Galactic Blues
Episode 9:
The Sky Is Crying
A Newton’s Gate serial
by
C.J. Clemens
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
What Is the NGU?
Galactic Blues Serial
Release Schedule
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Follow Us
NGU Releases
Acknowledgments
Character Art
Copyright © 2019
C.J. Clemens
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authors’ imaginations and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses, and individuals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For more information, visit the authors’ website: NewtonsGate.com
For Andy and Chris...
two brothers who have given us unwavering support.
What Is the NGU?
First, you might ask... who is C.J. Clemens?
C.J. Clemens is the pen name shared by over thirty authors who have written and continue to write an assortment of stories based within the Newton’s Gate Universe.
And what is the Newton’s Gate Universe?
On New Year’s Eve of 2050, humanity launches Newton’s Gate, a gateway meant to enable interstellar exploration. But when the gateway explodes, our greatest achievement morphs into our greatest disaster. Portals begin to appear around the world. Some open and close briefly, others swallow entire cities, while some remain permanently active, linking Earth to a wide array of planets, galaxies, universes, dimensions, and alternate times. Earth has become Grand Central Station for all of existence, bringing humanity into contact with alien humanoids, fantastical creatures, and everything in between.
One consequence is certain: chaos reigns everywhere.
The NGU features a variety of series, ranging from space opera to urban fantasy—epic fantasy to steampunk—thrillers to military sci-fi. Virtually something for everyone!
Galactic Blues Serial
Why a serial?
The authors of Galactic Blues envisioned the series as a limited-run television show, with weekly episodes being released on nine consecutive Mondays, starting on November 5, 2018.
Will we release box sets?
Although we will eventually release each season (nine episodes) in a combined format, we originally conceived Galactic Blues as a weekly form of entertainment that would enable readers to escape into our world for a short time.
Will there be additional seasons?
Yes. We are currently planning a three-season run. Of course, if you can’t get enough of our characters and stories, we will happily keep the “show” flying for a while longer.
How is Galactic Blues connected to the NGU?
The renegade space pirates at the heart of the series—Remy, Dreyla, and Tosh—begin their misadventures within the portal-filled solar system that has birthed Newton’s Gate. But as they soon discover, some portals have a mind of their own.
Release Schedule
Galactic Blues releases:
11/05/18 Episode 1 – Born Under a Bad Sign
11/12/18 Episode 2 – Call It Stormy Monday
11/19/18 Episode 3 – Mean Old World
11/26/18 Episode 4 – That’s All Right
12/03/18 Episode 5 – Got My Mojo Working
12/10/18 Episode 6 – I’m Your Hoochie Coochie Man
12/17/18 Episode 7 – Knock on Wood
12/24/18 Episode 8 – Ain’t Nobody’s Business
12/31/18 Episode 9 – The Sky Is Crying
Chapter 1
REMY
Captain Remy Bechet drummed his fingers against his holster. “Can you get it open?”
Dreyla stood before an enormous walk-in refrigeration unit in the storage room behind Dr. Sanger’s cluttered office. Apparently deep in concentration as she inspected the complex lock, she didn’t answer Remy’s question. Despite her intelligence and resourcefulness, she no doubt found it difficult to focus on her task with all the yelling, shooting, and general mayhem coming through her earpiece comms. Remy had temporarily removed his as soon as they entered the storage room, just so he could hear himself think.
His eyes shifted to the glass door of the cooler, through which he spied several metal shelves filled with vials and boxes of all shapes and sizes. Naturally, he only cared about the fifteen crates lining the lower shelves, which matched Sheriff Greyson’s description of the stolen nano-biotics, but unfortunately, they lay just out of reach. Remy needed Dreyla to focus her considerable engineering skills on busting the door wide open.
From what he could tell, the lock wasn’t linked to a DNA scanner of any kind. Good news, considering they had no idea whose DNA they’d have needed—whether Dr. Sanger’s, Gono Darkbur’s, or someone else’s altogether. Unfortunately, though, he noticed a peculiar handprint screen, unlike any he’d ever seen before.
“So? Can you do it?”
Dreyla looked up at him and shook her head, her bouncy brown curls belying her grim expression. “Maybe if I had half an hour.”
“We don’t have that kind of time.” He sighed. “Can’t we just blast through it?”
“No. The door’s reinforced. And anyway, you might destroy the meds.”
Crap. Only one option left.
“That damn doctor must be in the building somewhere,” Remy said, making a beeline for the door.
As he burst into Dr. Sanger’s office, Jacer, who stood on guard duty beside the door, sprang to attention, his weapon thrust far too close to Remy’s face for comfort.
“Just me, Jacer,” Remy said, easing the tip of the gun to the side. “Stay here with Drey, will ya? I’ll be back in a flash.”
The aflin nodded and resumed his post.
