The Gates of Hell

by Chris Kennedy

  He climbed in and checked to ensure the programmed diagnostics were up to date. Everything was in the green on the center screen. He reached out and unplugged the line running to the maintenance counter behind him. He initiated startup and sealed himself in. He adjusted his straps and settled himself. Pops McCoy was back in the merc business—for one more contract, anyway. Plus he’d hired himself, so…Whatever, he thought.

  * * *

  Pops used a little over half his jumpjuice avoiding meteors on his way to the ship’s location. It wasn’t as difficult as he’d thought it would be, because they were mostly big ones and not the unpredictable small ones spinning everywhere like around the system’s fifth planet. That other ring was a nightmare. It was no wonder the pirates had decided to hide among these. It was relatively safe, as long as the pilot paid attention.

  He checked his readings one last time to ensure he had enough power and fuel to make it back to his ship. He decided it would do. He oriented his mech toward the rear of the small freighter and gave his thrusters a tap with his feet. Still undetected as far as he could tell, he waited until he was in range to fire all his rockets at once. They’d know about him now, if they didn’t already.

  Every missile hit the ship’s thrusters. The glow winked out as the engines shut themselves down like Pops figured they would. Safety third, he thought as he continued to glide across the distance to the ship. The ship floated toward a meteor, but at the last minute the maneuvering thrusters fired, moving it away slowly and gaining some semblance of control.

  Pops flipped his feet around in time to slow himself with a small burst from the mech’s thrusters. He hit the cargo ramp of the ship feet first. He bent his knees to minimize the impact, but he still felt it in his old legs and back. He maneuvered to face the ramp and fired his MAC several times. Once he could get a grip on the jagged edge of the holes, he used the mech’s strength to pull parts of it open. It wasn’t long before he was in the hold. Several Pushtal in environmental suits fired rifles at him. The darts bounced off the CASPer’s armor, causing little damage. It didn’t take him long to kill them all.

  He stomped toward the front of the cargo hold, but an emergency door slid down, covering the ramp and resealing the hold. Some one else was still alive in the ship. He ensured the magnets were engaged and popped the hatch of his CASPer. He climbed down and picked up one of the Pushtal’s rifles. He checked to see it was still loaded with flechettes and went deeper into the ship, clearing compartments and berths as he went, using the few straps he found and pushing off bulkheads in the microgravity.

  He didn’t encounter another Pushtal until he got to the operations compartment. She nearly took his head off with a swipe of her claws. The only reason she missed was because Pops had reached down to rub a sore knee before hitting the panel to open the hatch. She opened it from inside. He fired on instinct, and several darts hit her thigh. Others hit her chest as he raised the rifle.

  The obviously female Pushtal lay there bleeding and breathing heavily as he searched the ship’s bridge. There were no more left. The pirates operating the ship were a skeleton crew. He’d killed them all. Well, except the one bleeding at his feet as she slowly rose in the lack of gravity. He put a foot on her to hold her steady.

  Pops looked down without pity. They got what they deserved, as far as he was concerned. He’d take his gold and leave the ship to be destroyed by meteors. He didn’t want it. It stank of unwashed Pushtal. As he turned to leave, he heard her whisper the same thing, over and over. He stopped and tilted his head. He didn’t understand her.

  She looked up, pleading with her eyes. She stopped whispering and looked at him in concentration. Finally, with difficulty, she spoke in his language. It was just one word, but it rocked him to his core. She said, “Babies.”

  She whispered it again and died. Pops moved like he never had before. He hit his head several times as he made his way through the unfamiliar ship to the berthing area. He searched each one carefully but didn’t find any Pushtal cubs. He stopped and hung by a torn strap in the passageway between all of them and listened.

  He almost missed it. A soft growl followed by a hiss. He pushed himself into the berth he thought it had come from and checked the panels on all sides. In the back corner, one sounded hollow. He noticed a scratch mark on a seam. He reached down, took out his antique folding knife, wedged it where the tip of a claw would go, and pried the panel open.

