The Skirax Belcher Heist

The last container module in the cluster swung into place with a pong that vibrated through the whole crane. A speck of light on the dash lit red for about the ten-thousandth time that day, letting me know the mag-latches were in place. I disengaged, letting the winch reel in. Quittin’ time. My relief would be in the booth any moment, and I could finally get out of here. The ports are always stacked - it’s not exactly efficient or cheap to launch freight FTL, so drag transit gates end doing most of the work. But somebody’s got to load and unload all that cargo, and for the last five years, that someone has been me. It’s been an okay gig. Not stimulating, mind you, but I mostly get left alone in the cab and listen to music. It beats the old days - all day alone in the mud listening for troopers, praying today wasn’t the day the stepped wrong, and you shot in the back. Nobody ever complained, mind you, then or now: I’ve got my aim down good, just the targets are different. Lately though, holy Spire be blighted… all it took was one errant dark matter stream, and a ship went sideways on the rails. Suddenly the roundhouse at S’dor was out of commission for weeks, and everyone was rerouting their crap everywhere else. We went from forty flights a day to ten an hour. The pace is just stupid. As I tapped out of the cab, it was the end of a double shift to cap off a ten day stretch. My plans for my one day of freedom? Sleep, drink, sleep some more, eat a Kali roll from Sal’s, drink some more, and go back to sleep. Glorious. That had been my plan, my wonderful, incredibly lazy, remarkably unimportant plan. Until the Drin wandered over. Kudzzo and I went way back, not that we ever talk about it. The subject is verboten these days, unless you’re purposely looking to disappear forevermore into a black site. We never spoke a lot in the first place, but I always appreciated his handiwork. I’ve never met anyone else that had thought to field-strip a hover coil and turn it into a proxy mine, but that was Kudzzo. Mad little genius. We walked side by side without an acknowledgement until we had passed through the turnstiles. I turned right to catch my tram, and he followed. I wandered through the streets, ignoring the bustle all about me, and my old comrade-at-arms on my heels. After about a block, he spoke up. “You been good?” “Yeah. You?” “Ye.” Not much for words, same old Kudzzo. “You still over at East Point?” “Yup.” “Neighborhood’s gotten a little rough,” I offer. “Guess that’s true most places, though.” “Yuh.” We walk in silence a few more meters. Streets are crowded; half the city is off work or school, and there’s a flood of pilots and deckhands about anymore. Gets hard to pick your way between the masses and the hawkers and flashing neon holo ads. We round the corner to my shuttle stop. It’s another twenty minutes to what passes as home, provided the shuttle is on time. In the minute walk I have left, I figure I better ask the right question. “So, uh, you thinking of moving over this way? It’s got a nice view of the gate, although the stink is a bit much.” “Nah,” he shakes his head. “Good soup over here.” “Oh.” We haven’t so much as nodded at each other in five years, and the only reason we’re walking together is for a dinner run. Figures. I don’t know what I - “And I’ve got a gig. For you. Thought I’d ask the best.” Out of his lunch pail he pulled a tiny business card, and held it out to me. “Cameras at work,” he offers with a shrug. “Don’t trust ‘em. Better out here.” This is emotional whiplash. But after a moment’s hesitation, I snatch up the card. The address is for a Meta café in the Underbelly. “Be there at 2200,” he says matter-of-factly, and turns to go. “Tell ‘em you’re there to fix the relays. Gotta’ get that soup,” he shouts over his shoulder, disappearing into the crowd. I stand there at the shuttle stop for a moment, wondering. Clearly someone wants my skills, but is it my talent with a crane? Or the other thing? I have a bad feeling it’s the other thing. ***The Underbelly is, true to its name, on the underside of the station. I mean, it’s in space, so there’s not really a top or bottom, but it sits in the shadow of the massive DM pumps. It might as well be buried, even five-hundred kilometers in orbit above a moon. It’s still jumping, in spite of the late hour. Music blasts out of the clubs, drunken sailors pouring in and out of the doors. I ignore the gyrations of revelers in windows, keeping my head down to dodge mysterious puddles and discarded gutter trash. I turn off the main drag and into an alley, hoping it’s the right one. My nav is off; easier to deny having been here without it. Like Kudzzo said: don’t trust ‘em. The door to the café is poorly marked. I almost miss it, then have to squint in the dim light to read the sign: “Matto’s Meta Lounge. 17 Ynez Way.” This is the place. I push through the door, and am pleasantly surprised. It’s clean. It’s bright. It’s quiet. The patrons are all tucked away in cubicles, enjoying their virtual lives, paid for by the minute. The clerk looks up from her terminal and offers a faint smile. “Hi there. You looking to do a set time limit, or open a tab?” “Ah, neither,” I stammer. “I’m here to fix the relay?” I’m not sure why it comes out as a question. Lying is not my forte. She perks up. “Oh good, it’s been sketchy.” She points to a long hallway at the back. “Just down there. The other guys working on it are already in there.” “Uh, thanks.” I really hope this is the right place. There’s going to be some disappointed technicians if I’m not. Or angry mobsters, knowing my luck. The door isn’t hard to find. Past the janitor’s closet, and the restrooms, and the one marked ‘private office,’ is ‘server room.’ You can hear the exhaust fans rumbling on the other side. Smart choice for a clandestine meeting space. White noise to reduce eavesdropping, shielded from wireless signals, minimal opportunities to plant bugs… it’s a good spot. If these guys are smart, we’ll never set foot in here again. I take one last deep breath. Am I sure I want to do this? I open the door. ***Kudzzo’s there already, poking away at one of the server racks. And there are two others. The first is a pretty ordinary human - at least I think so. I have trouble telling them apart sometimes. The boots and the haircut scream former military. He’s studying a pair of data pads and scattered printouts. The other is seated, kicked back and relaxed, polishing rounds of ammunition. It doesn’t take long to recognize it’s robotic, but the head design is what’s hard to place at first. When I figure it out, I’m more than a little surprised to be face to faceplate with a genuine Precursor Automata. “What’s up?” it asks, barely glancing up. The human is more tense. “Were you followed?” “No, I don’t think so. No.” That didn’t sound very convincing, but I haven’t been asked that question in a long time. I’m more surprised to realize I’ve been checking anyway all these years. “I hope not. His time-on-target’s good,” he says, turning to Kudzzo. “2200, on the dot.” “Yep,” he replies, head half inside the racks. “He’s good.” I guess that settles it. “So, I take it I’m not here for my crane operating skills.” “Oh no, we definitely need those. Can’t pull this off otherwise.” He waves me over to the table. “But your marksmanship could come in real handy. Name’s Reeves.” He holds out his hand for a shake. “Hadu,” I reply. The handshaking is a Kraeth thing, something I got used to during the war. Haven’t done it in years. “That’s Coltan-Twelve. Don’t mind him, he’s older than most civilizations, but still hasn’t learned any manners.” “Hey, he hates us ‘cause he ain’t us. Can’t be helped,” the Automata shrugs. He flips a round in the air like a coin. “And of course, you know Kudzzo. 8th Battalion, was it?” I’m shocked to hear it mentioned out loud. It’s the sort of thing that just isn’t discussed. Too much bad blood, too many would-be snitches. Easy way to lose your job, your home… or worse. “It’s okay, we go way back. We were in the Tempest Pocket at the same time, if you can believe it.” He gives a slight smile, trying to put me at ease. “That place sucked, didn’t it K?” The Drin finally pulls his head back out. Four eyes blink in rapid succession from the bright room lights. “Ye. No good wires there. Had to use detcord for everything.” Same old Kudzzo. “Uh, listen, I appreciate you thinking of me, I really do. And it’s always nice to meet, um… other vets.” I’m hoping this isn’t going to get rough, but it may be too late to gracefully bow out. “But I’ve got something stable for the first time in a long time, and I don’t want to mess that up. If this is going to involve guns -“ “It is,” Reeves interrupts. “Okay, well, I’ve been shot at enough for one lifetime, and -“ “But it also involves stealing.” “Yeah, not a big selling point. I -“ “An extremely dangerous weapon.” “I think you’re missing my -“ “From Orug Amaro pirates.” I involuntarily hiss through my teeth. “Sign me up.” Coltan excitedly pumps a fist in the air. “Alright, I knew I liked this guy!” Kudzzo just nods. “Told ‘ya. True believer.” ***We met the next morning, way out on one of the far torus hubs. Unlike the berths in the yard, it was relatively quiet. The place was full-up, but only with docked cargo containers awaiting pickup. Hardly anyone else was around. I was concerned after last night. The pay was good. More than good. And if it had only meant sticking it to some Amaro thugs, it would have been worth it. But there was more to it than that. Kudzzo had described the target the night before. “You remember the Skirax, right?” I thought for a second. “Skirax… Skirax. Wait, Fluffy? Your pet?” It was a very kind and cuddly slug. Which happened to occasionally secrete an ooze that could burn through, well, anything. I seemed to recall him using it to cut up scrap armor. “Yup. Second cousin is an idiot, built a weapon that shoots Skirax slime.” He shook his head. “Drunk idiot.” “That seems dumb, but how bad could it be? Wouldn’t you need like,” I did some mental math, and came up empty. “Uh, a lot of slugs to have enough slime?” “I think the word you’re looking for is ginormous,” Coltan chimed in. “A ginormous number of