“I’ll have a glass of red wine,” Allison said.
“Water will be fine,” D’armic said.
“Thirty-weight motor oil,” Magellan said.
“I, um, don’t think we have—”
“I meant it in jest, Administrator Graham.”
“Of course you did! Plucky ship you have here, Allison. Let me just run these filets back to my lovely wife. Please make yourselves at home.”
Everyone found a place to sit, and the sounds of camaraderie filled the penthouse with good cheer. Eugene reappeared with another round of drinks. “The chef has asked how everyone wants their steak.”
The answers were, in order: “Medium well,” “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m a vegetarian,” “Well done,” “Anything that doesn’t involve a RepliCaterer,” “I am physically incapable of eating,” “Medium,” and finally, “None for me, thank you, but I would accept a serving of powdered doughnuts and bacon with a side of mayonnaise.”
Eugene grabbed a pad off the counter. “Right, then. I’ll just jot all that down.” The door chimed yet again. “Ah, the last guest. Splendid. Everyone’s here. I’ll just be a moment.”
Those seated at the table looked at one another quizzically.
“Who’s left?” Jacqueline asked. “Commander Gruber?”
Allison shook her head. “Marcel is on his way to Ceres. He was offered command of the next ship out of the Skunk Works yards. He wants to supervise her final assembly personally.”
“Good for him,” Magellan said. “Marcel is a fine officer. He deserves the opportunity.”
Everyone sat for a moment to mull upon the unique perspective Magellan brought to judging Gruber’s ship-handling credentials.
“Well, if it’s not Gruber, then it can only be—”
“The only starship commander to defeat a Turemok cruiser in seven centuries!” Maximus and his pristine dress uniform entered the dining room.
Harris snapped to attention so fast, he knocked over his chair.
“Sit down, Thomas,” Jeffery said. “This is an informal dinner, despite Tiberius’s uniform.”
“What?” Maximus picked a bit of lint off his sleeve. “It’s informal. I didn’t even starch it.”
“Don’t you have civilian clothes?” Allison asked.
“Sold them as soon as I realized these were more effective on the ladies.” Maximus sat down. “So, what’s for chow?”
“Fresh, all-organic steak,” Eugene said from the entryway. “How would you like yours done, Tiberius?”
“Rare. And when I say rare, I mean show it the oven to scare it, then put it on my plate before it stops quivering.”
Jacqueline made a face and then took another sip of wine. “I really can’t understand how you can eat undercooked meat.”
“It’s easy. I use my teeth.”
Jeffery set his glass back down on the table. “Man, what I would have given to be a fly on the wall when the Assembly’s Relief Fleet popped back into real-space, only to see Earth sitting there as mint as Felix’s Baryon Ball card collection.”
“I told you I sold those before we left,” Felix said sourly.
“There was an … invigorated discussion among the senior representatives,” D’armic said. “The only thing more unbelievable than the fact the Xecoron and the Kumer-Vel had failed was the notion that your people bested the Turemok a second time.”
Harris smiled. “Third time.”
“Indeed.” Maximus raised his glass in recognition. “Maybe now they’ll think twice before they tangle with Earth again.”
Felix shook his head. “Not likely. None of our tricks are going to work a second time. I guarantee right this minute, the Turemok are retrofitting their warships with loads more defensive hyperspace projectors. And now that everyone knows the Unicycle can be used offensively, we may as well rename it the Bull’s-Eye.”
“Well, then, Mr. Fletcher, we’ll just have to work on some better tricks.”
“But what happens to the Turemok?” Allison asked. “The Assembly was ready to destroy our world for something they did. There must be some punishment.”
D’armic set his water glass down. “It seems unlikely that anything will happen through official channels. The investigation into Culpus-Alam and the other planets has stalled, as most of the admissible evidence, as well as most of the witnesses, are gone. And after the failed attack here, I suspect the Assembly would prefer the entire episode fade from public scrutiny as fast as possible.”
“So they’re just going to get away with geocide.”
“We don’t know who ‘they’ are. It is entirely possible that the organizers are already dead. But while nothing will happen officially, the Assembly will view the Turemok with a very critical eye. Coupled with the loss of confidence the public is already displaying in light of their repeated defeats, the Turemok have been savagely weakened. There is already talk of breaking up their monopoly on the military and police forces.”
Maximus slapped a hand on the table. “I’ll drink to that, provided we have anything to drink around here. Scotch?”
Harris heaved his masonry jug up and let it land heavily on the table. “I think I can beat scotch, Captain.”
“What’s in there?”
“The last jug of Pirikura fermented berry juice in the universe.”
Allison gasped. “How did you get that?”
“Their chief gave it to me as a reward for bravery. He said it should only be drunk with people I trust. You all qualify, and this seems like as good a time as any.”
