by Tom Dublin
Moon of Hann, Blue Diamond Casino, Card Table Eight
Lowlon Quell tried to steady his nerves as he slid a lime-green chip across the soft felt of the card table toward the waiting croupier.
"Ten thousand credits on twenty-eight," he declared, fighting to keep his voice from betraying the panic he was feeling. This was by far the biggest bet he'd ever made, and the last thing he wanted was for the other players sitting at the table to realize he was bluffing.
After a sixteen-year career as a semi-professional gambler, Make Twenty-Eight was now his game of choice. Requiring more luck than roulette, more skill than blackjack, and more tactical thinking than poker, Make Twenty-Eight was the game gamblers played when they wanted to claim their winnings were more the result of hard work than just the turn of a card.
And Quell had worked hard at progressing in his career. Certainly harder than he had at his day job as a claims inspector for a small family-owned insurance brokerage back on the planet Taglen below.
His bosses—the husband-and-wife team who had started the business—had put up with his gambling much longer than they should have.
They'd tolerated the large number of days Quell had called in absent following a long weekend at one racetrack or another. The absences were required either because he had a hangover after celebrating his wins or due to the fact that he'd lost every single credit he owned and had no way to get back from the moon.
They'd kept their opinions to themselves when he had requested advances on his paychecks to pay off gambling debts in order to remain the owner of all of his fingers and/or both of his ears.
They had even allowed him extra time to repay the loan they had made to him so that he could spend his vacation in a clinic which specialized in treating those addicted to gambling—a clinic he had been ejected from for taking bets on the order of deaths of the residents of the adjoining care home for the elderly.
The final straw, however, had been when he was out delivering a check to a customer whose house had burned to the ground thanks to an undetected electrical fault. Quell had talked the woman into loaning him the two-hundred-thousand-credit pay-out, promising to return with double the money for each of them since he had a tip on a dead cert in a zero-gravity ultimate fighting tournament being held the following day.
The insurance company had been forced to repay the money he had conned from the victim, and the only reason the owners hadn't reported him to the authorities was that he was keeping up his monthly cash installments to settle the debt.
Lowlon Quell had taken his sudden unemployment as a sign from the twin Goddesses that his day job had just been holding him back. He relocated to the Moon of Hann, moved into a run-down hotel for transients and drifters located in a rough neighborhood far from the bright lights of the casino district, and doubled down on his attempt to win his way to a life of luxury.
And now he had the chance to make that happen, or, at least move into a guest house which wasn't overrun with tiny red-backed insects which infested his sheets and dropped from the ceiling into his food several times per day.
This was his chance to be a real player.
"Do any of you wish to receive extra cards?" the croupier asked, turning first to one of the three other players at the table.
The male—a Taglenian—rolled two translucent twenty-sided dice the same color as his lavender eyes across his portion of the table, then shook his head without lifting his gaze from the six cards already clutched tightly in his silk-gloved hands.
The next gambler was a female Yollin dressed in a wide-brimmed hat and a fringed jacket studded with rhinestones. Her two silver-plated dice reflected the overhead lights as they tumbled over the green felt, stopping with a six and a nineteen on their upper surfaces.
Seeing the result, she smiled at the croupier. "Two, please."
The dealer slid two cards from the deck and passed them over, face-down. Quell watched the Yollin’s expression closely as she studied the additions to her hand but she gave nothing away.
The Malatian sitting next to Quell tossed his pair of mismatched dice forcefully, squinting to see their top-most numbers after they had bounced off the bumper at the croupier's side of the table. He thought for a long moment, then grunted "One." He snatched the offered card and glanced at it, then tossed his entire hand onto the playing surface before grabbing his dice and striding angrily away across the casino floor.
That left Quell competing against just two other participants, greatly increasing his chances of winning…and winning big.
This development deserved his special dice.
Reaching into his shirt pocket, he produced a small black velvet bag. Loosening the drawstring, he reverently removed two shimmering yellow twenty-siders, dropping his more basic black-and-white dice inside the bag.
