by David Adams
“You must be joking,” she snorted, “I know your sordid history with women – I’m not touching your blood. I don’t want to... catch... anything. I remember Brisbane.”
“Thanks anyway,” I said, extending my hand to take it, but she suddenly closed her fist, pulling it away.
“Uh uh uh.” Shaba shook her head, waggling a finger back and forth in front of my eyes. “You tease a girl with a pretty ring like this, you gotta make good with your promises.”
“If I gave that to you Penny will eat my soul for breakfast. Then yours. Gimme.”
Shaba lowered her hand, tilting her head. Her expression sobered and the playfulness left her voice. “No, dumbarse. I meant… if you give this thing to her, to Penny, you have to make sure you mean it. You have to stay with her. It’s a lifelong commitment.”
I felt a tight knot in my stomach. When did this suddenly stop being funny? “I know that, Rachel. I love Penny.”
Shaba frowned at the use of her real name. “I just don’t want either of you to end up like Gutterball.” With a melodramatic sigh she pressed her hand into mine, handing it over. “That’s the thanks I get... next time I’ll just leave you and your jewelry floating out there.”
The sliver of metal pressed into my skin as I squeezed, letting the soothing waters of its comfort sweep through me. I made it. The ring made it.
"I really appreciate this." I looked at Rachel, not sure whether to laugh or cry, knowing it didn't really matter. "I mean it."
Rachel patted me on the arm then stepped back, the playful edge to her voice returning.“Whatever. Make sure you don’t lose it next time you decide to take a walk in space.” She folded her hands in front of her. “We might not be there next time.”
“I won’t.”
She grinned and left me alone with my thoughts, and the ring I thought I’d lost. I played with it, turning it over and over in my fingers, letting the light play over the ruby. The glare from the fluorescent above me filtered through the ring’s red heart, the light seeming to flicker and shine from within.
The ruby light was the same shade as the blood on my bandages.
“Next time I see you,” I promised to nobody, clutching the ring in my hand. I rested my head back against the uncomfortable infirmary pillow.
Next time.
To Be Continued in Magnet: Special Mission!
MAGNET: SPECIAL MISSION
Magnet: Special Mission
"Spouse: someone to help you through all the trouble caused by your spouse."
- Kel-Voranian Proverb
Magnet: Special Mission
Orbit of Mars
Sol System
2038 A.D.
I EASED INTO A VACANT seat, gripping the table to keep steady, wincing slightly and trying not to stretch my bandages.
“Deal me in.”
I’m Mike Williams, although most people around here called me Magnet, or Mags. No, check that—exclusively Magnet.
When someone got wounded they’d end up in one of four places: stuck right back on duty, stuck in the ready room, stuck in the hospital, stuck in the morgue. I recently had a hole put in me, courtesy of the Toralii anti-fighter batteries, and it was still healing. I was stuck in the ready room.
The pilot’s ready room. A sacred hall for military aviators and aviatrixes. Our off-duty room, pub and private sanctum; a place of cigarette smoke, spilled alcohol, sweat and unwashed bodies. Where rank didn’t matter, neither did position nor title, not even names. We used only call-signs; calling someone by their real name meant something seriously bad was going down. We drank, gambled, smoked, bragged, fought and relaxed there. It was an anti-church, a den of debauchery and hedonism, and we wouldn’t have had it any other way.
The scoreboard, a floor-to-ceiling monitor, sat on the side farthest away from the door. It was moved there pride of place opposite the hatchway after too many drunk pilots stumbled into the touch-screen and broke it. Removing the mounting brackets was a colossal pain, but eventually the techs tasked to regularly replace the screen found moving it worth the inconvenience. The kill tally dotted the screen next to the names of each gunner and pilot, tracking their progress. The more aliens blasted into atoms or vented into space, the higher the scores climbed. So far the marks were all Toralii.
I’d gotten one kill. Not bad, but our CAG and flight leader, Iron, got three. He needed five to be an ace. Everyone knew Iron was gunning for it... then again, we all were. Aces had a small ace of spades next to their line and the techs painted one on their cockpit too. It was a coveted status symbol, one of the few that earned anyone any respect around here.