  In a box were two small Pushtal cubs. They were rolling around, playing. They looked up when they realized the lighting had changed. Pops reached down and scooped them up. He realized they couldn’t see him very well, as their eyes had only recently opened. They sniffed his hands as he slowly made his way to the cargo hold.

  Occasionally he had to hold them together against him with one hand as he used a strap to continue moving. They used those opportunities to continue their play-fighting. One or the other almost slipped away several times.

  When he got to the hold, he moved over to the cargo container holding his gold. He made sure it was closed tightly before he located the panel to override the emergency hatch. He climbed up his mech while holding the two cubs together by the scruff of their necks, backed into the cockpit, and tucked the cubs into the open zipper on his skinsuit.

  Flinching from their claws, he shut them all in and moved over to hit the release. When the hatch slid up, he pushed the cargo container out the hole. He followed after it, hoping for the best, and with a good grip on it, he fired the thrusters and made his way to the edge of the ring.

  Getting out was easier than coming in, because he didn’t have to worry about being noticed. Slowly, using nearly all the jumpjuice he had left in small bursts, he reached the shuttle bay of Naydeen. It was a tight fit with the shuttle, the waist-high container, and his mech, but he managed to close the bay door.

  He opened the cockpit of his CASPer and stood in the seat, one foot tucked under a strap. He unzipped his bodysuit and pulled the cubs out. He was sure he was bleeding in several places. As he held them at arm’s length and wondered what he was going to do with them, he noticed they were both males. One of them shivered, and Pops realized it was still cold in the bay after being open to space for so long. The atmospheric pressure was right, but the heaters hadn’t warmed it to the ship’s normal setting.

  He pulled the cubs close and held them against him loosely. One started purring, causing the other to follow suit. Pops spoke out loud, only this time he wasn’t talking to himself.

  He said, “Boys, I’m naming one of you Ricky, and the other’n Keaton.”

  * * *

  A Year Later

  Pops sat back in the booth and looked across the table at Waldon. Without thinking about it, Waldon reached up and scratched his eyebrow with the shiny metal finger of his bionic prosthetic. True to his word, Pops had bought the best on the market, along with dozens of tools and attachments, for his young friend.

  Beside him and between him and the wall, Ricky played with the menus and the condiments. It didn’t take him long to figure out how to swap lids. His brother Keaton had a small slate and was playing a game. They were a little over knee high and growing fast. Both wore pants and matching Jacksonville Generals t-shirts.

  “Ah sure hate to see you go,” Pops said, “but I understand. You want to work on mining equipment on a planet for a while. Somewhere other than the backside of the galaxy.”

  “Yeah,” Waldon said. “I had enough of ship life. I mean, I ‘preciate you giving me a job and all, but it’s time I moved on, I reckon.”

  “I hear ya,” Pops agreed. “I’m thinking I might take a little break and show the boys where I’m from. Let ‘em run around the woods in the North Georgia mountains fer a bit.”

  The door to the café opened and several obvious mercenaries walked in. They all had a patch of some type of whirlwind or something on their sleeve. Two of them sat in the booth backing up to Pops. Ricky stood on his tiptoes to look over the seat at them.

/>   The one on the other side motioned with his head to the bigger of the two. He looked over and noticed the young Pushtal. He reached up and shoved Ricky in his face, knocking him back and down against Pops’ table.

  “Boy,” Pops asked, concerned. “You alright? You need to be careful. Come here, don’t cry.” He held Ricky tight, rubbing his back as he sniffed against him.

  Several customers of various races looked over at their table. When a young one gets hurt, it’s everyone’s business in a small place like Aspara Town. Waldon motioned for Pops to lean closer.

  “That big merc pushed Ricky off the back of the booth,” he whispered.

  Pops’ hand froze, and a look came over his face that scared Waldon. Truly scared him. “Take off your arm, Wally,” Pops said in a whisper that allowed no other option.

