Writers of the Future Volume 27: The Best New Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year

by L. Ron Hubbard

  There was no right answer now, no plan. It was time to find a new starting point. Mira raised her head and furnished him with a quiet stare.

  “You’ll appreciate the irony,” said Deboss. “We launched this ship only a month ago. United designed it with a single purpose: the eradication of piracy on mineral transportation. How fortuitous it is then that we capture a pair of pirates on our maiden voyage.”

  Mira laughed and shook her head.

  “Tell him, Mira,” said Rose. She waited for Mira to respond for a moment before turning back to Deboss, her expression somehow changed, clearer. “If we told Empire we were coming here, they would have ordered us not to.”

  “That doesn’t explain this.” He bobbed the weapon.

  Rose appeared poised to answer, then paused and turned to Mira. “Mira?”

  “You know,” she replied, “I really don’t know.” She let out a deep sigh.

  It seemed to reverberate around the room; she could feel the vibration in the seat. She jerked upright in alarm and Deboss turned to glance out of the decontamination bay. The ringing of the hull hung in the air, the diminishing, reverberating toll of a giant bell.

  “You,” said Deboss, raising the gun at her.

  Alarms burst to life throughout the Prophet, accompanied by an impotent red warning lamp over the bay’s hatch.

  “You have to evacuate,” Mira said, her head abruptly clear, as Deboss’ expression changed from what had been a tight and calculating smile to a snarl of rage. She reached out to him, beckoning.

  But she moved too fast. An instinctive awareness of Deboss’ reaction began to twist her out of the way before the gun discharged. The bright flare of its detonation temporarily blinded her, its report registering as a devastating, ringing crack. A hard jerk against her right shoulder twisted Mira into the path of the ejecting gases from the gun’s muzzle and she swung back against her seat’s webbing, her ears ringing.

  Her nose stinging with the smell of burnt propellant, she turned to see Rose launch at Deboss. Dismounted by the unexpected recoil of Mira’s nonregulation ammunition, he was floating toward the back of the room. Rose intercepted the gun perfectly, wrenching it from his hands as he flailed trying to reorient himself.

  Deboss recovered quickly, spinning in place and then launching back at Rose. There was a moment’s hesitation before the gun flared in Rose’s hands and Deboss spun past her across the decontamination bay, writhing.

  The sound came from the wrong direction. It was without emotion, a detached curiosity, that Mira realized the first blast had partially deafened her. She looked at her right shoulder where the armor had separated. A thick red liquid now pooled along a shattered seam. She felt it should hurt more, but the pressure in her ear overcame all other sensation. It took a moment to notice Rose grabbing her by the collar and dragging her toward the hatch.

  It was Deboss watching them go that made her stop and detach from Rose’s grasp. Having regained consciousness, he now held onto the base of a seat with one arm while clamping the other to his neck. His hand was slick with blood.

  He’s coming with us, Mira tried to say. Her voice seemed muffled behind the ringing in her ears, but Rose let her go. Reaching Deboss, she grabbed his free arm and pulled him toward the hatch.

  Rose had the pistol trained on him as she approached. Mira hardly recognized her innocent engineer, her entire demeanor seeming to have changed in the last few minutes. Where her Earth origins and innocence were once exuded by every action, she was now the embodiment of cold calculation.

  When Warren appeared at the hatch, Rose turned to train the gun on him.

  “What the hell?” he asked, and then the world exploded.

  The decompression of the Prophet wasn’t instan-taneous, a product of the frigate’s massive size, but it was incredibly fast. Mira’s reaction was trained. Ignoring Deboss, Rose and the growing pain in her shoulder, she freed her hands and donned her helmet. Her suit spontaneously contracted, its nanofiber countering the growing pressure differential, pulling the broken seam at her shoulder back into place.

  Rose was slower, but nonetheless managed to put on her helmet while retaining a grip on her gun.

  Warren was gone, presumably sucked away from the hatch toward the hull breach.

