shield canopy.

“Watch the north tower,” Sanraya said. “That’s the optimal location for an anti-aircraft platform.”

The Beauty juked, trying to avoid the oncoming barrage.

“Shit!” I exclaimed. “A little late with the advice, my dear.”

“Front shields at forty percent,” Princess Takahe said in a deadpan voice. Green arrows appeared on the HUD. “Adjust your angle of attack.”

I grunted and nudged the Beauty’s flight path. The Polavian salvo continued, rocking the ship. I selected the starboard gun pod as the proper defensive response. Emerald plasma arrows lashed out at the base. Its yellow shields rippled under the impact but didn’t fail.

Our craft’s speakers crackled. The familiar strains of Pyotr Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture” blared through the hidden audio system, the strings and French horns beginning the martial call to arms.

“Really?” I said. “You’re supposed to be fixing essential systems, Princess, not playing around with the stereo equipment.”

“The Polavian worm didn’t infect the audio files,” Princess Takahe quipped, then returned to her deadpan tone. “The purge continues. Navigation system seventy percent restored. Electrical and hydraulics at eighty percent. Internal monitoring still offline. Reboot possible in a quarter cycle.”

“So, you can’t tell me where Spider might be hiding?” I asked.

“Negative.”

“Patch me through to engineering.”

After a pause, she stamped a clawed foot. “I’m not getting a response, Mac.”

Where the hell could Spider be?

“Charge!” Joe yelled.

“The Prophet’s Will be done,” Sanraya added.

Polavian small-arms fire targeted the garbage truck leading the Clodhopper convoy. It rammed through the front gate without slowing. The horizontal barricade splintered, its pieces scattering into the wind. The remaining Clodhopper vehicles raced behind it through the gap. For the second time today, I thanked providence that the Clodhoppers had built their automobiles to dish out and withstand punishment.

The caravan halted inside the garrison’s grounds, and Clodhoppers spilled out of their transports. Polavians clung to their hiding spots inside towers and doorways. An instant later, a firefight erupted. The Battle of Dak Taloka had begun.

I studied my other weapons options and settled on the Phototaxian missile pack. Perfect. A ventral cavity opened along the ship’s belly, and the missile launcher dropped into the opening. How many missiles did I need to destroy the north tower? To hell with it. Better safe than sorry. The launcher cycled through four sets. With each launch, the Beauty shook.

Gray missiles streaked through the night, their orange exhaust allowing me to track their path all the way to their target. Two flashes against the electronic buffer lit up the base; the golden aura of the base’s shields flickered then fell. The remaining rockets barreled into the tower and detonated. Concrete block spewed out in all directions, tumbling away from the wrecked spire.

“Woo!” I raised my fist. “Booyah!”

Madame Testudines clapped. “Nice shooting, Ian MacIntyre.”

“Hmmph.” Sparkles shook his head. “Overkill, if you ask me.”

Behind me, the bridge’s lift doors cycled open. I turned, wondering if it might be Spider.

Instead, Stanislav Hordiyenko rushed onto the bridge. He shot Sparkles point-blank in the chest with a double-barreled blaster. The bodyguard rocked in his seat, head lolling to the side. A crater wider than my hand smoked in his olive shell. I slid down in the pilot’s seat, scrambling to undo the restraints.

“No!” Madame Testudines screamed, a hand flying to her mouth.

Stanislav second shot blew a hole through my chair, trimming fat off my ribs and passing under my arm by the narrowest of margins. A secondary splash of molten plasma burned into the dashboard.

A siren blared. Emergency lights immersed the cockpit in a red glow. Sticky, orange fire retardant dribbled from the sprinkler system.

Madame Testudines launched herself out of her seat and raised her cane with two hands. She pressed a button and flame roared out of the cane tip, scorching Stanislav’s arm. He batted aside her cane, but they still collided, careened into the navigator’s station, and went down in a heap. His blaster skittered across the deck and lodged under the copilot’s seat. In the lift doorway, his navigator, Micklor Rabiger, wielded a crescent wrench like a club. His grubby, green claws latched on to the elderly Clodhopper shell, trying to separate her from his boss. The tool rose and fell—once, twice. Madame Testudines slumped, her head bleeding. Stanislav pushed her body away and rolled to his hands and knees.

As I heaved myself out of the seat, Micklor swung his wrench. I ducked and kicked his kneecap, sending him hopping backward with a howl. Stanislav dove for the blaster underneath the copilot’s seat.

As I groped at my side for my Sammy Slammer, I remembered the miniature rail gun inside the camera. The orb spun on its axis, and the gun port opened.

“Stop!” I yelled, then directed the drone to a better angle. I raised the Sammy Slammer and activated its charge. “If you move, I’ll kill you both.”

Growling, Micklor froze. Blood stained the end of his wrench.

“Drop it,” I ordered him.

Micklor’s eyes narrowed; he clearly was weighing his chances.

A bolt zipped from the rail gun, passing through his good knee before fusing with the bridge’s metal decking. The big Vellaran shrieked and fell, clutching his mangled joint and impromptu club.

“I warned you, jackass,” I said through clenched teeth. The emergency sirens continued to wail. “Princess, kill the noise.”

“Acknowledged.”

The alarm shut off, leaving only Tchaikovsky’s music about the Battle of Borodino during the Napoleonic Wars. The red lighting suffused everything in a hellish glow.

“Cut the music too, Princess.”

Cannon thundered with the music. “Aw, we’re just getting to the good part.”

“Now!”

The speakers crackled, then fell silent. “Spoilsport.”

Stanislav swiveled and sat on his rump, his gaze darting from the drone to me. “You’ve gotta be the luckiest man in the galaxy.”

I snorted. “I’d rather be lucky than good any day. How the hell did you get on my ship, Stanley?”

“Fuck you.”

I leveled my sonic disruptor at him. “Wanna end up like your friend?”

Stanislav ran a hand over his greasy hair. “We were onboard already, idiot. Repairs. When we started moving, we hid in a crew cabin. How the hell did you steal this ship?”

“I’ve got quality help, unlike you. Put your face down on the deck. Both of you. Hands behind your heads.” I sighed. “Princess, why didn’t you warn me we had stowaways aboard?”

“Internal sensors inoperative at this time,” Princess responded. “They weren’t a repair priority.”

Stanislav reached for his pocket. A round from the drone passed inches from his head.

“Your EMP won’t work again, Stan. We fixed that problem with our shielding.”

His shoulders slumped. He glared at me. “You’re fucking infuriating.”

“Lucky and infuriating. I’ll take both as a compliment.”

Still clutching his knee, Micklor moaned. “Kill you. I’ll kill you.”

“Keep your ugly mug glued to the deck!” I yelled.

They both kissed the metal flooring. Sweat popped out on my brow—I’d done it. I’d survived them both, on my own. All the survival training I’d endured over the past few weeks had saved my life.

The adrenaline rush made my hands shake. I shuffled to Madame Testudines and crouched to check on her. It took two tries to find a pulse on her neck with my fingers. She groaned but wasn’t conscious.

“Fang-class interceptor on attack vector,” Princess chirped. “She’s charging her weapons.”

Without my direction, the Beauty had continued down the last flight path I’d set for her. I put her into a dive and turn, trying to bring her back toward the Polavian outpost. “How much time?”

“Weapons range in two minutes.”

“Tell the Clodhoppers in the cargo bay to send a medic up here for Madame Testudines and two of their best to collect our stowaways.” I paused. “And let them know Sparkles is dead. Please pass along my condolences.”

I kept one eye on my captives, the other on the HUD. The Fang-class interceptor appeared as a diamond-shaped symbol on the tactical, ahead of the bounty brigantine. The Coney Carrier skydive stage trailed both by a good margin. If the Blackthorn Beauty was going to survive, I needed help—I couldn’t do everything alone.

