Intersection

by Fred Warren - 

Avenir Station, Paradise Virtuality, Communications Nexus

Anya Sherikov and Vicky Remsen sat back-to-back at glowing consoles that floated within a mosaic sphere of rectangular windows--each one displaying a tiny fragment of the mayhem that was spinning through the Avenir space station.

Vicky paused to rub her eyes. “How do you work like this? Another ten minutes, and I swear I’m going to hurl. By the way, I’ll make sure you experience that with me in all its multicolored glory.”

Anya’s eyes darted among the scenes of carnage. “You’re a doctor. Prescribe yourself an anti-nausea drug.”

“Oh, you are so funny.”

“The good news is that we’ve done as much as we can, for now. The colonists will have to take it from here. I only hope our assistance was enough to keep them from being completely overrun. Before you log out, double-check the lower levels…make sure the pest control agent is working. You may need to dispense another blast if spiders are still moving about.”

“Way ahead of you. Checking the last couple of ring segments now.” Vicky’s fingers paused on her console and she leaned forward to squint at one of the windows, tilting her head to bring it into alignment. “Whoa. That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“Enforcers who aren’t running away. They’re at a corridor intersection, having an argument with some raggedy bum, and there’s a skid next to them with bodies piled on it.”

“Those are probably unfortunates caught in the first swarm.”

“I’m zooming in on it. Monitor A-34. The Enforcers sure look angry. I wonder if...ohmigod.”

“Now what?”

“Miss Sherikov…the bodies…they’re children.”

“Children? Let me see that. Perhaps the shabby fellow is their guardian, and he’s angry with the Enforcers for failing to protect them. Ah, there’s an audio tap nearby. Maybe that will shed some light on what’s happening.”

The Enforcer who seemed to be in charge stood scowling at the ragged man, arms crossed over his chest. Anya and Vicky could hear his gravelly voice now: “I told you, no payment until the end user certifies the goods. Doll-quality is worth four times whatever we have to dump into the labs. We’re not paying top credits for substandard material.”

Anya’s eyes narrowed, and she whispered a curse in Russian.

“That wasn’t the deal.”  The bum jabbed a finger at the Enforcer’s face. “I’m not waiting for some pasty-faced accountant to cull this lot to fit his budget.”

One of the other Enforcers was moving the bodies around on the skid, lifting up arms and legs. “Hey! This one’s got a club foot, Harry!”

“Do tell. I doubt it’s the only one. Forget it, Beadle. You’ll wait ’til the quality check’s complete.”

Vicky turned her seat around and leaned against Anya, arms gently encircling her shoulders. “Doll-quality? Labs? Material? What are they talking about?”

Anya pushed her away. “I need you to go check on John. Make sure he’s integrating properly. I’ll finish up here.”

“He’s fine. Father Sukahara sent me a progress report a few minutes ago. I figure they’re on their third pot of tea by now, which means Milton’s getting the nightingale story in all its painful detail.”

“Check him anyhow.”

“No. I want to know what those Enforcers are up to. The whole situation is sketchy, and you’re avoiding my questions.”

Anya spun around, nose-to-nose with Vicky. “If you don’t leave this instant, Victoria, I will isolate you from the network.”

Vicky backed away, eyes wide. “All right, all right. I’ll go. No need to get violent.”

“I’ll explain everything later. Out!”

Vicky’s avatar vanished, her voice trailing behind. “Just don’t expect me to stop asking.”

Anya returned her attention to the argument on screen. Flesh traffickers. Preying on children. They were usually more discreet. It was the first time she’d caught them in the act—and they’d chosen a singularly poor location for their little spat.

I’m sorry, dear one, but I can’t let you see what happens next.

Anya’s fingers flew across her console. The sphere of monitors was replaced by a single red-tinted display, front and center. With a grim smile, she aligned its flashing reticle on the nearest man.

The Direct Route

Six Fathoms Down, Part 14, by Edward M. Erdelac - 

It seemed to take forever for Gorsh to finish laying out his plans for Considine’s investigation.

