The Expanding Universe 4: Space Adventure, Alien Contact, & Military Science Fiction (Science Fiction Anthology)

by Craig Martelle

  She doesn't want to see the body on the other side of the dumpster. But the silver band promises a brighter future. She needs it, and getting it means going near the body.

  A woman leans against a rolled up rug, eyes closed. Blood seeps from her hairline, creating an uneven path that forks around her nose to outline a slack mouth.

  Dressed like a prostitute, she doesn’t belong here; she shouldn’t be out this late. Her crop top twists off-center and her arms lay in her lap, like she tried to hide the tear in her skirt. On one hand, the fingers are crumpled, the palm misshapen.

  The silver band winks next to her motionless leg, treasure that just needs to be retrieved.

  Creeping forward, she keeps an eye on the woman’s face and stretches out a hand toward the band. She misses and touches the leg instead, warm and supple beneath her fingers.

  The scream locks in her throat as the prostitute twitches, blinks in confusion, and their eyes lock.

  The prostitute glances to the hand on her leg, then past it to the silver band. She smiles, a giant curve of the lips that display the blood on her teeth.

  “Well, look at that!” The prostitute bends at the waist, long talons reaching for the band.

  She scrambles away from the woman, falls on her butt. Her feet push against the ground until chilled aluminum thumps against her back.

  The talons pinch up the band and curl it into a fist. The prostitute’s head swivels on her neck like a doll’s.

  “Girl, I don’t know where you got this, but thanks for bringing it back!” Red lips stretch around bloodstained teeth, eyes bright with fervor. “Now, you come help Miss Tammy up, and we’ll go see my handler!”

  The prostitute shoves the silver band into her cleavage, pulls her top back into place, and waves her talons in the air, expectant.

  Light flickers at the end of the alley and she turns away from the prostitute, back the way she’d come.

  Five boys stand silhouetted against the streetlights, more than she expected. They close in, unhurried.

  “You sure you can stand, Miss Tammy?” She turns back to the prostitute. The woman frowns at her feet and her legs twitch, the toes curling and uncurling on the foot missing the shoe.

  “Yep! Looks like the feeling’s come back!” Miss Tammy waves her hand in the air again, beckoning her closer.

  “You see those boys, Miss Tammy?” The talons carve divots in the back of her hand as she drags the prostitute to her feet. The woman wobbles for a moment before catching her balance.

  “They friends of yours?” She bends at the waist, scoops up the high-heeled shoe, and inspects it for scuffmarks. The other hand, the mangled one, hangs at her side.

  “They want your credit-band.” The boys shift closer, fan out, and now she sees the leader, a halfbreed kid with weird colored eyes: one green, one brown. He stands out, someone she'd remember running into before. A new gang, not one from her sector.

  But the last two gangs she crossed paths with wanted to dress her up like Miss Tammy and put her to work on the streets. This one must have similar plans.

  “You don’t say.” Miss Tammy grips the shoe by the toe, angles the spiked metal heel outward. “My business man wouldn’t like that.”

  The prostitute steps forward, brandishing the shoe like a knife.

  She’s a frightening sight, with all the blood and the mangled hand. Even the boys hesitate. She takes the opening, turns on her heel, and runs.

  Runs from Miss Tammy's high-pitched yell, the startled yelps of the boys.

  Runs from promises of a better tomorrow.

  Today’s good enough.

  Day-Light

  The Boy with Weird Eyes

  Time: 1400

  The scheduled cleaning of Ground Zero arrives with three high-pitched warning beeps and a flood of icy water. Residents laughingly call it rain, but it’s more like a hosing. It comes once every four days, in the middle of the Day-Light cycle.

  Most seek cover before the water dumps down, treating it like a small holiday if they’re not at work. Street businesses can’t run, but pubs make a killing.

  He wipes water from his eyes and squints through the deluge. Constant shivers wrack through him, his body’s desperate attempt to keep blood flowing despite the ice creeping towards his bones. The water workers don’t bother warming the liquid for Ground Zero. Winter Cycle will only get worse as the months go on.