slugs.” “That’s the problem. As Kudzzo explained to me,” Reeves gestured at Kudzzo. “Ah, you tell him.” “Somehow it makes lots of slime out of a little slime.” He blinked again. “A lot.” Reeves shook his head in disbelief. “Starting with a couple drops, it creates enough to melt a cruiser. Carve up this station. Bust open the Vault.” “The Vault, that’s a good idea. Sounds like it should go there.” I saw Skirax venom spill once; it pretty much reduced a main battle tank to a puddle. The Vault seems like an appropriate home, except… ”Didn’t someone just break into The Vault?” “I agree, and not exactly. They broke out. Story for another time. The point is, this thing can’t be on the streets. The tech could be miraculous if applied right, but in its current state it’s nightmare fuel.” “No… that’s a disaster waiting to happen.” I pictured a massive hull breach on the station, exposed to the void. It reminded me of… I shook it off. Not a memory worth having. “So, are we going to go steal it from him, or what?” “Can’t. Imbecile already sold it.” “A hoity-toity muckity-muck bought it at auction. Thankfully, it freaked out one of the auctioneers, who sent Kudzzo the tip.” “Yup. Built him a quantum humidor once. He likes me.” “To make matters worse -“ “Way worse,” Coltan interjected, stretching his arms wide apart. “The buyer has been burgled. And doesn’t know it yet.” I sighed. “This is where the Amaro comes in, isn’t it?” “Our Intel says they swapped the container right off the guy’s hull, and are smuggling it off world. Destined for the Union.” “That IS way worse.” “Sure is. Thankfully, we know where they’re headed,” Reeves grinned. “Straight through this transit center?” “Straight through this very transit center.” Which takes me to this morning. I’m here, apparently, to get some more intel, and a look at the getaway car. When I round the corner, I’m surprised to see a dilapidated, rusted-out, flatbed truck. “Beaut, ain’t she?” Reeves hollers as I walk up. He slaps a quarter panel, dust and rust flaking off and flittering to the ground. “Your getaway car… is a Landrunner?” They’re tremendous workhorses, extremely reliable. Great for hauling stuff. This one, however, has seen much better days, and doesn’t exactly scream ‘quick.’ “A ‘72! A real rarity.” “It was the only one he could find,” Kudzzo says, folding his arms. “Which does make it rare, in my defense. In all seriousness, the bodywork wasn’t really the main attraction. Anyway, you got any questions after last night’s convo?” Plenty, but I’ll keep it limited. “Yeah. Clandestine ops and smuggling aren’t the Orug Amaro’s usual M.O. How do you know it’s them?” “Fair question. Lot’s changed in a short time. New pirate king by the name of ‘Arch Avery’ took over a few years ago. Moved into state-sponsored crime rather than free-for-all terrorizing. Technically, they’re non-aligned, but -“ “They pay a tribute to the Union, and do the random odd job to keep in their good graces.” Coltan is busy fiddling with something in the truck, but his mechanical-inflected voice rings out. “In exchange, they get free-reign to make life miserable for everybody else.” He pauses to look at me. “Tale as old as time.” “Still bad.” Kudzzo is focused on me, now. “Just different bad.” “Nothing changes, does it?” I shake my head and stare at my boots. Depressing. My first “battle,” such as it was, was with these cretins. And here I was, all these years later, dealing with them again. “Well, then we better damn well do something about it. Starting with my illustrious hunk o’ junk here.” Reeves slaps it again. A bolt bounces on the deck. “Crappy bodywork. Good bones. Big engine block.” Kudzzo gestures to the front of the rig. “Ripped it out and put an HRAM power plant in.” “You stuck an aircraft engine in this. Really. And where did that come from?” “Had it. Living room.” “When did you find time to do all this?” I’m tired just thinking about it. “Couple nights ago. Fun time. Haven’t rigged one since the old days.” He does that four-eyed blink thing at me. “Giddy. Couldn’t sleep.” “Can’t you tell?” Reeves winked. ”So, now we’ve got to test it.” ***“We’ve already mapped the escape routes, but we need to check timings. We’ll run her about a click that way at full steam, but then try it with the booster at half power on the way back.” “Got enough fuel for that?” I ask. “Plenty. Frankly, I don’t want it full for this job. Too heavy.” Reeves climbs into the cab with Kudzzo, and I’m startled by what I see as he gets in. There’s the flash of a gun handle in his chest holster, hidden beneath his jacket. It’s not the pistol that surprises me, but the symbol engraved on the hilt. I’ve seen it before, but only once in person. The day everything came crashing down. “We’ll be back! Stand clear if you like your eyebro - er, never mind you two! Just stand clear!” Coltan gives me a shrug. The engine turns over with a wheeze, before choking out a deep cough. With that, the whole truck lurches forward, the suspension screeching a protest from between the chassis and the hover discs. And then they’re off. “I do not know how I get mixed up with this stuff,” Coltan mutters, watching them go. “How did you end up with him anyhow?” “Reeves? Saved my skid plate big time.” “After the war?” “Oh man, which one?” He chuckles. “Naw, I’m kidding. Seen a lot of them. Before the last one. I got jumped by some techno-toddlers trying to remotely cpujack me. Which,” he starts laughing uproariously, slightly disconcerting coming from a machine. “Oh man, if you knew how useless 99% of the data in my memory core is… Ah, good times.” “So, he stopped them?” “What? Oh, yeah. He swooped in out of nowhere like a superhero, fought off the whole squad himself. Got pretty busted up, but he won.” His optics narrow as he squints at the receding truck. “He was a drifter back then, looking for a calling. Turned out to be really good at beating up bad guys. Now we link up whenever there’s some trouble we can get into.” “And what about you? When you’re not taking down bad guys?” “Me? I dunno. EM disaster about, oh… fifteen-thousand years ago? Fried my long term memory storage. I know what I am,” he says, taping his metal head, “but how I ended up still around? No idea.” “But you still have fifteen-thousand years of memories? That’s incredible!” “Eh, doesn’t always work right, though. I don’t know if it’s a residual glitch, or the way the Precursors intended it to be. Not a lot of prehistoric, positronic-minded buddies around to ask, you know?” “No, I suppose not.” “So, I live in the present. Mostly doing one-offs where a lot of computational power is needed. I’m here to network up the cranes. Plus, Reeves said I might get shot at.” “That’s usually not a good thing.” “Hey, when you’ve lived long enough that everyone you’ve ever known has died, whole empires have ceased to be, and you have to relearn all the holo vid controls because they’ve changed for the umpteenth time… a little danger doesn’t sound so bad.” The comms flicker to life. “Okay guys, we got our regular run down. We’re gonna’ head back your way with the booster on. Still all clear?” There’s not a soul around. “Yeah, all clear.” “Fire extinguishers ready?” “Uh… fire extinguishers?” “And we’re go!” It didn’t look like much. At first. But the truck was getting larger in our view. Much faster than it had shrank as it left. “Man, they’re really hauling there, aren’t they?” I hear the words but have trouble concentrating. There’s something about the sound… The whole nose of the truck pitched down like an animal on the charge. And the noise… … I think of snow. Of cold. Of unrelenting cold. A shiver runs down my spine, an involuntary shake that I can’t hide. “Yeah, it’s freakin’ me out, too. Maybe we should move?” He tugs my arm, and I follow him out of the way, into an alley made of intermodal containers piled high. We stand transfixed, as the roar from the booster grows to a thunderous crescendo. “You think they’re planning on stopping?” I don’t answer. Can’t answer. I’m sweating bullets, even in a temperature controlled space station. Even though I feel freezing inside a temperature controlled space station. “I assume the plan was to stop. Logical conclusion.” It would be funny if I didn’t feel like I was dying. Don’t think about it. “Sorry, I make jokes when I’m nervous. Bad habit.” My chest hurts. The containers rattle from the engine vibration, dancing atop one another. “Hey, you feelin’ alright? I’m not good with biological signs, but you don’t — ” Don’t think about it. The NOISE. “— — — !” As the truck rockets past, the booster cuts out, suddenly droning to a gentle whine. “ — — - ever so glad I don’t have real ears! I’d be deaf right now!” Coltan leans in. “You deaf right now?” The truck coasts on for another few dozen meters before breaks kick in, front pads pushing the vehicle to a halt. “Uh… I’ll get you some ear protection before we do the thing.” I shake my head, trying to clear the brain fog. “Sorry, sorry. I’m alright,” I lie. “Noise just bothered me. Used to working in a soundproof cab, I guess.” “Woo! Did you see that?” Reeves shouts as he jumps down from the truck. “That sucker wasn’t even at a hundred percent!” Kudzzo is out, and already digging around under the hood. “Could be better. Need to realign a coil. Test the thermal dissipation.” “Always the perfectionist,” Reeves laughs. ”That’s good, then, that’ll do ‘er. I’ll run some data and update my timetables. Coltan, you mind heading back to the ship, doing a once over?” “You bet. It’ll be my pleasure. That lady’s got great conversation skills, I tell ya.” “That’s my ship you’re talking about, buddy. You behave.” “Fun to talk to, all I’m saying.” “Get outta’ here. I’ll see you later.” Reeves smiles at me, but it quickly drops to a worried frown. “You okay? You look pale. Something happen?” “Nothing. I’m okay. Noise got to me a bit.” I take a deep breath. I didn’t expect all these memories to come rushing back today. “I’ll be fine.” He still looks concerned. “That’s fine. You tell me when we’re outside your comfort zone, okay? I ain’t about to put another man through the fire over this.” “I’m good. I’ll be good.” A couple deep breaths, I start to feel normal again. But curiosity has got the better of