by Scott Moon
We die.
Mast, with one hand already on the ladder to ascend toward the surface, froze in place. He gathered his courage and looked downward. “I don’t want to be sad. Your story sounds very bad.”
CHAPTER THREE: Bad Decisions
Thad cut across the lobby of the Mother Lode and went straight to the bar. “Pierre, give me a double shot of whiskey, then put my tab on hold for the rest of the week.”
Pierre wiped a glass as he moved toward Thad’s barstool. “Should I be worried? You’ve never made such a senseless request before.”
He pulled down a bottle of amber liquor, filled a shot glass, and slid it toward Thad.
“My ex-wife is in town,” Thad said as he took the shot, hooking his other thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll need my wits about me. One last drink, and then cold turkey.”
“Ah, of course,” Pierre said as he cleaned another glass. “She is stunning…in a slightly homicidal kind of way.”
“Okay, maybe one more,” Thad said.
“Sorry, Sheriff. Rules are rules,” Pierre said.
“Good man, Pierre. I was just testing you.”
Penelope “Penny” Fry-Grigman stared at each patron in the room. Some ignored her, others left, and a few whistled when they thought she wasn’t looking.
“Poor bastards,” Thad muttered, wondering when these drunks would realize she wasn’t the type of woman to be catcalled. Massaging remembered injuries from when she had broken his fingers on their first encounter, he watched her move. The early days of their relationship had been a rollercoaster of passions. She had been just as tough then, a bit younger, but always as rough and ready as they came in Ground Forces.
Dixie slid onto the stool next to him. “Who’s she?”
“First wife.”
“Oh, gawd. How long did you take to realize your mistake? Not long, I hope. Cold as ice. I can see that from here, and I’m not just talking about her nipples. Isn’t there a song about women like that?” Dixie said, leaning close and pressing against his arm as she whispered in his ear.
“Fiery temper,” Thad muttered.
“You men always think that’s what you want, but it isn’t. Look at me, Thaddeus Fry. What’s wrong with a warm touch?”
He stared into her eyes. His heart raced. “Nothing, Miss Dixie. Nothing at all.”
“Maybe you should slow down on the whiskey,” she sighed. “You don’t know how it hurts me to say that, because your eyes look like you might make a bad decision.”
“Bad?”
“By bad, I mean good.”
A thrill went through places Thad was trying without much success to control. He needed to clear his mind, even though he didn’t want to look away. Dixie was right here, ready for anything. She curved toward him and he didn’t pull away.
“I think,” Dixie purred, “we are making progress.”
“What did you put in that glass, Pierre?” Thad asked.
Pierre leaned both elbows on the bar. “A man’s last glass of whisky should be something special. I was hoping you’d pass out. It’s exhausting seeing all the women in the bar make eyes at you.” He turned around to clean a row of beer mugs.
Thad barely heard the barkeep.
“You’ve done so much for Darklanding. Let me show my appreciation,” Dixie said.
Thad smiled. “You’re a beautiful woman, Dixie.”
His eyes lingered on the blonde hair pulled back from her throat. Everything else in the room was a blur of background noise. Something moved in to smear the visual input he was trying to ignore.
Something…or someone…with red hair and a melodic laugh. Penny was letting her hair down, which she almost never did. Thad couldn’t remember the last time she had been “off mission” for more than ten seconds. After they’d been married in a VCC (Vegas Certified Chapel)—with a level-five Elvis impersonator, whatever that was—they’d had a red-hot honeymoon spanning three different planets.
They’d treated it like a mission, with mission critical intensity—living all they could while they could.
Once, she had let her hair down literally and figuratively as they watched a sunset on a beach. She’d sang her favorite songs acapella as she leaned back into his arms.
She wasn’t singing now, but her laugh had that quality as young men crowded around her table like errant knights seeking the favor of a magical princess.
He stood up. Dixie held his left bicep with surprising strength.
“Sit down, stud. Are you trying to hurt my feelings?” she asked.