  Waldon reached over and unlocked his arm from the elbow down. The bionic arm was easily detachable at that point in order to connect the various attachments. He handed it to Pops.

  “Don’t worry about denting it,” Waldon whispered. “That alloy won’t bend.”

  Pops nodded and sat Ricky down in the seat beside his brother. Keaton was still oblivious to everything around him, lost in his game. He stood up, turned around, and held the arm behind him out of sight.

  “Hey, big ‘un,” Pops said. “Did you just lay a hand on my boy?”

  The big man looked up and sneered. “Your boy? I shoved a no-good Pushtal in his damn face is what I did. You’re lucky we’re in a place that makes us check our weapons at the door, or I’d have put a .45 round between his eyes. Damn things’ll grow up and be pirates, or worse.”

  The entire room went silent. Pops stared at the man and said, “One, you put a hand on my young’un. Two, you threatened to kill him. So…I’m gonna put a hand on you, and then I’m gonna kill you.”

  The big man stood up and towered over the skinny old man. The man sitting with him put his arms up across the back of his seat and snickered. Several more members of the merc unit elbowed each other, expecting to be entertained.

  Faster than most in the room could believe, Pops whipped his hand around holding the prosthetic and smashed it against the side of the merc’s head. The man dropped like an empty sack. Before anyone could react, he slammed the arm down on the man’s throat. Already unconscious, the man never drew another breath.

  The other merc in the booth scrambled to get out of his seat until Pops slapped him across his face with the hand hard enough to loosen teeth. The man froze as blood trickled from one side of his nose.

  “What’s your name?” Pops asked.

  “Miguel,” answered the man in a nasal voice as the blood came faster.

  “These your boys?” Pops asked waving the hand around at the other mercs. He leaned forward and read the patch. “Miguel’s Monsoons, huh?”

  The man nodded and didn’t say a word, his eye on the metal hand moving around as Pops spoke. He wasn’t ready to die at the hands of an old man…by a hand in his hand.

  “I tell you what,” Pops decided. “You gather this group of merc wannabees and get the hell out of Aspara System. Don’t look back, and don’t come back. You hear me?”

  “Hey!” one of the men shouted. “You can’t just…”

  He didn’t finish his words. One of his buddies elbowed him to silence when the rest of them noticed every patron in the café other than the mercs stood with forks, knives, and spoons turned backward, looking at them.

  “Who was that?” one of the men whispered as they shuffled outside.

  His buddy answered, “They called him Pops.”

  * * * * *

  Kevin Steverson Bio

  Kevin Steverson is a retired veteran of the U.S. Army. He is a published songwriter as well as an author. He lives in the northeast Georgia foothills where he continues to refuse to shave ever again. Trim…maybe. Shave…never! When he is not on the road as a Tour Manager he can be found at home writing in one fashion or another.

  * * * * *

  Bushwhacked! by Terry Mixon

  “Anyone have a guess why we’re here?” Commander Rick Betancourt asked over the rim of his beer mug. It wasn’t the best brew he’d ever had, but it was far from the worst. It was only a tad sour, but still had the hint of hops. It would do.

  While he waited for his crew to shrug noncommittally, he looked around at the bar. Yankor’s Retreat advertised itself as a merc bar, but in reality it was just a dive with delusions of grandeur. Like the beer, it was mostly right, but the furnishings looked a bit worn. So did the patrons.

  As far as mercenaries went, there were a couple, but the majority of the beings seemed to be starport workers and transients. That meant the place was half full of just about every species imaginable.

  He and his people were the only Humans in sight, other than a couple of what looked like maintenance technicians in the back corner. They wore grungy coveralls and seemed intent on their drink and a game they were playing with some oddly shaped dice.

  “Shouldn’t you know why we’re here?” Adrian Vanderbilt, his helm officer, asked with a smug grin. “After all, you called this meeting.”