It took only a few moments to give the two Avenir Enforcers he was assigned as assistance the slip.

He left them scratching their heads and peering up and down a crowded passageway while he slipped into a gyrovater and instructed it to take him straightaway to Morgenstar Munitions.

“Access to Morgenstar Munitions is granted by appointment only,” the cultured voice of the gyrovater informed him gravely.

He did not slip his ID badge into the access port. Instead he used the one he’d taken off one of Gorsh’s Enforcers.

“Investigative priority,” he told the computer.

“Complying,” the computer responded as the gyrovater thrummed to life beneath his feet and began to whisk him through the various levels of Avenir.

No need for him to leave a digital trail or announce his intentions. Besides, there was probably a lock on his own credentials.

It was only a matter of time before the Avenir Enforcer’s loss of badge would be detected. He left it sitting in the slot, knowing he probably couldn’t use it on the way back anyway.

He exited the gyrovater when the doors spiraled open and found himself in a high-ceilinged, pristine white lobby with smooth silver lines and a plush blue carpet.

He approached the multi-armed service machine at the front desk.

Before the robot had done more than glance up, he had pulled his Enforcer-issue handheld directional EMP flasher. It was intended for deactivating runaway vehicles or circumventing pesky electronic locks, but it knocked out the bot’s central processor with a flick.

“No thanks, I’ll help myself,” he muttered, sliding around the console past the inert robot and calling up the company directory.

Orin Bantry’s name was listed, and if he was wearing his ID badge, he was currently in the southwest cafeteria. A swift glance at the schematics and he had the route memorized.

He’d always been good with maps.

Fingerprints

by Jeff C. Carter

Enforcer Keepagami stood before the St. Christina’s Clinic video wall and watched red handprints blink into existence, swarm and fade like a frenzied school of squid.

“Take me back further,” he said.

Nurse Vuong dialed back the art therapy wall’s timeline, jumping days into the past.  The crimson marks dwindled, crowded out by finger painted beetles, faces and space ships.

“Run it forward.  Stop,” he said.

The first handprint appeared, roughly forced onto the digital canvas in blood red, wavy strokes flaring out from the fingers like tentacles.  Enforcer Keepagami double tapped on the handprint and information blossomed forth.

St. Christina, Smitz.  AKA ‘Smudge’.  No last name on file.  Ward of Avenir.  Committed for pyromania, self mutilation, and violent behavior.  He was the first to draw that handprint symbol, the ‘mark of Rahab’.  Could he have incited the inmates into the bloody riot?  His I.Q. and social skills were non-existent.  Was his simply the spark of madness that ignited a mass psychosis?

“Who was his doctor?”

“Smudge?  His therapist was Dr. Loomis.  But Smudge hated everyone.  He would only talk to Dr. Lev,” the nurse said.

“When can I speak with the doctors?”

Nurse Vuong stared at him, confused. “Dr. Lev went missing during the riot and Dr. Loomis disappeared a week ago,” she said.  “I thought you were trying to find them!”

Enforcer Keepagami rubbed his face to mask his irritation.  He was semi-retired.  He didn’t mind thawing out a cold case now and then for extra income.  This case was still bloody and raw, and he would have to build it from the ground up.

“We’re still gathering info for our investigation.  Can you pull up the video for the day of the riot?”

Nurse Vuong glared at the enforcer and then prodded her control panel.  A renewed look of confusion crept across her face. “It’s gone.  The entire day!” she gasped.

Enforcer Keepagami confirmed it for himself.  A full twenty five hours, deleted.  He closed his eyes and stood motionless for a long moment.

Smudge hardly seemed capable of breaking into the computer and erasing the video, either.  Did he have help from the staff?  The nurse seemed an unlikely suspect.  Where were the doctors?  Dead?  One went missing during the riot.  One vanished only days ago.  Was it connected?  Was there more behind the ‘mark of Rahab’ than the feverish chaos of a broken mind?        

