“Have you used one like this?” he asked.
She smiled. “Not exactly, but I can figure it out.”
The drive made a high whirring. Cataris had gotten it back online. Ryz watched out the viewing port as they began to rise. The Maro guards, so casual moments before, now leapt into action. He saw them scrambling, using their communicators, aiming their weapons.
The shields were damaged, but working. The fire from the guards’ hand weapons bounced off.
“What happened after we took out the Stinger?” Ryz asked, trying to piece together how much of the Travae was serviceable. As the crew worked around them, Karnat related the tale quickly. The Travae had been captured when the Luma and the Stinger exploded. The Pinwheel had fired its last charge, splitting open the forward hull where the royal family had been hiding. Uom had rushed from the command deck to save them, and been sucked into the cold blackness of space. The Pinwheel was too crippled to finish off the royal transport, but had caught the ship in a drag beam, towing the defenseless craft to Maro.
The Travae trembled around them as it accelerated to overcome the planet’s gravity. Ryz was struck with how innocuous Maro looked from here. Outside the main base where they had been were rolling hills and fields, painting the planet with a natural beauty inconsistent with all he knew of the war-loving Maro race. The base itself was nearly abandoned. Cataris’s testimony of the decimation of the Maro fleet was obvious in the few soldiers rushing out of the buildings to witness their escape, in the few vessels Ryz could see spotting the all-but-abandoned shipyard that had once stood in service to their vast fleet. The Maro were in no shape to pursue. He hoped he would have time to prepare Ritel for them, to build his people’s own military, before the COS could attempt to finish the job they’d started.
“Problem ahead,” Delta called. Ryz looked to see a single, light-attack ship moving to intercept, all the depleted Maro fleet could muster. Remove it and nothing stood between him and home. He studied the attack craft, smiling at its orientation—aft ports exposed.
“Gunner,” he barked, and a small Ritel answered.
“Sir?”
“Fire a heavy charge,” Ryz instructed, “right between those tracking ports.”
“We don’t have many charges,” the gunner said doubtfully.
“We only need one.” Ryz tapped the screen to show the gunner where to aim and watched as the charge erased the craft from his screen. He smiled faintly.
Ryz watched Maro shrink into the velvet darkness. Sound slowed and sped at varying intervals as the Travae moved into warp. He held his breath, but it was a long warp, and his discomfort grew. He slid a hand into his pocket and pulled out the device Cataris had given him, then fit it over his nose. It was soft and comfortable, and as he inhaled through it, he sighed with relief.
Ryz drew in air as quickly as he could without drawing attention, recognizing that Cataris’ knowledge may continue to prove useful. The new king breathed easy when the ship slowed again and he saw the pale, spinning orb that was Ritel.
“Home?” Delta asked, tapping the planet on her display.
“Home,” he answered softly. For the first time, he felt like that was an accurate description of the planet.
Karnat moved up beside him. The old Ritel’s thoughtful gaze resting on Delta.
“You’ve brought another,” the adviser said, inclining his head toward the girl.
“Another?” Ryz turned his gaze to Karnat. “Another what?”
At this, the adviser peered at him, “You did not read the letter your cousin gave you? The letter from The Broken One?” He stopped and looked down, seemingly embarrassed. “Forgive me—the letter from your father?”
“I started to, but we were called to arms.” Ryz reached into his pocket and extracted the delicate paper. As the ship moved down through the atmosphere, the new king read the second page at last.
Your mother left the throne to use her considerable talents for gathering information. She knew how to lead. She knew how to rule. She came to the Academy to learn what they had never taught her at the palace: how to fight for her people. She knew there were threats, and she could not bear to sit in the palace while the dangers encircled her planet. We met at the Academy. She chose me for her personal pilot. She said she felt safe with me. I wish I could have lived up to that vision.
We traveled to covert bases and to dens of spies. Along the way I fell in love with her intelligence and bravery, her fierce sense of loyalty to all of her subjects. We were married on an Edenic planet in a system whose name I can’t even pronounce. After our marriage, with you on the way, we carried on trying to find out the extent of the threats our people were truly facing. What we found, instead, was truth of another kind.