  His team risks hypothermia, but his orders are to bring the girl in, and they already lost her once today.

  “Make one more sweep, then head home,” he shouts into his com, proud his teeth don’t chatter. “We’re not catching death for some rat who wants to drown!”

  One of his boys limps out of an alley, shaking his head so that water sprays out in little arcs. The prostitute got him good with that shoe of hers. They wasted time patching him up before continuing the hunt.

  He doesn’t know why the boss wants this one so much. She isn’t the first girl to break protocol in their territory. She’s been hiding on Ground Zero for months now, thieving on the outskirts and refusing to come greet the boss. So the boss wants her brought in, and his boys get injured and sick searching for the disrespectful twit.

  Puddles splash in waves beneath his boots as he stomps through the next alley. They’ve been circling the sector for hours now, but she’s good at staying hidden.

  He touches the com on his neck, kept dry by the collar of his poncho.

  “Any luck, boys?” The feed crackles and whines in his ear.

  “Nothin’ yet.” The replies come back stuttering and faded, the moisture wreaking havoc with the low-grade tech.

  “Okay, head back to base, I’ll be right behind you.” Their relief is tangible as they each sign off and head in from the rain. He can’t blame them. A warm heater sounds nice right now.

  In the alley ahead, a shimmer of gold catches his attention. A glow from between two trash bins. He moves closer, fingers on the cool handle of his psy-gun.

  He crouches, pushes the bins apart, and lifts a piece of trash to reveal a severed hand. On the back, a gold negative symbol glows, its light fading fast. He eyes the bins, but their light weight doesn’t hide the rest of the body.

  He lowers the trash and puts the bins back in place. The street sweepers will clean up the mess left by the debt collectors.

  At last, the water cuts off.

  His ears ring with the sudden relief and he scrapes wet hair from his eyes as he rises back to his feet.

  He gives the alley a last sweep, angry to go home empty-handed again.

  The ringing in his ears annoys him. He sticks a finger in, giving it a wiggle to no avail. He peers around, back to the trash bins and the steady ping, ping, ping of dripping water.

  He frowns and follows the water’s path up the wall. There, in a crack formed by two buildings that lean together, a shoe pokes out.

  Too small to belong with the hand.

  Excitement floods his body, pushing off the cold in a hot rush of victory. The hunt has come to an end. He climbs onto a trash bin, shifting his weight by increments to stay quiet. When he’s level with the crevice, he peeks inside.

  And there she is, squished up in a soggy ball.

  Eyes closed and mouth open, she doesn’t stir when he wraps a hand around her foot, giving it a jiggle. He reaches in, all the way to his shoulder, and grasps a thin wrist, the skin damp and fever-hot to the touch.

  He tugs, and she barely moves.

  A foot on the wall provides the leverage necessary to pry her from the hiding place.

  She tumbles out, slack-limbed and unresponsive, all hard angles and skin. Practically starved to death and now sick.

  He folds her over his shoulder and clambers off the bin, juggling her weight so the sharp knobs of her hip bones don’t dig into his shoulder. He turns his feet toward home and starts walking.

  They’re almost there when a subtle tensing in the muscles gives her away. His hold on her legs tightens as she whips her body
straight. An elbow flies at his head. He ducks and drops her. Unable to catch her balance, gravity takes her down, butt slamming into the sidewalk.

  They get a few nervous looks from passersby, but no one stops to help. Ground Zero residents are good at ignoring trouble.

  She tries to scramble away. He grabs her arm and yanks her upright. Cheeks bright red with fever, she sways and tries to get him with an elbow to the gut. He cuffs her over the ear, a loud pop of noise more than an actual blow. It stuns her, glassy eyes blinking in confusion.

  “Stop it. Boss wants a word with you.” He pulls her forward, catches her as she stumbles, and keeps his grip tight.

  Just ahead, a cement building distinguishes itself from its neighbors with a bright orange door. A push to open it and they shuffle into the house. Empty couches and a table litter the main room. The boys will all be snuggled next to heaters upstairs.