“Enforcer?”  Nurse Vuong rousted him from his meditation.

He opened his eyes and they sparkled with renewed light. “I need personnel records for everyone on staff, including doctors.  I want patient files, therapy recordings, and specs for the clinic,” he said.

Nurse Vuong prodded her control panel. “I can transmit most of the files now.  Some hard copies from the archives will take longer,” she said.  Her shoulders drooped suddenly under an invisible burden.

He realized that she was completely alone.  The clinic had been empty since the riot, leaving her with nothing but grief and survivor’s guilt.

“You will find the doctors, won’t you?” she asked.

Enforcer Keepagami nodded. “I promise to do my best.  I’ll get started looking for them right now.” 

His footsteps echoed in the hollow clinic as he headed towards the morgue. 

Hybrid

by Jeff C. Carter -

Barney Keepagami wriggled his fingers into the soil, searching for the fine thread-like feeder roots of the genetically modified plant.  There were machines that could handle such simple tasks but he liked to dig.  His finger brushed an invisible string and when he closed his eyes he could trace it back, branching like a fractal, to the heart of the plant.  He slowly pulled away the dirt and exposed the tangled roots to the light. 

He grabbed a handful of dry Eclectia soil and packed it around the roots, praying that the plant would not choke on the orange grit.  He hoped that one day these hybrids, part ancient earth plant, part alien plant, would find purchase on the planet below. 

He held up a small pot containing one of the grey alien weeds that clung to the planet’s barren surface.  It was useless for agriculture, yet Barney admired its tenacity.  If mankind hoped to last on Eclectia they could learn much from this dauntless creature.

Barney left the experimental agriculture lab, passing through a series of decontamination chambers.  He finally emerged with a whoosh, stepping into the space station’s massive greenhouse.  He took a deep breath of air and held it, savoring the fresh clean taste that was so rare on Avenir. 

The thick canopy of plants purified the air supply and provided the luxury of fresh food to the lucky few who could afford it.  It was a marvelous system, and Barney knew that the seaweed aquaculture labs of the underwater cities were even more abundant.  Barney dreamed of a future beyond stagnant space stations and dank underwater cities.  He dreamed of a lush and verdant Eclectia, a place where people could cultivate the soil, live off the land and make a real connection with their world.

A whiff of stale air assaulted his nose and he turned around in time to see a tired looking enforcer wander through the indoor forest. “Officer Solorzano?” Barney called.

Solorzano squinted, his eyes unaccustomed to the strange yellow glare of the simulated sun overhead.  He shaded his eyes and spotted Barney. “Barnacle!” He indicated the trees with a nod of his chin. “You call this retirement?  Working as a gardener?”

Barney gave the enforcer a friendly squeeze on the shoulder. “Something like that.  How have you been?”

“I’m beat.  The P.K.’s running us ragged.  The good news is that I can finally throw you some of the overflow.”

 “I’m sorry, but I’ve got my hands full here.  I don’t have the time for a cold case right now.”

Solorzano shook his head. “This one is red hot.  What do you know about the St. Christina’s Riot?”

Barney had seen the news.  The entire affair had been so shocking and aberrant.  So inexplicable.  The investigation was still open.  There were clues out there, answers to be found.  An old stirring welled up inside of him. 

“Not much,” Barney said, “but I’ll do some digging.”

Ceremony

by Joseph H. Ficor

After leaving the elevator, Stotter and Shouhei went to the Governor’s quarters.

The Governor listened to the story told by Stotter—with Shouhei’s attempted execution omitted. After Stotter finished, the bulk of the Governor lifted from behind his desk. He smiled. “Fiko, my boy. You are a credit to the Corps—and especially to me. Now go and see the medics for your shoulder and get some rest. The Major and I have some business to discuss.”

Shouhei got his shoulder fixed and returned to his room and collapsed on his bed. He slept for twelve hours.

He was awakened by a knock on his door. He straightened his uniform as best as he could. Enforcer Second Class Yuri Jao stood at the door.