We returned to Ritel for your birth. We returned with precious little information, but planned to leave again, taking you with us. But the attacks on Ritel began, and your mother was killed, and everything changed.
Before our discoveries in the field, I had thought, son, that her superior genes would overpower mine, that you would not have the limitations I had. But out in the field we discovered something, something only Karnat knows, that you can’t reveal to anyone else. We learned of another race, not unlike the Ritel, whose own world had been lost to them. We found that they had sent their young into the skies in hopes that they would find a better future. We found, son, that I was not a broken Ritel. In fact, I was a typical specimen of this other race, one of those orphans sent among the stars. It is, I suppose, why my body is at the end of its usefulness to me—these were not the conditions it was made for, and it cannot continue to function in them.
In the future, perhaps you will meet the race from which I came. Or perhaps you will not. But now, as I leave my body behind, I realize that I have tried so hard to allow you to be a Ritel, to shine as your mother did in this society, that I have neglected to teach you about your other ancestors. I know precious little of them myself, but I should not have kept what little I know from you.
What followed was a list of all the things he knew of this strange race. They were from a rich blue planet in the Sol system. They breathed best in an atmosphere of about twenty percent oxygen. They were remarkably adaptable.
Ryz glanced up at Delta. She was like him. He wondered if she knew what she was, where she had come from. There would be, he felt, a time to discuss it. There would be time for many things. Ryz would see to that. He would prepare his world to fight, and he would call upon his new relatives for help, if they could be found.
As the ship touched down on the stubby, green shrubs outside the Ritellian royal palace, Ryz ran his strange fifth finger over the last line of the letter, just above his father’s signature.
Forgive me if you can, and remember, please, that your mother did her best and that I was only human.
About Josi Russell
Josi Russell’s science fiction novels explore familiar human relationships in unfamiliar contexts. She currently teaches creative writing and fiction for Utah State University. She lives in the alien landscape of the high desert and is captivated by the fields of linguistics, mathematics, and medicine, by the vast unknown beyond our atmosphere, and by the whole adventure of being human. If you’d like to explore more of her work, please visit her website.
There you can learn more about her bestselling novels: the Caretaker Chronicles series, The Empyriad Series, and her various short stories. If you’d like free stories and updates on Josi’s newest releases, please sign up for her Readers’ Club!
The Erkennen Job
by Chris Pourteau
The Contract
TONY-TWO-POINT-OH SAT BACK IN HIS CHAIR and stared across the expanse of his English oak desk. I could see how much he favored his father when he did that. Same iron jawline. Same bony temple. Like someone had pulled an exoskeleton off a Martian assembly line and stretched skin over it. When he’s angry, Tony’s forehead ripples like liquid metal.
“It’s a power play, pure and simple.” His v
oice rumbled in the back of his throat. “Ra’uf Erkennen is making a move.”
“Why not keep the marshals on the case?” I asked. Seemed like a perfect job for the Marshals Service, that bastion of law and order bought and paid for by the Syndicate Corporation. Like everything else in the solar system.
Tony shook his head. “When we thought Blalock had simply stolen tech, the marshals were fine. Now that we know Ra’uf is up to something … no, this secret lab in Darkside needs to stay a secret as far as the public is concerned. We need to handle this privately.”
I nodded. By we, he meant me: Stacks Fischer, chief enforcer for SynCorp and Tony’s personal assassin.
The Erkennen Faction had first reported that a scientist named Mason Blalock had committed corporate espionage and stolen research and dashed to Darkside with it. That’s why the marshals went in. Now, we knew the situation wasn’t so simple thanks to a whistleblower inside the Erkennen organization. Blalock was conducting secret research meant to upset the delicate, nuanced relationship of SynCorp’s Five Factions. And meant to put the Erkennens at the top of the totem pole.
“What’s this super-secret tech again?”