The Beauty slowed when it reached the garrison. The only available landing spot inside the compound was the roof of the barracks, above a firefight between the Clodhoppers and Polavians. Well-placed shots from the ship’s nose turret cleared the most persistent pockets of Polavian resistance.

“Uh, Mac . . . what’re you doing?” Joe’s voice came through my earpiece. “Is everything okay up there? I heard shouting—”

“Stanislav and Micklor are on the Beauty. A Polavian interceptor is attacking us. Touch-and-go operation to get the Second Squad on the ground.”

“Those two buffoons? How?”

“Not now, Joe!” I yelled.

The ship hovered over the flat metal roof of the barracks. The Beauty’s cargo ramp dropped out of the rear.

“That roof won’t hold your full weight,” Joe said. “Wave off.”

“Too late. I’m committed.”

A video feed from the cargo hold let me see the activities inside. Warning lights flashed as the Second Squad gathered near the descending ramp, their weapons held tightly. Landing beams picked up the swirling rain outside.

The ramp scraped over the roof, opening a hole in the thin material. The ship shuddered under the gusty conditions. Clodhoppers ran out the back in pairs, tumbling onto the surface below. After five seconds, the hold emptied its bipedal cargo.

I pulled the Beauty up to a safe elevation and triggered the incline closed. Just as I returned to my HUD, the Polavian interceptor barreled in on the base from the east.

“Missile lock!” Princess yelled. “Two inbound!”

My teeth clenched. The ship didn’t have enough momentum to run from the missiles. The countermeasures folio showed an empty magazine—no flares. “Where are my decoys?”

“You used them up, Mac,” Princess responded. “Only holovid heroes have an infinite supply.”

“We’re in a holovid!”

“You’re recording a holovid. Big difference. Improvise.”

Maneuvering the thrusters, I guided the ship away from the base. I put the hill fort between the Beauty and the interceptor and rolled the vessel, trying to protect its vulnerable shields.

The takahe icon ducked. “Brace for impact!”

Both missiles slammed into the topside protection that flickered and went down. The Beauty vibrated something awful. A warning flashed on the HUD, showing the loss of the dorsal maneuvering thruster and point-defense system. My ship was losing altitude.

The Beauty spun on her axis then returned fire—a full spread against the speedy, smaller vessel. The starboard gun pod connected and overwhelmed the interceptor’s minimal shields. A fireball lit up the night, and flaming wreckage rained on the streets. The HUD displayed the Renegade and Coney Carrier quickly closing the distance.

“Where’s my help?” I yelled into the comm as I stared out the view screen. The front doors of the armory were smoking. “Joe? Sanraya?”

“We’re inside the bunker,” Sanraya responded. “Everyone’s grabbing cold brew and weapons. Hold your hippopotamuses.”

“The ship’s damaged. I gotta put her down.” I searched the tactical map. “She’ll be just outside the front gate.”

“Roger.” Joe cackled, and his voice rose an octave. “Ooh, look. New toys. I want one of each.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Stanislav inching toward his lost blaster on his knees. My arm came up, leveling the Sammy Slammer. The sonic disruptor whined and spat out a wave of energy. At this range the pulse flattened him, head rebounding off the deck. He moaned, a bloody mark marring his forehead, then he lay still. Micklor watched me with spiteful eyes, hands holding his shredded knee.

The Beauty shuddered again as I brought her in for a second landing. The video feed from the rear camera showed smoke emanating from her topside. Blacktop rushed up far too fast. The Beauty bounced once, then landed hard, snapping off a landing strut.

Princess shook her head. “Damn sloppy, MacIntyre.”

“Well, what did you expect in this weather?” As I wiped the sweat off my brow, the lift doors hissed open. Three Clodhoppers wobbled inside the bridge.

“Everything keeps moving,” one quipped, holding the doorframe. “I wanna get off.”

“Out of the way, dummy.” The medic pushed aside his colleague and knelt beside Madame Testudines.

The other Clodhoppers wrestled Polavian stun shackles onto Stanislav and Micklor.

“What happened?” the medic asked.

“The Vellaran clubbed her on the head.” I pointed to the wrench. “Two blows. She saved my life.”

He nodded then inclined his head at Sparkles. “And him?”

“Plasma blast at short range. The gun is under the copilot’s seat.”

The largest Clodhopper stooped, retrieved the double-barreled blaster, and tucked it into a harness that crisscrossed his shell. “Which one did it?”

“The Terran,” I answered. “I’m sorry. Your buddy didn’t have a chance.”

“Bastard,” he growled. “His life is forfeit.”

Princess Takahe brought up a list of damaged ship systems on the HUD. “Dorsal thrusters at thirteen percent. Front shields at forty percent. Starboard landing strut inoperative. Repair droid designations assigned, but there’s only so much I can do without Spider.”

“Acknowledged, Princess. I’ll need you here working full time with the Beauty while we join the ground assault.”

“Give ’em hell, MacIntyre.”

I glanced at the HUD. The Polavian interceptor and bounty brigantine were almost on top of us. I nodded at the captives. “Punish them later. Right now, we’re sitting ducks. Polavian aircraft inbound.”

“What do you want us to do?” the Clodhopper asked.

“Abandon ship.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR

Smoke thicker than the plumes off a Narpoxian hibachi made me choke. I waved it away from my face and staggered down the Beauty’s cargo ramp onto the blacktop outside the Polavian outpost. The chemical stench of burnt electronics left a sharp tang on my tongue. Around me, the remaining members of Second Squad checked weapons and ammunition. A half-dozen hardcore Shellshock Syndicate soldiers spread out and took cover in the ruins outside the Polavian garrison.

A slow misting rain fell from the night sky, while a bracing breeze picked up a smattering of dead leaves and paper litter, scattering them across the broken asphalt. Visibility was poor, the light from scattered poles leaving long shadows.

Rifle shots and screams came from inside the base, echoing off a conglomerate of prefabricated metal buildings clustered together like a cheap jigsaw puzzle. If I wasn’t lost, the armory should be off to my right, toward the perimeter.

The sounds of boots on the ship’s ramp drew my attention. The medic carried Madame Testudines. I pulled off my jacket, wadded it up, and formed a makeshift pillow. The medic laid his patient on the ground with the lump beneath her olive noggin, unzipped a medical bag, then wiped blood away from her scalp. A moment later, she groaned and opened her eyes.

“Easy,” the medic said, reaching for a cloth. “Lie still so I can treat your wound.”

Madame Testudines sighed. “Whatever you say, Doc. My head feels like someone bashed it in with a club.”

I raised an eyebrow.

The medic caught my surprised look. “Short-term memory loss. Common with head injuries.” He patted his patient’s shoulder. “Rest easy.”

The two other Clodhoppers emerged from the cargo hold and shoved Stanislav and Micklor on the wet asphalt. Both glared at our captives, their animosity palpable and animate. One wrong move from the smuggler or his navigator would end their lives. If they exacted revenge for what they’d done to Sparkles and Madame Testudines, I wouldn’t stop them. Hell, I’d cheer them on.

Stanislav let out a wicked laugh. “You busted up the ship again. You’re screwed, camera jockey.”

“I’ve got plenty of repair droids who’ll fix her,” I snapped, “so shut your trap.”

“You mean Spider? I caught him working on the wrong stuff, so I took him apart.”

My mouth fell open. That explained why I hadn’t heard from the droid. Bastards.

Four steps. I closed the distance and booted the smuggler between the ribs. “I should kill you myself.”

Moaning, he rolled onto his side. His malignant gaze would have curdled a viper’s venom inside its fangs.

“That’s enough.” A Clodhopper trooper intervened. “Madame Testudines will decide their fate.”

A rumble in the sky made me flinch. The Renegade emerged out of the gloom, a barracuda in an angry surf. She banked starboard and flew straight toward the outpost. Her weapons’ pods blazed and rained destruction on unseen targets. In a flash, her momentum carried her beyond the reach of the small-arms fire pursuing her.

I put a hand to my earpiece. “Joe? Sanraya?”