me. Those memories that were jogged loose, that feeling, it’s all connected. Yet, I’m a little afraid to cause offense… or find out something I really don’t want to know. But I’ve got to know. “Reeves… I noticed you carrying a piece there…” He paused, and self-consciously pulled his jacket closer. “Ah… yeah. This line of work, you’ve got to be cautious. I’m hoping we stay out of trouble, but -“ “No, no, I get it,” I wave him off. “Been around enough to know when a job is dangerous.” I lean in a bit, my volume lowering slightly. ”It’s the symbol on the grip that caught my eye.” It’s a symbol I’ve seen before, at the end. The end of the war. In the cold. ***We had been guarding the terminal, trying to buy some time for the transports heading out. It didn’t go well, to put it mildly. Our perimeter kept shrinking, incoming fire got worse and worse, and suddenly you couldn’t tell if the mob headed your way was friendlies just trying to get off world, or enemies coming to put a hole in your head. On the sixth day, the north side collapsed. Attrition had taken out half the battalion, ammo was down to a minimum, and air support had ceased to exist. Once that north end went down, we couldn’t keep the AA fire off the transports, so we watched them lift off and burn, limping to the ground before disappearing in a mushroom cloud over the horizon. The few that made it further flew low, still shot full of holes by small arms fire from the ground, but at least they made it away from the carnage. A few of us were sent to protect a transport full of civilians, random non-combatants who just wanted away. There wasn’t much we could do; dead and dying littered the tarmac, and it was a full-on riot to get aboard. We thought we might use some cargo boxes for cover, but that fell apart immediately. Artillery fire was hitting the airfield, getting more accurate by the moment. Tracer rounds told another story: we were taking incoming fire specifically aimed at us. No more pot shots at the runway, the enemy was close enough to take aim. They skittered about on the horizon, barely visible shadows lit only by the momentary burst of automatic fire. We hadn’t meant to climb aboard. At least, I hadn’t meant to be there. My orders were to see the transport off, then try and make a breakout. Regroup in the hills to the east. It didn’t happen, though. I was in the doorway, jostling for enough space to take a shot with my rifle, when the ramp door started folding in. I was pushed over backwards by the crush of people clamoring aboard. The transport lurched, and someone toppled on to my head. I struggled to stand, the movement of the floor below disorienting me. The ship suddenly banked to the right, sending the throng tumbling to one side. Now I was on top of the crush, a jumble of bodies writhing below me. We leveled off, and I rushed towards the front, past the screaming heap. The ship was unsteady, buffeted by AA fire and flak. The floor was slick with who-knows-what. I stumbled, my ankle a flash of pain. I kept going, ignoring the cries around me. I reached the cockpit. It smelt of burnt electrical and blood. The flight engineer was on the deck, clutching at a chest wound. The comms officer was attaching a medpack, desperately trying to render first aid. The pilot and co-pilot fought with the controls, struggling to see through the cracked and battered windscreen. Emergency klaxons sounded, dash lights madly pulsing on the control panels. The comms screeched a string of profanities, requests for help, and automated nav jargon. I looked back at the cabin, itself in total disarray. I saw a few resistance members, discernible from the shell-shocked crowd only by their body armor and weapons. Their faces showed only terror and confusion. Acrid smoke burned my eyes and nostrils, and the wailing and screams echoed in the cramped bay. I slumped to the deck. ***It was impossible to get off-world by that point. The orbital screen was seemingly impenetrable, swatting ships out of the sky before even reaching the upper atmosphere. Fiery scraps drifted down from the sky, tendrils of smoke streaking the otherwise placid heavens. We flew aimlessly for hours, futilely looking for a corridor out. As if the transport was even space-worthy anymore. The flight crew sent out a mayday, hoping someone would come for us. It seemed useless, other than attracting unwanted attention. Who was left to possibly save us? With the nav busted and the fight engineer comatose, the ship limped into a blizzard, like an animal going off to die. Wind and snow whistled through gaps in the hull, eliciting more terrified shouting from the occupants. Finally, the ship had enough. Iced over and barely holding together, it could go no further. We fell from the clouds, blinded by the driven snow. A message went out over the PA: “Brace for impact. Brace for impact. Brace for impact.” The crowd screamed, some hunkering down, others rushing about in panic. From the cockpit I could hear a warning ring out: “Low altitude, pull up! Low altitude, pull up! Low alt -“ ***I don’t remember being inside the ship after the crash. Or maybe I don’t want to remember. My memories start outside, trying to get the mass of civilians out in some sort of orderly fashion. The ship was smoldering, leaking some sort of foul-smelling liquid. The other former-revolutionaries had begun to muster, trying to organize any kind of response. It was hard to tell through the raging blizzard, but we had come down just outside some sort of abandoned mining camp. The pilots must have spotted it on a map, and tried to use it as a landing point. I say a silent thank you; judging from the state of the front of the ship, there’s likely no one left to thank. Someone called out that there’s a tunnel, left open when the mineshaft was abandoned. The refugees huddled inside, the dark preferable to the storm encroaching on our position. They disappeared into the shaft, waiting. Those of us that were armed spread out across the barren patch of ice, trying to create a makeshift perimeter using the old camp structures for cover. There wasn’t much available, a few shattered old pieces of equipment and the occasional bunkhouse. I spent two days in an old storage hut perched on the side of an outcrop, trying to perform overwatch duties. Trying. My hands and feet and face were chilled to the bone; I had to keep the door ajar for sight lines, and there were no fires allowed so as to avoid attracting attention. I huddled atop my old 378, covered in a mylex blanket, wondering which would freeze first: me, or the rifle. Nothing stirred. The snow piled higher. On the morning of the third day, I was convinced that I wouldn’t live to see another nightfall. The storm was growing worse, and I could only imagine the situation in the cave was disastrous. With our enemy blocking the way, I couldn’t fathom how anyone would be able to stage a rescue, if they could even find us in the first place. It was getting hard to think. I don’t remember a whole lot, but what I do was a jumbled mess. I tried to get up and come down to join the others, but I was too tired to move. I absentmindedly wondered if everyone had left, and I had missed the extraction. I recalled the day I joined up, penniless but excited, sure I was setting out on some grand, righteous crusade. Now I was going to freeze to death on some forsaken hillside, cradling a thermal rifle like it was a loved one. I started to nod off… And then the noise began. I mistook the sound for an avalanche, the rumble echoing across the camp. Snow and ancient dust flitted down from the eaves of the hut, shook loose by the roar. I tucked my legs in closer, waiting for the deluge, only to be surprised by the view out the door: an HRAM, making a low pass over the camp. The message had made it through, but to the wrong side. They had come to finish what they had started. Weapons fire rose up from the buildings below, volleys haphazardly filling the sky, only to be silenced with a barrage of counter-fire. The valley floor burst into flames. Everything moved slowly, my joints aching, my mind struggling through mental sludge. My view through the open door was pillars of fire, blossoming up from below. It was mesmerizing, warmth and light after so much cold and darkness. But I knew better. I needed to act. My muscles may have been nearly frozen, but the memory remained. My rifle snapped to attention, the chill of the eyepiece burning into my face. The HRAM continued to sweep the valley, the deafening roar of its engines sending up great clouds of dust and ice. Its guns were never quiet for long, auto cannons and rocket launchers belching a constant stream of destruction. Yet, it hadn’t seen me. Maybe it was my relative altitude above the rest of the camp. Maybe it was my minimal heat signature, half dead in this abandoned hovel. Maybe it was luck. Whatever the case, I was unnoticed and untouched. A good time to make my presence known. I zeroed the scope, locking on to the wildly pivoting target. The sight struggled to keep up, so I took manual control, my aching fingers toggling the diopter. The bolt slid back, the metal like ice in my hand. Another round of gunfire. I looked for an opening. The HRAM spun, unleashing a fusillade on the troops below. Too much armor to penetrate; I needed a clean shot. Rockets arced out, devastating at such close quarters. Smoke and snow billowed up, obscuring my view. Auto cannons thundered, shells raining down like hammer blows, a cacophony of concussive sound. All I could do was watch. Listen. Wait. And like that, the cockpit rolled into sight. It was just a moment, a flicker of light off the canopy, the outline of the pilot, illuminated from within by the instrument panels. But it was enough. The shot connected, hard. It was a thermal round, magnetically driven and converted to a molten rod, strong enough to penetrate tank armor. It cut through the canopy like it wasn’t even there. The pilot’s head offered even less resistance. The round didn’t stop until it punched and melted its way deep into the aircraft. The HRAM spun lazily, yawing over and away. The guns went silent, replaced by an increasing whine as the main thrusters lost their balance. I put another slug