by Matt Novotny
“You knew my favorite band! BlueNabi is the best group that came out of New Seoul on Mars, don’t you think?”
The guys working across the field catcalled and hooted at Remmy. He waved back with a grin. “I thought you might like them.”
Sabine clapped. “What else can he do?” she asked.
“When it gets dark, tell him to do a light show,” Remmy told her. “His fur is actually fiber optic filaments, and he can change colors and do up a light projection to the music. Your own private disco whenever you want one.”
Sabine threw her arms around Remmy’s neck and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you so much! I love him.” She let go and turned to her new friend. “Come on, ‘Bastian, let’s go tell Nana Bes!” She took off at a run and the little Xiq’tal rocketed off after her, easily keeping up with the exuberant eleven-year-old.
“I think she likes it,” Burton said, laughing as the pair followed her back up to the shop.
They entered the shop just in time for more of the brain-screeching sounds of BlueNabi. Remmy rescued the group by quickly repeating the left eye stalk volume decrease. “I built that in because voice commands are useless at that volume,” Remmy explained to the group.
“Goodness, that can get loud,” Bes said.
“Isn’t it great, Nana Bes? I can’t wait to show all my friends,” Sabine gushed. The girl danced around ‘Bastian and Bes for several minutes to the quieter music still coming from the toy. The adults watched her with smiles until Bes interrupted the impromptu recital.
“Sabine, why don’t you set out the plates and cups before your friends get here? They should be arriving any minute,” Bes said.
Sabine barked, “C’mon ‘Bastian!” The pair ran off to the pavilion.
“That be quite the present, Remmy,” Amos observed. “What all can it do?”
Remmy took a deep breath, ready to launch into everything he had put into the critter when Bes cut him off.
“Remmy, I just got a call from Miss Charlotte Devereaux. She’s having car trouble. I was wonderin’ if you would be a dear and go fetch her to the party?” Bes said mildly.
That caught Remmy off guard. He glanced around at the old house, the shop, and toward the pavilion. “Um…I think I can manage that.” He shook himself, then smiled at Bes. “I’d be delighted. C’mon, Burton.”
“Remmy?” Bes asked. “I’m gonna need Burton here.”
“Oh, okay,” Remmy said and headed off to his truck.
Amos looked at Bes. “Car trouble? With that Jeep? It’s darn near bullet proof.”
“You hush, now. Don’t you have set up to do?” she asked the two men and Burton, then returned to the house without waiting for an answer.
Burton spied the dogs lounging in the shade and a ball thrower propped on a nearby table. “I’ll be over there,” he said, grabbing the thrower and ambling over to the dogs. Once they saw him, they jumped up and pranced around the Lumar. They knew fetch was on.
Guests and Olympian hopefuls arrived over the next half hour. There were children gathered at the edge of the field and three of the seven CASPers were seeing who could drag a derelict school bus the furthest and fastest. Several of the party goers were cheering them on.
Fireflies started dancing along the edges of the party, their antics adding to the atmosphere.
The intercom buzzed several times.
“That’s probably Remmy; buzz him in,” Amos yelled to Abel Guidry, who was closest to the intercom and gate controls.
Guidry pressed the Open button, then headed for more gumbo.
The staccato sound of gunfire rocked the party to silence.
* * *
Survey Ship Ptolemy
Earth Orbit
The Ptolemy settled into its assigned orbit and awaited the Peacemaker shuttle. Rains was looking forward to seeing Selector Hak-Chet again. There was a lot he needed to discuss with the selector, mainly to do with his misgivings about the way the Peacemaker Guild was, or rather wasn’t, handling the threat of Kr’et’Socae, but also about himself. Rains was having real concerns about whether he belonged in the Peacemakers, even more so since Vannix had died. Hak-Chet was a mentor to Jackson. He was an easy being to respect, if not an easy one to like. Jackson had to question if Hak-Chet might have made a mistake in selecting him.
Clunk. The shuttle sealed to the airlock. The only good thing to happen in the last few weeks was that Rains would be able to attend Sabine’s birthday party.
Rains turned to Bev and Thomas. “I’ll meet you two at Sanctuary this afternoon.”