Maximus beamed. “What an excellent idea. Do you drink, D’armic?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Perfect! Professor, seven shot glasses, if you please.”
“Am I included in that count?” Eugene shouted from the kitchen.
“I didn’t want to speak for you.”
“Why not?” Felix asked. “You spoke for the rest of us.”
“You’ll be fine. Miss Dorsett will look after you.”
Harris picked up a fork and started working at the cork-and-tar stopper in the neck of the jug. It gave way with a pop just as Eugene set a tray of shot glasses on the table in front of him. Careful not to spill the priceless liquid, Harris filled each to the brim. The drink was menacingly clear, with just a tinge of blue.
Everyone took a glass, some gave it an exploratory sniff.
Maximus raised his drink above his head. “I would like to offer a toast, to the people who didn’t make it back to share our victory. To Tillman, Lyska, Simmons, and the lost tribes of Solonis B. Godspeed.”
“Godspeed,” everyone repeated. They drank the toast as one.
Now, there are drinks for tourists, and then there are drinks for professionals. Pirikura fermented berry juice was the undisputed champion of the latter. It had no net taste, which was not the same as having no actual taste. In reality, it tasted like JP-5 cut with cranberry juice and the glue used on envelope flaps. However, it was so strong that in the time it took a signal to get from the tongue to the brain, the taste buds were already too drunk to remember what they were saying. It might have been the 106 percent alcohol content, or it might have been the hallucinogenic mushrooms used to filter the mash. No one knew, because most instruments used to study such things dissolved upon coming in contact with it. Whatever the reason, it was so strong that if one drank too much, which varied between zero and three shots, depending on weight, it had the potential to cause retroactive birth defects in one’s teenaged children.
They couldn’t finish the jug between the eight of them.
As the evening wore on, Eugene’s guests found themselves laughing, eating, retelling war stories, sneaking away to smooch, and breaking the occasional decorative vase. It was a good party.
So good, that much to Allison’s surprise, she caught a glimpse of the Assembly’s first ambassador to Earth in a most unusual state. He was smiling.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself, D’armic.”
&
nbsp; “I am indeed.”
“That’s wonderful. Did you take something for it?”
“No.” D’armic’s smile grew until it engulfed his entire face. “I did not.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No man is an island except Tom Hanks in Castaway, and every book is written by committee. I’d like to take a moment to thank the people who assembled to make this particular one occur.
Chronologically, I’d like to thank myself from 2009, for being so mad at the ending of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy that in a fit of rage I sat down to write my own damned Book Six, somehow ended up with this hot mess instead, and accidentally launched a writing career. If that poor, ignorant bastard had even an inkling of what would happen to him over the next few years, he’d probably have shot himself.
I’d like to thank my beta readers who gave me invaluable insight into how much of a lazy hack and insensitive fuckboi I was being in earlier drafts of this book, including Michael Todd Gallowglas, Marissa C. Pelot, and Andrea Guzzetta, who are all marvelously talented storytellers and jesters in their own rights.
The woman who would become my wife, who believed in this book even before she totally signed off on me. Love you, honey.
My shark of an agent, Russell Galen, single-handedly forced this book into print through a yearlong act of sheer will. Without his enthusiasm for a quirky little book, in an impossible subgenre, by an author still learning to tie his own shoes in the industry, Gate Crashers would still be in my trunk, and the next two books of The Breach would still be locked away in the back of my mind, eating away at their surroundings like carpenter ants.
To my editor, Christopher Morgan, who was the sucker to actually listen to Russ about this ridiculous sci-fi comedy book, who risked his reputation and budding career to spend his company’s money to buy it (and thereby bought me a very nice new motorcycle), who spent long weeks pruning and shaping the raw manuscript into something we could both be proud of, who badgered me into accepting a different and better title from the original I’d used for years, who is reading these acknowledgments at this very moment, no credit is due.
Finally, and most importantly, I want to thank everyone who took a chance on an unknown author a few years ago, whether online, in a bookstore, or staring at me over a table at a convention. Without your faith, I wouldn’t have been able to sell this book, or those that follow. I owe you the career and life of my dreams. And for anyone just joining in, you’re what’s going to take everything to the next level and allow these stories to keep being told well into the future, and keep me out of another office job, which is in the best interest of all mankind.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PATRICK S. TOMLINSON lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. When not writing sci-fi and fantasy novels and short stories, Tomlinson is busy developing his other passion: stand-up comedy. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
GATE CRASHERS
Copyright © 2018 by Patrick S. Tomlinson
All rights reserved.
Cover images: planet by Vadim Sadovski; spaceship by Algol/Shutterstock.com
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-9864-2 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-0-7653-9865-9 (ebook)
eISBN 9780765398659
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: June 2018
Gate Crashers Page 39