A line went through anyone we lost. Thirty six lines and nineteen kills overall marked the scoreboard. Not too bad a ratio, given how badly we were outmatched by our enemies, but I couldn’t help feel for two of our rookies who bought it. Both died with a clean row.
Sometimes I wondered if the nineteen enemies we splattered all over space had been Toralii rookies. Fuzzy aliens straight out of flight school thrown into a dogfight with humanity to die. Maybe their families experienced the same things when they were given the equivalent of a folded flag and a box of medals. Was there a Toralii scoreboard somewhere with nineteen lines through it and thirty six kills? And was some Toralii pilot eagerly looking forward to bagging himself three more Humans?
Gutterball, an Israeli Broadsword commander, dealt the cards. Mace, Shaba, Smoke, Ginger, Lion, and Bobbitt were crammed in around the well-scuffed table. Gutterball raised an eyebrow, her jade-green eyes watching me with the same hawkish glare she got whenever I was late for anything, which was often. She kept her black hair short, almost a buzz-cut really; a style she adopted after her husband walked out on her nearly two months ago. She hadn’t said what the hair had to do with anything and nobody had been brave enough to ask.
As I got comfortable, she turned her attention back to her cards. Fortunately the game hadn’t really started yet and was still in the betting round.
Gutterball was the Combat Systems Officer; a combination navigator, electronic warfare specialist, coordinator, commander and team mum. Ironic considering she was also the youngest of the crew.
The seven players made up the crew of the Piggyback, the Broadsword Search-and-Rescue gunship that picked me up after ejecting from my stricken fighter with a gushing hole in my belly.
The Piggyback saved my bacon.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in the infirmary, Mags?” she asked.
“Supposed to be, yeah,” I answered. “But I escaped. Gimme cards.”
“Big blind’s five hundred shekels. Same as usual.”
It would have been a lot of money a while ago but these days it was pocket change. I tossed some Israeli coins into the pot and she casually passed me a few cards, face down. Another player handed me a bottle of clear liquor. I screwed the top off and wrinkled my nose, but poured two fingers’ worth anyway. Everyone scooped up their cards.
I pulled up the corner of my hand. A three of diamonds and a five of clubs. Not exactly a stellar deal but there was a bit of potential. I made a point of trying to look disappointed, then overcompensating slightly.
I was actually pretty good at poker, especially with a face like mine. When I was a kid, my face got chopped up pretty good by a boat propeller. My Dad’s dingy grounded itself on a sandbar and I got out to push. My fuzzy memory of the incident lacked details but apparently I fell as my dad gunned it, right onto the churning blade. The resulting scar tissue left me few facial tells. And ugly as all fuck.
Chick Magnet was the obvious choice for a call-sign. No one ever said pilots were particularly creative. Since I’d gotten myself shot in our last mission, some of my fellow pilots took to calling me Bullet Magnet instead. I couldn’t blame them. It was my idea.
Poker was one of the rare times having six garish slashes running forehead to jawline was actually an advantage. My little show complete, I played it cool, nodding thoughtfully to nothing.
Gutterball
burned the top card and dealt. The ace of spades. Nothing promising so far.
Second card: seven of spades.
I groaned. “You’re breaking my heart here.”
“Suck it up,” she said, her eyes never leaving the cards she kept close, fanned protectively.
Third card: the three of hearts. At least I had a pair now.
Gutterball tossed a few coins into the pile. She must have had a strong hand, or wanted to give that impression. “So, the doctor’s going to have a hernia when she finds you out and about. You’ve got a good cover story, yeah?”
It was too early to fold and fortune favoured the courageous. I had decent cards but no way to know exactly how this was going to play out. Not that it mattered. There wasn’t much we were able to spend our money on out in space and I had coin to spare.
“Yeah. I’ll tell her I was sick of doctors and wanted to play cards.”