Bev smiled. “You sure it isn’t going to be a bother?” She looked at Thomas. “We hate to intrude.”
“Well, you did just come all the way to Earth with me so we could work the kinks out of Bruno, not to mention Amos and Bes would skin me alive if I didn’t bring you down. In addition to getting some new converts to his cooking, I would guess Amos’ head technician for the Armored Olympics has been bending his ear about consulting with CASPer techs with field experience on the Mk 7 and Mk 8 CASPers. I’d say you were heaven-sent,” said Rains.
Thomas nodded. “He already sent us some of the specs. We’re looking forward to seeing the modifications they’ve made to the older CASPers. Some of ‘em have as much as a six percent boost in power utilization and—”
Rains held up his hands in surrender. “You can try to explain it to me later,” he said. “I’ll see you there. One more thing, if you want to be able to taste anything afterward, don’t let anyone convince you to taste Cajun sauce.”
He climbed aboard the shuttle and nodded to the young woman in her crisp blue uniform. She had the kind of smile that had “eager beaver” written all over it. “Welcome aboard, Peacemaker Rains. I’m Tia Clayton.” She led him into the shuttle. “You’re my only passenger, so you can take your pick of seats or ride shotgun. If you’ll strap in, we’ll be on our way. Flight time to Houston will be approximately forty minutes, and we are cleared for a direct landing at Peacemaker Regional HQ.”
“I’ll take copilot, if it’s all the same to you,” he said, even though what he really wanted was to take the last seat in the passenger compartment and spend the next forty minutes going over what he needed to say to the selector. But he had seen this before. As one of three Humans to earn a Peacemaker badge, a measure of unwanted celebrity came with the territory, so for the next forty-odd minutes, Rains made small talk with Tia Clayton. He listened to her story, how hard she had worked to become a pilot, how she planned to apply to the academy. How it was so exciting what he and Jessica and Nikki were doing…
The shuttle landed with hardly a bump.
She might be eager, thought Rains, but she’s an exceptional pilot. “Thanks for the smooth ride, Ms. Clayton. Good luck on your application to the academy. I’m sure you’ll do well.”
Another person in uniform was waiting at the bottom of the shuttle’s ramp. Rains followed him through the halls of the new facility. Everywhere he looked, young, motivated people pursued their work with enthusiasm. Even the aliens looked young. The can-do culture, thought Rains. Why do I feel so old?
Rains’ escort led him to a doorway, knocked smartly twice, then pressed a control. The door slid into the wall with a shrissh.
Selector Hak-Chet was standing with his back to the door, looking out the windows of the room. The Sidar presented one eye, then the other to the view as if searching for something but turned at the sound of the door.
“Peacemaker Rains, it’s good to see you. I was deeply sorry to hear about Peacemaker Vannix. I know the two of you were close.” Rains thought it odd that Hak-Chet was being so formal.
“Thank you, Selector. Vannix was one of a kind.” Rains started to choke up, then saw the calculation in his old mentor’s eye. “Have you received my reports regarding Kr’et’Socae and his associates? Your comm indicated you had answers to some of my concerns. After what happened on Gorton, you can’t tell me he shouldn’t be a top priority.”
&
nbsp; The Selector gestured toward a chair and moved to the Sidaran equivalent, a sort of perch with a rest for his wings. Hak-Chet gave a very Human sigh. “Kr’et’Socae is a high priority for a number of reasons. It seems our own have come back to haunt us. The plain truth of the matter is that we haven’t been able to locate him.”
Jackson took the offered seat. “With all due respect, we don’t seem to be trying very hard. He’s responsible for Vannix’s death and—”
“You don’t know that. I need you to proceed based on fact, not speculation,” said Hak-Chet.
“I do know,” said Jackson. “His agents were there to—”
“His agents were present,” replied the Sidar. “That isn’t the same thing as responsible, though I admit it strains coincidence. The vendetta between Kr’et’Socae and yourself will only end one way, Peacemaker. You are too close to the situation, as what happened on Snowmass shows that. At least here we can protect you, as well as force Kr’et’Socae to divide his attention.”