Thad controlled his breathing as he stared at the men standing around his ex-wife. The crowd of dirty miners suddenly looked like they had cleaned up and done fifty push-ups before puffing out their chests for Penny. Where were the broken-down slobs with grease on their foreheads and under their fingernails?
“Listen to Dixie,” Pierre said. “There’s a reason I cut off your whiskey. You had the right idea. Don’t mess it up now. We haven’t had a general brawl for a long time and I am rather happy not having to replace tables and chairs.”
Thad ignored them. He wasn’t willing to yank his arm free of Dixie. Didn’t want to pull her off her stool or knock her down, and it was obvious she wasn’t letting go.
“Let’s go upstairs, Sheriff. Call it an inspection or something. Do your duty,” she said.
The way she lilted the words into his ear set him on fire.
“This is worse than combat. Why can’t you just let me punch someone?” Thad said.
Penny looked over the heads of her suitors, making eye contact with Thad. A second later, she raised one eyebrow.
“I hate her,” Dixie said, releasing Thad’s arm.
“You hate all the women who are after the sheriff, which is about all the women on the planet as far as I can tell. Makes no sense to me,” Pierre said to Dixie, who was now slightly behind Thad.
He wanted to storm forward, but decided to make Penny wait. She wasn’t exactly running into his arms.
“I hope none of his other wives show up. What a shit-show that would be,” Dixie said.
Pierre laughed and leaned across the bar to talk with her in low tones.
Thad clenched his teeth. Some of the miners were looking at him, ready for a fight and eager to prove their devotion to their redheaded enchantress.
Penny stood up. “You boys are lovely. Give a girl a moment, please.”
The hardheaded, hardworking men of Darklanding acquiesced immediately. It was like watching street dogs attend a black-tie gala.
Penny strutted slowly across the room, flipping back her luxurious red hair with one hand. She stared straight into Thad’s soul. A funny thing happened as she came nearer. Her eyes focused on something behind him, the stairs perhaps or the most direct route to her room.
She was one step away when she changed course and headed for the stairs. “I’m not here for you, Thaddeus Fry.” She smoothed the front of her jumpsuit with both hands and smiled wickedly. “That woman isn’t your type. You know that, right?”
He tried to answer as she glided past him without altering her sensuous stride. She took the steps gracefully and never looked back.
Thaddeus Fry, realizing his mistake even as he made it, followed her at a somewhat less than safe distance.
CHAPTER FOUR: Devlin’s World
Sledge watched Thad follow Penny up the stairs and hoped the man knew what he was doing. Penny was a force of nature—too much woman for him on the best of days and downright scary when she was in a mood. For a moment, it had seemed Dixie was going to score. Sledge wouldn’t want to be Thaddeus or the madam if Penny had stood up with a blaster in each hand and bittersweet memories of young love turning to black fire with jealousy.
Dixie had a thing for Thaddeus. Sledge tried not to think about it and mostly failed. He’d taken his shot and been rejected. It happened. Good ole Sledge Hammer just kept smiling and making friends. Sooner or later, Dixie would open up and realize he was a good catch.
> She didn’t want the sheriff. She only thought she wanted the sheriff.
“Come on, Dixie. Look over here and see a man who really needs you,” Sledge muttered.
The woman pressed closer to Pierre at the bar.
She’d almost made her move on a man vulnerable after a close encounter with a woman he had undoubtedly loved at one time. Penny had probably been Thad’s first love, come to think of it. He had married her multiple times after all.
Now it was Dixie and Pierre at the bar with Thad and Penny upstairs doing…well, it was better not to think about what they might or might not be doing after ten years and several marriages apart. “Good ole Sledge doesn’t need much more than a good whiskey and a crew of friends to pass the time.”
Several of the Mother Lode ladies gathered around him. “We’ll be your friends.”
Dixie looked at them like an alarm had gone off in her head and waved for them to spread out and entertain the other patrons.