He was scowling more than usual. This scared Shouhei because Jao was one of the most vocal in his contempt for Shouhei.

“Come on,” Jao shouted. “We need to hurry. You don’t want to miss the ceremony.”

“Excuse me?” Shouhei was still half-asleep and bewildered by Jao’s sudden appearance. “What ceremony?”

Jao sneered. “Your award ceremony.”

#

Shouhei and Jao entered the large auditorium on the fifteenth level. The auditorium was large—three hundred seats. It was usually for live entertainment like plays or—as in this case—pomp and ceremony.

The seats were full of the elites of Carleston’s Cove and Sheba. The Governor’s entire security attachment had been assembled also. The Peacekeepers and Enforcers stood in two neat lines down the aisle leading to the main stage.

Shouhei stood confused and dumbfounded. Jao indicated for Shouhei to go to the main stage by jabbing him in the back.

As Shouhei walked down the aisle, the Enforcers and Peacekeepers saluted him as he passed. The young Enforcer searched for signs of genuine respect in the faces of his comrades, uncertain if he saw any. Peacekeeper Second Level Stalinsky—one of the Peacekeepers who had been standing in the front of the Governor’s office when he first reported for duty—smiled as he passed.

On the main stage were the Governor and Major Stotter.

Shouhei stepped onto the main stage and stood before them.

The Governor grinned, showing all of his teeth. Stotter remained utterly stoic and unreadable. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the hero who not only stopped the piracy of Artimus Rawlings, but also the assassin Jing Laforsé. We are greatly indebted to you Enforcer Fiko.”

Applause thundered in the auditorium. Apparently genuine.

Governor Bokkasa waited for a few minutes before putting his hand up as a signal for the applause to stop so that he could continue. “So it is with great honor that I bestow upon you the silver Avenir for bravery. Congratulations.”

Applause broke forth again as the silver award, in the shape of Avenir Station, was pinned just above Shouhei’s left breast pocket. Shouhei felt his pulse pound at the honor of getting the award. But he couldn’t help but wonder if this was another of the Governor’s little games.

After the applause died down, Bokkasa broke into a long and dry speech entailing duty and honor. Shouhei hardly heard a word. Fear gripped him as he looked at the icy cold face of Stotter. The Major’s words in the docking bay resounded in his mind: “…on Carlston’s Cove: Your life span is equal to your usefulness.”

Shouhei silently—and desperately—prayed for future courage and divine protection. 

Blowout 3: John Law

by Walt Staples

Reichter was conscious of the crowded feeling the four environment suited figures gave the battered, but still expensive looking living room. Before them, a large rectangular hole gaped blackly. With Ceti 94 on the other side of Eclectia, sunfilters were unnecessary, which suited the Investigating Peacekeeper just fine. He liked to be able to watch the eyes of people when he talked with them. This carried over to all his contacts with his fellow man; something that probably explained his lack of second dates. At the moment, he watched the black eyes of the firefighter whose bunker gear displayed the name, “’Dollman’ Takku.” “Okay, Dollman, you were first on the scene, right?” It was a habit of the peacekeeper that he used the first or nickname of the person he talked with. The easy camaraderie had caused more than one slip on the other’s part.

Dollman nodded. “Yes, sir. I was on ‘suited watch’ at the station. So, I got out the door first. ‘Gamecock’ Pelman from 53^rd was my number two coming in.”

“How long did it take you to rig the emergency airlock?”

Dollan grinned. “Took us 38 seconds, sir.”

Stony Oreman, the local Enforcer whistled. “Not too shabby, Ty.”

Dollman’s grin widened and he sketched a mock stage bow. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be appearing all week.”

Reichter made a mental note that the two knew each other. He also agreed that the smoke-eater had reason to be proud. He continued, “And what’s changed since you came in, Dollman?”

“Absolutely nothing, sir—other than us standing here, of course.”

The peacekeeper glanced around. “When did you turn the lights on?”