  “Does this actually rise to the level of a meeting?” Lacey Sturtevant, their scanner officer, asked with a grin. “‘Hey, let’s go have a beer’ isn’t exactly a business invitation, if you know what I mean.”

  “Couldn’t we have picked someplace a little cleaner?” Kimberly Livingston, Hermes’ chief engineer, complained, her face showing her distaste for their surroundings. “I’m pretty sure we’ll need a good decontamination once we get back to the ship.”

  “I hate decontamination,” their rescue specialist, Andrew Nesbitt, said gloomily. “I smell like a Besquith peed on me for two days after going through one.”

  Kim raised an eyebrow in a tight arch and scrunched her nose even further. “And exactly how would you know what that smells like? Have you been holding out on us, Andy? Kinky.”

  A rumble of laughter made its way around the table as Andy turned red. The man didn’t bother trying to argue because long experience had likely taught him it would be a losing battle. The more he resisted, the more his friends needled him.

  That’s just how things were aboard the search and rescue ship Hermes. They didn’t stand on rank and position. Even Rick’s supposed rank was mainly for show. His people were all adults and, when it came time to save lives, they were the best at what they did.

  Which, he had to admit, really didn’t explain why they were sitting in this dive waiting for an old friend to come calling. He’d tell his people what the meeting was all about, except he didn’t know himself.

  When Major Kelly Hawke of the Lions had sent him a message requesting a private meeting, she hadn’t explained precisely what she had in mind. Still, his ship and the Lions had a good track record, so he’d been willing to listen.

  “If I knew what she wanted, I’d tell you,” Rick said, keeping his voice intentionally low. While he had no reason to believe anyone was listening in on them, it always paid to be careful when talking business in public.

  “I always keep track of what’s going on in near space, so I’d have seen any of their ships listed as in system,” Adrian said. “I gotta say having her pop up out of the blue seems suspicious.”

  Rick had to agree.

  Since they were in transit between their last job and the system where they’d take up their next one, he had no idea how Hawke had even known where to find them. That spoke to something going on behind the scenes. Had the Lions had something to do with the job they were on the way to work?

  They weren’t listed in the contract, but that might not mean anything. The offer could have been made to him so no one would connect the larger mercenary organization with the transaction. If that were true, then it meant the Lions wanted something from Hermes and her crew without drawing attention to that fact.

  Well, he supposed he’d find out pretty damned quick. Hawke had promised to be here at the top of the hour, and a
check of his watch told him the meeting time was upon them. One thing you could say about Hawke was that she was punctual. And a badass.

  Right on cue, he saw her come through the front door, dressed in casual clothes but with a slug thrower strapped to her hip. She might not have been wearing a Lions uniform or battle rattle, but she was every inch a damned Marine.

  Everyone in her general vicinity turned to watch her as she stopped, hands on hips and head swiveling to look around. Her presence had so large an impact that it took Rick a few seconds to realize she wasn’t alone.

  Standing behind her were two men, one of them known to him, and the other not. Lieutenant Antwan Malave was a junior tactical officer on one of the Lions’ ships. The other man was an older, slightly balding blond man Rick hadn’t seen before.

  Rick raised his hand and Hawke turned toward their table, a smile lighting up her face. He rose to his feet as she approached and extended a hand, which she promptly ignored and pulled him into an exuberant bear hug. One strong enough to make his ribs creak.

  Considering he’d never had anything more than a professional relationship with the Marine officer, her personal display of affection was surprising. Not unwelcome, though.

  Being the captain of a ship was a lonely business, and her hard-muscled body pressed up against his felt good. And, he admitted, the fresh, clean scent of her hair kind of melted him inside.

  The hug brought her lips right next to his ear. Since that was obviously her intent, he wasn’t surprised when she whispered to him, though the caress of her warm breath against his ear sent a shiver down his spine.

  “Pretend like we’re old friends,” she said, so softly that he barely heard her. “I’ll explain once we’ve settled down.”