into one engine, the impact spewing liquified metal and throwing a shower of sparks. The dying vehicle flipped on its back, and plummeted to the ground with a thud. Quiet descended on the valley, only broken by the snow-stifled murmuring of the wind and crackling flames. As I stepped out of the shack, I was appalled at the destruction. The camp structures had been torn apart, if not outright obliterated by missile strikes. No one stirred below, no indication that anyone had survived the onslaught. The mine entrance looked intact, but there were no signs of life. I would have to go down and check it out. I scrambled down the boulders, sliding across patches of ice and debris. It was hard to stay focused after so long motionless in the cold. I made it to the bottom, and begin stumbling towards the cave, careful not to trip on the shrapnel and debris from the attack. I was halfway to the cave entrance, right in the middle of open ground, when the roar began again, a shriek even louder than before. Three more HRAM’s skimmed over the mountain tops. They barreled down the hillside, roaring into the valley below. I paused, raising my rifle. I would never get the shot off in time, but I wasn’t about to go down without causing them some pain. I sighted in, and - The first HRAM disintegrated into a cloud of fiery debris. The other two swerved wildly, their line thrown off me and towards a new threat. Too slow: even with their enormous thrusters, they couldn’t keep up with the latest arrival. It was a tetraseeker, one of the finest single-seat air and space superiority fighters in existence. Not one of ours: we didn’t possess any ships as elite as this in our forces. Whoever this was came from outside. Had come to help. HRAM’s are maneuverable, but they’re not meant for taking on a star fighter. I watched in awe as the tetraseeker pilot climbed, rolled, and came in near vertical, throttle maxed out, hammering away with their main cannons. The middle HRAM couldn’t get away fast enough, plasma bolts shredding armor until the power core burst, erupting in a bloom of fire and smoke. I stood transfixed, watching the debris cascade down. Everything moved slow, my brain chugging along in near deep-freeze. The thought suddenly occurred that I should actually do something; either get to cover, or fight back. I nonsensically chose the latter, bringing my rifle up to fire again. My numb fingers could barely work the trigger. My first shot went wide, too slow to connect with the moving vehicle. I cycle the slide again, another round moving up into position. Aim. Click. This one bounced harmlessly off the armor plating, ricocheting across the hull. And now the pilot had seen me. The tetraseeker was still coming around, too wide an arc to make another strafing run before the HRAM had me. I pulled the slide once more. Not without a fight, I thought. Not without - I thought the roar was enormous before. The sound became apocalyptic, a monstrous bellow unlike anything I had heard before. I don’t know if the shot connected: the HRAM ceased to exist in less than a blink, reduced to sooty carbon on the wind. I fell to the cold, merciless ground. ***The days that followed are even less clear. I know the fighter wasn’t alone: I remember reading the name emblazoned on the side of the humongous gunship that hovered above me. ‘Dreaded Giant.” I remember being dragged aboard with a scant few survivors, my body stabbed and probed with IV’s and tubes. I remember feeling warm again, finally, then blacking out. I remember waking up in a med bay, halfway across the galaxy, with my saviors long gone. Alone. And I remember the symbol. On their ship, their armor, their weapons. A symbol I had once thought was a legend. And which was now in front of me on Reeves’ gun. “So, a Ranger, then?” I ask. “It’s… my day job. Peacekeeper,” Reeves responds, with a chuckle. “This particular outing is, uh, more freelance than normal, and may not end up so peaceful, but the bosses sanctioned it. They like knowing someone’s trying to keep the chaos and destruction in check, even outside our normal stomping grounds.” He pats his jacket. “And I couldn’t leave this one at home. I’ve carried the Gentleman’s Sorrow for going on twenty years now, it would be like leaving my foot at home. The symbol’s a little newer addition, but now it’s a part of me, too. It goes where I go.” I let out a breath. I feel a little better about the whole thing. Especially with a Ranger on board. There’s a racket from the truck, and some mild Drin cursing. Kudzzo stomps back around to us, greasier than before. “Not done, but done for now.” He turns and starts rummaging around in the back. “Got something for you. Special project.” “Oh, this is good,” Reeves says. “I gotta’ write down those timetables. I’ll leave you to it.” “For me? I don’t really have enough room at my place to store stuff, and -“ Kudzzo pulls a gun out of the truck bed. A very large gun. It’s slapped together from various parts, but the magnetic array on the front has the telltale signature of a rail gun. Judging by the scope, it’s got some serious range. “Uh… how much trouble do you think we’re in for, exactly?” “Hoping for none. But you know pirates,” he shrugs. “Did you build this? I’m assuming from the array it’s electromagnetic?” “Yes, I built it. Kind of stole the design.” “You what?” “Well, re-stole it. Designed the aiming system when in university. You know DTG, right?” “Yeah, the nav system, right? For FTL? Something-something Guidance.” “Distant Telemetry Guidance. Calculated galactic position at all times. Know how it works?” “No, no idea. Doesn’t usually come up when dealing with intermodal containers.” “Nav used to be hard. Star charts, timetables, lane repeaters.” He fiddles with some controls on the scope. “Ancients said it could take hours to map out a jump.” “The pilots, brave and stupid ones, started noticing something weird. When using shortcuts near black holes, came back with strange substance on their ships.” “Horizon skimmers. I’ve flown with a few. Nerve-wracking experience knowing there’s an event horizon right there…” More bad memories. Suddenly I’m not sure I have any other kind. “Yep. Turns out, black holes, especially big ones, spit out bizarre element: rejectonite. Each version little different, tuned to the black hole it came from. Biggest black hole sits in galactic center, handy navigation point. Precursors figure out how to use rejectonite to always know stellar position, invent DTG, fate of civilizations changed.” “Kudzzo, I appreciate the exposition. It’s like, ten times more than I’ve ever heard you speak. But what does this have to do with a rail gun?” I look at the rifle again; what does astronav got to do with a gun? “Getting to that.” He pulls an ammunition clip out of a pocket. Big sucker. “When I was a student, realized rejectonite has lots of other possible properties. Combine DTG with a scope, microprocessors, and mini-servos, and you can get perfect aim over huge distance, anywhere.” “If you ignore literally everything else about shooting, maybe. Every planet has different gravity, there’s different planetary curvature, atmospheric conditions change from place to place, minute to minute -“ “Yeah, but then I stuffed bullets full of super-compressed rejectonite.” Kudzzo snaps the clip into the rifle. “And that does…?” “Scope calculates shot’s galactic-oriented trajectory. Bullet has micro-stabilizer fins for minor in-flight corrections. Miniature nozzle on back of bullet releases rejectonite, super-heats, powers bullet with no drop-off for ten-thousand meters, give or take. Bullet doesn’t care about local conditions, mostly ignores fundamental forces of the universe. Shot lined up as fast as you can pull the trigger.” That sounds impossible, but never doubt a Drin’s ingenuity. “Hmm. Okay, that could be useful. What’s the drawback?” “Doesn’t hit very hard. No good against vehicle armor. Also, rejectonite comes out, boils to gas, leaves vapor trail. Very visible. Named Dragon’s Kiss for a reason.” “Dragon’s Kiss… good name. Didn’t know you were poetic, Kudzzo.” “I’m not. I called it a ‘Long-Distance Exotic Matter Coupled Target Acquisition and Delivery Mechanism.’ Jerk named Klazix Pebaaz named it ‘Dragon’s Kiss.’ Then sold it to Drin Queen-Almighty Rozek as novelty hunting rifle.” “You sold one of these to the Drin Queen? When was this?” “Few months ago, and I didn’t. Pebaaz did. I was expelled from university for designing a weapon. Fifteen years later, little twerp copied my thesis. Got rich.” “Ouch.” “Yup.” “So, you still had your thesis? Built this one?” “Nah, university locked up my thesis. Still not sure how he got it. I hacked his server, stole back the plans. Deleted his backups and sent message to Queen’s comms calling her a murgletoid. Pretty sure he’s in prison now.” “Well, all’s well that ends well. Can I give this thing a go? Or is that a no-no?” “Nah, shoot something.” “Fantastic.” He hands me the rifle. It looks like a homebrew collage, but the balance is perfect. Gravity-defying powers or not, it feels good. “Diopter self-adjusts. Pull trigger halfway to set target. Full press to fire. Can hip-fire if need be, will just go straight.” I bring the gun up to my eye, and hesitate. I haven’t held one since that last battle. Assumed I was done. I spy a suspended container about five-hundred meters out, oriented perpendicular to us. Not too far, not too close. Through the scope, I can read the ID: ‘AX0008.’ “I’m gonna’ try and bullseye those zeroes. You said no drop-off, right?” “Yup.” “Okay. Here goes.” First target, I half press. Brackets lock in. Full pull. There’s the briefest hum as the magnetic coils slingshot the round forward. The bullet is barely out of the gun when it starts spewing rejectonite vapor, a contrail hanging in the air behind it. I bracket the next zero and pull the trigger. Another round flies down range. I lower the rifle to watch. Kudzzo’s not wrong: they aren’t fast. Sub-sonic rounds. What is astounding is the aim. I’ve made no corrections for any conditions, for fall-off, and yet… The rounds strike true, bullseye. Twice. I snap the rifle up once more, a quick trigger pull without bracketing. It doesn’t matter at all, in the end. I pointed dead center of the third zero, and the round hit home. I’ve never seen anything like it. “Told ya’,” Kudzzo says with a hint of a smile. ***That night, we’re posted up on top of a building across from the yard, drinking ales and watching the goings-ons. Coltan has snuck in; the way I understand it, he’ll be hardwiring into the control tower’s mainframe during the job. “So, I just have to hit a button, and I’ll be able to run another crane?” “Right,” Reeves nods. “It’ll act as a toggle, and Coltan will shunt camera feed and control over to you. So, you sit in your booth, but run the other machine. When you need to run yours, you just hit the button again and switch back.” “And why did we choose the e-brake?” I’m a little skeptical. “Coltan ran an analysis. It’s your least used control.” “Heh.” Darn right. “Now, can you clue me in on how y’all run these things? I see a whole mess of equipment…” Reeves looks bewildered at the yard. “Well, it depends. The big central bays, those are for the really huge freighters, the thirty, forty-thousand container ships. They pull in, slow to a crawl, and a fleet of tender ships pull the containers off for distribution.” “But those are all out of commission right now.” “Right. When that ship went sideways at S’dor, it blocked the most important drag terminal gate in the quadrant. Now none of the big ships can get through unless they go off rails and use FTL.” “Expensive,” Kudzzo states succinctly. “Very. Turns out, it’s cheaper and easier to press a whole mess of smaller ships into service temporarily, and use those until they get it unstuck.” “So, these bays, smaller ships then?” “Yeah, feeders, delivery vehicles, sometimes specialty cargo transports. Usually, it’s stuff coming off or going onto the big boys. Can easily be over a hundred-thousand intermodal containers in a day.” “Which is why our little short-hauler is laundering stolen goods through here.” Reeves nods, getting a grasp of the yard’s operation. “Send it off-world and through a few of these stations, and the container just disappears.” “That’s what they’re counting on,” Kudzzo says with a derisive snort. “Why I called.” “How about the crane? How do you guarantee you can grab that specific container?” “Every yard is a little different, but the general idea is the same. There are port and starboard cranes, in our case two on each side. Those load and unload the majority of the containers from the ship’s hull, and then place them in various locations for processing.” “At the head of the bay sits the main crane, usually just called the ’header’. The header has to keep an eye on the manifest, sort the containers correctly, get them on the NBC scanners, and so on.” “Is our Skirax venom going to pop on an NBC scan?” “Nah.” Kudzzo smacks his lips as he takes a drink. “Too rare.” “Yeah, the scanners are attuned to pick up excess radiation, explosive residue, viruses… I don’t think slime is going to come up.” “Now, the crane itself, how does that work? You’ll be able to get the container directly on the truck?” I gesture down at the street below. Construction cones block off a portion alongside the road. “Kudzzo marked the spot you need to park in. The crane won’t have much reach outside the bay. Only a portion of the arm is fixed scaffolding; the rest is a prehensile arm with directional thrusters at the end. Magnetic lock attaches, the thrusters fire, the container gets placed in any orientation within the bay. They work fine in low g. They sink like a stone inside the station, so those thrusters aren’t any good once we pull the container in. It’s a pretty small radius available, but that parking spot should do it.” “Good. We’ll hit the mark. With any luck, this time tomorrow you’ll be sitting on your cash, and I’ll be halfway to home.” “Well,” Coltan announces his presence, hoisting himself over the building’s parapet. “I’ve got to say, they really shouldn’t let children design networks.” “Not hard?” Kudzzo asks. “Finding the right data port wasn’t easy, but only because it was buried under a half ton of superfluous cable. Seriously, someone should be embarrassed by their cable management skills.” “Then we’re a go. Let’s steal a super weapon folks.” “I’ll drink to that.” ***I showed up to work that morning, pretending it was like any other day. But I was nervous. I had lain low for years now, and when I was in the revolution, half my job was to be invisible. Now I was amidst hundreds of people, at the heart of one of the busiest ports in the quadrant. Blending in was very different. And I was about to potentially become very suspicious. I punch in. Grab my hard hat. Check the schedule. Crane Four, far end of the yard, big bay. Large ships in there, and lots of containers per ship, but also lots of downtime in between vessels. Not sure if it’s luck or Automata-intervention with me there, but I’ll take it either way. I pull up the manifests on the walk over. There are five ships, plus a sixth one that’s deleted. A note says it was accidentally included, but I know that’s Coltan’s handiwork. It’s been reassigned to Crane Thirty-two, almost opposite corner of the yard; currently assigned to Milton Davis, habitually tardy. Smaller bay, smaller ships, high volume. Importantly, immediately adjacent to the main road. 1045 arrival time, 152 containers, from a skiff named “Thunder Beard.” That’s my target. As soon as I get in the cab, I unpack my binoculars and scan across the bays. Crane Thirty-two is empty. True to form, Milton’s late for his shift. How the guy keeps getting header spots, I’ll never know. The upshot is, it gives me a chance to verify the controls work. As agreed, I double tap the e-brake. My HUD immediately changes, and I suddenly have a superimposed view out of Crane Thirty-two. I don’t want to give things away too much, so I settle for a simple test: unlock the cab rotation. I flip the switch; the release light powers off. Toggle the joystick. Nothing physically happens in my cab, but my view shifts ever so slightly. It’s disorienting without the sensation of relative motion, but I can make it work. I once sniped an IED from four-hundred meters hanging from a hover car… upside down. I can do this. I flip the release on again, and double tap the e-brake. The view shifts back to my own cab. Hopefully Coltan’s got himself squirreled away somewhere well out of sight. It’s going to be a long wait patched in. ***The first few hours are surprisingly normal. I get in a good rhythm, slinging containers onto a steady stream of waiting short-haulers. I dig in my lunchbox, eat some high-protein snacks. Watch the BOL for each ship tick down, then reset with a newcomer. At the end of the first freighter I pause, and go underside for a bio break in the little crew cabin there. On the way back, I feel around between the deck plating. Sure enough, there’s a package stashed there, just as promised. It’s unwieldy, but I manage to swing it into the cab and scramble inside. There are no cameras inside the cab. Cheapskate owners settled for ship-facing cameras only to mitigate liability, so my actions go largely unseen. I open the wrappings, and remove Kudzzo’s good work. The Dragon’s Kiss. Good name. I eye the scope, checking the readings. The crew portions of the bay are sealed via overlapping force fields almost the whole way around, with the exception of the city-side. There’s minimal interference to contend with. No wake from the ships, as they’re all on the other side of atmospheric shields. Good conditions. Not that it matters, but old habits die hard. I can clearly see Milton, pausing in-between containers to pick his upper nostrils. Gross. Below, the street is visible past the yard wall. It’s important that Reeves gets the Landrunner parked on the opposite side where they placed the cones; the crane’s boom is extremely maneuverable in zero-g, but has to obey normal physics once reeled in. There’s a limited arc I can swing over once the target is inside perimeter. There’s a downside I hadn’t considered before: the yard’s wall also limits the sight line of my rifle. With any luck, I’m not going to need it, but I’ll have minimal reaction time if someone comes after the truck. The second freighter goes about as easily as the first. I’m about halfway through when I get a notification on my display. A ship’s manifest has been added to the queue. The Thunder Beard has been undeleted, although it’s still assigned to the bay across the yard. I scan the Thunder Beard’s manifest while pulling crates off the ship in front of me. It doesn’t take long to find the container we’ve been tipped-off on, #DT357G. BOL says it has “Kola Fizz” cola. I sincerely doubt anyone wants to drink the real contents. Ten minutes remaining. Milton’s behind, but that might work for me. I think I can have the freighter cleared in my bay by the time the target pulls in if I really motor. I’m swinging the last container onto a short-hauler when I get one last notification. The Thunder Beard has been deleted from my queue, with a note from management on the “error.” Looks like it’s showtime. I scan across the yard. A nondescript, gray light-freighter studded with containers slides into Bay Thirty-two. #DT357G is in the second layer of the honeycomb of cargo that rings the ship, so I need to wait. Let Milton do his thing, and take over at the last moment. Any sooner might alert someone in the control center that there’s an issue. Out on the street, a beat-up Landrunner comes to a halt. Kudzzo, fabulously dressed in high-visibility gear, pops out and starts removing the construction cones. The flatbed pulls into the now vacant spot, and idles. Position’s spot-on, right within the zone we discussed. Milton is… not fast. My freighter has already cleared the dock, and he has yet to even start unloading the target. This could get tricky. I try not to think about what happens if something goes wrong, but my foot jostles the rifle tucked out of sight. It’s a reminder that this could get ugly. It’s odd; a rifle was my constant companion, sometimes my only companion, for years. Crawling through mud, over rocks, baking in the sun, trying not to drown in swamps and washes… just me and my rifle and my target. It took a long time, too long, to relearn how