The firefighter raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t, sir. They were all on when I got here.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the open doors with his hand. “They were all open too, when I got here.”

Yoshi Takai, Reichter’s enforcer, asked, “Why didn’t they close when the window blew out?”

Stony spoke up, “The Cleaner, DuPont, had them overridden.”

“Why’d he do that?”

The local enforcer was short and broad in contrast to Yoshi, who was tall, broad, and blond. Stony was also clean shaven, where Yoshi wore a handlebar mustache. He shook his head. “Don’t know, sir. He was pretty much of a wreck when they took him away. The medicos had to sedate him. Want me to go see him?”

Reichter thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Nope. Guess maybe I’ll take care of that. What I want you to do is work the scene with Yoshi here. I’ve cleared with your peacekeeper.” He turned to the firefighter. “Dollman, you can take off now. Thank you for walking us through this thing. I’ll mention the 38 seconds in my report and when I run into your chief next.”

The smoke-eater grinned. “Thank you, sir.” Reichter watched him go and turned to the two enforcers. “One more thing; get a hold of an engineer and see what he comes up with.”

Stony said, “Jill Forman is on duty. Should I get her?”

The peacekeeper tipped his head and squinted one eye. “No…I think I want someone independent.”

Yoshi looked at him questioningly. “Is there a problem with her?”

Reichter made a face and shook his head. “No, I don’t know her. I just want somebody from outside the system. Something just doesn’t smell right.”

Proposition

by Fred Warren

Smith’s escape route twisted through a maze of corridors, maintenance tunnels, and ventilation shafts—a jumble of vectors pointing, in their summation, downward and inward. Any pursuers not intimately familiar with the bowels of Avenir would become disoriented in short order.

He hoped.

…through this hatch, bypass that one, up the ladder here, onto the catwalk— nearly rusted out; it won’t take many more of these trips—there’s the gap in the deck, mind the edges, ease down and through the structure, hang on a moment, quick drop to the deck below, now move, move, move—don’t slow down, never look back…

Fifteen minutes later, confident he’d left any trailing Enforcers far behind and hopelessly confused, he staggered into a vacant utility alcove and slumped to the greasy floor. Cold, dry air flavored with oil and iron knifed into his lungs and returned to the surrounding atmosphere with an asthmatic wheeze. His temples throbbed, echoing the drumbeat of pain pounding in his chest. One hand brushed his knee, and came away wet and sticky. A shard of metal had slit his trouser leg somewhere along the way and bit into his flesh. He wiped the blood onto his coat-tail, then turned his hand back and forth in the dim light to inspect an angry red laceration on the wrist, left by the cyborg that had caught him picking its master’s pocket.

“You’re losing your touch, mate.”

Smith scrambled to his feet, only to be shoved down hard by a heavy hand on his shoulder. He didn’t need to see the face. The gravelly voice was enough. Wallace Beadle.

The thug bent close enough to reveal a gap-toothed grin with blistered lips framed by three-day’s growth of wiry black stubble. The nauseating odor of decayed insect flesh filled Smith’s nostrils. “Comes of too much time spent wet-nursing the wee foundlings and not enough keeping your edges honed. You never would have gotten pinched like that in the old days.”

“As soon as I catch my breath, Wallace, I’m going to twist your head off. I warned you to stay clear of my territory.”

“Out of shape, too. Tsk, tsk.”

“How did you find me?”

“Silly boy. Nobody knows you better than I do. Every single bolt-hole is a fond memory of our old partnership, those profitable, carefree days before you met dear Ave and went soft in the head. I’d rather focus on the future, though. Your blunder has become my opportunity. I have a proposition for you.”

Smith smiled up at him. “Eat grit.”

“Oh, that’s a fine attitude for a penniless sod who can’t protect himself, much less the dear little tots depending on him for their livelihood. Yes, I know where they’re hiding. And let’s not forget the winsome Miss Kate, all alone, so delicate and vulnerable…”

“You’ve made your point. What do you want?”