“But, Dixie!” they said as they pouted and found new friends.
Sledge looked up the stairs.
Whatever you do, Sledge, don’t think of ditching her on Devlin’s World. Ahgg! Why’d you do that? “Pierre, I need a whiskey. Neat, if you please.”
“Neat,” Pierre said as he put down the glass.
Sledge looked into the glass, counting ice cubes and shaking his head. He poured the liquor into his stomach then chomped on the ice. “Thanks for the rocket fuel. My favorite. One more please. Make it two.”
Now that he had thought of Devlin’s World, there was no point resisting memories of the overcast skies and chitinous natives. Their inky black eyes gave him the creeps.
Sledge couldn’t help it. His thoughts returned to Devlin’s World and the events from mere weeks earlier.
* * *
The planet that became Devlin’s World was covered with oceans. Sledge didn’t know or care why there were no major continents. There were three super islands where most of the heavy industry and agriculture existed. Like most worlds inhabited by humans, there was war. And this was where those wars happened.
However, Devlin’s World was unique for more than its geography or its proximity to shipping lanes. Over a century ago, it became a designated rebellion planet, reserved for strife and political intrigue. The power elite and the governments they ran felt there was a need for a relief valve, a place where social and political discontent could be expressed in relative isolation. The local population resisted the idea by immediately forming an underground resistance that played right into the bizarre machinations of intergalactic politics. SagCon and the other galactic powers wanted rebellion. The natives of Devlin’s World gave it to them from day one.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, new technology in space travel had made the planet unnecessary as a spaceport, so now it was just a hot mess.
“It’s about time SagCon pulled out of this place,” Sledge said. “Not getting much juice out of the squeeze.”
Penelope Fry-Grigman didn’t answer. He understood she was listening, but chose to focus on her area of responsibility as they moved through the embattled streets. She was new to the special investigator service, a recent transfer from the SagCon military branch. The Sagittarian Conglomerate could wage war with any nation-state it chose, but generally participated in proxy wars for the sake of good manners, if nothing else. Why throw your weight around when there were plenty of second-rate governments with third-rate armies looking for work?
Sledge moved to a corner and aimed his rifle down a wide alleyway made for transporting heavy machinery to the back of a warehouse. He took his time searching for threats and traps. Then, without looking back, he gave a signal to Penelope. “You’re clear to move, Penny.”
Her clear voice was low and firm in his earpiece. “Moving.”
She reached his position and glided past him to the next point of cover. He watched her scan an area he could not see, and then gave him a hand signal combined with a brief radio confirmation. “Covering.”
“Moving,” Sledge said as he darted forward.
Gunfire broke out on the next street.
“That doesn’t involve us,” Penny said. “Focus on the mission.”
The mission was finding the safest possible route to the SagCon landing zone. Most of the diplomats and civilians had been evacuated. As was always the case with such complex operations, the last units faced a nearly impossible task—fighting and escaping at the same time.
“I’m sending word to Captain Chambers. This may not be the perfect route, but it’s as good as it gets,” Penny said.
“Agreed,” Sledge said. “FYI, that firefight that doesn’t involve us is moving closer. I’m going to set up a blocking position while you organize with Chambers.”
He moved to the street corner in question and set up behind a concrete traffic barrier. He checked all of his magazines and moved them to more advantageous positions on his tactical vest. He wanted the fully loaded magazines closer to his centerline with his nearly empty magazines—that he had saved rather than drop—positioned toward the back of his gear. True to the rather twisted and archaic rules of engagement, he was carrying weapons appropriate to Devlin’s World; which meant semi-automatic and automatic firearms relying on smokeless gunpowder and brass casings. The antiques were fun up to a point—loud, smoking, and full of satisfying recoil when used.
He checked his boot knife and his medkit. Then he was out of time. A full squad of Pro Chaos Fighters advanced toward the landing zone using the tried and true bounding overwatch tactic. In this case, pairs of soldiers moved on each side of the street while their companions covered them from positions of solid cover.
