A Planet Too Far: Beyond the Stars, #1

by Nick Webb

  “Can the Slither do that invisibility thing?” Jeren had never heard of one with that ability, but he’d never heard of a Kotkaa with that ability either.

  “No. The imperial fleet has never had access to genetic material from the colorless clan, only lesser ones. His abilities pale in comparison to my own.”

  “Good to know.”

  The two of them continued toward the engine room in silence. A moan came from behind the door of one of the storage rooms they passed and Jeren paused. He used the datapad to open the door, then moved inside as the automatic light flickered on. Li’hanna followed.

  Arnold was leaning against the wall, a bloody gash on his temple. Jeren rushed to his crewmate’s side and crouched down next to him.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve had worse.” Arnold fluttered a hand in Jeren’s direction. “I was expecting Gretchen and that damn thing… it wasn’t until he got closer that I recognized him. Bloody idiot. That’s what I am. I deserved the knock on the head for not keeping my guard up.”

  Jeren snorted. “You’re a stubborn old bastard, that’s for sure. Which way did he go?”

  “I dunno for sure. I think he might’ve been heading for the pod. I don’t know how else he’d get off the ship at this point.”

  “Shit.” Jeren jumped to his feet. “We can’t let him take that escape pod. If he gets to that station, they’ll launch a full-on attack and there’s no way we can withstand that. Arnold, get us turned around while we go deal with the spook.” He turned to confer with the alien. She was gone. She could more than likely take care of herself, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. He took off down the corridor at a jog.

  He needn’t have worried.

  By the time Jeren reached the escape pod dock, the Slither was already limping and had several bloody slices in various locations on his body. His features were constantly moving, never holding for more than a second or two before rapidly shifting into a different configuration. Darbin moved so the wall was at his back and sent panicked glances around what looked like an empty room. He didn’t seem nearly as intimidating as he had before.

  A new cut started at his right temple and moved downward to his chin. A few seconds later, a matching one appeared on the left.

  The Kotkaa was toying with him.

  Jeren lowered his blaster and rested against the opposite wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He had no pity for the spook and the alien deserved her fun.

  She drew it out for nearly an hour. Poking, prodding, and slicing through ligaments and tendons. At some point, she’d stopped bothering with the invisibility and her fur shimmered while she performed her deadly dance. It was actually quite pretty in a way.

  And, even if this Slither hadn’t participated in the massacre of his family, fairly satisfying.

  Gretchen and Arnold had joined him in watching, their faces hard. Jeren was not the only one who’d been wronged by the imperial fleet. His crew was probably enjoying this just as much as the alien was.

  Darbin was on the ground, a pleading and pained look in his eyes, when she finally paused. She met Jeren’s eyes and cocked her head to the side. An inquiry. He shook his head and turned to Gretchen.

  “Gretch? Would you like to finish him off?” She took the offered blaster and stepped forward.

  Li’hanna smiled and moved to stand with Jeren and Arnold.

  The blaster shook slightly as Gretchen raised it to point at Darbin’s forehead. “This is for my brother, you imperial piece of shit.” She pulled the trigger and a small hole sizzled into his skin.

  The Slither’s eyes rolled back and his body went limp.

  Jeren stepped forward and took the blaster from Gretchen’s hands. He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side. “Well, I think we’ve officially defected now.”

  She let out a shaky laugh. “Yup. It’s definitely official. One ship, two pilots, and one mechanic against the whole imperial fleet.”

  “And one Kotkaa.” Jeren looked up at Li’hanna in surprise. “When the fleet found out our elders deceived them, they wiped out most of my kin. I do not think there is anything for me to go back to and, even if there was, my home planet is under imperial control now.”

  “It’s a start,” said Jeren. “There will be others like us. We just have to find them. The downfall of the imperial fleet begins today. With us.”

  Q&A with Theresa Kay

  Photo credit: Marybird Photography

  This story sounds like it’s the beginning of a possible saga. Did you know that when you started writing?

  Not at all. This story was originally supposed to be about a side character from a completely different series, but it turned into something that I’m definitely considering turning into its own series.

  I know you have other books. Are they all science fiction, or do you also work in other genres?

  All of my released books are scifi, but I’ve dabbled in other genres as well. Scifi is probably my favorite though.

  What’s next for you?

  I’m working on the final book in my YA Broken Skies series and the next episode of my novella serial.

  How can readers find you online?

  They can contact me through my website, www.theresakay.com, and I can also be found in the wilds of the internet on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

  Spike in a Rail

  by Logan Thomas Snyder

  SOMETHING ABOUT THE shuttle ride from the surface of Estropo never failed to put Xenecia in a reflective mood. She supposed it helped chase away other, less pleasant thoughts, such as the fact that two inches of hull plating was all that separated her from the diminishing atmosphere turning to true vacuum, or that the civilian operators helming the patched-together death bucket looked adolescent at best. Though she was hardly an expert in human anatomy, she felt her observation was justified given their oily, pock-marked skin and unrepentant body odor, to say nothing of the wispy collection of hairs masquerading as a mustache upon the first one’s upper lip.

