by John Bowers
“Nothing to talk about.”
“Yes, there is. People need you.”
He snorted. “Yeah. Right.”
“It’s true, dammit! You’re a United Feder—”
His left hand jerked up like a stop sign and the words froze in her mouth. The look in his eyes was intense, dangerous.
“Nobody,” he corrected. “I’m nobody! Do you understand?”
She blinked, her heart racing. She had almost outed him as a lawman, and in this place that probably wasn’t a grand idea.
“I’m sorry, I—I didn’t think.”
“No, you didn’t think. You didn’t think before you came here, and now it’s time for you to leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yes you are. I don’t need you here. I don’t want you here.”
“I don’t care! Goddamn you, Nick, I am not leaving here without you!”
“Then you better rent yourself a hole to sleep in. Looks like you’ll be hanging around for a while.”
Victoria stared at him without a word for thirty seconds. Suddenly she stood up, jaw clenched, and picked up her rifle. Without a word she turned and started across the room for the airlock. The dusty drunk cast her a cautious smile.
“Did you find the man you were looking for?”
Victoria looked back at the dark table against the far wall. She shook her head.
“No. Looks like the man I’m looking for doesn’t exist anymore.”
Don’t miss the exciting Starport series by John Bowers. Politics, religion, war, and romance all rolled into an exciting adventure you will never forget. Available now at Amazon.com
Starport
Tyler gripped his shoulder harness with fingers like claws and prayed to Kristopher that it would be over soon. He had no idea where they were going or what they were supposed to do, but the general consensus seemed to be that it was dangerous. He could hear a steady roar just outside the hull, as if they were passing under a waterfall, but it was only the wind. Every time the boat tilted or bounced he felt his head swim, vertigo waiting to close in. He swallowed repeatedly, sucking air like a bellows.
“This is the pilot,” a voice blared from overhead speakers. “Touchdown in three zero seconds. We’re coming in hot, so hang onto something.”
Tyler closed his eyes and lifted his chin, swallowing hard, a final desperate surrender to his fate. He panted rapidly, sweat pouring from his palms. The boat bounced. He heard a crash as the hull struck something hard yet pliable. Treetops? He opened his eyes and blinked, his face numb. Toews was staring at him, his eyes fixed and hard, but—
Pop-op-op-op-op-op-op!
A string of holes appeared in the hull to his left, angling toward the overhead; someone screamed. Tyler instinctively tried to duck, but only his head could move. He looked down and saw a river of blood on the deck, streaming toward the front. Good God! Were those bullets?!?
The boat hit the trees again, harder this time, and everyone slammed forward, the crash of equipment louder than the curses. The boat had slowed some, but was still traveling like a meteor. Tyler’s stomach lurched as the boat soared slightly, then sank again and hit more trees, harder still. The crash was deafening, but this time the boat didn’t bounce. Instead it plunged through the foliage and hit something soft, maybe a plowed field, or a meadow. The ride became insane, the boat bumping rapidly like a car driving over logs, jerking and bouncing and trying to roll, but slowing fast. The loss of momentum shoved Tyler forward so hard he strangled on his harness, hearing the swish-ish-ish of grass and weeds against the hull.
Suddenly it was over. The boat lay still, rocking slightly on its stubby landing skids. Tyler opened his eyes and dropped his head back against the seat, hardly able to believe they were down and still alive. Water ran down his cheeks, but he didn’t know if it was tears or sweat.
Suddenly the inside was filled with pandemonium. Noncoms were shouting orders in rapid fire. More bullets popped through the hull and two men fell. A new panic seized him, but before he could react he saw Cpl. Toews on his feet, gripping his rifle, shouting to his squad. Hatches Tyler hadn’t seen popped opened on both sides of the boat, fore and aft, and men scrambled out of them.
“Third Squad, deploy to starboard!” Toews roared, windmilling his arms.