  Turning back to Deboss, Mira saw him struggling to right himself, his hands slick with blood, slipping on a nearby webbed seat. A vision of Jake blowing out of an air lock cut at her heart. Mira nodded across the hall and keyed her intercom.

  “Get Hart,” she said, pushing off toward Deboss.

  “There’s no time.”

  “It’s not a negotiation, Rose. Get Hart.”

  Rose hesitated a moment and then launched out of the decontamination bay.

  Deboss’ skin had turned crimson as he struggled for breath in the increasingly rarefied atmosphere. Wrenching his hand away from his neck, she unclasped his helmet and strapped it on. His suit visibly pulled tighter around him, appearing to seal his wound in the process.

  She dragged him out of the hatch and into the access tube as the Prophet’s primary lighting flickered and died. Red emergency lights, running on backup power supplies, blinked into life to illuminate the sudden darkness.

  Across the access tube, Rose emerged from what must have been the infirmary with the suited Hart. Their eyes met before both swung out and into the hall.

  From deep within the frigate, a flash caught Mira’s attention. She turned to see a distant, suited figure float along the access tube toward her. Their source hidden from view, intermittent bursts of light revealed the figure in a stuttering silhouette.

  The visible staccato of the automatic weapon was all too familiar; she immediately knew it was hers and who the spacer was. Propelled by its recoil, Warren was going to keep flying down the hall until he struck its side. Beyond him, in his line of fire, a black shape amassed.

  Only it wasn’t entirely black. Glinting in the weapon’s fire, it reflected dull colors, a growing pool of onyx. Spellbound, Mira watched it coalesce into a sphere and then, so fast that Mira could not be sure of what she’d actually seen, it changed. Now a long, thin cylinder, following the path of the gunfire back to its source, reached and passed directly through Warren. Mira felt a noticeable tug in the hull in reaction to its motion.

  Frozen in place by the black column, he hung stationary for only a moment. From both ends at once the column began folding back and congealing around him. Amidst the black mass, he disappeared.

  Mira urgently signaled Rose to move toward the hold. They pushed off together, towing Deboss and Hart toward the hatch at the end of the access tube. A quick glance behind showed the black mass reshaping again, slowly this time, touching and then releasing the adjoining hull.

  The shuttle’s inner air lock had remained sealed. With the four of them inside, Mira cycled it as quickly as possible and launched into the shuttle. Rose wrestled the unconscious Hart aboard while Mira punched in a command on the Nyx’s console.

  The shuttle’s thrusters kicked in as helmets came off, but it was several minutes before anyone said anything.

  “Are you okay?” was all Mira could manage.

  Rose nodded. “Hart was already suited,” she said. “They’d only slipped one of his arms out for the IV.”

  Deboss had a hard set to his jaw, one hand keeping pressure on his neck. “I don’t know what to say,” he said, turning to face them. “There were a lot of people on the Prophet. But thanks, I guess, and sorry. Despite what happened earlier, I’m glad you showed up.”

  “Gotta protect the talent,” said Rose, turning back to check on Hart.

  Mira felt her ears burn. She had some thinking to do.

  Mira took one last look around the cabin, now bare of all traces of her inhabitancy. The station’s curve was a now-imperceptible warp in the a
butment between floor and wall, wall and ceiling. She had noticed it when first arriving here, but like so many things it had become a part of life, shaping her perceptions. Where once she’d seen a gently curving cell was now a straight-edged room. Mira hoisted her duffle bag onto her shoulder, nudged the door ajar and turned out the light. It was time to change perspectives.

  Harlan was waiting outside. How long he’d been there, she didn’t know.

  “You can still change your mind,” he said, falling in alongside her as she began walking the outer ring’s main walkway. A number of spacers out on the path stopped mid-stride or gave her an odd look as they passed and talked behind their hands.

  “Harlan, these last four years I had it all figured out. This was the only place for me. I didn’t even open letters from family.”