“Not now, buttercup.” Sanraya’s breathing came in heavy through her microphone.

I swallowed my fear and brought up the feed from her pinhole camera. She was running along a corridor, tight on Joe’s heels. They bypassed Clodhoppers pushing carts filled with crates out of the armory. Joe carried a duffel bag, along with a backpack slung over one shoulder.

“The Beauty has landed,” I said. “But the Renegade’s tearing the shit out of our allies. Watch yourself when you leave the bunker.”

“Acknowledged,” Sanraya replied. “By the Prophet’s Grace shall I be the instrument of our revenge.” She paused then added, “And Mac . . . be careful too.”

“I will. I’m on my way.” I turned to my Clodhopper companions and pointed to the captives. “Search them for hidden weapons. If they give you any trouble, it won’t hurt my feelings if you kill them.”

The larger tortoise trooper snorted. “Go teach your grandmother how to suck eggs, Ian MacIntyre. We know our job.” He hefted his assault rifle, knuckles creaking, and then his eyes softened. “Good luck.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

Jogging toward the base, I left the road, my path taking me through the remnants of city hall. When I glanced over my shoulder, I spotted the Renegade returning for another strafing run. I ducked behind a concrete wall just in time; red bolts flashed from under her wings, passing over me. The smell of ozone hung in the air. The bounty brigantine slowed, hovering above the barracks. Soldiers spilled out of her belly and onto her ramp, repeating the same maneuver I’d performed with the Beauty minutes prior.

“We’ve got more bunnies landing inside the compound, courtesy of the Renegade,” I told Joe and Sanraya.

“Yeah? Well, I’m about to clip her wings.” Joe laughed. “Au revoir, furball.”

Looking through Sanraya’s camera feed, I saw Joe standing at the armory exit with a shoulder-mounted missile trained on the Renegade. A moment later, the golden missile launched, covering the distance to the Polavian ship in an instant and detonating underneath her port wing.

As the brigantine yawed away from the explosion, her tail hit the barracks roof and she gyred into the compound. The resulting fireball rattled my teeth. Through the flames, a ramp dropped and Polavians spilled out into the compound.

“Joe! Sanraya!” I sprinted through the mangled front gates, the Sammy Slammer slick in my hand and the camera drone trailing behind.

“Ugh!” Joe coughed and spat something out. “Nothing like inhaling burnt fur and fuel to clear the sinuses.”

The sounds of blaster fire came through the audio feed. Sanraya sneezed. “Blech. There’s broken shells and bunny teeth everywhere.”

The Second Squad’s soldiers moved on either side of me. On high alert on my trip through the base, I spotted a mangy Polavian hiding behind a jeep. He held an assault rifle between his paws, sniping at Clodhoppers inside the compound; he was so focused that he didn’t hear or see me.

The Sammy Slammer whined. A split second later, a sonic burst blew him up and over the hood. The jeep teetered onto its side, then landed on top of him.

I kept running, with flaming wreckage, busted vehicles, and broken buildings providing cover. More than once, I hunkered down to let a cluster of Polavians pass, hoping they wouldn’t notice me, and I sniped a couple of loners using the drone’s rail gun.

“Where are you, Mac?” Joe asked.

I peeked around another structure, its aluminum siding blackened with plasma burns. Joe, Sanraya, Pinhead, and the other Clodhoppers crowded near their vehicles. My Second Squad companions watched for stray Polavians. The remaining soldiers loaded crates into lorries.

“I’m at your nine o’clock. The building with the arched roof.”

Joe, Sanraya, Fumbles, and Pinhead turned and made eye contact with me.

“Gotcha, Mac,” Joe said. “You gonna hang out there all day, or do you wanna come play with us?”

“The water’s fine,” Pinhead said.

Sanraya clucked her tongue. “Be careful.”

My hands shook. It was a short sprint across the divide to where my friends waited, but a sniper could pick me off.

Joe laughed. He hefted his orange blaster in both hands, his gaze locked on the rooftops. “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Ian MacIntyre right over.”

“We’ve got you covered, Mac,” Sanraya said, aiming her gyrojet pistol at the roofs as well. “Trust us.”

“Right. Here goes nothing.”

I tucked my chin and scampered across the square. The Second Squad raced behind me. When I was halfway across, report from a repeating plasma cannon assaulted my ears while turf sprayed on either side of me.

“Down, Mac!” Sanraya yelled.

I dropped prone, covering my head with my hands. Gunpowder, ozone, and mud clogged my nostrils.

PHAM! PHAM! PHAM! Khatang! Khatang! PHAM! PHAM! PHAM!

The repeating action of a large-caliber machine gun and return fire from my friends blocked out all other sounds. I raised my chin, trying to locate its origin. Three smoking canisters arched out from the Polavian barracks.

WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP!

White smoke billowed out of the cylinders, clouding the area between the troops’ sleeping quarters and the Clodhopper convoy. More small-arms fire followed.

Along with the Second Squad, I crawled toward my friends, my pants soaked and muddy. When I reached the first flatbed truck, I sat up behind it. The white smoke had spread, veiling our combatants.

After switching the camera drone’s visual filters to infrared, I searched for heat signatures. Several taller figures hopped from the barracks toward our position. My rail gun took out three bunnies in quick succession before its ammunition ran dry. The remaining Polavians, a half dozen by my estimate, found cover behind other Clodhopper convoy vehicles. I dashed the last few paces to meet my friends.

“Mac! You made it!” Joe slapped me on the back.

Sanraya drew me in for a tight hug. “You don’t know how relieved I am,” she whispered in my ear.

Pinhead grinned. “Not bad . . . for a human.”

“Glad you made it before the armory goes up,” Fumbles added.

I pointed toward the transports hiding our enemies. “We’ve got company.”

A hacking cough came out of the night. A moment later, a red plasma round passed overhead and splashed against a building behind us. “I know it’s you, Drake! Our intelligence reports say the Alliance shipped a nuke with the other weapons! Only you would have it!”

Fumbles cast a sidelong glance at Joe. “Nuke?”

Joe nudged his duffel bag with a toe. “Thermopyle rocket. Got it right here.”

Pinhead shuffled his feet. “Are we safe standing this close?”

Another cough carried through the rain. “No one’s safe around the Butcher of Mektar Hives.”

Joe lifted an eyebrow. “Captain Floppy Ears? How are you still alive?”

“It’s Flopirus, you wretched Onkelian baboon! You wrecked my ship!”

Joe snorted. “Too bad you survived. I usually get better results.”

“Massive understatement, Drake. The entire galaxy remembers what you did at the Hives. I won’t let you keep a weapon of mass destruction. We all know what you’d do with it.”

Joe’s face grew red. “Don’t tempt me, carrot eater! Wanna see the real me? Be careful what you wish for.”

A cold sensation slid through my gut. I’d seen the results of my actor’s wrath. “Joe, are you—”

He clamped a hand over my mouth. Looking me dead in the eye, he winked and jerked his chin toward my drone. “Find the bunnies,” he mouthed.

My jaw dropped. He’d fooled me with his acting—probably a first. I nodded. The camera rose into the night, above the Clodhopper convoy. Its heat-vision capabilities showed me the enemy: six bunnies hiding behind a cargo van. One was assembling a mortar.

“You’re not walking out of here,” Captain Flopirus called out. “The skydive stage and its reinforcements will be here any moment.”

Joe raised his blaster, pointing it toward the disembodied voice. Khatang! Khatang!

White plasma seared through the murk, illuminating the cargo van. The shots burned into its sides, the glow fading in seconds under the hiss of the rain.

Another loud cough cut off a cackle. “Missed me!” Twin laser bolts answered. “Eat this, genocidal maniac!”

I spotted Captain Flopirus, who thrust her arms through the open driver’s side window. Whatever she was trying to accomplish, I didn’t want to see her finish it.