Amused titters from around the table. Doctor Richards wouldn’t see the humour but after two weeks of being locked in the infirmary I was prepared to risk a reprimand to get away from that sterile, empty place.
I had to make a call. I reached for the shot, brought it to my lips, and tilted back my head, letting the liquid burn its way down my throat. I pressed my luck, tossing a few more coins in. “Raise.”
Mace, the dorsal gunner, shook his bald head. Black two-day stubble peppered his dark Persian skin, dulling its usual shine. It didn’t seem to matter how often he shaved, you could almost watch his hair grow. “I got nothing. Fold.”
Shaba’s gaze met mine and I could tell she was trying to piece my bluff. Shaba was the Piggyback’s pilot, and almost as good with a stick as I was. Almost.
After cards were dealt, she let her blonde hair spill down her shoulders and tossed the hair tie on the table. I kept my eye on her; she was trying to distract Ginger—her hand wasn’t likely strong.
Shaba was good at this, I respected that fact. She had a round, pretty face, smiling all the time, but the way the corner of her mouth curled up unevenly, the way she tilted her head just so, she was trying just a tiny bit too hard.
“Magnet’s bluffing,” she said. “Call.”
I snorted. “Yep, I’m bluffing.” The key with poker was to mix some truth in with the bluffs. Fifty-fifty was a good mix.
They went around the table. Smoke was one of the ship’s two medics and he liked to keep his hair as long as possible without breaking military regulations. He had regular haircuts, proper haircuts, not the military buzz-cut kind. They were so frequent we joked they were his equivalent of smoke breaks—three a day.
He spent a long time staring at his cards, eyes drifting between the table and his hand. He shook his head and rapped the table with the tip of a finger. “Check.”
Ginger, Smoke’s assistant, chewed on the inside of his cheek. “You’re kidding, right? Call.”
The guy was only five-foot-two but compensated for his height by working out. We were all fit, but Ginger took it further. It was no surprise he copied exactly what Shaba did and called. The guy obviously had a massive thing for her, and equally obvious she didn’t reciprocate at all.
Yeah, Ginger was strong, but his yellow and neglected teeth were a massive turn-off and his breath reeked like rotten meat. A shower every now and then couldn’t hurt either.
Can’t fault a guy for trying though, not that I was in much of a position to give lady advice. Chicks loved confidence, true, but having mincemeat for a face wasn’t exactly an asset when it came to the fairer sex.
Lion, the ventral gunner, threw some chips in, a wide grin on his face. “Raise.”
I focused my bluff-penetrating gaze on him. “Raise? Interesting.”
He matched my stare with one of his own and a kind of non-verbal stand-off ensued. We both tried to third and fourth-guess each other and our motives, studying each other through deliberately playful, carefully crafted smiles.
“Interesting? You doubt my poker playing skills? It’s because I’m black, isn’t it?”
Inwardly, I proclaimed victory. Lion’s clumsy deflection told me everything I needed to know. Still, I played along, letting him dictate the flow of the conversation. He had to think he’d successfully distracted me. “Black? You’re whiter than Ginger and, as Arabs go, he’s practically ghoulish. Being the only cracker on the flight roster must be getting to you.”
“I was born in Kenya, my friend.”
“The fact that a couple of white tourists had a baby in Kenya doesn’t make that baby black.”
Lion wasn’t having any of it. “Whatever you say, man. My soul is black.”
I just shrugged like he’d made a good point. Then it was Bobbitt’s turn.
Bobbitt was the tail-gunner. He earned his nickname because the protruding bulge of the Broadsword’s tail-gun position looked vaguely phallic. During his first flight on board the ship, a Wasp fighter landed too close and sheared half of the turret off with its leading wing-tip. Bobbitt had avoided getting dismembered by inches but the name stuck.
Bobbitt threw down his cards in disgust. “Eh, fold. Screw this.”
So it was me, Gutterball, Shaba, Smoke, Ginger and Lion.
She dealt the turn, and turn things around it did. The four of hearts, giving me four in a row. Now we were getting somewhere.
“Thanks love,” I said, trying to spook her with a coy grin.