  A spacer, dressed in a station technician’s uniform, sidestepped over and interposed himself between them. Ignoring Mira’s hesitant step backwards, he caught her hand and shook it, offering an effusive thank-you and grinning. Mira grimaced and took another step backwards. There had been too many weird encounters like this in the last few days.

  As suddenly as his intrusion, a sharp moment of self-consciousness seemed to overcome him and he averted his eyes, his face and ears abruptly crimson. Mira withdrew her hand and stepped around him, shuddering.

  “This will all quiet down,” Harlan said. “They’re just excited. Your encounter changes everything. Not only is there a reason for the companies to work together now, there’s a reason for nations planet-side to take more interest in what is happening above their heads, something greater than commerce.”

  Mira kept walking, giving Harlan a wry smile. Catching sight of the planetary shuttle gates as they rotated into view on the walkway, she picked up her pace.

  “And then,” he said, straining to keep up, “I need you. Who am I going to replace you with?”

  Mira nodded ahead to the Earthbound shuttle gates, where a number of security staff stood screening passengers. A familiar face was watching the crowd, filling out her new uniform with an air of authority, future studies forgotten. “You don’t really need me anyway, Harlan.”

  Harlan saw where she was looking. “Are you sure about this?”

  Mira stopped by the gate, nodded to Rose and laughed. She pulled a familiar envelope out from her jumpsuit, still unopened, and waved it at him. “No,” she said and tucked it away to shake his hand. “And that’s what makes it right.”

  Waving goodbye, she stepped through the gate.

  Medic!

  written by

  Adam Perin

  illustrated by

  GRRGORY J. GUNTHER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Adam Perin has a short attention span. In his adult life, he’s been an artillery officer in the US Army, a waiter, a bartender, an associate on the help desk for Apple, an emergency medical technician and a field biologist for the Environmental Protection Agency. Along the way, he’s earned two degrees: one in computer science and one in biology, neither of which he now uses. At times, he contemplated medical school, graduate school for marine biology and law school. He has taken the GRE, LSAT, GRE biology and almost every other standardized test in existence. But in the end, he ended up working as a diplomat for the US Department of State . . . something which has absolutely no relation to anything mentioned thus far.

  Through it all, though, there was a desire to write. Taking bits and pieces from a lifetime of stunted pursuits, he now tries to stitch them together into stories that somebody might want to read. He placed third for the Dell Award for undergraduate science fiction in 1998, but then entered a long hiatus. Years later, after attempting to write screenplays for a while, he finally saw the light and decided to try his hand at short stories. This story is his first entry into the Writers of the Future and first professional sale.

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  Gregory J. Gunther has always been creative. He started storytelling through art and words from a young age, even winning the honor in junior high of having his children’s

  books published through the Bay County Library System’s

  “Be an Author Contest” three years in a row. That was just the beginning, however. Even through an eclectic history of career paths, he continued to pursue creative ventures and imaginative dreams—whether through design, illustration, writing or developing some new story, game or product idea, usually

  much to the chagrin of his friends and ever-patient wife.

  He has been involved in freelance graphic and website design for over a dozen years and has great passion for the digital arts. Recently, he completed his master’s degree in communications and digital media design. (Now he’s enjoying teaching in that same graduate program.) He strives every day to turn his interests and creativity into a successful career as a designer/illustrator/teacher and creative entrepreneur through constant creative focus and work.

  Personally, Gregory hopes to pursue his dream of working in the science fiction industry as an illustrator and writer, as well as doing freelance design work. Of course, he also has a few other projects in the works, like launching a board game development company, finishing some illustrated storybook ideas and a few top-secret original projects (on the side). He lives in Midland, Michigan, with his wife, Connie, and their pets (Bella, a Dutch Shepherd, and their two cats, Simba

  and Misty).

  Medic!

  Some guys go insane from being buried alive. I always get drowsy.

  It’s quiet down here, and dark. That’s why I can’t stay awake. The pale purple light from my head-up display weighs on my eyes, pulsing like a metronome. My suit is cold and clammy, and I tighten up, arms around my knees, head buried. Sometimes I’m here for hours, waiting, curled up in my little earthen cocoon.