Tony had to look to remind himself. “Molecularly Enhanced Synthetic Hemp.” He said each word deliberately.
“Developing a new drug in Darkside,” I grunted. “Now there’s a shocker.”
Tony shrugged. “My little bird inside Erkennen tells me it’s a game-changer. Ra’uf plans to use the new strain of hemp to take over,” he said, stroking the plush arms of his leather chair.
“Using drugs as a weapon?”
Tony shrugged again. “How he plans to do it, I have no idea. But the fact that Ra’uf is working offline is already a violation of the corporate compact.”
That was true enough. But each of the Five Factions maneuvered against the others all the time. This particular power play seemed to have Tony especially on edge.
“We need to set an example, Eugene.” Tony gave me the unblinking eye, that look he reserves for his inner circle when he’s passing along privileged Company knowledge. Or trying to intimidate the other guy.
“I reckon so,” I said. But I wanted to be crystal clear on expectations. “You want me to bring Blalock back?”
Tony’s eyes went cold. Ice-blue cold. Like his power core had just shut down, if he’d had a power core. “Kill the geek. Take the tech.”
I stood. “I’ll head out post-haste, Boss.” How hard could it be to find one rogue scientist making new-and-improved pipeweed in Darkside?
“One more thing. Ra’uf Erkennen needs to be taught a lesson.” Tony’s words were gravel in a grinder. “Make it loud and clear.”
“I’ll get it done, Boss.”
“I have every confidence, Eugene,” he said with a wolfish smile. Tony’s bone structure made the expression seem painted on again, like an undertaker had pinned his skin back to force a peaceful repose for respectful mourners. “Good hunting.”
* * *
I thought about stopping by The Slate—my favorite watering hole on the orbiting station that served as SynCorp’s headquarters—and pump Mickey Stotes, the proprietor, for information. But I figured whatever the Erkennens were playing at with Blalock was still far enough off-grid that even Mickey, usually a fount of useful knowledge, wouldn’t know anything. If not for Tony’s secret source inside the Erkennen Faction, neither would we. So I headed dockside and my ride waiting there.
From Tony’s penthouse office in SCHQ, the vator ride down to the deck where the parking’s cheap always takes a while. I don’t mind. Gives me time to think, make sure I know what I think I know.
He’s smart, Tony. Street-smart, unlike his father Anthony Taulke, who was a brilliant engineer and world-builder but not so smart when it came to managing people. Tony must’ve gotten his people skills from momma. As SynCorp’s CEO and head of the Taulke Faction, he’s a master at keeping the other four factions off-balance and everyone toiling toward the Company’s bottom line. Maintaining the status quo means everyone wins.
That’s what made this move by the Erkennen Faction even more odd. The Erkennens developed tech for the Company. That was their main contribution. But apparently Ra’uf Erkennen had decided to conduct this particular project off-book. He was risking a lot taking on Tony.
As the decks flashed by, I pulled my left bicep against my side to find the comforting curve of my stunner in its holster. Comforting yes, but stunners are new tech, only out a few years, and I don’t trust ’em. That’s why I carry backups. Strapped to my right wrist, my knife in a spring launcher. Inside my left ankle, my .38, what they used to call a police special a couple hundred years ago. The knife and the pistol were my old reliables.
Given what Tony wanted done, the stunner might be too humane anyway. The stunner tech, which I still didn’t really understand, somehow causes a living being’s EM field to shock them to death. It’s a quick and supposedly painless way to go. And it requires less mopping up afterward.
But sometimes in this business you want to make a mess. The .38 would leave a weeping hole for everyone to gape at on CorpNet. I’d just have to make sure the wound was visible to make Tony’s point for him: taking on Tony Taulke is no Sunday afternoon stroll with the family. It always has real consequences—deadly consequences. With that in mind, I walked off the vator appreciating Ra’uf Erkennen’s testicular fortitude.