She fiddled with her cards and rolled her eyes. “You call me that and Penny will rip your cock off.” She smiled. “Then you’ll be just like Bobbitt.”
Penny was my long-time girlfriend back on Earth. I missed her more than I’d ever let on. Living in space on a warship made getting private time with her remarkably difficult.
A lot of pilots liked to sleep around. I used to. Now I reserved all my magnetism for Penny. An engagement ring was stashed in a pocket of my flight suit but I hadn’t found the opportunity to give it to her yet.
Bobbitt’s finger tapped on the back of his cards. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, I didn’t get my cock ripped off, just the turret.” He shuffled awkwardly. “Just the turret.”
“Whatever you say, Bobbitt,” I said.
Bobbitt pulled his legs close together when the topic of genital harm came up. Now I knew why Gutterball had raised it so deliberately.
Coins were thrown in. Smoke folded, the rest of us played on.
Last card was dealt and I let my face light up.
Two of spades. This game was mine.
“Moment of truth, ladies and gentlemen,” I said to the table, then gave Ginger a separate glance. “And Ginger.”
Ginger snorted and rolled his eyes. “Fuck you, you ugly mother fucker. I hope you suck a billion cocks and die.”
Useless angry words. Anger was the last resort of the defeated; those in control of their surroundings had no need to resort to such petty tricks. I just gave a twisted, impishly triumphant grin and went to turn over my cards, but the chirp of the ship’s intercom system stole my attention.
“General quarters, general quarters, general quarters. Condition two. All flight crew to the briefing room immediately.”
Briefing Room
TFR Sydney
I was one of the last to arrive, limping towards the hatchway of the briefing room. Taking a moment to rub my side before I entered, I straightened my back and forced my gait to be as normal and relaxed as I could.
Technically I didn’t have to be here. My replacement bird hadn’t arrived yet and I was bumped from the flight roster anyway. I hung around the Broadsword crews just in case. One never knew.
Iron wasted no time getting right down to business. He raised his muscle-bound arms, calling for silence.
“We’ve got a mission, so listen up. That means mouth closed, eyes open, Ginger.”
Duh, it was either a mission or a flight crew party and I didn’t see any fucking balloons.
Iron continued. “Good. For the last three hours the Sydney has been playing host to an importan
t member of the Kel-Voran Imperium.”
Great.
Iron let the mutterings die down then spoke again. “The long and the short of it is: one of the Kel-Voran factions wants to help us but we have to do something for them. Their chief warlord, Vrald the Blood-Soaked, has a son. That son is our guest. The kid’s been pledged in marriage to the daughter of another warlord and our task is simple. We’re to play honour guard for Romeo and take him to his blushing bride.”
From what I knew of Kel-Voran biology, I was fairly certain their females wouldn’t blush easily, or more likely, were physically unable to. I kept my mouth shut though.
Here we were, facilitating a wedding to a pair of psychotic aliens, but I had done no planning towards my own. I felt vaguely guilty and resolved to make sure that this guy had an uneventful trip.
Iron continued. “We’ve given them our language files so we should be able to talk to them but there’s a catch.”
There was always a catch.
Iron pulled down the roll-down computer screen and it lit up when he touched it. “The Sydney is needed to defend the open Sol-system Lagrange point. We’re sending a jump-capable Broadsword to do the job. Loverboy’s bride lives on a planet deep in Kel-Voran space and they’re paranoid about security. Accordingly, the Kel-Voranians were very clear in regard to this: they would permit one ship through their territory and one only. So this is a solo mission. High risk, volunteer only. I’ll be taking expressions of interest no—”
“Sir, I volunteer Piggyback along with its crew.” Shaba’s hand was straight up in the air like a kid in class.
Iron looked expectantly to Gutterball. The ship’s commander was technically the one who did the volunteering. Her lips curled up in a faint smile then gave a slight nod of approval, so Iron turned back to Shaba. “Piggyback’s got quite the reputation, Lieutenant Kollek. As long as the rest of your crew sign on for this, I’ll approve it.”