Another rumble from the sky set my teeth on edge. I knew the sound—it came from the skydive stage’s anti-grav engines. The camera spun, letting me see the aerial platform as it appeared beyond a hilltop to the north. It would arrive in minutes.

As the rain picked up, the Clodhoppers and Polavians continued to exchange plasma fire. The lightshow momentarily blinded me every time I looked in the wrong place.

After motioning for Sanraya, Pinhead, and Fumbles to join me at Joe’s side, I dropped my voice. “Six bunnies. Behind the cargo van. Floppy Ears is messing with something in the driver’s seat.”

“Probably a radio,” Sanraya hissed. “Calling in a bombardment from the Coney Carrier.”

“Makes sense,” Pinhead said. “So, what’s the plan?”

Fumbles cocked his wrist and stared at his watch. “The armory blows up in three minutes.”

“Tell your people to start their vehicles,” Joe said. “We’ll use the explosion as cover. Mac and I will circle around the left end of the cargo van. Sanraya, take the right.”

Pinhead nodded, leaned over to his nearest Clodhopper colleague, and whispered in his ear. Fumbles passed the order down another line of tortoise cavalrymen.

The last crates went into the transports, and then the Clodhoppers’ engines roared to life. The firefight picked up, with several Clodhoppers shooting from their vehicles. Fumbles waved from the cab of a six-wheeler.

The teenage turtle returned, wiping mucus off the piercings hanging from his snout. “What’s next?”

Joe crouched and unzipped the duffel bag. He grunted and pulled a thin rocket no longer than my forearm. An evil yellow internal light flickered.

I swallowed hard. “Joe?”

He winked at me. “Unzip your pack, Sanraya.”

She tilted her head. “Really?”

“Yep.” He shoved the tactical nuke into her backpack. “Teamwork. Floppy Ears will think I’ve got it. If I don’t make it, you’ll know what to do.”

Sanraya’s violet eyes hardened. “Understood.”

“What do I do?” Pinhead asked.

Joe handed the wide-eyed teen the shoulder launcher. “Take out the skydive stage.”

“Me?” A shaky hand reached for Sanraya’s backpack.

Joe stopped him. “Not with that.” He pointed to a nearby crate. “Use one of the Phototaxian Winged Pythons. Their stealth should give you an advantage.”

“Oh.” Pinhead let out a long breath. “Right. Sorry. Thought you wanted to use the nuke.”

Joe shook his head. “Never again.”

Pinhead lifted the crate lid. “How do the missile launchers work? I’ve never used one.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Point the missile at the target. Pray. Pull the trigger.”

I nodded. “Let’s go.”

Hefting her gyrojet pistol in one hand, Sanraya slunk away to her right. She gave me a grin and blew a kiss. A moment later, the night closed in around her.

Joe took the lead, crouching low. The first Clodhopper vehicle chugged past, taking fire from the Polavians. We used it as moving cover, taking a wide path but closing the distance to the cargo van. The sounds of heavy footfalls on the muddy ground sounded impossibly close.

I checked my HUD one last time. The Polavian had finished constructing his mortar. FOOM! A second later, a fireball erupted where we’d stood a moment earlier. My ears rang.

Captain Flopirus clapped her shipmate on the shoulder. “Die, Drake!” she yelled. “Let’s see you survive that!”

An orange comet trail lit up the night, an angry missile zigzagging its way from Pinhead through the damp darkness. Flashes of small lasers—the Coney Carrier’s point-defense system—tried to bring it down but failed. An auburn blossom bathed the aerial platform in an unholy light. The fire caught and spread, followed by a secondary explosion that rocked the vessel.

Pinhead hooted. “Score one for the Pond Scum!”

Captain Flopirus croaked out a wordless cry as she stared at the dying skydive stage.

A deep rumble came from beneath the earth. The ground buckled and swayed. The Polavian captain turned toward the armory to see rolling flames erupt from the bunker entrance, smoke billowing in their wake. A crater formed beneath the metal building, growing and swallowing the foundation and walls. The bombs Fumbles had left underground had done their job.

Captain Flopirus hacked and wiped dirt from her face. In that moment, Joe and I rushed around the rear of the cargo van.

Joe dropped his duffel bag. Three shots erupted from his blaster.

My Sammy Slammer spat out a sonic blast.

Three Polavian soldiers spun and collapsed, limbs askew. Two more raised their pistols.

Sanraya’s gyrojet fléchettes tore through them from behind, blood and gore spraying from their torsos. Two more bodies fell, dead before they hit the ground.

“No!” Captain Flopirus’s pink eyes widened, and the monocle fell from her face. She raised her blunt-nosed pistol at Joe.

Joe’s neon-orange blaster sang. The twin bolts took the Polavian captain in the chest, burning through her upper body, a hot perversion eating through her organs.

Captain Flopirus staggered as crimson spittle dribbled down her chin. Her numb fingers dropped her weapon, and she collapsed to one knee, her eyes smoldering with hatred. Blood stained her lips and spiky teeth. Words would not form. A second later, she keeled over sideways. One last breath rattled through her throat, and the light faded from her eyes.

Joe lowered his smoking firearm.

I swallowed the bile at the back of my throat. “Well done.”

He nodded and held out his hand. “Teamwork.”

“I’m learning to appreciate it.” I shook his big mitt.

Sobbing with joy, Sanraya dragged us into a joint hug. My ribs creaked. “Mean Green, Captain Charisma, and Mighty Mac.”

We cried, long and hard, happy to be alive. A car horn broke our reverie. Pinhead stuck his head out the driver’s side window of a six-wheeled pickup. “Can we leave now?”

“At once.” I gestured toward the truck. “It’s a fine chariot.”

Crease lines worried Joe’s brow. “The Beauty?”

I sighed. “Wounded but not dead. I hope she’s sound enough to get us off this planet.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Sanraya said. “Lead the way, buttercup.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE

The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving me thrilled to have survived, yet exhausted. Scrapes and bruises had cropped up on my arms and knees—unnoticed during the battle, but they now nagged for attention. The funk of ozone and gunpowder clung to my ragged shirt that was torn at the elbows. As we climbed out of the pickup truck, I stretched to loosen my tense muscles.

The rain had stopped. A cold fog hugged the mountaintop, spilling down its sides into Dak Taloka, its hundreds of lights hazy in the nighttime gloom. The crackle of burning buildings came from the Polavian compound behind us. Unused ammunition on the dead Polavians cooked off with bangs that echoed through the murk.

Every great caper requires careful selection of the right getaway vehicle. Unfortunately, we were limited to a single option. The Blackthorn Beauty sat on the roadway at a rakish angle, a starboard landing strut busted. Smoke billowed from fresh plasma burns on her exterior. We’d won a harrowing battle, but unless we got off the ground, our stay here could become permanent. If we couldn’t repair the ship pronto, we’d have to abandon her again. The Clodhoppers would accept us as refugees, but how long would we need to live with them? There wouldn’t be many opportunities to get back to Alliance space—unless someone came to rescue us. But who would? If we had only a slim chance to escape in the Beauty, I’d take it.

Several dozen Clodhoppers clustered near the ship. Madame Testudines leaned on her cane on the cargo ramp, her head wrapped in a bandage. As she wrapped up a speech to her weary soldiers, my camera drone caught the last of her discourse.

“You all know your assignments,” she said. “Now let’s get the cold brew and weapons to our people. Victory!” She raised all four fists in the air.

“Victory!” the troops shouted.

Riotous cheers followed.

Joe and Pinhead bumped fists and clapped each other on the back. Fumbles gave them both a hug. Sanraya grinned and clapped.

I shook Fumbles’ and Pinhead’s hands. “Farewell, friends.”

Fumbles gave a thumbs up with his good hand. “Good luck to the Green Charisma crew.”

The Clodhoppers piled into their stolen vehicles. They waved their farewells, and we returned the gesture. They’d been excellent allies.