"Wait a second," said the Yollin, her previously kind smile evaporating, "have those dice been tested by the dealers?"
The croupier nodded. "Mr. Quell is a regular player," she confirmed. "He often switches dice mid-game, and both sets have been verified properly."
"Well, all right," drawled the Yollin. "But I'll be watchin' ‘em close."
"You're welcome to inspect them yourself," Lowlon Quell offered, holding out the dice.
The female glanced at Quell's hand, then at his face. He could tell she still wasn't happy with this unusual tactic but realized there was little she could do about it. "If this little lady assures us they've been verified it’s all right by me."
Offering a smile of thanks, Lowlon closed his fingers around the dice, blew between the digits, and shook the two multi-faceted objects.
Finally he opened his hand and allowed them to fly. He watched as they soared over his cards and bounced once, then twice as they hit the soft table covering.
The dice rolled, numbers appearing and instantly disappearing from view as they gradually slowed. Slower and slower they moved until...
Nine and four.
Quell's eyes lost their focus for a split-second as he made a number of quick mental calculations.
Nine and four. Nine and four. Nine and four.
That meant he needed two extra cards. Added to the cards already in his possession, a two and a six would almost certainly win him the game, but a pair of sevens...
Persha's blessed ass! A pair of sevens would earn him the jackpot.
A million fucking credits!
Suddenly aware of his pounding heart, Quell looked at the other players and the croupier. They were all staring back at him intently, but as far as he could tell they could neither hear the rapid pounding inside his chest nor see the material of his shirt moving with each heartbeat.
No one else knew he was this close to finally achieving the status he had desired and chased for so long now.
He would be a winner.
The things he could do with that many credits! He'd pay off those goody-goody fuckwits at the insurance company for one, then he'd get a better apartment—one within walking distance of—”
"Any extra cards, Mr. Quell?"
His dream-bubble popping, Quell forced himself to focus on the face of the croupier. What was her name again? Milly? Molly? Mandy?
Forget it, Lowlon. It doesn't matter.
"Two," he said as calmly as he could, quickly adding, "Please."
Almost in slow motion, the croupier slid the cards from the deck and handed them over. Quell took them, suddenly wanting to do anything other than turn them over and see what they were.
He wanted to run. To hide. To close his eyes and never open them again. If he blew this—the closest he'd ever come to winning this big—he would never be able to forgive himself.
But what if...
"Hurry up!" snapped the female Yollin, all trace of her previously kind expression gone from her features. Now her mandibles were closed across her mouth, tapping out a beat of impatience and frustration.
OK, Lowlon. This is it. Do it.
Just. Fucking. Do it.
Quell turned over the first card and almost cried out.
It was a seven.
If he had gotten another seven he was made for life. Well, maybe not for life, but at least for the next year of that life—a year in which he would have nothing more to worry about than winning more credits.
All he had to do was...
He turned the card.
And stared.
It was another seven.
He'd done it.
He'd won the jackpot.
His entire world went black.
Lower Atmosphere of Damkin Prime, ICS Fortitude, Rear Cargo Bay
Adina joined Jack and Tc'aarlat just as the captain was pressing his palm against the rear wall of the cargo bay.
"What the hell happened?" she hissed as the wall slid down and disappeared into a hidden compartment beneath their feet and revealed a large, but empty, hangar beyond.
This was the space where, until the conclusion of their first mission, the team had kept a sleek black spacecraft known as the Pegasus.
Much to Tc'aarlat's dismay, the Pegasus had been destroyed when Solo had rammed it into a tower block in a last-ditch effort to gain access to the only computer they could use to stop an imminent gravity storm instigated by maliciously-coded nanobots.
He still had nightmares about the wreck of twisted metal, torn leather seats, and—worst of all—the broken blue LED lights which had made the interior compartment look really exciting and futuristic.
"Some smarmy show-off shot down the heat-seeking missile on our tail," Tc'aarlat explained. "Now he's invited himself aboard so we can shower him with our thanks."