Tyler sat frozen, not knowing what to do. He heard guns firing, automatic rifles. Just outside, to his left, he heard a sudden gaseous roar, like a giant fire extinguisher, and a billow of flame boiled into the rear of the boat through an open hatch. He heard more screams and felt a choking heat; the stench of burning hair filled his nostrils.
“Let’s go, kid! Get the fuck out!”
Guerrilla Girl
Terra struggled forward through the tall grass, limping on her injured leg. The splint helped, but the leg was aching, and walking without bending her knee was hard. She held her rifle at port arms and concentrated on the ground in front of her.
This is bullshit, she told herself over and over. It wasn’t right to treat Maj. Troy this way. She understood at some level that he had to take responsibility for losing the regiment in the artillery attack, but it hadn’t been his fault. Not really. And he’d done everything in his power to save as many as possible afterward. He had led them away from the kill zone, across the border to escape the hovertanks, and kept everyone together.
Almost everyone, anyway. A few had died, but again, it wasn’t his fault.
And now Maj. Fuenteros—that fucking pendejano—was using Troy like a lure, sacrificing him so he could take command for himself. It wasn’t right.
And the pendejano was using her in the same way, risking her life if the Tropitanis or the Askelonis or whoever the hell they met up with decided to open fire. Fuenteros had never wanted her around in the first place, unless she was willing to fuck him, and was getting rid of her the easy way—and punishing Troy for showing her some kindness.
Fucking pendejano!
Troy was just ahead of her, unarmed, his only protection his white skin, which might or might not prevent an opponent from shooting him. His body rigid, he plowed ahead through the deep grass, stoically accepting the risk. Terra was lagging behind, and hurried a little to catch up. She knew she was supposed to keep a little distance between them in case they ran into trouble, but she didn’t want to fall back too far—she had the only rifle.
The rest of the regiment—more like a depleted battalion—was a quarter mile behind them, coming slowly. They would be no immediate help in a crisis; Troy and Terra would take the brunt of any hostilities, giving the rest a warning and time to spread out.
A gust of wind flayed her cheek with a sharp-edged blade of tall grass, making her duck defensively. She shook her head briefly, swung an arm to brush the grass aside, and limped forward.
This was bullshit!
She heard a shout.
* * *
The two heat sigs were coming straight for him. Tyler felt his arteries pulse as the range closed to twenty yards, fifteen, ten. Peering through the tall grass, he saw the outline of a man in green fatigues. His mouth turned dry and he gripped his rifle tighter.
Five yards.
He stood up, rifle aimed, and stared into the face of a startled Askeloni.
“Freeze! Identify yourself!”
The man raised his hands automatically, his blue eyes stark against his pale face. He had blond hair.
“Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.”
“Who are you?”
“Daniel Troy. I’m a citizen of Askelon.”
“What are you d—”
Tyler never finished the question. The second heat sig materialized out of the tall grass, and this one was armed. Tyler shifted his aim past Daniel Troy to cover the newcomer; he had a brief mental snapshot of a girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, dark and beautiful. She saw him at the same moment and her eyes widened in alarm. She swung her rifle toward him…
“It’s a trap!” Sam Duval screamed.
St
artled, Tyler glanced to his left as Sam leaped up out of the grass.
“Sam, wait—”
Famine Planet
Terra’s cheeks puffed as she exhaled sharply and gripped her guns. It was their turn next, and they were still bathed in a brilliant glare from the flares that were slowly descending from two thousand feet. Her section approached from the right, to hit the spaceport at an angle, and she held her breath as a stream of 22mm arced in her direction. It was high, but not very, and she could hear the shells whizzing overhead. She took aim at the muzzle flash, but it was too far away and she held her fire.
“Ten seconds!” Wilma yelled to the men in back, and everyone grabbed onto a railing, hands on helmets, heads ducked. Seconds before the sled touched down, Terra saw a series of flashes from behind the warehouses—thirty at least, maybe fifty. For just a second she didn’t know what it was, then her blood turned cold. The sled slammed into the ground and rocked to a halt.
“P-guns!” Terra screamed. “Over the side!”
