Fear from the Past – Lance J. Mushung

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Fear from the Past

by Lance J. Mushung

We’d just hopped to a new star system containing a yellow sun very much like Sol. Although Magellan was a new cruiser with an improved drive, interstellar travel still left me feeling as if my head had been squeezed in a vise. As usual, I massaged my temples and told myself that someday I’d be done with ships and hopping. I’d be in a nice lab, and after that a retired guy in some pleasant spot. The sudden warbling wail of the alarm claxon made me forget my head and future plans. My next thought, and fear, was we’d stumbled across the Druxels.

The displays on my console told me we were receiving artificial radio signals, and I jumped onto studying them. In addition to the Druxels, I had to worry about the captain. I was the only member of the Science Corps onboard, and there was little doubt he’d call in short order. The voice of Captain Boris Malenkov boomed from a speaker within a minute.

“Mr. Steinmetz, in twenty-three minutes we’ll be too far into the gravity well to simply hop away. I want your report in fifteen minutes.”

He’d called me mister, which always meant he was serious. I acknowledged and continued working.

The captain’s face appeared on a display fifteen minutes later. He often struck me as a bit sinister with his cold eyes, heavy features, and bushy eyebrows. However, this time he looked like a lover of mysteries who’d just come across a strange new crime to investigate. Continue reading

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Sword of Saladin – Michael S. Roberts

6

Sword of Saladin

by Michael S. Roberts

House Del Sol battlecruiser Himalaya. Somewhere out there . . .

“Captain on the bridge!”

“As you were. Report.” Lady Eyla Melana dropped into Himalaya’s command chair, threw one leg casually over the armrest.

“Bogey, Skipper.” That was Commander Henderson, her executive officer. “Large metallic mass, warship outline, capitol ship.” He checked the sensor board. “No emissions, faint thermal signature. Optic profile strongly suggests. . .”Henderson showed mild surprise, “the Alliance dreadnought Sword of Saladin.”

“Has she pinged us yet?” Eyla asked. Henderson shook his head in the negative. Eyla glanced at her yeoman. “Coffee, please. New Tahitian.” Back to Henderson. “Put it on the big screen. And maintain emission control. We run silent.” Continue reading

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Drive Like Lightning . . . Crash Like Thunder, part one – B. Morris Allen

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Drive Like Lightning . . . Crash Like Thunder, part one

by B. Morris Allen

She was a flash of yellow when she dropped out of FTL, going .9 c in a sleek ship marred by a tracery of energy-weapon scars. She was a spray of actinic blue when she crashed through the Engsson barrier at the edge of Norbeq system. And she was a steady burn of fusion-red as she decelerated at tremendous G to allow Norbeqi fast cruisers to catch up and arrest her.

“Who are you?” they asked when the cruisers reached her. “Why have you come here?” And, most important, “How did you survive deceleration?”

“I am destiny and doom,” she answered when the soldiers let her go. “I am hope and hatred. I am trouble and terror.” When they called for doctors and drugs, she said. “I am Periphery Scout Anjica Zelnov. Tend my wounds, and I will tell you about future and fear.”

“We have an anomaly.”

Anjica flipped her seat vertical with a neat kick. Hours spent mapping the edge of Mechanic space had left her eager for any distraction. As the ship liked to say, the work was an exhausting mix of tedium and tension—annotating mineral analysis reports while waiting for the alarms that would signal Mechanic presence and a terrifying wait for the faster-than-light drive to charge. The fact that the scout was unarmed and unarmored only made it worse, though she knew that the Mechanic advantage in speed and maneuverability made weapons a pointless waste of mass. Scouts relied instead on two advantages—a highly sensitive array of sensors, and the FTL drive. The Mechanics might be effectively immune to the effects of acceleration, but they could still travel no faster than light—one reason why their rate of expansion could be mapped and predicted.

“Roger, Dodger.”

“Never tire of that joke, do you?” The ship’s voice was the epitome of long-suffering patience.

“It’s what made you what you are.” Anji’s first words to the ship when she had finished its programming, they had left it with a love for assonance that she had long since given up try to eradicate. By now, she even liked it. “What kind of anomaly? Boring or bastard?” Most anomalies fell in one of two categories: asteroids with an unusual mineral makeup or new varieties of Mechanic ships.

“Oh, definitely or.Continue reading

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Neither Big Nor Easy – Michael S. Roberts

6

Neither Big Nor Easy

by Michael S. Roberts 

Riverside wharves, No-cops Zone, New Orleans, August 2040. 

As soon as I saw the two cybered-up Jamaicans round the corner, I knew there would be another fight. Probably they were just dropping by Cao’s brothel for a disease-free afternoon quickie, but Cao was writhing happily right at my feet, giggling and grasping at imaginary butterflies. I still had the warm coilgun in my hand. I’d hoped to nab Cao without being noticed by the Posses. Both of them stopped short, cutting off their laughing chat, taking in the tableau: me, standing over the pimp they were likely coming to see; the smoking, sparking synthdoll laid out a couple feet away; the reporter near the brothel entrance, steadying and panning her headcam. The reporter’s camera operator was still concealed in my car, at least. She’d get it all on digital, whatever went down next.

I scanned them on infrared, picking out a heavy-gauge shotgun on the left, a pair of magnum autopistols on the right. Much more worrisome was the metal in their meat: Shotgun guy on the left had a full cyberarm, shoulder-down. Cooler eye sockets meant optic implants, much nicer than mine, probably ZeissOptik. Guy on the right looked all-meat except for bulges on the backs of the hands: talon implants, serious street hardware. When he grinned, I saw two chromed incisors, nearly an inch long. Both had the colors of the local Jamaican Posse: brocade vest on one, animated neon paisley muscle shirt on the other. Gold lame pants, rainbow sashes. Mix of dreadlocks and braids, heavy with ebonywood beads and colored glass.

“Not what it looks like, guys. . .” I holstered the flechette thrower, kept a hand on the grip. “Got a civilian here, just looking to leave with Cao.”

Cyberarm tilted his head and grinned at his partner. “We f’sha come here’a get screwed, mon.”

Chrome Teeth kept his predator smile aimed at me. “Looky-like you come f’dat too.”

Damn. Continue reading

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Oak Solid – Peter Wood

3

Oak Solid

by Peter Wood

Mike hated the tree. Its roots buckled the driveway, forcing Mike to park on the street. Long scraggly branches scraped the roof of Mike’s house, prying up shingles. He despised raking and bagging endless leaves and acorns every fall.

But spiting his neighbor made Mike leave the tree alone. Roy, who lived next door, nagged Mike far too often to cut it down. Spite might have been why Dad had ignored Mom’s pleas to chop the tree into firewood. Dad had survived Mom and now the tree had outlasted Dad.

Mike slammed the door to his Dad’s battered pick up. It was almost time for the late news and he had a long night of legal writing ahead of him. Mike grabbed the bulging court file and a typical dinner—a fast food burger and fries—off the front seat.

He stuffed a fistful of fries in his mouth as he cradled the file for the legal brief that was due in two days. Since Susan kicked him out and he moved into Dad’s crumbling home, Mike had little time for anything but work.

Roy’s fat tabby hissed at him from atop the lawnmower as Mike dared to enter his own garage. The cat meowed in outrage and raced outside. Lord only knew what corner it had used as a litter box. Roy didn’t care about whatever mischief his pet caused. He told Mike he’d take care of the cat when Mike took care of the tree. Continue reading

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