to be a civilian again. I never did re-learn how to be that excited kid who started this adventure. But for the first time in a long time, I’ve got a twinge of excitement again. It’s exhilarating and disturbing all at the same time. I prop the rifle up near the window. Just in case. No time to think about that anymore. My next arrival is pulling in, a hulking nine-hundred piece mid-range barge. The yard pilot gingerly guides it into the bay, and my side cranes get to work. ***The pace has picked up now. I’m tense on the joystick, punchy. I don’t think anyone can tell, though. I’m good at this. It’s still distracting. I keep glancing back, keep checking my data pad, watching for DT357G, with its fake soda aboard. Keep slinging containers ahead of me, my flexible crane arm swooping into to collect another unit and drop it on a waiting flatbed, waiting scanner, waiting tug. Dipping, diving, grabbing again. Checking my own BOL, watching the list dwindle. Pallets of precious metals, cartons of livestock feed, boxes of toys, ammunition, medicine, vid projectors, textbooks, tac sponges, fuel cells… commerce and civilization thrown in a blender, stuck on a ship, and shot across space. And on my data pad, I see “Kola Fizz.” It rolls to the front of the queue, onto a waiting NBC scanner. I watch for the disposition to update. Wait. I grab one of my own containers, dropping it onto a truck. Wait. Another swung onto an NBC platform. Scanning. Wait. Cleared. And cleared. I grab my container, betting I can beat Milton. Tardy Milton, never where he’s supposed to be. I drop the container, hard. The truck below bottoms out on its suspension before rebounding. I’m sure I’m being cursed right now. Don’t care. I toggle the e-brake. Container #DT357G, appears dead ahead of me. Dangling from Thirty-two’s line, ready to be tossed on a tug to who-knows-where, its cargo disappearing into the grasp of murderous thugs and fascists. Except, you know. I’ve got it. The arm swivels away, toward the street. Passing through the force field, the line droops as normal gravity kicks in. I keep spinning, until I’m lined up with the rooftop from last night. I can’t see for sure, so I have to go with my gut. I let it drop. The crash is enormous. I toggle control back to my own crane, and spin in my seat, searching for the truck. There sits the Landrunner, container perfectly intact in the bed. The dust hasn’t even settled, and Reeves and Kudzzo are out and getting it strapped down. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one staring. The whole yard has noticed. There’s a commotion now surrounding Milton’s crane. The deck foreman is shouting up with a bullhorn, and the loudspeakers are blaring a warning. Poor Milton stands atop the gantry, flailing his arms wildly in consternation. I would feel worse if he wasn’t such a jerk. It’s quite the scene. I take another look at the truck. They’ve worked fast; the tow straps are fastened already, and they’re back in the cab. No one from the yard has made it around the fence and out the gate to the street yet. We might just be home free. And I’m immediately proven wrong by the guy on the hover bike. The rider skids to a halt just a few meters back from the driver’s side door, and vaults off the bike. I drop the binoculars before I even see what he pulls from his jacket, and swing the Dragon’s Kiss to bear from its perch on the sill. True to Kudzzo’s description, the sight works like a dream: the attacker has raised a nasty looking bullpup, but a simple half-press of the trigger, and I’ve locked on before he can even undo the safety. I pull back the rest of the way. It’s not a fast round, and it certainly isn’t stealthy. The vapor trail draws a lot of attention, but I can’t criticize the result. The round flies straight and true, undisturbed by even gravity, before smashing into the attacker. What’s left of him slams into the side of the truck, hard enough to leave a new dent before it crumples in the street. I catch a glimpse of Reeves panicked face, moving from the dead body, and following the contrail back to my perch. He hits the throttle. The truck surges forward, revealing a second attacker left in the dust. I drop him before he can get off a shot, but it doesn’t stop there. Within moments an army of Andromeda hover bikes scream by in hot pursuit, riders with weapons drawn. Pirates. Any subterfuge on my part is up. I might have been able to deny taking control of Milton’s crane, but there’s no way I can hide this. I scramble out of the cab, hauling myself up to the roof. I need a longer view if I want to pick a few of these guys off. It’s chaos down below: alarms are blaring, my coworkers running every which way for cover, angry shouting broadcast over the PA system. A few people are pointing up at my cab, one already making their way up the ladder. I line up my next shots, able to get a bead on a handful of the riders. It’s quick and easy; half press to mark the target, full press to fire. Microprocessors and stabilizers and magic black hole goo do their thing, and riders tumble to the pavement. The rest disappear out of sight. I stay crouched on the cab, wondering what to do next. Surrender? Fight my way down? Take a dive into the vacuum of the cargo bay? But the decision is pretty quickly made for me. “Stay put,” answers a voice from the cab’s exterior loudspeakers. “And try not to flail too wildly.” And with that, I’m airborne, plucked off the roof and sailing over the yard. I expect to fall, careening into the crowd, but I stay aloft. It takes me a moment to register that I haven’t been shoved off: I’m being carried. “You can fly?” I shout at Coltan over the mad din. “It’s a cool jet pack. You like?” He has no mouth to smile with, but I can sense the grin. “I like it a lot right now. Where we going?” “The truck, of course! Now, can you get that wildly unsafe science fair project ready, so we can shoot some bad guys on the way?” “Sure thing. My pleasure.” This won’t be easy, dangling from a moving Automata like this, but it’s worth a go. I can’t aim down the sights like normal. Instead, I no scope this sucker, relying on the weapon’s crazy characteristics to ensure the shots connect on the literal fly. And as we race towards the truck, it works. As fast as I can pivot and pull the trigger, the pack of bikers is picked off. I can’t get nearly all of them, our speed is way too fast, but a lot of them eat dirt. Coming in from behind, most of them don’t even see us swooping down from above, completely oblivious to anything but the truck. “Don’t fall off,” is the last thing I hear before we crash land on the shipping container. I bounce and skid, nearly going over the side. It takes every ounce of grip I can muster to keep myself on top. The Dragon’s Kiss isn’t as lucky: it tumbles end over end, before clamoring to the road below. My one piece of satisfaction is that it immediately causes a wreck. It smashes one biker square in the face, while another swerving to avoid it crashes headlong into his buddies. “Pirate pileup on the parkway!” Coltan, mechanical reflexes working overtime, has landed more gracefully. He’s produced a blaster from somewhere, and starts sending shots down range. As he heads towards the back of the container, he tosses something my way. “Comms! Got you the noise-cancelling model! Just don’t throw that over the side, too!” “Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, snapping in the earpieces. “Testing, testing!” Incoming weapons fire flies past, and I hit the deck again. “Hadu! Need you to open the container and confirm we have the target!” “I’ll get it,” Coltan replies. “I’m the only one up here with a gun to bust the lock.” “What? Where’s my gun?” Kudzzo sounds angry. “I uh… I dropped it.” “You dropped my gun?” Now he’s real angry. An angry Drin is not to be messed with. “There’s no time for that now! Coltan, blast the lock! Hadu, get ready to catch.” “Hopefully his grip is better catching…” “Coltan!” Reeves barks. “Sorry…” A hand appears out the driver side window, clutching a pistol by the barrel. It tosses it back. Brave thing to do, considering how badly I fumbled the last one… … But this one makes contact. The Gentleman’s Sorrow slides into my palm. A classic piece of kit, assembled by one of the great weapons manufacturers of the galaxy. And that ancient symbol, etched into the grip, now under my palm. A dozen shots in the charge-coupled chamber. I’ll make them count. “Got it!” I confirm, already headed for the back of the container. Stray blasts arc past as the wind tears at my clothes from the other direction. I plant my feet, trying to avoid lurching over the side. Coltan, meanwhile, stands tall atop the truck, taking pot shots at our pursuers. He easily counters the forces of the moving vehicle, servos rocking with every bump and sway. “Hey, you made it! These morons are just lining up for me! Want to join in?” Another cyclist bites it, bike tumbling end over end before exploding. “Boss gave me a job! Going down,” I shout over the battle and howling wind. “Cover me?” He keeps firing. “What, like I’ve been kicking back this whole time? Guess I better step it up.” With no warning, his jetpack pivots up, detaching from his back. It hovers there for a heartbeat, then dives toward the bikers. “That thing is a drone, too?” I call out in surprise. “Yeah, fun feature!” Now Coltan has them in a crossfire of his own making. He fires from the top of the container, while his drone strafes the crowd, punching holes in hover pads, fuel tanks, and riders alike. Distracted, their aim gets even worse, attention divided between targets and avoiding their fallen comrades. “Guess they’re not used to someone putting up much of a fight,” I muse, hanging my head over the back of the container. I spy the door lock, and take aim down the pistol’s sights. Pow. That’s one. The fragments of the lock fall away, and the doors creak apart. “Hold on!” Reeves calls out over the comm. “Hard right turn!” The truck sways, hover pads screaming in protest of the sudden weight redistribution. Sparks fly as we briefly bottom out, showering the riders behind us. These guys seem to only have two things going for them: numbers, and they can bank better than we can. Reeves