SKRORRR! shrieked Mist from his shoulder.
Adina fought the urge to smile. "’Smarmy show-off?’"
"Bound to be," replied the Yollin. "You watch, he'll be all ‘ooh, look at me, I'm such a sharkshooter!’"
Jack turned, frowning, as the hangar door finally vanished with a metallic CLUNK! "The word is ‘sharpshooter,’ not ‘sharkshooter.’"
"Oh," said Tc'aarlat thoughtfully. "I suppose that makes more sense, and it's far less cruel to sharks."
Shaking his head, Jack turned back to face the hangar. "Open the hangar doors, Solo."
"Yes, Captain Marber." There was a subtle whoosh, then the far wall of the hangar split in two and began to open outwards, allowing the trio to see the bright but overcast sky beyond.
Something moved deep within the clouds, then a spaceship eased itself through the swirling whiteness and made for the hangar entrance.
It was a black spaceship.
A sleek black spaceship.
A sleek black spaceship whose pilot was illuminated by the light from dozens of brilliant blue LEDs.
It was an exact copy of the Pegasus.
Jack and Adina turned when they heard a heavy thud and the sound of Mist's wings pumping hard against the air as she flew up to perch on a steel support.
Tc'aarlat had fainted.
4
Lower Atmosphere of Damkin Prime, ICS Fortitude, Rear Hangar
When Tc'aarlat's eyes fluttered open, he had a throbbing pain centered at the back of his skull. Adina was standing over him, dabbing his brow with a damp towel.
"Whoa!" he groaned. "What hit me?"
"The edge of the hangar doorway," Adina replied. "You fell back and hit your head against it when you fainted. Jack helped me carry you to this bench so you had somewhere more comfortable to lie than the floor."
The Yollin tentatively touched the painful spot at the back of his head, wincing as his fingers made contact.
"I'm gonna have a bastard of a headache before long," he muttered. "I can already feel it starting to—”
He quickly sat upright, waving his hands to shoo Adina and her cold compress back a few steps. "Wait! I fainted?"
"Like a teenage girl at a pop concert." Adina grinned.
Tc'aarlat shook his head…and instantly regretted doing so because another wave of pain blossomed from the lump on his skull. "No, you've got it wrong. I don't faint. It must have been something else."
"Like what?" questioned Adina.
"I don't know." Tc'aarlat shrugged. "Perhaps it was my brain reacting to the relief of not being blown to bits by that missile."
"By completely shutting down?"
"The brain is a complex organ, Adina," Tc'aarlat offered. "Who knows exactly what might trigger an unexpected reboot?"
"Triggers like unexpectedly seeing the Pegasus again?"
Tc'aarlat leapt to his feet. "That was real? I thought I'd dreamt it!"
Before Adina could stop him, the Yollin set off at a run toward the bright light emanating from the open hangar doors.
He dashed into the hangar and skidded to a halt. In the center of the sterile space was an exact replica of the shuttle he had been in when it smashed into an office building on Alma Nine.
"It's true!" he croaked. "The Pegasus is back!"
"Actually it's the Pegasus Mark Two," said Jack, appearing from the far side of the shuttle. "And we owe it our lives."
Tc'aarlat's mandibles spread wide in confusion. "But how... Why... I mean, who was piloting it?"
"That would be me." A figure stepped into view beside Jack. He was tall, slender, and sported a thick mane of shaggy blond hair. His piercing blue eyes flicked from Jack to Tc'aarlat and back.
"Draven Maynard," he said, walking forward and holding out his hand. "Nathan sent me to deliver this replacement shuttle to you—and I'm suddenly very glad I agreed to take the job."
Tc'aarlat held out his hand to shake the newcomer's, but Draven strode past him to reach Adina, who was standing in the doorway. Gently taking her hand in his, he raised it to his lips and planted a quick but lingering kiss on the back. "And whom do I have the sincere pleasure of addressing?" he asked smoothly.