He saw something he didn’t like. “Well, Penny, we might’ve guessed these PCF jerks would break the rules. They are all about chaos.” Sledge chuckled at his own joke.
Penny answered by radio. She sounded like she was checking her weapons and ammunition. “Let me guess, they’re not using antique firearms and harsh language this time.”
“Winner! Ding, ding, ding!” Sledge said. “She gets it on the first try. Looks like most of them are armed with blasters. I’m just glad they’re not driving mechs or tanks.”
“I’ll get over there to help you as soon as I can. Our people are moving fast, but even pros like us have limitations. Let me make sure our principals have reached the landing zone, then I’ll be on my way,” Penny said.
“Acknowledged. I’m going to have to take the first shot if we have any chance of winning this fight,” Sledge said.
“That’s against company policy, even in a war zone,” Penny said.
Sledge laughed. “Better than dying.”
“Roger that. On my way in five,” she replied.
The first pair of Pro Chaos Fighters to enter his field of fire were soldiers, real soldiers, not a bunch of nutjobs hyped up on Chaos propaganda and adrenaline. He didn’t want this fight—especially didn’t want to kill people not much different from him. He couldn’t determine their sex or race. They were humanoid in shape and Earth humanoid in stature. Were they human beneath their helmet visors and armor plates? Hard to say.
None of the chitinous natives came above ground without armor or some kind of disguise. He didn’t think this was a squad of Devlins, because they normally swarmed in battle—thousands of crab-faced berserkers ready to die for their home.
He didn’t want his adversaries to be humans and wasn’t sure if that made him a good man or a bad man.
“Just stop right there. Have a chaotic love-in somewhere else, if you don’t mind,” Sledge muttered as he stared down the sights of his rifle. They were already close enough to dust him, their blasters would carry the day quickly once the battle started.
He took a moment to admire the squad leader’s skill. Fire teams moved forward while other fire teams covered them in a classic bounding overwatch. He lost himself thinking about the way things should be and wished war were straightforward. All he ever wanted as a yo
ung soldier was to fight for king and country—so to speak— with men and women he trusted by his side.
What am I now, a mercenary?
Something on one of the rooftops caught his attention and he realized his mistake instantly. The most disturbing part was that the trap must’ve been set for someone of his skill level, if not for him specifically. Whoever planned the ambush had guessed he would get caught up critiquing his enemies while he maintained a mediocre position of cover and felt overconfident.
Pivoting on the balls of his feet, aiming without thinking, he directed a burst of gunfire toward the units creeping along the rooftops.
It was too late. They had the advantage and were using it. Three pairs of grenades fell on his position. He jumped up, turned, and ran without a second thought. Blaster fire smashed the buildings and the street around him as he huffed and puffed toward the next building.
Something struck his shoulder, knocking him down. He scrambled to his feet and dodged sideways as he ran—repeating the infantryman’s mantra, “I’m up, I’m running, he sees me, I’m down behind cover…”
Sledge dropped to his stomach as several blaster bolts and automatic rifle bullets ripped through the air above him. Something bit his shoulder again. He barely felt it as he hopped up and sprinted toward the SagCon landing strip.
“Penny! Coming in hot with hard chargers on my six,” Sledge shouted into his radio mic.
“Strength?”
“Platoon or greater. Blasters and Devlin Accord weapons types,” Sledge said.
He was knocked down a third time and knew he wouldn’t get back up. Three times was too much. No one was lucky enough to escape from three hits regardless of what type of weapon it came from. A sound came from his throat he didn’t recognize and his lungs were on fire from oxygen debt as he sprinted the final distance.
Ships were taking off and landing. His vision blurred. Somebody grabbed him by his shoulder and pushed him toward a ship as SagCon Marines jumped from a landing ramp and opened fire at his pursuers. These units were not part of the Devlin’s World conflict, and had no limitations on their armaments. Their heavy blasters drove back the PCF mercenaries.