is in my ear again. “It’s straight on for another sixty seconds! You want inside, now is the time!” “Hey, can your drone give me a hand here?” I holler at Coltan, gesturing toward the now open doors. “That’s a precision instrument, not an amusement ride.” He fires a few more shots. “Nah, I’m playing. It’s your personal chauffeur!” The drone zips over, body-checking another pirate along the way. Seems like for every one we knock down, two more appear around a corner. Is the whole pirate fleet riding bikes after us? I grab ahold of the drone, careful to avoid the thrust-vector nozzles. I’m yanked upward and away, before pivoting around toward the open container. As we fly in and touchdown, I’m struck by just how little is inside. Not much to use as cover. Coltan’s drone races off, back into the melee. “I’m in!” I relay over the comms. “Only a couple crates tied down in here. I’ll verify contents.” I scramble to take cover, then aim at the first lock. Pow. Ten shots left. The lid slides off, and… it’s Kola Fizz? “Left turn coming up in five!” I brace, and the truck careens around another corner. The scraping of the hover pads on the road surface reverberates through my teeth. The cargo doors slam wildly, the pressure change boxing my ear drums in staccato. “First container is a dud. Moving on in a moment.” I grab my boot knife, and slash at the restraints. The box comes loose, shimmying across the deck. Pressing my weight against the wall, I shove the crate with my legs. It teeters on the edge, before crashing to the road. Bottles of sticky cola explode and rocket about, fizzing wildly. “Ah, did you just throw soda at them?” Kudzzo radios. “Make due with what you’ve got. Learned it from you,” I tease. I can sense a pout all the way from here. And that’s when I hear the scream from up top. There’s a tremendous commotion, and something slams into the roof, hard enough to bounce the whole truck. An arm flies past and lands on the road. “Hey! That was nearly original! You know how hard it is to get a decent replacement?” Another hit to the container from above. This time, there’s a serious dent that appears just above my head. It looks an awful lot like a face. “Another hard right! Brace!” Too late. I tumble backwards and smash into the wall. Shoulder hurts. The doors flap open and shut again, alternately plunging me into darkness or blinding light. “Coltan, you alright up there?” I ask while trying to get my bearings back. There’s another shout, and another thud. A screaming pirate falls past. “Turns out, these guys are better at hack and slash than they are at shooting.” Gunfire ratchets up again from somewhere above. “Somebody is gonna’ owe me a new arm when this is all done.” I get to the next container, cutting the straps apart. Prying the lid off, all I see is… junk. “Uh, Kudzzo? What’s the Belcher supposed to look like?” There’s a pause on the other end of the comms, punctuated by ricochets off the truck. “Knowing Mazabot, looks like bunch of car parts welded together.” “Okay then. Guess I found it.” I catch a couple of bikers come into view between the door panels; they go down, and there’s eight shots left in the pistol. “I’ll buy you a little time,” Coltan breaks in. “Going for a spin, see you all later!” He jetpacks off the speeding truck, gun blazing. “Coltan, be careful!” Reeves cries out, but there’s no stopping him. He’s already dived away, picking off pirates. I lose sight. I fire a few more shots at the crowd behind. Pow, pow, pow, I’m down to five left. It’s not enough. Nowhere near enough. We barely make it around another turn, and I swear there’s more bikers than before. It has to be a whole shipload of pirates. “They brought a whole shipload of pirates?” Kudzzo asks over the comms, seemingly reading my mind. “No good - ugh!” We’re strafed again, a barrage of weapons hurling a litany of ammo types at our battered truck. It smells like electrical burns and tastes like copper. The vehicle swerves, wavering off its previously straight lines. I struggle to stay upright. “Damn it! Another turn! Brace!” Reeves is driving like a maniac, but the bikes are faster, nimbler. And they seem infinite. I trip and fall despite the warning, cracking my head on the corner of the cargo box. The world goes white… I can’t see. I rub my eyes, and realize they’re covered. Must have a good-sized head wound. Hurts. Need to shake it off. Pull myself up. I hunch over the crate. The pistol has fallen inside, just out of reach. The flapping container doors assault my ears with their incessant crashing. I wipe my eyes again, aware that someone is speaking - shouting - in the comms. I can’t focus on the words. A shadow crosses in front of me. I’m not alone. The pirate aims at me with a nano-scythe, straight for my neck. I roll, half on purpose and half out of confusion; the blade buries itself deep into the cargo box. I crouch and grab my boot knife, lunging for his leg. He has one leg up on the crate, and strains at the hatchet. It comes loose just before I can connect, and he swings wildly. The flat side of the blade swats my knife aside, and we both topple over in the unsteady container. I’m not going to win with a knife. I desperately kick his chest, using the force of the blow to push myself further away. I scramble over the side of the crate, falling in a heap on top of the Belcher. The Orug Amaro wear a distinctive face mask, the visors cut into symbols that have some sort of meaning amongst their kind. I don’t have a clue what this one means, but I do know one thing: it makes a good target. The pistol comes up just as the hatchet slices down. The shot crackles in the air, discharge dancing across the blade before wrenching it aside. Four left. I adjust and squeeze the trigger again. A bolt strikes the faceplate, and there’s a distinct crack and sizzle. The pirate reels backward, clutching at the damaged helmet. I fire again, center of mass. Four, then three. Two left. He topples back lifelessly, body tumbling into the container doors and out onto the road. The container is clear. A small victory. Behind us must be a few dozen bikes in a pack, firing wildly or swinging melee weapons. It just never ends. I finally hear Reeves’ voice in my ear. No idea how long he’s been talking. “ - no time to get the cargo loaded onto the ship. I’m open to alternatives.” I hoist the contraption out of the cargo box. It’s heavy, unwieldy, and utterly bizarre. It has to be slung low, like a mini gun, but with a whole engine assembly on the back end. “Tactical nuke?” “Not an option Coltan…” Kudzzo coughs. He sounds terrible. “Hole up somewhere. Try and fight it out?” “I think they’re proving there’s a lot more of them than we have rounds left.” I flip a switch on the Belcher, and it comes to life in my hands, turbine madly vibrating in my grip. The displays jolt awake, bathing the interior of the container in a sickly green glow. “Give it up. Drop the container, let them have it.” Coltan sounds serious for once. It’s disconcerting. “We’ll try again.” “No, I can’t. You all know as well as I do that these guys are monsters. Who knows what they’ll make of it, and that’s if they don’t immediately hand it over to The Union.” He exhales hard. It’s the sound of someone with no options left. “Hadu, you’ve got to destroy it.” The readout is in native Drin, but I can make out a few words. The big toggle on the handle definitely looks like the main event. “Ah, that’s a negative, Reeves,” I answer. “Come again?” “Sorry, sir, but no. The tech’s got potential to help a lot of people if we can get it in the right hands. Besides, the Belcher’s a gun, right? I just can’t see my way to getting this far, and then not using it.” “I was just kidding about the weapon of mass destruction guys…” “Yeah, he’s right. We’re trying to contain that thing, not set it loose. I can’t sanction the kind of collateral damage that’ll create.” “Don’t worry, I’ve got a very particular target in mind. Kudzzo, station like this, what do they do if there’s a catastrophic breach?” Another sputtering cough. “Depends. Where on the hull?” “I’m thinking the umbilical connectors between modules… say headed out to a torus hub?” “That’s easy. Big blast shields. Drop down at preset intervals. Seals the hole off from the rest of the station.” “You’re not thinking -“ “Nah, I’m doing. Coltan, give me some cover until we get to the umbilical?” “I’d give you a hand, but… you know. I’ve only got the one left. I’ll gladly shoot some of these morons for you, though.” He blitzes overhead, raining fire down from above. “Let’s roll with it. Hadu, we’ll be entering the umbilical in less than thirty. Can you be ready?” “Uh,” I stumble, hammering away at the controls. “This thing’s pretty odd. I’m not sure -“ A burst of gunfire ricochets through the container, fragments splashing across every surface. Something searing hot burns into my leg and arm. My hand spasms as I fell backward against wall, jolting the trigger. An arc of sickly green glowing Skirax venom pours out of the Belcher, accompanied by a mighty roar from the integrated motor. The slime rips through the roof of the container without stopping, leaving a gaping melted gash straight through. As the truck races on, I watch the goo fall from the sky - right onto a pirate bike. In moments rider and bike had smashed to the ground in a rapidly deflating heap, disappearing into a hole quickly being carved into the roadbed. In a blink, all that was left to see was steam rising up from the crater. Whoops. “By the Spire!” “Dude straight melted. Forget the nuke, I want one of these!” Coltan lands on the roof, rifle shouldered, and gives me a thumbs up through the gash. “I can confirm it works, everyone.” The bikers have backed off some, clearly surprised by the melting comrade. “Hold on and keep it steady. We need some distance. I’m going to hit the booster in 3… 2… MARK.” The truck lurches, a shower of parts, rust, and sparks spraying out the back. The bikes recede, falling further and further behind as we gain momentum. Their shots drop off, even more inaccurate at the increasing range. In a blink, the umbilical tunnel flashes into view, suddenly enveloping us. Now or never, I pull the trigger on the Belcher, sending a horizontal cascade