by Eddie Patin
Blazing eight times, anyway.
I'm screwed.
Oh well, I think. Hopefully an opportunity will present itself. I'll just have to wing it. The only other option is to wait for death by starvation, one of the three most popular ways for men in my profession to die. The other two methods of departure from the mortal coil are death by hostile environment and death by the gun ... or claws.
Looking down at my feet, I can see the impression of my body in the soft ground. Sleep was comfortable in the spongy earth, almost like a thin, but firm, mattress. My muscles are heavy and euphoric, pleading to rest for a while longer, and I can feel the drumming pressure on my eyes. I must have slept for only five hours. Maybe less.
The night wasn't very long. I should have checked the time on my PAPCon when I went to sleep.
I take the first step of the day, walking to the beat of my PAPCon's locator.
The worry slips around my mind that I may not be heading to a Zurgan village, but a full city. A fortress! How should I know?
Then, it occurs to me that I sure do worry a lot. Have I become so cynical? When did this occur? After I lost my respect for life? When I stopped counting the money, the artifacts, the kills? Life passes languidly now, and the only consideration is my hunger and my supply of ammunition.
Hours pass under the liquid sky, and my body is a machine, my legs pistons, my breath the intake and exhaust, all a vehicle propelling me to my goal. Possibly my death.
With twenty kilometers to go, I can barely make out something on the horizon, marring the uniformity of the white expanse. Something relatively small, at least, as far as I can tell: the anticipated village. A colony. If I saw that little, black blip on the horizon from forty kilometers, I may have been in for something worse.
The PAPCon points ahead, and, wishing my image intensifier was with me instead of on my ship, I continue to the inevitable confrontation.
Closer now, I can see that the colony is small. An outpost of sorts. From ten kilometers, I can barely make out a half-dozen small metal buildings, the weird sky reflecting from the corrugated roofs and support beams. At this distance, I can't see any aliens poking about, but I know they're out there. The Aggressor is not in sight, but the little red icon on my PAPCon is ten kilometers dead ahead.
Two lines of black smoke swim into the shifting sky from a couple of domiciles. Factories. Chop-shops. Whatever. I can see now that the buildings are all taller than I expected: two or three short stories for a short species.
As I move on to the colony, relaxing my stare, I notice a small plume of white dust erupt in the distance and a wake headed my way.
A speeder.
They see me.
Time to adjust the plan. What plan? I ask myself in my head. Things will be getting interesting very soon...
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“Hijacked on Naos 5”
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