Their convoy rolled downhill into the city, where the vehicles scattered into twos and threes. A few soldiers lingered with Madame Testudines outside the ship. Stanislav and Micklor stood beside them in cuffs.

“Mac. Joe. Sanraya.” The Clodhopper leader shook our hands and smiled. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. You saved thousands of lives.”

Joe drummed his chest with a fist. “All in a day’s work for the Green Charisma crew.”

Sanraya rolled her eyes. “You are such a swine.”

Joe held up a finger. “Ham.”

Sanraya chuckled.

“It was our pleasure, ma’am,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

“Woozy, but better now that the battle has been won. Amazing how much that helps.”

“Ugh. I’m gonna throw up,” Stanislav muttered, then stared out into the fog.

Micklor snickered.

Sanraya slapped the back of the big Vellaran’s head. “Quiet, fool.”

I rapped Stanislav on the noggin too. When I pulled my fist back, it was slick with grease. “I’m regretting not killing you and your henchman earlier,” I snapped.

The thug scowled. “Putting on a show of mercy for your audience? Is that it? Or are you just soft, Mac?”

I growled and fingered the handle of the Sammy Slammer.

Madame Testudines’s eyes hardened. “You won’t need to soil your hands. When they conspired with the enemy, they committed a capital crime.”

She raised a claw to her elite guards, who dragged their prisoners away. Mist rose off the blacktop, swirling around their ankles. A kaleidoscope of color swirled in a dirty puddle, slick with lost hydraulic fluid from the Beauty. In the city below, a clock tower rang out the turn of the hour.

On the blacktop, a shove created space among the elite guards and their quarry. The Clodhoppers raised their rifles and took aim.

“No! Wait!” Micklor cried, backpedaling.

“See you in hell, camera clown.” Stanislav spat at my feet.

Khatang! Khatang! Khatang!

Shots burned holes through the smugglers’ chests. A second later, two lifeless bodies fell atop each other. I caught myself smiling then stopped, ashamed because I relished the fact that I’d never see them again.

Madame Testudines turned to us. “The nuclear device. You have it. I want it.”

Joe sucked in a breath through his teeth before casting a sidelong glance in my direction.

I met the elderly Clodhopper’s gaze. “I’m sorry, but if you want it, you’ll have to kill us.”

“You’d die before handing it over? Why?”

Joe cleared his throat. “When I was in the Alliance Army, I set off a nuke at Mektar Hives, escalating the war with the Polavians and killing hundreds. I won’t be responsible for making another war worse.”

Madame Testudines turned to me. “And you?”

“He’s my friend, and I agree.”

Sanraya flashed Madame Testudines a predator’s smile. “I’m with them. If I die, I’m taking one of you with me.”

“And what do you intend to do with the device, Mr. MacIntyre?”

“Drop it someplace no one will ever find it,” I said.

She leaned forward on her cane. “You realize the Alliance will just send another.”

“Maybe. Or maybe they sent it with Joe because of his history. If a nuke goes off on this world, and Joe helped it happen, then what?”

Madame Testudines’s brow furrowed.

I plowed on. “He’s the perfect fall guy. If you use the nuke, the Polavians will react and escalate the war . . . just like what happened at Mektar Hives, except this time it’s what the Alliance wants. An arms race will start, and your people will rely more and more on their war machine. How long before the Alliance sends troops? When do they leverage their help in exchange for this planet’s natural resources?”

The Clodhopper tilted her head and tapped a claw against her chin. “It may be as you say, but the Polavians have used weapons of mass destruction against us. Shouldn’t we respond in kind?”

“Only if you want to descend to their level.”

She waved a hand in the air. “Ah, Mac. You have the lofty morals of an offworlder. You haven’t borne witness to the results of biological warfare—my people suffering and dying in the streets. We can’t compete using simple firearms.”

“That might be true, but what do you think will happen when our show broadcasts, showing proof of the Polavians’ atrocities?”

“The galaxy will be entertained at our expense, I’m sure.”

I shook my head. “No, I promise to put your people in a positive light. If you take the high road, you’ll gather sympathy from other sentient species.”

She leaned forward a touch more. “And?”

“Governments will place political pressure on the Polavian Empire, perhaps enough that you’ll receive help from others—folks without a nefarious agenda.”

“Why haven’t they done it before?”

“There’s a difference between being told atrocities are occurring and seeing it. Our holodrama will bring it front and center.”

“And if that doesn’t happen?”

“Then ask the Alliance to send whatever your heart desires. Maybe your world will survive a nuclear holocaust. Maybe not.”

Madame Testudines looked away. She clenched and unclenched her jaw, chewing on an answer. Finally, she nodded. “We could kill you and take the device, but what would that say about our cause? Would we be any better than our occupiers? Murdering our allies to help us win this war? No, no, that’s not something we want.”

Joe let out a long breath and raised his gaze to the heavens. I clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He turned, eyes brimming with tears. Wiping his face, he nodded.

I bowed. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“It wasn’t an easy decision. I still want Polavian blood.” Her posture softened with a gentle roll of her shoulders. “What else can we do for you, Mac?”

I scrubbed a hand over my scalp. “I don’t think there’s anything else. We have to fix the Beauty and get away before the Polavian Second Division arrives.”

“Then this is farewell. May your journey be peaceful and prosperous.” She grinned before pulling me into a hug. “Good luck, Ian MacIntyre.”

Madame Testudines and her escorts clambered into the last remaining transports. Soon, they had disappeared around a bend and into the mist.

“We don’t know how much time we’ve got,” Sanraya said, ushering us onboard the Beauty. “Reinforcements might be on the way. Let’s visit engineering and talk to Spider.”

A queasy coldness slid through my stomach as the access ramp closed behind us. “Stanislav took Spider apart. Punishment for collaborating with us to fix the ship.”

Sanraya lowered her eyes. “Oh, no. Poor Spider.”

I looked for an intercom in the empty storage hold and found it. “Princess, are you there?”

Princess Takahe materialized and stomped across the scuffed floor. “Affirmative. The reboot is complete. Find him, Mac. I didn’t spend all this time in limbo away from the ship to lose my loving engineer.”

“Shush, Princess. We’ll do our best.”

“You’d better. I didn’t burn out a circuit reaching an understanding about our mutual admiration just to watch him expire.”

“I’m heading to the bridge,” Joe said. “I’ll see what can be done from there.”

“Good idea, Joe.”

We followed him to the lift. When we got to the top deck, he jogged toward the front of the ship. We headed to the back. Five minutes later, Sanraya and I found Spider’s remains crammed into an environmental systems alcove in engineering. We activated the smaller repair droids, which scurried to reassemble him. In the meantime, Sanraya reprogrammed other bots to repair the broken landing strut and the holes in the ship’s exterior.

Activity buzzed in the cramped confines near the engines. The yellow totem bubbled—the minimal output associated with a ship at rest. After the droids connected Spider’s head to his torso, I powered him up.

“Oh . . . oh.” Spider thrashed, his electronic eyes fluttering. “Malfunction. Diagnostics review initiated. Missing limbs two, four, five, and eight. Memory capacity at seventy-three percent. Hydraulics leaks at junctions six and nine.” He blinked several times and focused on the crowd. “Mac?”

“In the flesh, Spider. I’m so sorry Stanislav hurt you.”

“Yesss,” he slurred. “Most unfortunate.”

“How do you feel?”

“Suboptimal. Mobility impossible.”

“Fix him.” Princess Takahe coalesced on the deck and hopped up and down. She lost two blue-green feathers during her hysterics. “Fix him now!”

“One thing at a time, Princess!” I glared at her. “We’ll make sure your repairs are finished, Spider. Can you connect with the Beauty’s communications network? The other repair droids on the ship?”

Spider glanced at Princess and sat up straighter. “Affirmative. Connection established.”

“Give us a damage assessment, please. What do we need for a launch? Can we do it quickly?”

The droid bobbed his head. “Yes, now that AI functions have been restored.”