of Skirax slime across the road behind us. The road buckles, metal bubbling madly, before disappearing as it superheats and dissolves. Our pursuers steer to avoid the hole, but they’re far too late to avoid what comes next. My ears pop as a tremendous boom echoes out of the chamber. As we exit the tunnel, I can see bikes, riders, and debris blown through the newly opened gap into open space, torn asunder as their jettisoned. The truck slows, and we rise up off the road, pulled towards the hole. The roar drowns out even the still active turbo booster. The few bikes that make it past disappear from view as the heavy emergency doors of the module slam shut, cutting us off from the rest of the station. There’s the thunderous sound of collisions, bikes impacting the blast proof doors at full speed. An odd stillness comes over us, the sounds of battle replaced by the wind rippling through the tattered vehicle shell. The nearly-crippled Landrunner chugs along. We’ve made it. “That worked? That worked! Ha ha!” “Hadu, you get the award for best terrible idea of the day. Let’s get to the ship before these morons figure out how to get around somehow.” I slump down to the floor, the Belcher on my lap. I shut it down. The gauge still shows full canisters, improbably full canisters, more than should be possible. Miracle technology, used to shoot slug slime. There’s got to be a better use for this, but for now, I’m grateful. What a weird day. ***“Alright, payment sent.” Reeves fiddles with a data pad. “I know it ain’t much, but I hope it makes it worth it.” “Ruining the day for those pirates was worth it. I’ll figure out the rest,” I offer a shrug and a small smile. “Done it before.” We had managed to take off in the Mountain Zenith before the Orugs could catch up. Air space had been lousy with ships, and a swarm of V-Swoops had tried to cut us off. The sudden appearance of local law enforcement- finally! - had made quick work of that. Reeves’ Ranger credentials had gotten us past the cordon without the cops looking at us too closely. A quick jump to FTL, and we were long gone. Kudzzo was resting in a bunk down below. Someone had chucked a smoke canister into the cab, and he had gotten a face full of the stuff. Reeves at least had his helmet on, but my old friend wasn’t so lucky. He’ll be alright, eventually. I had patched Coltan up as best I could. The arm was long gone, but I got the wiring and hydraulics cleaned up and tucked back in. The rest of it was pretty awful, holes leaking oil and coolant, a cracked optic cover, burned plating. He had taken a lot of hits for our sakes. Despite that, he seemed pretty pleased with the whole thing. “Haven’t been shot at that much since… I don’t know, probably a raid on the Witches of Altimere? That was wild.” He wandered off to tend to the ship, and I swore I saw him strutting. I was alright. The cut on my head turned out to be superficial, just bled a lot. The burns and the shrapnel and the shoulder sure ached, but time would take care of those. And… well, I was a little shaken. Reeves tossed the data pad aside, and started punching in coordinates for the nav. We had met up with a Kraeth destroyer in null, and handed over the Belcher. I wasn’t sad to see it go, and I hoped someone could find a way to use the technology for good. In any case, it was safer in the Vault than just about anywhere else. The destroyer jumped away, leaving us hanging alone in the void. “About that…” Reeves kept at the controls, never glancing up. ”After the war, I was a wreck. Hurt to lose after fighting so hard. I spent a spell wandering around aimlessly, doing odd jobs.” “Thankfully, seems like crane operators are in demand.” Plenty of ports needed someone to sling containers, and a lot of them wouldn’t look to hard at my papers. ”I’ll post up somewhere, other side of the galaxy. Again.” He stopped typing. “You could. You could do that for sure.” Reeves turned, and looked me dead in the eyes. “But I think you’re like me. You miss the action, that’s a fact. But more than that, you miss helping people. Kills you inside, not to do something good for others, right?” I look away. Been a lot of thoughts running through my head the last couple days. “I… we tried, you know? Tried to make things better…” He nods. “I remember. And that’s exactly how I ended up with the Rangers. Guy like you, skills like yours, that’s a combination I don’t come across often.” “What, join up with space cops? Patrol The Deep? Fight rustlers and save pioneer trains?” “Yeah, why not?” “I…” don’t have a good answer. “Well, yeah. Maybe.” “Look, you don’t have to decide just yet.” Reeves swung back to the controls, checking a read out on the displays. “I’ve got to drop Coltan off at his next stop for repairs. Kudzzo asked me to run him by Eovis.” “That’s a terrible idea,” I blurt out. The Drin crown world was not likely to be welcoming to a former revolutionary, let alone one who had just sabotaged the Queen’s latest designer. “I told him that, but you know how stubborn Drin can be, ‘specially when they’re certain they’re right. Anyway, tag along until then, get your bearings. Gives me time to talk you into it.” It would be easy to just get off somewhere and disappear again. One more longshoreman at one more mid-tier port in one more out of the way star system. Get back to working, sleeping, drinking, and repeating. Or… The view outside the cockpit swum, the stars rippling unnaturally. Reeves saw it a fraction before me, hands jumping to the control column. Too late. We’re blinded by powerful floodlights, blotting out the shape of the craft that’s uncloaked ahead of us. The comm chirps; Reeves, shielding his eyes from the glare, flips a switch. “Attention vessel Mountain Zenith!” a nasal voice screeches from the speaker. ”You are in adverse possession of intellectual property belonging to the Eovian Crown, and are hereby detained under standard bounty rights! Power down and comply immediately!” The canopy darkens, dimming to shield us from the excessive light. Reeves taps his mic. “Uh, listen buck-o’s. It’s been a long day, and I’ve got a real gut-punch of a trip ahead of me. On top of all that,” he punches in another command, transmitting his credentials, ”I’m a sworn peace officer. So, I suggest not pulling all that crap bounty hunter stuff with me, got it?” “Comply!” He exhales and rubs his temples. “I don’t get why people think bounty hunters are so cool. Bunch of bullies with big guns.” I thumb the co-pilot comm switch. “Hi, uh, sorry… I’m the guy who had your semi-stolen rifle?” “You are being detained! In the name of the Crown, hand over the rifle immediately!” “About that. I kind of dropped it off a moving vehicle, and it got smashed by some biker’s face.” Reeves hammers at the controls. The hull polarizes, shield generators thrum from deep in the ship, targeting systems power up. ”If you want it, what’s left is in itty-bitty pieces in the gutter a few parsecs back.” Reeves subtly jostles the control column, feeling out the ship’s thrust vectors. Getting ready to run. “To be fair, it wasn’t the original. Queen’s still got that one.” We stare at each other. The bounty hunter’s vessel looms over us. Silence. “So… mind if we get going?” The answer was abrupt. There was an explosion at the front of the enemy craft, a flash even brighter than the floodlights, followed by electrical sparks arcing across our hull. The control panels flicker, flare, and die, the whole ship going dark and quiet. This jerk just hit us with a flux compression round. The EMP has effectively fried our systems. The ship is dead, at least for now. Emergency systems, heavily shielded, kick on. Gravity returns, air scrubbers hum, and a few small orange lights add a ghastly glow to the flight deck. The ship’s useless otherwise. The bounty hunter moves in, preparing to grapple us and board. I look to Reeves for a plan. “Well partner, I think you’re gonna’ have to hang out with us a little longer than expected.” I guess that new life is going to have to wait a little longer. ***Elsewhere. “Report.” “We have confirmation of another anomalous weapon activation.” “Elaborate.” “Drin origin. Ranged incendiary device. The actual destructive mechanism, while novel, is not of concern.” “Clarify.” “The level of destruction is confined, and unlikely to cause a significant perturbance beyond the immediate locale. However, the device has certain… qualities, which make it inherently dangerous." “Describe.” “The creator of the weapon developed a way to constitute additional liquid fuel from a minute sample, seemingly generating thousands of gallons from nothing.” “Method?” “Unknown. Our source has been unable to ascertain an exact method of operation. The builder is unreliable, and has yet to offer helpful details. However, output is verified to currently ONLY be the weapon’s fuel.” “Disposition?” “In Kraeth custody, being taken to The Vault. Ostensibly for storage, although there is little disagreement that the temptation to experiment will prove overwhelming. As such, we urge that action be taken against the Curator. Immediately.” “Agreed.” “Then, by your blessing and the Sacrament of Orion, a Huntsman will be delegated. I will inform the Guild that an additional Deviant Technology has been proclaimed. The cancer will be excised, and equilibrium maintained.” “Dismissed.” The cleric leaves. A moment passes. “How many Deviants does this make in recent days? Three?” “Four.” “And more before that. Too many. The pace is accelerating. Conflicts have flared up in places that have known peace for generations. Tempers have been cut short and flared. Dead races with magical powers haunt a galaxy suddenly filled with miracle machines. Tell me, has a pattern emerged?” “Perhaps.” “Would you speak its truth out loud if it had?” “Yes.” “And our allies, do you believe they will succeed?” “… No.” “Then I will make the necessary preparations. We were always aware this day might come, and I, for one, shall embrace it. Imagine, otherwise waiting a lifetime for a moment that never arrives?” “Unnecessary.” “Hmm, I suppose you can imagine that, can’t you?” “Yes.” “Then I’ll leave you to ponder it some more. Wish me good fortune; what’s the worst that could happen?” “… Annihilation.”