Rains felt his rage building, but it wasn’t driven by passion or anger. What he felt now was the certainty that he was being used without his consent. It was icy and cold and precise, and for the first time since he was a child Jackson felt the sting of betrayal, and he hated it.
“I’m bait,” said Jackson.
“Bait, yes, I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Hak-Chet said.
“You might have told me. I would have volunteered. And in any case, why was I even included in the alert on Gorton?”
“Because I needed you away from Force 25 before you focused too much attention there.”
“That was hardly a controllable situation. And after what happened—”
“What happened on Gorton Station is now a matter for the Enforcers!” Hak-Chet closed his eyes and gave a slight shudder.
“We are One,” said Jackson.
“What?” whispered Hak-Chet.
“We. Are. One, Selector,” Rains grated out, his tone making the title an insult. In the back of his mind, Jackson realized he owed his mentor more, but for the moment he was beyond caring. “Ravak. Peacemaker Ravak. Vannix. Peacemaker Vannix. We are One. We failed them. I failed them. The Peacemakers are full of slogans, Selector: Honor the Threat, Set the Terms, Stand or Fall, We are One. Those are the words we’re supposed to live by, for the people we choose to live and die for. They shape what we should be. Those words must be true, or nothing we are really matters!”
“Jackson.” Hak-Chet sighed. “You are right, we should not have sent you to Gorton. Most especially without warning you. I can see it was too soon for this conversation and too late for another we should have had. But please believe me, we had no choice. Now you are here, and you are safe. Rest. Grieve. Take some time to recover. You have family here, I believe?” asked Hak-Chet.
Jackson nodded.
“Take a week to think about things, then we will try this conversation again,” said the Sidar.
“I don’t think—” Jackson was interrupted by the emergency alert tone from his slate. He clawed for it when he saw it was Amos.
“This is Rains. What’s going on, Amos?”
Amos’ voice came across the comm, hoarse and pained. “We need you, Jac-son! Sanctuary was attacked! Dey have Bes and Sabine!”
* * *
Sanctuary Plantation
Louisiana, Earth
Two groups of armed men filed into the party area. One group was Hispanic, carrying a mix of pistols and assault rifles. They shouted in heavily accented English and waved for everyone to move to the pavilion.
The second group of large, muscular men arrayed themselves between the pavilion and the field and covered the party goers. They carried a mix of off-world weaponry. Two other intruders each carried large duffel bags, similar to gear bags for hockey or softball, only longer.
Rob Wilson stood from the CASPer he was working on. He waved his hands at the party crashers. “Hey! You can’t be here. The arena is closed today!”
A female voice cut him off. “Of course, we can. We were invited.” The figure stepped into the light and pulled her hood back, revealing a feline humanoid figure with a glowing red mechanical eye.
Amos stepped forward to confront the apparent leader. “Who are you and what you want here? We got no truck with off-worlders.”
The leader focused on Amos. “My name is Sin’Kura, Jackson Rains sent us.”
Amos was perplexed, and it showed on his face. He glanced quickly at Bes, then squared his shoulders. “Well, Jackson didn’t say nothing to me about it. Y’all be moving along afore one of ya gets hurt.”
Sin’Kura smiled, and the eye faded from red to purple. “Oh, we might get hurt?” The light from the field made Sin’Kura’s fangs glow. She stepped forward and grabbed Bes’ arm. “You might look to your own family getting hurt, Human.”
“Bes!” Rob yelled and rushed forward. The crack-whine of a laser carbine stopped him dead in his tracks. Smoke curled up from the black hole in his chest.
“Oh no! Rob!” Bes cried. “Stop! Stop! Tell us what you want.” She stared defiantly at Sin’Kura despite the tears running down her cheeks.
“Where is Sabine? I hear it’s her birthday. I have something for her,” Sin’Kura purred.
There was a sharp intake of breath at the mention of Sabine’s name. “Leave her alone!” Amos said. One of the Hispanic men hit him in the head with a pistol barrel, knocking him to the ground.
Sin’Kura kept a firm grip on Bes’ upper arm. “Spread out and find the girl,” she ordered several of the men with laser carbines. She turned to the Hispanic man, “Pedro, move the guests to the house.”