“Me, me, me.” Princess Takahe danced a jig. “I love me. I am whole again.”

I gnashed my teeth. “Not now, Princess.”

“Thrusters operative,” Spider continued. “Captain Charisma corrected an electronics failure on the bridge. Repairs are still needed to the anti-gravity units along the dorsal spine. I am currently directing resources to that problem.”

“How long, Spider?”

“It’s a broken connection in wiring. Nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds, sir.”

“Excellet news, partner,” I said.

“Partner?” Spider’s head spun. “I do not understand.”

“We used Princess Takahe’s backup program to purge a Polavian worm from the ship. Before she agreed to take on that risky operation, she insisted we make the two of you full partners in our reality show, which means you’ll be earning lots of upgrades to your system.”

“She did?” Spider said. “She wants me as a partner? I . . . I’m not sure what to think.”

“Think about the upgrades!” Princess wagged her eyebrows. “You should be bowing and scraping in idolism and worship, ya big lug.”

Spider stared at his broken limbs. “I’m afraid that may not be possible at the moment, Princess.”

She rolled her eyes, turned to me, and dropped her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “We’ll work on his personality.”

“I’m sure we’ll all regret that arrangement. If we don’t get off this rock, we’ll be broadcasting from a Polavian prison.”

Sanraya chuckled. “I’m sure our new partners will fix things. Just like things improved when I joined the crew.” Her eyes sparkled, and she put her arm through mine. “Spectacularly, in fact. Didn’t it, buttercup?”

“Absolutely, my love.” I caressed her hand. “Princess, please see what help you can give Spider.”

“Consider it done, Mac.” The holographic bird winked and disappeared.

“Come on, Mac,” Sanraya said. “We can’t leave Captain Charisma alone on the bridge.”

I grinned. “Yeah, bet he’s planning a barrel roll after lift-off.”

We strolled to the front of the ship, holding hands along the way. Although I wanted to leave this planet in the worst way, I relished the opportunity to be alone with Sanraya for just a moment longer. Just outside the lift that would take us to the bridge, I raised her hand to my lips and kissed it.

The elevator door opened. Sanraya pulled me into the car and batted her eyes. “Once we’re in warp, there isn’t a safe place on this ship from me, Ian MacIntyre.”

The lift door closed. The familiar thrum and a shudder made her tumble into me. “Oh?”

A few seconds later, the lift door opened. “How is it you humans phrase it? I’m going to jump your skeleton.”

Joe cackled from the pilot’s seat. “Bones. You’re gonna jump his bones.”

I buried my face in my hands.

Sanraya waved a dismissive hand at him. “Is everything ready?”

Joe chortled. “You wanna take time for a quickie?”

“After we’re safe, Captain Charisma,” I chided him. “And it won’t be quick. It’ll be a long soak in the hot tub with my green goddess. Let’s go.”

Joe tipped an invisible cowboy hat. “As you wish, pahdnuh.” He flipped a switch on the dashboard and pulled back on the steering yoke. “Liftoff.”

The Beauty bucked, gathered her resolve, and leapt into the air. She banked, then sped over the lights of Dak Taloka, gathering speed. After rising through the cloudbank, she broke free. The two Clodhopper moons shone with a brilliant light. Stars winked, compelling us to seek them out. Through the view screen, the planet’s curvature appeared—we’d escaped the atmosphere.

Joe leaned forward, adjusted a dial, and pulled a lever. “Setting course back to the jump gate.” He smirked. “I’m taking the scenic route. No more surprises.”

Sanraya sighed. “Mission accomplished.”

“Not quite, my dear.” I raised a finger. “We still need to collect our wages.”

Joe grunted. “And deal with Commander Moeller.”

“Nothing we can’t handle. Right, Captain Charisma?”

Joe fidgeted. “If you say so, boss.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX

When you record a bootlegger broadcast, you capture as much footage as possible. Editing mainly involves purging anything that might incriminate you to the authorities. It requires a keen eye and fierce attention to detail. The return trip to the Appleseed System lasted several weeks, giving me just enough time to finish the work.

I yawned and stared at the view screen. The last bit of our holovid showed our disposal of the Alliance tactical nuke. A fantastic action scene, with Sanraya and Joe loading the device into a Phototaxian missile and launching it from the Blackthorn Beauty. No one would try to retrieve it from the crushing depths of a red gas giant.

A coffee mug, its contents long cold, sat on the navigator’s station. I slugged down the last of it, stood, and stretched. Tired muscles protested. Aching joints popped. Even though we’d completed our mission, Sanraya and Joe insisted I exercise every cycle. They also forced me to keep to a strict diet while they ate whatever they wanted. Bloody sadists.

Princess Takahe looked up from preening her blue-green feathers. “Have you finished?”

“Yeah, all set.” I rubbed my eyes. “We’re as ready as we’re gonna be for Commander Moeller.”

The editing software vanished from the front view screen. A kaleidoscope of streaming rainbow colors filled the display, an imaginary rendering of the ship’s warp bubble.

“You want me to send the package?” Princess asked. “Or wait until we’ll arrive in real space?”

“What’s our ETA to the Appleseed System?”

“A little more than an hour.”

“Wow. It’s later than I thought.”

“Time flies when you’ve got a deadline,” she said.

“True enough.” I tapped my chin. What difference would an hour make? It might give Captain Moeller a chance to talk himself into a reasonable response. “Okay. Bombs away.”

“Transmitting through the warp bubble.”

“Thank you, Princess.” I did two deep knee bends, trying to restore circulation in my legs. “I’m gonna grab a shower, make myself look decent for the Alliance chieftain.”

Our AI snorted. “Good luck, Mac. You’re a long way from being presentable.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if we made a mistake removing that Polavian worm from your innards and making you a partner.”

“Like you had a choice . . . and don’t think I haven’t contemplated whether I got the short end of the deal.”

I smirked. “It’s good to have you back, birdbrain.”

“Thank you for fixing everything. My doppelgänger spoke well of your efforts.”

My smirk grew into a smile. Genuine appreciation from our wicked chicken? Remarkable. Maybe the AI had mellowed. “You’re welcome.”

Princess Takahe stalked down the dashboard. “Don’t forget to scrub your ass in the shower, dipshit.”

I sighed. Two steps forward, one step back.

The lift carried me to the lower deck. A short stroll brought me to the quarters I shared with Sanraya.

The door hissed open, and I strode into a disaster area. Bedsheets, pillows, and a cover lay scattered across the room. The mattress was upside down and off the bed frame. A terrarium had fallen on its side and shattered, soil and succulents spilling onto the floor.

A dark bug no bigger than my thumb scurried out of the bathroom. Sanraya stormed out behind it, a towel around her torso, a shoe raised high in her hand.

“Stupid la’Karvian rock crawlers! Just when you think you’ve gotten rid of all of them!” She leapt, attempting bug murder.

SMACK!

The rock crawler dodged out of her way, but right into my path. I stomped on it, a satisfying, green goo splattering under my heel.

Sanraya stopped and sighed. “Thank you, Mighty Mac.”

“All in a night’s work, my love.”

She tilted her head and stared at me. “You finished with the edits?”

“Yep. Princess sent the package to Commander Moeller.” I deposited my boots near the door before tugging off my socks, shirt, and slacks. “We’ve got an hour before we arrive in the Appleseed System.”

“What about the other video? The one that’s going to capture us lots of fans?”

“Gone several hours ago. I hired an agent to promote our product, just like we talked about. She’s already gotten a positive response to one of her queries. In a month, I’m betting we’ll be a huge hit.”

She nodded. “The shower is yours. I’m finished.”

My gaze roamed over her curves. “Are you sure?”

Her eyes sparkled in amusement as she removed the towel. “You like what you see?” She twirled the cloth in her hands as she circled around me.

My pulse raced. “Oh, yeah.”

CRACK! Sanraya snapped the towel against my backside. “Get moving, buttercup. Work first, play later.”