  No matter. The ascent went smoothly enough, allowing Xenecia’s mind to wander as they made their approach toward Over/Under Station, the glittering jewel of the Kiilsagi System.

  Xenecia clucked with amusement at the thought. Glittering jewel‌—‌ha. Hardly. Technically the heap wasn’t even a true station, at least in the sense that it hadn’t been constructed with such a purpose in mind. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  Before being repurposed into its present incarnation, the Overt Wonder began service as a super freighter operating under charter of the Capistara Corporation. It was while returning from a routine stretch deep in unincorporated space that a malfunctioning jump drive sent the super freighter straight into the jaws of the Kiilsagi System’s first recorded interplanetary war. With their jump drive shot and the battle raging all around them, the captain of the Overt Wonder ordered his crew to abandon ship.

  The hot war between Estropo and Arathia lasted for over five years. Meanwhile, the super freighter remained unclaimed, adrift in space. In time the Capistara Corporation wrote off its losses‌—‌a move they no doubt regretted when both sides abruptly sued for peace the following year. While the local powers haggled over terms and conditions, however, a newly minted triumvirate of the system’s most enterprising merchant families invoked the sacred doctrine of right to salvage. Together their crews descended upon the derelict super freighter and, in a display of unprecedented cooperation, successfully jury-rigged and towed it directly into the heart of disputed space.

  What followed was an act of hubris rivaling even that which led to it. With all eyes in the system upon them, the Triumvirate declared their prize haul the seat of a de facto neutral zone operating under civilian authority. Five generations later, Over/Under Station remained the undisputed economic hub of the Kiilsagi System. Not that that was saying too much.

  Xenecia had heard the station described by the locals as a vast, glittering halo flung out into t
he middle of empty space. Her own personal view was a touch more prosaic. Even from afar, she thought it more closely resembled the fractured, discarded wheel of some ancient chariot of long-dead gods. The fat slab of a freighter serving as its hub certainly offered little in the way of aesthetic appeal. From that unsightly centerpiece radiated an ever-shifting ring of traffic, lesser vessels coming and going, feeding, consuming, like so many blowflies circling a fetid corpse.

  Still, whatever else she thought of the place, there was no denying one thing…

  It felt good to be home.

  * * *

  Technically the station wasn’t her true home, nor her birth home. The Tyroshi had made certain she could no longer lay claim to either when they slagged Shih’ra from pole to pole‌—‌and the vast majority of her people with it.

  Over/Under Station was hardly the first place she had called home as a galactic orphan, nor did she suspect it would be the last. Her experience as one of only thousands of remaining Shih’rahi had hardened her, whittling her down to nothing but sharp edges and a set of skills seldom met with a smile in more civilized ports of call. Over/Under Station, thankfully, suffered no such delusions about itself.

  While most opted to live on the station’s residential levels, there were many who preferred to make their nests among the hustle and bustle of the market areas. Xenecia was one such boarder, having secured a rack for herself in the back room of a shop owned by a spritely old seamstress. The woman had no use for the space and was only too happy to pocket the extra chits. Xenecia, for her part, was glad not to live behind some filthy, foul-smelling human chophouse.

  A cursory glance confirmed that the room was as she had left it one week earlier. Her rack was undisturbed, and anything else she owned she either carried on her person‌—‌such as the modified mare’s leg carbine that was her constant companion‌—‌or otherwise considered an acceptable loss. Even so, nothing had wandered off in her absence. This time.

  The downside to living behind a seamstress as opposed to a chophouse was that she had to venture out to procure her meals. While the trip from the surface had done nothing to stir a more conventional appetite, Xenecia had been craving a particular delicacy ever since setting out a week earlier.

  Her quest to satisfy that craving took her several levels up to a battered old food stand in a nearly forgotten corner of one of the less popular market spaces. The woman who ran it specialized in only one item, but did she ever nail it. The massive gallon-sized jar sat atop the stand, the briny aubergine liquid within not unlike Xenecia’s own amethyst skin. Bending at the waist, she ignored the opaque reflection of her optical implants against the glass. A smile unfurled. She had spied her prey.

  Xenecia placed two of the brightly colored translucent plastic chits that were Over/Under Station’s preferred currency upon the grimy tabletop. The woman accepted the chits and Xenecia reached for the long, curved fork she indicated, spearing the fattest of those tasty pink baubles from the jar. Her prize secured, she dipped her head in thanks and went on her way. In all the times she frequented the woman’s stand, the woman had said not a single word to her.

  They were practically soul mates, she had decided.

  Xenecia was enjoying the pickled egg‌—‌her favorite human treat‌—‌when she was stopped at the edge of the market by two women. A glance over her shoulder confirmed that two more blocked her return path. Each of the women wore gauzy white robes garnished with pale sashes of pastel fastened across the breast. The two that stood before her wore sashes of mauve and lilac; behind her, cream and mint. Though their faces were uncovered, they spoke not a word between them‌—‌at least, not yet. Their presence alone was enough to communicate their lady’s will.

  “Very well,” Xenecia said. She swallowed the last of the egg before allowing a resigned sigh. “After you.”