When Samsung partnered with an off-world elSha electronics firm, the improvements in refrigeration efficiency and insulation reduction rendered all the pre-contact Earth-made appliances obsolete virtually overnight. One of the last Human-made refrigerators, massing at least 180 kilos plowed into two of the Hispanic thugs with a meaty crunch and spray of blood.
“Run!” Amos yelled and jumped onto the closest thug who was staring at where his friends had just died. He rode him to the ground, pummeling him with fists scarred from years of fighting.
“Handle them!” Sin’Kura said into a link. Her grip tightened on Bes. “Where is Sabine?” She followed Bes’ involuntary gaze to the pavilion. Sin’Kura pointed at the tent and two eastern European men took off at a run. “Get the girl!”
The CASPers on the field covered the distance to the pavilion in the blink of an eye. Laser fire erupted as the attackers moved to take out the three active Olympians.
Romeo Bravo threw another appliance at the Hispanic men. Most were able to move out of the way, but a wicked bounce from the stove wobbled the appliance high enough to decapitate a gunman. Race was transfixed by the image in his Tri-V—the fountaining blood jetting out of the neck with each heartbeat. He watched in horror as the body reflexively pulled the trigger of the machine pistol—a meter long gout of flame vomiting from the muzzle—as it toppled backward. Race was jolted back to reality as a klaxon warned of a suit breach. He scanned his Tri-V for the offending thug. He spotted a Caucasian man with a large laser rifle sighting on him for a second shot. He quickly triggered his jump jets and vaulted into the air, and a ruby beam cut through the space he had just vacated. Aligned with his goal, Race cut Romeo Bravo’s jets and slammed down on top of the gunman.
The surrounding chaos gave Ned Thomas the opening he was waiting for. He leapt from the side of Amos’ shack and neatly severed the arm of an Hispanic man who was taking aim at the huddled party guests. Ned’s backswing with the machete ended the man’s screams of pain.
“C’mon!” he waved at the group. “This way!” Ned met Bev’s eyes. “C’mon, Bev.”
Her eyes widened at something behind Ned.
“And where might you be going?” asked Hatfield, raising his gun.
Ned tried to turn around to face the man, but the roar of the machine pistol cut him down.
Be
v screamed as Ned fell to the ground, spasming. His white shirt quickly turned red. She rushed to him, only to catch a kick from the man that knocked the wind from her and made her gasp for air. She watched him reload and cock his pistol.
“Y’all like this meat?” he said, and put another couple rounds into Ned.
Hatfield grabbed Bev by her hair, pulling her head back. “Why, you’re a pretty thing. How about we get to know each other?” he said and started dragging her toward the barn.
A whine blared from their right where the men had unveiled what they were carrying. The meter-and-a-half-long tube flashed and a loud Crack! announced the launch of a hypervelocity anti-armor round. Crimson Samurai shuddered to a stop with a beer can-sized hole in the canopy. The edges of the hole glowed from the heat of the impact. The CASPer stood still for a moment, then toppled forward, lifeless.
“We have her,” crackled across the comms.
“Extract!” Sin’Kura yelled as she dragged a protesting Bes to the waiting vehicle.
Hatfield heard the extract order on his comm. “Aw, no time for fun, darlin’.”
He gave Bev a shove toward the maintenance bay, making her stagger. “That’s my ride, but maybe next time. Dance for me!” Hatfield fired into the ground behind her as she lurched away, running for all she was worth.
Sin’Kura’s men laid down a withering hail of fire on Romeo Bravo and Junkyard. Both drivers kept their machines away from the huddled friendlies as a fountain of sparks from ricochets blossomed from each. Most of the fire was ineffective, but the laser carbines managed to punch small holes in both mechs. Only because they kept moving were they able to keep anything vital from being hit. Junkyard did a baseball slide into the crew with the anti-tank weapon. He fired his jumpjets just as he hit both men, roasting them and throwing their smoldering bodies well out onto the lawn.
The attackers retreated into their vehicles. Sin’Kura and Yeorgi held their hostages up as shields. A minute later, both vehicles rocketed off into the woods.
The silence was deafening. It had been one moment of pure chaos and carnage. Now it was so quiet the only sound was the ringing in their ears.