Remy winked at him, grabbed the blaster he’d left leaning against the wall, and slung its strap over his shoulder. Although he felt grateful to have his trusty Colt .45 back after the sheriff had confiscated it during his brief incarceration, he figured the blaster might come in handy if he encountered any armed guards in the building.
Leaving the door to the storage room open so Jacer could keep an eye on Dreyla, Remy wove his way through Dr. Sanger’s disorderly office and technology lab. As before, he noted all the artificial appendages stuffed on the shelves, including arms, legs, eyes, and other obvious body parts. This time, though, a large phallic device snagged his attention, and while every second counted, he couldn’t help but pause to check it out.
Whoa. Why would anyone want a mechanical one?
True, horrific accidents could happen, even down there, but still…
With great effort, Remy tried to erase the image from his brain as he cautiously crossed the adjacent reception area. Surprisingly, despite the maelstrom raging outside, no one had yet invaded the building via the front door facing the courtyard. The sheriff and her distraction team were obviously holding off Darkbur’s goons.
As soon as Remy entered the stairwell, he removed the earpiece from his pocket and reactivated it. Immediately, his ears filled wit
h shouts and gunfire.
“Sheriff, how’s it going out there?”
“Actually,” she said via the comms, “we’re kind of pinned down.”
His stomach clenched at the sound of her strained tone.
“Just—just hold on,” he said desperately. “The storage unit has an unusual lock, but we’re working on it.”
“Hurry, Remy,” the sheriff pleaded. “We can’t hold out much longer.”
It was the first time she’d ever willingly used his first name, a fact that made him feel equally comforted and alarmed.
Not sure how to respond, he dashed up the stairs instead. A plasma blast hit the wall only inches from his face. He glanced upward and spotted an armed guard leaning over the railing on the third-floor landing. Just as the man pulled the trigger of his blaster again, Remy ducked sideways, raised his own gun, and sent a bullet straight into the assailant’s exposed neck. With a startled cry, the man fell forward, his bulky torso yanking him over the railing, and plummeted past Remy as he reached the second-floor landing.
“We’re gonna need to get you in here,” Remy finally said over the comms.
“No way,” the sheriff protested. “There’s no exit out of that building.”
“I know. We’ll make our own.”
He dashed into the second-floor hallway and glanced around frantically. Good news: no other armed guards had yet gotten wind of his presence. Bad news: at least a half-dozen doors lined the corridor, any of which could possibly conceal the doctor. But which one was he hiding behind, and was he even on this floor?
“Hold them off just a couple more minutes,” Remy said. “We’ll get those meds, I swear.”
Remy held up his pistol and kicked in the first door. An empty bedroom greeted him. Whether it was used for medical recovery or as an extension of the main brothel, he didn’t know—and didn’t care.
“Hurry!” the sheriff’s voice implored amid a crackle of gunfire. “We don’t have a couple of minutes!”
“Roger that,” he said as a plasma blast came through the wall on his left, the one facing the courtyard, and penetrated the opposite wall. “Shit!”
Motivated to get out of here before an errant blast pierced his skull, Remy kicked in the second and third doors. Two more empty bedrooms.
Just then, he heard a squeak—from a woman or perhaps a child. Somewhere nearby. After busting through the fourth door, he felt an uncanny jolt—some sort of helpful sixth sense—and ducked to the side just as the young receptionist he’d met on his earlier visit took a shot at him from the bed. Her naked frame was twisted awkwardly toward the door, but even in the dim lighting, Remy could see she was sitting atop the doctor he sought.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Remy said, holstering his Colt and raising the plasma blaster.
As he set the deadly piece to the lowest power setting, another shot hit the doorframe, forcing Remy to hide behind the wall. After a few tense seconds, he peered around the doorframe again.
“Get out or you’re dead!” Dr. Sanger shouted, his tousled head appearing from behind the receptionist.
The hand holding his blaster shook so much, the man had zero chance of hitting a moving human target. He’d only gotten lucky with the doorframe.
But just in case Remy was wrong about the doctor’s shooting skills, he retracted his head, pointed his blaster around the doorjamb, and squeezed the trigger three times. Then, he quickly advanced into the room, only to find the doctor and the receptionist cowering on the disheveled bed. Both winced at him, gingerly fingering the fresh scratches and burn marks on their faces and bodies.
The lowest setting might burn a little, but the effect was the equivalent of getting hit with a hundred-mile-an-hour gust in a hot, sandy desert.
They’d both live. If they cooperated.
Remy kicked away the blaster the doctor still clutched, then knocked the one out of the stunned receptionist’s hand. She blinked once then, as feisty and enraged as she was slim and sexy, promptly swung her other hand, catching him on the cheek.
He grasped her fingers before she could withdraw them and squeezed tightly. “Honey, you can do so much better than this guy.”
His gaze flicked to the naked doctor, still blubbering empty threats. He’d half-expected to spy a wondrous phallic enhancement between his legs.