  The Grom’s handmaidens led her from the market to a repurposed storage bay that served as home for the station’s singular spiritual leader. At last their path terminated before a long dais facing the entrance. A lavish, luxuriously appointed daybed sat atop the dais, all of which was wrapped in a collection of curtains reflecting the colors of Xenecia’s escorts. One by one they took their positions upon the platform, standing at its corners with their hands clasped before them. Xenecia followed, picking her way through the overlapping layers of sheer pastel panels that seemed to shift and separate in time with her approach. The last of the panels parted before her, revealing what was left of the Grom. The wizened old woman was as leathery as she was frail, so swaddled beneath a pile of blankets and furs that only her wrinkled, gourd-like head was visible upon the pillow.

  Xenecia stood at the foot of the dais for nearly a full minute before the Grom opened her rheumy eyes. This time it was the left eye that opened first, followed by its neighbor, the two working independently of one another as though belonging to some strange hybrid species of marine life. When at last she “spoke,” it was the voices of her handmaidens silhouetted beyond the curtains that provided the means for her to be heard.

  “Ah, Xenecia. My favorite huntrex,” the young woman she thought of as Mauve Sash said, her voice high and clear as a bell. “How timely your return. The stars have recently spoken your name, and here you stand before me to answer their call.”

  Not this again, she thought. Speaking with the Grom never failed to vex and unnerve Xenecia, none the more so when the conversation turned cosmological. “Can this not wait? I only arrived back aboard station an hour ago.”

  “The stars spoke of you specifically, Xenecia. You know what that means.”

  She did, all too well. In this case it meant that catching up on her beauty sleep was going to have to wait. “Very well. What would your stars have of me?”

  The next voice belonged to Lilac Sash. Hers was lightly accented, almost sultry. “There is a man aboard this station who should not be here. His presence places it and all the people who call it home in grave danger. “

  Xenecia frowned, and not just because of the Grom’s habit of switching abruptly between her proxies. “Grave danger?” she repeated, resisting the temptation to direct her reply to the handmaiden currently speaking on the Grom’s behalf.

  Cream Sash’s voice was huskier, but somehow brittle. “Indeed. The stars are in agreement that his presence will have a catastrophic impact upon this station.”

  “I see. And did the stars have the courtesy to tell you where aboard station I might find this mysterious man?”

  “They did not.”

  Xenecia threaded an exasperated breath between her teeth. “No, of course they did not.”

  “I apologize. Is locating not a species of hunting?”

  Opening her mouth to respond, Xenecia found herself at a loss. “Was that a joke?”

  The Grom‌—‌Cream Sash‌—‌continued undeterred. “And is hunting not what you do as a huntrex?”

  Xenecia bit her tongue lest she say something regrettable. “As you say,” she forced herself to respond instead.

  “Then we are agreed.” Of all the handmaidens, Mint Sash’s voice was at once the most cheerful yet commanding.

  “Can you at least tell me anything else the stars may have shared with you?”

  “The vision is indistinct, but I see… bright lights. A struggle. Life and death. The rest is unclear.”

  “Have I mentioned that I do not normally traffic in rumor and innuendo?”

  “Sadly, the stars often speak in such. It falls to me only to deliver their message to the proper vessel.”

  “Is there anything else I should know before I set out?”

  A pause. Then, courtesy of all four Sashes in concert: “That it is most agreeable to see you again.”

  At that, Xenecia smiled in spite of herself. “And you, as well.”

  “Splendid. Now, please‌—‌I must rest. I trust you can see yourself out.”

  “Of course. Rest well, Grom.”

  * * *

  Xenecia emerged from t
he Grom’s sanctuary as frustrated as she was flummoxed. It didn’t help matters that she had to reconstruct the entire exchange in her mind, not least because the Grom required four different voices to communicate her message. Finally, the strange, shifting narrative clarified itself for her. She had a task, but precious little of the information required to make sense of it. Bright lights? A life and death struggle? Not a lot to go on, that.

  But not nothing, either. The Grom’s vision suggested that the unknown man was involved in some sort of struggle; a struggle suggested the need for medical assistance. Thankfully, that narrowed down her options significantly. Despite its large population‌—‌well above ten thousand, per the last unofficial census‌—‌Over/Under Station wasn’t exactly teeming with medical professionals. The Overt Wonder had been purpose-built to operate at peak efficiency with as small a crew as humanly possible. As such it had been designed with only one med bay. The original Triumvirate and subsequent generations had done little to encourage an interest in health and wellness among those who settled aboard the station, the results of which could be measured in its current shortage of life-saving medical care.

  For Xenecia, this shortage worked to her advantage. There were any number of charlatans and snake oil peddlers operating aboard station, but only a handful of actual professionals with the knowledge and skill to care for a man with serious injuries. What that realization didn’t earn her was a location.

  Not a specific location, anyway, or even one she could ballpark. Aside from the original med bay, dozens of makeshift clinics and offices across the station offered some form of healing service or another. And those were only the ones that advertised. How the hell was she to know which one a dying man might choose, or if he’d had any choice in the matter at all?