One quick valet delivery later, and I was back in the Hearse’s cockpit. There are few places I feel safer. She’s a fast, sleek little ship with black and silver lines and an oversized trunk for … well, you know … cargo. The Hearse—I named her myself—exchanged bona fides with SynCorp Control, and we were on our way to the moon and its main colony, Darkside. It’d be a few hours before I got there, so I went over the briefing from Tony again in my head.
The Erkennen Faction had first said that Mason Blalock, one of their own scientists, had stolen groundbreaking tech, maybe to hand over to the Resistance—called Ghosts because their favored way to resist is to gum up the works of the corporate machinery. Ghosts say they’re fighting for mankind’s freedom from the indentured servitude of life under SynCorp, but most of Sol’s citizens are perfectly happy to let the Company run their lives. It wasn’t forty years ago we all thought we’d expire right along with what was left of Earth. Then the corporations came along and saved us: colonized Mars, developed Titan’s resources. So who can blame the citizenry if they trade a little freedom for survival of the species? When the Ghosts sabotage the assembly lines or blow up Company assets? Well, it strikes me as damned ungrateful.
When it looked like just another corporate espionage job by Blalock, SynCorp had dispatched the Marshals Service to set things right. But you only engage the marshals when you want the law enforced and the citizenry to see you’ve enforced it. When you need a message sent that’s a little more direct—like to big-balled Ra’uf Erkennen, keen on taking Tony’s job—well, that’s where I come in.
I let myself relax a little and looked up through the Hearse’s canopy. I was finally away from the bright blue marble, and the dark silver of the stars shone in. Other than the getting paid part, this was my favorite part of the job—traveling alone in the Hearse, carefully planning my next steps.
I still had hours to Darkside. With the starlight streaming in and my racing thoughts finally starting to calm, I pulled up the Hearse’s reading library. This was my thing to do while I waited on the flight time. Waiting is ninety percent of my job. Some assassins play games on their padds. Some eat ravenously, mechanically. Some drink, but not too much. None dare to sleep if they want to stay alive.
Me? I like to read books. That’s where I get my nickname from, by the way—my love for reading stacks of books. What, you thought it referred to how many bodies I’ve piled up in my career?
I pulled up Mickey Spillane. He’d do.
The Investigation
Founded as Darkside’s End, the largest settlement on the moon had once b
een the hope of humanity. It was supposed to be the first giant footprint for mankind off a dying planet, a springboard to a second chance among the stars. Then everything went to shit on Earth even faster than the experts predicted. Instead of a shining city on a lunar hill, the moon became a way station where people stopped off on their way to more important places like Mars. I remember a line from some old vid: a wretched hive of scum and villainy. That describes Darkside perfectly. Yeah, that’s what everyone calls it now … no End in sight.
Once I landed, I headed for the Fleshway—a long, dirty bazaar of overpriced drinkeries and brothels, and peopled by pickpockets. If Blalock really was in Darkside, that’s where I’d most likely find him, indulging in the local diversions. The Fleshway is so-called not only for peddling access to everyone’s favorite fifteen minutes of the day, but also because foot traffic is so thick on the bazaar, it’s hard not to stick your fingers in other people’s pockets.
The smell of sweat, vomit, and other bodily fluids wafted up from the gray mud of the double-wide, prefabricated thoroughfare. The sounds of drunkards, hucksters, and a slurred desire for death sooner rather than later mixed in the murmur of the crowd.
I pushed my way through, heading for Minerva Sett’s Arms of Artemis. The Arms is considered the best little whorehouse in Darkside, which isn’t saying much for the place. The owner—Minerva, aka, Minnie the Mouth—and I were old friends. Whenever I prowled Darkside on a job, I’d stop in for a Scotch and a beer and sometimes help her muscle out a drunk john demanding more than he’d paid for. Though she never paid me for the service, Minnie was always grateful for my assistance, if you know what I mean.
I pulled my hat down when I entered the Arms. Last thing I needed was someone spotting me and tipping off anyone watching Blalock’s back. I spotted Minnie holding court and angled in her direction. When she saw me, I jerked my thumb toward her office behind the bar. She nodded and began to wind down her conversation with the client she’d been chatting up.
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