The soldiers rolled over the gunwales and disappeared into the sled’s shadow. Terra slapped Wilma on the helmet.
“Get us out of here! Go-go-go!”
Wilma hit the thrusters and the sled leaped off the ground. The first parabola gun salvo burst even as she poured on speed, bright flashes followed by a whump and the whine of singing steel. Three shells exploded within fifty feet and shrapnel hit Terra’s PlastiGlass shield like shotgun blasts. Something pinged off her helmet and she heard screams behind her as the infantry took the full brunt of the barrage.
At least four sleds were hit by falling projectiles—the sleds were only armored on the bottom—and crashed onto the spaceport grounds where they skidded out of control or pinwheeled end for end. Wilma got them out from under the barrage; the sleds were moving too fast for the P-gunners to adjust. Now Terra had a clear shot as they streaked toward the hangars and repair shops, and she finally got her Twin Forties into action. She could see tracers from two 22mm guns and zeroed in on one as Wilma flew directly toward it. The rebel gunner was trying to track her sled and elevated his fire, but his shells bounced off the armored hull and exploded on the pavement; Terra’s .40 calibre rounds did not miss, and as Wilma banked away at the last minute, the gunner and two loaders were flung violently into the side of their emplacement. The gun barrel swung skyward and fell silent.
It wasn’t over yet. The night was now raging with sound; rapid-fire guns, exploding shells, whining sleds, shouting men—Terra hosed a second gun emplacement as they skimmed past and saw the sled ahead of her shoot up a third. Something exploded fifty feet in front of them and Wilma banked left to avoid it; acrid smoke stung Terra’s eyes for a few seconds before the wind whipped it away. Her long black ponytail streamed out behind her helmet and she looked back to see what damage they had done; more sleds were strafing the enemy gunners, but Terra saw flashes from behind the buildings again and realized the P-guns were still in operation.
She leaned over to Wilma.
“We’re going back!”
“What! Are you out of your mind?”
“Bank right and make a one-eighty. Get out of the traffic and go in behind the warehouses. Cut your power so they won’t hear us and come in as slow as you can.”
“Kristopher Krist, you’re going to get us killed!”
“Just do it, Wilma!”
Prisoners of Eroak
Toews sucked a deep breath and alerted the center column that things were about to start. He nodded to Carlene to move up another block. The command car began to move forward…
“Sergeant, this is Stevens! Something wrong here.”
Toews keyed the radio. “What is it?”
They heard gunfire even before she replied.
“This prison is a hell of a lot bigger than the digitals we studied! There aren’t two gun towers, but six!”
An explosion shattered the morning stillness and echoed across the rooftops.
“What the fuck?” Toews muttered.
“Hovertanks!” Stevens screamed out of the radio. “We’re taking fire!”
“Kristopher Kr—”
Carlene jumped as Cassian opened fire above her head. She saw his tracers streaming toward the intersection ahead, and to her dismay saw at least a dozen enemy soldiers sprinting across the street. Cassian cut four of them down, but the rest threw themselves prone and began firing in her direction. Her windshield shattered, spraying her with glass fragments, and in spite of her boast to Toews that she wouldn’t “cry ‘Eek!’ and pass out”…she screamed.
“Fuck!” Toews shouted. “FUCK!!”
He jumped out of the command car and sprayed the intersection with his automatic rifle, then ran back to the truck immediately behind him.
“Turn around!” he shouted. “Mission aborted! Get the hell out of here!”
Bullets punched through the command car, but Cassian kept up a steady return fire; Carlene saw blood spray as bullets ripped into half a dozen more Ho soldiers, filling the chill morning with screams. The rest turned and fled as Toews leaped back into the right-hand seat. To the east, they heard heavy guns firing, and explosions. An infantry sled, trailing flame, suddenly corkscrewed over the rooftops and crashed a block ahead; the fuel tanks ruptured into a blinding fireball.
Toews was shouting into his radio.