I hopped and rubbed the red mark on my ass cheek. She definitely had a strange sense of foreplay. “But what if I can’t reach everything that needs to be washed?”

The towel twirled in her hands. “Business before pleasure. Remember? Do you need another lesson?”

“No! No! I’m going!” I dashed into the sonic shower.

Minutes later, clean-shaven and in fresh clothes, I stopped by Joe’s quarters with Sanraya. Likewise, he’d dressed for the final scene of our bootlegger adventure—a Green Charisma T-shirt beneath his battle-worn leather jacket. We shared the good news about the positive feedback from our agent.

“Awesome.” He rubbed his hands together. “We’re gonna be famous, assuming everything goes well with Commander Moeller. Are we ready for him?”

“Ready as a Narpoxian mountain mocker for his first meal after a twelve-year hibernation,” I replied. “You both remember what to do if things go wrong?”

Joe and Sanraya nodded.

“Good.” I led the way. “Make sure your pinhole cameras are up and running.”

Joe ran his tongue over his sparkling-white teeth. “Captain Charisma never forgets.”

Sanraya eyed us. “Your species gets easily distracted. Only Vespar knows what would happen if I weren’t here to keep you both on your game.”

When we arrived on the bridge, I made sure my own cameras were ready. The orb hovered behind my navigator’s station, while the pterodactyl drone perched at one end of the dashboard.

A warning chime announced our arrival at the jump gate into the Appleseed System. Princess Takahe’s hologram flashed into being—a miniature lightning strike atop the threat board—a video display showing potential hostile craft. The view screen’s colorful miasma contracted into rainbow bands before snapping into place as a starfield.

“Jump sequence complete.” Princess Takahe hopped toward Joe in the pilot’s seat. “Appleseed Gate acknowledges receipt of authentication protocol. Ceding control to pilot.”

Joe gripped the steering yoke with one hand, while the other clutched the thrust control. He looked up at the view screen. “Setting a course for the Kobold.”

The silvery-white Alliance destroyer cruised through the crowded space, watching every freighter, personal yacht, and transport. The twin turbolaser platforms, one fore and another aft of her superstructure, deterred any bloodthirsty pirate attacks on the system.

A hailing chirrup came without delay. I wasn’t surprised—the video I’d sent begged for a conversation.

I stood up and tugged the bottom of my shirt. Time to finish what we’d started. “Ready, Princess. Let’s take the call.”

“Handshake protocol established.”

Commander Moeller appeared on the view screen, sitting behind his desk with his fingers steepled, his whipcord-lean body rigid as a steel rod. His scowl would’ve sent a squadron of enlisted grunts crying for their mamas.

Lieutenant ta’Chalik stood to one side at parade rest, arms behind her back. She stared down her long Vellaran nose, a sneer on her lips.

“Welcome back, Mr. MacIntyre.” A vein in the commander’s temple throbbed. “I trust you had a pleasant return trip?”

I nodded. “It was uneventful, thank goodness.”

“We received your video.” He tapped his fingertips together. “Along with your editorial narration regarding . . . the operation.”

I cleared my throat. So much for exchanging pleasantries. “I hope you understand why I found it necessary to send it to you.”

Lieutenant ta’Chalik sniffed. “I don’t. Who the hell do you think you are trying to blackmail the Alliance? We should lock you up. Send you to the Weiland Asteroid Penal Colony to smash rocks with hand tools.”

I shrugged. “I’m just a reality show director trying to make a living.”

Commander Moeller harrumphed. “What do you intend to do with this video?”

Although I knew the answer, I let the question hang in the air. “Even though the video confirms you strong-armed us into running guns—and a tactical nuke—to the Clodhopper System, I don’t want to give the Alliance a black eye if I don’t have to.”

Joe crossed his arms. “And you set me up to take the blame if the war between the Polavians and Clodhoppers escalated.”

“Now, son, don’t go accusing—”

“Can it, commander.” Joe scowled. “It’s a shitty thing to do to a former comrade.”

Moeller’s face fell into a scowl. “We all have orders to follow.”

Lieutenant ta’Chalik grimaced. “I knew I should’ve kept you losers on a tighter leash.”

Moeller held up a hand, signaling his subordinate’s silence. “Would you mind telling me how you evaded our electronic sweeps for cameras?”

“Actually, I do.” I wagged my eyebrows. “It’s a trade secret.”

The commander heaved a sigh. “Who else has a copy of the video?”

“There’s a backup hidden in a remote location, with a timed release that’ll send it to all the holo news stations in the galaxy unless I stop it.”

“So, you are blackmailing the Alliance. What exactly do you want for your silence?”

“Blackmail is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of this situation as a détente. We both have secrets we’d rather not see aired.”

“So where does that leave us, Mr. MacIntyre?”

“Dead even. We completed the delivery as required. The Clodhoppers let us take the nuke, which we sent into a gas giant.”

Commander Moeller shook his head. “I saw the video. Waste of a perfect nuke.”

I leaned forward and met Commander Moeller’s gaze. “More important, we don’t work for you anymore.”

Lieutenant ta’Chalik harrumphed. “No one walks away from the Telestic Templars. I don’t agree with our superiors’ decision, but they have a mission for you on Occular Secundus.”

“Bug hunting?” I scoffed. “No, thanks. Been there, done that.”

“It pays well.”

Joe licked his lips. “How much?”

Sanraya slugged him in the ribs. “We. Are. Not. Interested.”

I shrugged. “You heard the lady.”

“There are other jobs,” Commander Moeller offered. “Perhaps something on Katiri Prime?”

“No. I don’t like the desert climate. We may work with the Alliance someday, but it will be on our own terms.”

He leaned back in his seat. “I can’t say I didn’t try. Is there anything else to discuss?”

“Yeah, we need to find our employer, Qinta Floros. You arrested her on Appleseed.”

“Technically, the Appleseed locals arrested her.”

“At your behest, commander. Where is she?”

“The magistrate released her on her own recognizance. She’s awaiting trial for smuggling.” He reached out and tapped a display screen on his desk. “I’m sending you her contact information.”

“Thank you.”

“You’d better hope I never see you or your crew again, Mr. MacIntyre.” Commander Moeller smoothed a wrinkle out of his jacket. “Kobold out.”

The view screen went blank. I ran my tongue over my teeth, trying to get rid of a lingering bad taste. “That could’ve been worse.”

Joe let out a deep breath. “That man would screw us with our pants on if he got the chance.”

“Let’s not give him one. Princess, please put in a call to Qinta Floros.”

“Connecting.”

Moments passed, and I wondered if our employer would take our call; she might be holding a grudge after her arrest. A crackle of static filled the display. A blurry image—four green eyes beneath furry antlers and set into soft leathery facial skin—appeared.

“Who’s calling at this hour?” Our Transkeller employer yawned then stared. “I recognize you, yes? You’re that holovid crew I hired.”

I cleared my throat. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry for calling so late. We just arrived back in the Appleseed System and wanted to let you know the mission was a success.”

Two rows of blocky teeth smiled beneath a wide snout. “Yes, yes. The Beauty sent me regular reports regarding your progress that I reviewed after the magistrate let me go.”

“I’m very sorry to hear about your arrest.”

Qinta frowned. “It’s unfortunate the Alliance scanned the contents of your cargo hold. It cost me time and money to rectify the situation, and it also exposed our operation.”

“We didn’t have a choice.”

“So what? You’re demanding payment?”

“That’s correct.”

Our employer chuckled. “I believe I’m entitled to remuneration for your error.”

Sanraya raised a fist and snarled. “You’ll pay what you owe us. This ended up being more than a simple smuggling job. Stanislav Hordiyenko and his navigator got greedy and tried to rob us.” She stabbed an accusatory finger at the screen. “If you hadn’t held an open negotiation on the job, we could’ve avoided trouble.”