Adina felt her cheeks began to burn and hoped she wasn't blushing too hard. "Adina." She pulled her hand away and surreptitiously wiped the back of it on the leg of her jeans. "Adina Choudhury."
"I'm delighted to make your acquaintance, Adina Choudhury." Draven flashed a smile almost as bright as the overhead lights. "Nathan said the Fortitude had a female navigator, but he didn't tell me quite how stunning she was."
Tc'aarlat turned to exchange a look with Jack, opening his mouth and pretending to plunge two fingers down his throat and vomit.
"Oh, and who is this beauty?" continued Draven as Mist flapped into the hangar and landed lightly on Adina's shoulder.
"Hello, you gorgeous thing," Draven crooned, stroking the blood-red feathers covering the raal hawk's chest. Mist gave a soft cawww and jumped from Adina's shoulder to the pilot's wrist.
"No, no, no!" Tc'aarlat strode over to Draven and swiftly lifted the raal hawk from her new perch. "Mist isn't good with strangers. I wouldn't want you to get scratched or bitten."
"She seemed fine to me," countered Draven.
"Well, she wasn't," snapped Tc'aarlat. "You don't know her like I do. She was showing clear signs of distress."
"Tell us about the new ship," Jack asked, stepping between the two men before their conversation could get out of hand. "Is it an exact copy of the first Pegasus?"
"Pretty much," replied Draven, tossing his head to flick his hair from his eyes. Tc'aarlat heard a hushed moan and turned to scowl at Adina. She was blushing again…hard.
"This ship—Pegasus 2—was built from the original blueprints but has a superior weapons system, as you saw when I shot that heat-seeker out of the sky before it could blast your asses to kingdom come."
"That wasn't all due to your skill?" inquired Jack.
"I wish," said Draven. "I'm a solid pilot and a decent shot, but even I'd find pinpointing a zigzagging missile a little on the tough side. No, the lion's share of the work was done by the on-board weapons tech."
"That could prove useful," Adina pointed out. "You know, if something like that ever happens again."
"Speaking of which," began Draven. "What was that all about? Who was firing big
-ass missiles in your direction?"
"We're not exactly sure," Jack admitted. "We think it may have been someone loyal to the slave trader we rescued a bunch of kids from, but that hasn't been confirmed."
Draven raised an eyebrow. "Kids?"
"Yep," said Tc'aarlat. "We raided a slave auction and sent the bad guys who organized it a message they won't forget. Or, at least they wouldn't if they still had access to their brains."
"That's awesome!" Draven beamed, raising his hand toward Tc'aarlat for a high-five. The Yollin glanced at it and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his overalls. "You know, I've recently had some training in using force to end sieges. I'd be happy to share some tips with you over a couple of beers."
Tc'aarlat forced a smile. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't think there's much you could say that I don't already know. You don't teach your grandmother to fuck eggs, my lad."
"It's ‘suck!’" exclaimed Jack. "’Don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs!’"
Tc'aarlat frowned. "Elderly human females go around sucking on eggs? They'll never get proper nourishment that way. No wonder they all look so wrinkled."
Jack shook his head slightly. "Sometimes I don't even know where to begin correcting him."
"So..." Draven clapped his hands together. "Where are these kids?"
"In the center cargo hold," replied Adina. "We figured that was the safest place for them. They were pretty scared."
"Then what say we go cheer them up?" Draven flashed his ice-white smile again. "I have some experience in working with disturbed and anxious children. I may be able to help them feel more at ease."
Adina looked at Jack, who nodded. "OK, I'll take you to meet them."
Draven bowed dramatically. "Lead on, fair lady!"
Fighting her instinct to blush again, Adina giggled and hurried out of the hangar.
As she and Draven disappeared, Jack and Tc'aarlat could hear the blond pilot asking Adina about her dream romantic getaway.
"Seems like a nice guy," remarked Jack.
Tc'aarlat sneered. "If you like that sort of thing."
"Adina seems to be a fan."
The Yollin chuckled darkly. "Poor misguided wench."