  The change in light rouses her and she pulls against his hold, nails digging into his sleeve without affect. He wrestles her through the next set of doors and into the boss’s office.

  He releases the girl with a push. She stumbles and falls to the plush rug. Streaks of mud mar its clean surface as she lays panting.

  It doesn’t feel good to push her around, he’s never liked bullying. But she’s too weak. She’ll die out on the streets.

  “Oh, good, you found her.” Boss stands from behind his desk. Despite the heater running in the corner, he wears a faux fur coat, the shimmering mass of his fiery red hair pulled up in a bun.

  The girl flinches at his voice, curls up in a ball, and goes tiny on herself with arms over her head.

  “Don’t worry, child, you’re safe here.” Boss kneels next to her and reaches out a soothing hand.

  She lunges forward, teeth sinking into the soft place between thumb and forefinger. She shakes her head like a beast and red drops fall on the carpet.

  “Hey!” He lunges forward, ready to come to his boss’s aid, but the older man waves him off, pulls the little monster into his arms, and strokes her hair.

  “It’s okay. Your journey’s been long, and you’re scared.” She stops struggling, her jaw unhinging to reveal a crescent of red. He cuddles her closer. Using his jacket as a blanket, he wraps her in the faux fur.

  “I’m not prostituting for you.” The soft fibers wave with the pant of her breath.

  “Of course not, child. You won’t be forced to do anything against your will.” He pushes her back so she can peer into his eyes to see his sincerity.

  “What do you want from me?” Her glance skitters around the room, taking in the clean furnishings. The warmth. The blocked door.

  “I want to feed you, for starters.” Boss pulls a protein bar from his pocket.

  “And then?” The rumbling of her stomach echoes into the room.

  “I want to give you a place to get clean, a safe place to sleep.” He takes her hand, forcing her fingers around the bar.

  “And then?”

  “When you’re healthy, I’ll teach you a skill and you can work for your living.”

  “No prostitution?” Her whole body twitches, eyes narrow.

  “Absolutely not.” Another protein bar comes out of his pocket and he forces it into her other hand. “You’re free to leave whenever you want. But there’s safety here, if you want it.”

  “It doesn’t look like I can leave.” She turns to glare at the door, where he still stands.

  He steps to the side to make an opening, and half hopes she takes it. The boss has a big heart, and she looks like trouble.

  “I can’t work. I don’t have a datband.” A boney arm thrusts out to display the empty expanse of her dirty wrist.

  “I can get you a new one,” Boss reassures her. “What’s your name?”

  She looks at the floor, mouth pinched tight, and shakes her head.

  “You can pick a new one, if you want.”

  Elbows pulled in tight, she doesn’t answer, but doesn’t make a move to leave, either.

  “Let’s call her Tuesday.”

  “Shush, March. Not everyone needs to be named off the calendar.”

  “Says the man who named me.” He points an accusing finger at Boss and gets an embarrassed smile in return.

  “Raine,” she mumbles, voice barely audible over the crinkle of foil as she opens one of the protein bars. Wet hair falls to cover her face as she shoves the gummy bar into her mouth whole.

  Boss pushes the hair back, smoothing it into place behind her ear. “It’s nice to meet you, Raine. Welcome to your new family.”

  Author Lyn Forester

  Lyn Forester graduated with a Bachelor in English and an Associates in Graphic Design. She worked in the graphic design industry for ten years before deciding to pursue her other life long dream of becoming a writer. She grew up reading mostly fantasy books, though later in life found a love of urban fantasy and science fiction. She currently works from her home in Washington State where she squeezes in writing time around a busy schedule. When not working, she can be found experimenting with new recipes, reading, or playing video games and the occasional board game.

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  Mothers

  By C.M. Simpson

  No warrior is so fierce as a mother with young; and, when mothers band together, enemies need beware.