Qinta blinked. “Yes . . . well, that’s true. However—”

“And you also failed to disclose the quantity of cold brew for shipment. It could’ve landed us in prison—for years.”

“And how about the fact that the Blackthorn Beauty was a wreck when we got her?” Joe asked.

“And then we nearly lost our lives on Clodhopper, many times over,” Sanraya said.

“Universal Health United’s involvement in this is all over the news,” I said, “through no fault of our own. The publicity the Clodhopper cause receives, and the sympathy generated through our show, must be worth a small fortune. Donations will pour into your coffers.”

The Transkeller woman sighed and scrubbed her cheek. Her shoulders slumped. “Very well. I will wire forty thousand credits into your account.”

“The fee was fifty thousand,” Sanraya said, “plus title to the Blackthorn Beauty.”

Qinta scowled. “Such a fine ship. I’m sure you’ll agree that—”

“Don’t try to dissemble with me,” Sanraya said. “Give us our due.”

The woman stared at Sanraya, then pulled a data slate off a bedside table and tapped it. “Fifty thousand credits and ship ownership. Done.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m glad we could come to an understanding.”

Her antlers bobbed. “You’ve got a crew that stands up for you. That speaks well of your organization.”

I grinned. “I’ve got the best friends in the galaxy. We’re a fantastic team.”

She nodded. “I’m afraid I can’t use you for any more projects. The local constables are watching me. Others will have to take over our distribution network.” A smile spread across her face. “But it is nice knowing the medicine got to those who need it.”

“On that we can agree, ma’am.”

“Good night, Mr. MacIntyre. Stay out of trouble.”

The view screen shut off. I sat back in the navigator’s chair and relaxed.

Joe’s hands moved to the ship’s controls. “Did you mean what you said about having the best crew in the galaxy?”

“Of course. I love you guys. I don’t see how the material we recorded can’t be a hit.”

“But the Polavians will still be hunting us.”

Sanraya chuckled. “How does your human phrase go? Let them come. If we’re gonna die, we’ll die with our sandals on.”

Joe held up a finger. “Boots. Die with our boots on.” He turned to me. “So where are we heading?”

“Somewhere far away from Polavian space. Let’s not tempt fate.”

“Occular Secondus?” Joe asked.

“No bugs!” Sanraya and I screeched in unison.

“Fine, fine. How about Shengora? Wasn’t that where Galactic Entertainment wanted us when we first met? Something about a rescue operation, I think?”

I scratched my chin. “That sounds accurate.” I shrugged. “If the job isn’t available, it’s as good a place as any to scout our next adventure.”

Sanraya beamed. “I like it.”

Princess Takahe’s hologram popped onto the dashboard amid a shower of pink sparks and a rainbow. “Does anyone want to ask Spider or me what we think?”

“Do we have to?” I said. “And what did I tell you about flashy entrances?”

“I’m going to enjoy turning more of those la’Karvian rock crawlers loose in your quarters,” she said in a deadpan tone.

My breath caught in my lungs. “You—”

“Relax, Mac. I’m only kidding . . . mostly.”

Spider appeared on the front view screen, with all his limbs in the right places. Behind him the yellow totem of the Beauty’s drive pulsed with life. He turned to the camera and bobbed his head. “This is engineering. How may I be of assistance?”

Princess Takahe turned to address him. “Mac wants to know what you think about taking this ship to Shengora. Do you have any problems with that port?”

“Shengora?” The spindly droid buzzed. “They have an exceptional spacedock. Yes, yes. That will be ideal for upgrades.”

“Now that we’re partners, everyone shares in the expenses,” Princess Takahe said. “I’m guessing we’ll need at least twenty thousand credits for everything—a new point-defense platform, paint job, plasma torpedoes—”

I gulped. “Plasma torpedoes? Twenty thousand credits?”

“Did I say twenty?” Princess shrugged. “I meant twenty-five. We either improve our armaments or become faster and more maneuverable. Me? I prefer to shoot things.”

Spider raised a finger. “Don’t forget our personal upgrades, Princess. A mobility pack with thrusters for spacewalks would be an ideal addition for my work on the ship’s exterior. And might I suggest new cameras and holographic interfaces to broaden your reach on this ship, Princess?”

“An excellent idea,” Princess said. “You’re always looking out for my best interest.”

“Of course.”

“Now wait just a minute—” I interjected.

Sanraya grabbed my data slate from the navigator’s stand. “Princess can give me a list of parts. I’ll prioritize our needs.”

For once, I didn’t mind sharing the responsibility of handling our expenses.

Joe leaned back on his heels and laughed. “One big happy family here on the Blackthorn Beauty.”

“Yeah, a totally dysfunctional one.” Princess Takahe hopped toward him. “You really should let me drive. A Neanderthal could’ve plotted a better course.”

“Sez you! This is the best route.”

“What about the gravitational effects of that dwarf star?”

Joe shrugged. “The risks are minimal. Live a little. Spread your wings.”

Sanraya snagged me by the arm and drew me close. “Wanna sneak out of here?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“A workout, then breakfast.”

“Ugh, do we really need to exercise?”

She patted my tummy that I’d toned up even more during our return trip. “You’ve done well, Mac. Time for a reward. If you put in your time on the treadmill, I’ll make you some egos.”

“Eggos, my dear. Eggos.”

Sanraya chuckled. “Right. Eggos.”

Oh. My. Stars. Butter. Syrup. Toasty golden carbohydrates.

I hadn’t eaten anything like that in more than two months. My mouth watered at the mere thought. If working out gave me the chance to splurge, I’d take it.

I raised Sanraya’s hand to my lips. “Ready when you are, my love.”

<<>>

Acknowledgments

This book has taken more than two years to write and edit. My heartfelt thanks go to everyone in the Florida Writers Association and most especially those in the Manatee County writers group for their help in creating the first draft of this novel. Special praise to Dona Lee Musitano and Al Musitano for their encouraging mentorship over those first years I joined the group. Kudos to Rick Bettencourt, Paul Iasevoli, Andrew Parker, Bart Huitema, Robert Marvin, Doc Sanborn, Jill Andrews, Lara Lazenby, and Kathy Durfee. Over that time frame, my fellow writers have given me praise when warranted and a swift kick in the rear when deserved.

Additional thanks to everyone in the Scribophile community who have given me critiques for this novel. Special mention goes to the Outland Writer’s Colony on Scribophile, including Louise Ross, Elin Korund, Kylin Vandermeer, John Hamilton, and A.R. Tan. I have learned so much from the rest of you.

I used several rounds of beta readers in the Scribophile community. Stephen Kittel, Misty Carlisle, Dennis Taylor, James Garmisch, and Jacob Zoller all looked at this story from an elevated viewpoint and pointed out how to fix pacing and the character arcs.

My editor, Angela Brown, transformed this book in several ways. Her insights about missing details, choppy sentences, and dangling modifiers significantly improved the final product. She rocks!

Additional thanks to my proofreader, Paul Iasevoli, for putting the final polish on this story.

Interior design by Phillip Gessert at Reedsy.

Cover art by Jake Clark at Reedsy.

And most of all, thanks to my family—Janice Pearce, James Pearce, Robert Pearce, and Jennifer Pearce Kimelman for reading this story and boosting my morale.

About the Author

As a child, David M. Pearce once wore a rubber E.T. mask and handed out Reese’s Pieces at a shopping mall, earning enough in store credit to purchase his very own Dungeon Master’s Guide. He studied Latin in high school and remembers almost none of it. Veni, vidi, vici. David was a mediocre trumpet player in the University of Florida Fightin’ Gator Marching Band, proving he can, in fact, toot his own horn. After many long hours swilling cheap coffee to ward off insufferable ennui, he earned his law degree and a master’s degree in environmental law. As punishment for his many posteducational sins, he lives with a needy broken-tailed cat named “Nubby.” He spends his days writing motions, appellate briefs, and questionable stories using crayons—the fat ones.

Find out more at his website: http://davidmpearce.com.