Nope, all organic, and definitely not wondrous. More like miniscule.
She could certainly do better.
Moving his gaze upward, Remy noticed the doctor’s other hand. In fascinated horror, he released the receptionist.
OK, so there is a gizmo involved in this scenario.
Instead of an artificial hand, the doctor had attached a phallic device to his right wrist. The same size as the contraption Remy had just spotted down in the lab, maybe even a bit bigger.
During his initial visit with Milo, he hadn’t even noticed the doctor’s artificial hand. As his eyes shifted to the nightstand beside the bed, he realized why. The default appendage lay next to the lamp, its realistic fake-flesh coating impressive even in the dim light. Even better, he could discern the unusually striated fingerprints, the ones matching the strange locking mechanism on the refrigeration unit.
Without hesitation, and despite the doctor’s protests, he snatched up the hand, grabbed the two guns on the floor, and bolted through the doorway.
“Bechet, we’re in trouble!” the sheriff’s voice rang out via his earpiece comms.
“Drop all the grenades,” he ordered with frenzied glee, holding tight to the two pilfered pistols and the bizarre hand-shaped key. “Drop ’em all now, Sheriff! And head for the rear building!”
Already halfway down the stairs, he wanted to be ready to greet the rest of their party and finish this fiasco once and for all.
Chapter 2
LILLY
Sheriff Lilly Greyson peered around the base of the broncan-topped fountain, wondering if Bechet’s advice was solid. Even if his handy grenades provided decent cover, could she, Milo, and her two deputies really make it to the rear building without catching an inconvenient plasma blast in the back?
Gono Darkbur appeared in the doorway of the Butcher’s Place saloon. “Throw down your weapons and we—”
Even before Lilly could raise her gun in protest, a plasma blast obliterated his words. Missing the infuriating crime lord by mere inches, the shot had come from Milo, who still crouched beside Davis behind the smaller fountain in the courtyard.
“Ugh,” the dworg grunted.
The weirdly dense cloud of green smoke produced from one of Dreyla’s odd inventions had cleared enough for Lilly to see the enemy—and to recognize that Darkbur’s numbers had increased. At least a dozen armed men had joined the fight, dispersed on either side of the crime lord along the edge of the courtyard.
“He asked for it,” Lilly shouted. “Everyone, drop your smokes. All of them. Now!”
She activated and tossed hers into the middle of the brightly-lit courtyard, between the two fountains. Milo threw one towards the open doorway of the saloon. And Davis rolled his closer to the rear building. She expected more of the forest-green smoke, but instead, puffs of gold and purple particles exploded from the grenades, intermingling like vivid paint in a bucket of water.
Dreyla definitely had a sense of humor.
The entire courtyard filled with thickening smoke. Darkbur’s men couldn’t see the small cluster of interlopers through the kaleidoscopic haze, but unfortunately, she and her crew couldn’t see anything either, not even one another.
“Run for the rear building!” Lilly ordered Davis and Milo via the comms.
Brand remained beside her, standing in a stiff, trancelike shooting position, her gun pointed forward, as if tracing Darkbur’s movements through the colorful fog.
“Come on,” Lilly urged, tugging her deputy’s arm. “We’ll get him another time.”
As Lilly fumbled her way through the dense smoke toward the rear building, white-hot plasma blasts flew on eit
her side of her, puncturing the strangely stationary haze. Most came from the enemy behind her, but based on the direction of the shots, someone on her side was obviously shooting back to keep Darkbur’s men at bay.
“Be careful, you fools,” she hissed as one plasma blast sailed only inches past her. “You might hit one of us.”
Eventually, her boot scuffed the wall of the rear building. At least, she hoped she’d reached her target. Hard to tell when you couldn’t see an inch in front of your nose.
Someone collided with her backside. She whirled around and spotted Davis, who had reversed toward the rear building with his gun pointed forward. No doubt he’d been the one shooting back at Darkbur’s goons.
A few seconds later, Milo joined them.
“Brand?” Lilly asked the two men.
No answer. From them—or from Brand, who had lost her earpiece during her unfortunate tussle with Tara Shaw.
“Brand?” Lilly repeated, wishing she’d dragged her deputy from the fountain instead of trusting her to follow.
Dammit, where is she? What’s wrong now?
Behind her, she heard a lock disengage, followed by the sound of someone flinging open a door. Hopefully, it was the front entrance of the rear building. She prayed, too, that Bechet was the one standing on the other side of that unseen doorway, or she and her cohorts might as well shoot themselves out here.
With a smidgen of hesitation, she crept along the outer wall of the building, toward the open door. Milo and Davis slipped ahead of her as she fired her blaster toward the saloon, hoping to prevent Darkbur’s gunmen from narrowing the distance between them—and silently pleading that she didn’t hit Brand in the process.
The Sky Is Crying Page 1