“All units, pull back! This is a setup—”
It was too late. Behind the command car, the street was filled with heavy trucks trying to reverse direction, but their turning radii were too wide and they had to forward and reverse to complete the turn. With the street thus jammed, windows in the upper floors of the taller buildings sprang open. Hundreds of Ho soldiers leaned out and opened fire, raining grenades and automatic weapons fire onto the convoy. Fortunately, most of the trucks only carried two men each, but they were chopped to pieces as gas tanks ruptured and exploding grenades ignited the fuel. Brilliant fireballs roiled into the air, burning away the mist and raining down liquid fire on everything in sight.
Occupy Eroak!
Brigadier Bobby Carter was on a conference call when his door burst open and a huge, shaggy old man lumbered through it. Carter frowned in annoyance until he recognized the man, then his expression changed. He flashed his toothy smile, held up a finger, and motioned to a chair, then turned his attention back to the call.
Howard Cassandra stopped for a bare moment, then crossed the room to Carter’s desk and plunged his finger onto the keypad, disconnecting the call. Carter stared at him in shock and just the beginnings of anger.
“Hang up the goddamn comm!” Cassandra barked. “You and I are going to talk.”
Carter’s expression changed yet again, from shock and anger to wary caution. He stood up from his chair, his chest sporting several rows of decorations. The teeth were gone.
“What can I do for you, Senator?”
Cassandra’s shaggy brows lowered. “You’re holding two people here that I want to talk to. Tell me where they are and I’ll let you get back to your call.”
Carter’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you talking about prisoners? I don’t think we’re holding anyone at the moment.”
“I’m talking about two soldiers of Askelon who recently returned from Agricor. I know they’re here and I know that you’re aware of them, because if you’re not, then you don’t deserve to sit in that chair.”
Carter glanced at Cynthia, let his eyes flicker towards the rolling camera, and ventured a test smile.
“Senator, no one came back from Agricor. The entire expedition was either killed or captured. You know that as well as I do.”
Cassandra was silent for a moment, then lowered his head in thought.
“I see. So, it’s your contention that Private Terra Lafirma and Corporal Tyler Unruh are not in the Fortress?”
Cynthia, watching closely, was certain she saw Carter’s throat bob, but he shook his head with absolute certainty.
“I’m sorry, Senator, but I’ve never even
heard of them.”
Cassandra was silent for thirty seconds, which seemed to stretch into eternity. Finally he nodded and took a step back.
“Very well, then. We’ll get out of your hair.”
Carter’s smile broke out in all its ivory glory.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, Senator.”
Cassandra glared at him, then bit his lip and nodded. He turned toward the door.
Carter sat down and reached for his desk comm.
“Oh, by the way…” Cassandra turned toward the desk again. “While I’m here, I might as well advise you that I’m planning to open a hearing into the death of General Charles diCole.”
Carter’s smile froze. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah, that whole heart attack thing just feels a little thin on my logic meter. No one in his family has ever died of heart disease, and just a month before his death he passed his annual medical with flying colors, so…it seems a little suspicious to me.”
Carter’s face paled ever so slightly; he swallowed.
“I, uh, was under the impression that his autopsy confirmed the cause of death.”
“Yeah, that’s true, but…I’m going to have the body exhumed and examined by an independent medical examiner. I just wanted to inform you that you might be called to testify…since you were alone with him when he died.”
Carter’s face bleached completely white. His lips moved but no words came out.
He cleared his throat.
“I, uh…”
Cassandra took another step forward. “Are you sure you never heard of Lafirma and Unruh? Maybe you’d like to call downstairs and check, just in case someone forgot to inform you.”
About the Author
John Bowers discovered his love for writing in 7th grade and started his first novel at age 13. By the time he graduated high school he had written six complete novels, sending his English teachers (all four of them) into paroxysms of delight. The pastor of his church was not so easily amused, however, and Bowers was “encouraged” (can you spell “threatened”?) to give up the creation of “manmade daydreams” and seek the Kingdom of God instead. He continued writing through his twenties, turning out several more books and a number of screenplays, but around age 30 finally surrendered to “God’s will” and gave up writing altogether.