  Talie watched the alien ship spin, a huge disk, looking continents wide, and she felt her heart sink. Somewhere, in that monstrosity, her little girl was hiding. Her little girl, who wouldn’t be anywhere near as afraid as she should be, and nowhere near as cautious as Talie would like. Her little girl, who would be quick to remind her that thirty-two wasn’t little, and that she had a child of her own—a bonafide ship-talker who had listened to her grandmother far too much, and, at ten, stowed away on an enemy troop carrier so she could make a difference where it mattered.

  Dammit! Talie thought. It is all my fault.

  It was her fault, too that the child’s mother had gone after her. It’s what mothers did—and now there were two little girls who needed rescuing.

  Which was why Talie was here—because mothers had mothers, too.

  “Take me in,” she said, although there was no need to say where.

  The ship could feel her will; it knew where she wanted to go. Her words were just a trigger. Sasha wasn’t the only one who could talk to starships. Her mother, Anlin, could speak to them, too. They’d both inherited their gift from their parents and grandparents, and the men and women before them. There had always been ship-talkers in the family, ship-singers, too, although they were very rare.

  “Take it quiet,” Talie said. “Ghost it in.”

  For a second, power hummed to the weapons systems, and then the ship heard ‘in’, and read her intent anew. Talie breathed a sigh of relief as the weapons powered down, reminding herself to choose her words more carefully, kicking herself because she’d used the phrase ‘Ghost it’ too many times as a signal to kill—and ‘take it’ as a signal to attack.

  At least the ship knew ‘quiet’ meant sneaky.

  It was as much as a ship ‘knew’ anything. They weren’t sentient in the way dragons were; they just heard the intent and obeyed… mostly. Talie eyed the mother ship and scowled. Something that big? That was probably as sentient as anything that had gone before it—or it would be, if Sasha woke it up.

  And now Talie regretted telling her granddaughter stories of the Capra conflict… or sharing her experiences in the Battle for Diomedes—the same stories she’d told her daughter, and her sons, and anyone who’d asked for them. She’d lost too many people in both wars for them to be forgotten.

  Another war had come, this one flying in on a ship they’d recognized from Capra. The all hail had said the aliens wanted to talk, but the first contact had been a disaster. Someone on the human side had held a grudge.

  Insult had been added to injury when the aliens asked to dock at t
he orbital so they could resupply and move on. Colony management had been afraid it was the first move in a planetary take over. The aliens had responded by stating they were willing to pay, but, if that was not an option, then their survival was on the line, and they would have to take what they needed.

  It wasn’t clear who’d fired the first shot.

  “And, now, we’ll never know,” Talie murmured, guiding the little craft in a trajectory that would take it over the mother ship, but not into it.

  With any luck, the ship’s systems would read it as harmless, and not try to take her out of the sky. When she was close enough, she was going to land. If she got it right, it would be in the shadow of the ship’s slightly raised command centre, and, if she was lucky, the emergency hatch would let her in, without her having to use the explosive charges she’d brought along just in case—because luck could only take you so far, and she was pushing it far enough.

  She was banking on her ship being able to create a seal between its hatch and the emergency hatch on the mother ship. She was banking on the atmosphere inside the mother ship being breathable, given the aliens who’d come planet-side hadn’t worn breathers. She was banking on so many things—so many of which could have already gone wrong.

  Her granddaughter, Sasha, might not have made it off the transport. Her daughter, Anlin, might not have been granted docking privileges. And the Stars knew why the girl had even thought asking was an option! And herself? Well, she might just find an armed welcoming committee on the other side of the airlock.

  Her tiny craft settled on the mother ship’s surface, the faint clunk of magnetic landing clamps rippling through it. Talie hoped the sound wasn’t as clear inside the mother-ship’s shell as it was in her own ship, but she refused to give doubt room. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to leave the pilot’s seat.

  Moving swiftly, in case there were sensors her own hadn’t detected, Talie moved to the exit. Using the computer implant in her skull, she extended the ship’s small umbilical, and patched in to the external cameras making sure it covered the airlock leading into the bigger ship, manipulating the edges into a close fit, before activating the magnetic seals and pressurizing it.