  I turn the radio down, far enough that it doesn’t bug me, but I can still hear it somewhere in the back of my head. Like voices from ghosts, conversations fly back and forth between people I know but don’t give a damn about. Bursts of static here and there, squelch beeping as the crypto kicks in. Over and over. My eyelids weigh a ton. The voices fade to garbled alien whispers.

  “medic!”

  I’m awake. My eyes snap open. The hud flares to life. The driller on my back whines eagerly, warming up. My hands move by themselves, moving before my mind catches up. The training moves me like a puppet.

  The driller belches as it fires up, emitting a dry roar. I’m already angling up, cutting through the rock like it’s made of gelatin. The ground separates, molten, and slag drips off my suit, hardening behind me in wavy pools of deformed rock. My head’s turned upward, eyes flickering back and forth, revving up the hud. My mind fixates on one thing. Locate the injured.

  Purple halos sizzle to life far above me. Casualties. That’s Harare, the sergeant who always chews on kete leaves and walks around spitting out the residue. Over there is Moseley, the private who’s set to marry some girl way too good for him. More halos pop up all over my field of vision, the names glowing above them with basic triage information fed to me by their nanosensors. I can already tell there’s too many.

  harare: Fractured femur. Compound. Blunt trauma to the chest. Possible hemothorax. He’s done. Good riddance. Asshole always took two desserts in the mess hall anyway.

  borden: Penetrating wound to the head. Severed cervical-spine. Damn. I kind of like that kid. And he owed me money.

  edmunds: Burn damage to the upper back and chest. Double amputation below the knees. Airway blocked. Edmunds? He’s not in my unit. Then it comes up. lieutenant general Edmunds. A flag officer. What the hell’s he doing out here?

  I head for him. He was playing tourist out here where he had no business being, but the readouts tell me he’s got a shot to live. A life’s a life, even if he’s an officer, and I need the credit.

  I veer und
er him. Through the ground, I can see him lying supine, probably unconscious. I feel the ground tremble, and for a minute, I think it could be a gravity slammer, but I shake it off and try to focus.

  The trick is to stop the driller at the right place. Just far enough and the ground gives way under the body. Too far and I’ll impale the poor bastard and finish what the Jellies started. A lot of guys do that at first, usually because their hands are shaking from the adrenaline. But I’ve done this a million times.

  The driller splatters molten rock everywhere, flowing down the tunnel I drill under the good general. I bore in from off to the side, tilting upward so the molten rock flows slowly down the tunnel wall’s decline. By the time it reaches the bottom, where I am, it’s already recrystallized. It makes the tunnel nice and slick so the body breaks through the top and slides right down to me.

  He tumbles through and comes to a rest at my feet, the hud giving purple highlight to his features. His eyes stare wildly up at me. Guess he wasn’t unconscious after all.

  “Thank you,” he says through gritted teeth. I see tear tracks down his face behind his steamy faceplate. I hate it when they cry.

  “Shut the hell up,” I reply.

  It’s a little worse than I thought. The front of his suit is split open, and I can see mottled red and black inside. I turn him over. Ouch. Looks like burnt barbeque chicken. That’s a Cnidarian weapon, no doubt. The wound resembles an electrical burn, but the air stinks of hot plasma and burnt rubber. I toy with the idea of letting him feel it a bit longer, just because. But no, there’s no time. I give him a good dose of Damrovil painkillers. I hear him let out a relieved sigh.

  “You owe me, asshole,” I whisper to him.

  My hud links to nanosensors implanted inside his body. The vitals readout whizzes by my face, but I ignore it. I don’t give a damn what his pulse-ox is right now, or that his BP is nosediving. I can see he’s shocky with my own eyes. I’m just looking for anything that isn’t immediately obvious. I send a command to deactivate his body armor. In an instant, the rigid nanoscale fibers in his suit become pliable and the material falls limp around his body. Now for my favorite part.