“I have a friend in need of your peculiar resources. He has a number of parcels that require, shall we say, discreet handling.”

“I’m no smuggler, Wallace. You should know at least that much about me. You want a delivery boy, press one of your own goons into service.”

“Ah, but there’s the rub. These items demand unobtrusive couriers with a delicate touch. Your poppets displayed remarkable skill in the marketplace today, despite the failings of their ham-handed tutor. We think they’ll do nicely.”

Smith spat at Wallace’s boots. “Never.”

Wallace chuckled and wiped the left boot, then the right, on Smith’s injured leg. “As I expected. Let me introduce my client, so you’ll know I’m in earnest.”

A second figure emerged from the shadows to stand behind Wallace. He was a giant of a man, with a swarthy, scarred face, crooked nose, and deep-set eyes, but Smith’s blood froze when he saw what the big man was wearing.

Peacekeeper blues.

Wake Up Call

by Joseph H. Ficor

Shouhei struggled to stay awake in the elevator as it traveled to the docking bays of Carlston's Cove.

The loud voice—and hands—of Enforcer Second Class Damon Hicks forced him out of his rack only twenty minutes before.

The young Enforcer had just fallen asleep after serving a fourteen hour shift when Hick stormed into Shouhei's quarters. Hicks ordered him to get back into uniform and to bring his sidearm. Peacekeeper Major Mao Stotter, commander of the Governor’s personal security detachment, had personally ordered Hicks and Shouhei to accompany him on an assignment. They were to apprehend a star pilot named Artimus Rawlings.

Rawlings had not paid his station docking fees for several months. He was also suspected of smuggling large amounts of ore from Sheba. Shouhei had heard his name thrown around by the veterans of the security detachment. Rawlings had earned the nickname of “Bakemono.” It was an old Earth word for ghost. He was the given the moniker because he had always managed to avoid being tracked down by the authorities. That is, until now.

“Fiko! Wake up!” Hicks’s booming voice—and sharp slap on the back—jolted Shouhei back into conscious focus.

Even the granite face of the Major winced at the high volume in the small space of the elevator. Shouhei had the feeling that Hicks was more hated by the other members of the detachment than himself.

The elevator stopped, the display showed Docking Bay Five, and the doors opened.

Hick's hand made contact again. “Showtime, Prize Puppy.”

Shouhei swallowed hard and followed the Major and Hicks into the wide space of the docking bay.

Descent

by Travis Perry

The shuttle separated from Avenir, Ernsto’s steady hand guiding the controls. As the vessel pushed away from the station, the commo panel lit red.

“Government shuttle two alpha, this is Avenir Control, please respond.”

Ernsto grimaced before replying. He didn’t know much about spaceship protocols at this level. All his previous experience with Avenir Control had been to the lower cargo levels. “Control, this is two alpha, go ahead.”

“We have no scheduled flight itinerary for your vessel. Please dock at sector four bravo of the station ring until control receives your plan.”

“Sure, sector four bravo. Headed that way.”

He eased the vessel outward to the habitation ring. He actually had no idea where 4B might be relative to where he was, but he had no intention of docking anyway.

“Your current location is sector two,” volunteered control.

Ernsto steered the shuttle to follow the ring clockwise. Soon he passed some one hundred meters over a giant number 3 painted on the gray metal ring encircling the metallic dark shape of Avenir. So four should be next; bravo will be in the middle of the outer edge of the ring.

At 200 kph he hit sector four in less than 30 seconds. He maneuvered the shuttle to the edge of the ring and plunged downward. The alpha docking port at the top of the ring held a cutter with enforcer stripes. The vessel broke free from dock as he passed by and fixed a laser on his ship, a missile-guiding type, flickering spotty red at the rear of his cockpit window.

“Dock now or we will fire!” blared his radio. Ernsto accelerated hard, throwing as much rocket exhaust backward as possible.

Pressed hard into his seat at the four gee acceleration, his back screamed in agony. “Return to dock now or we will fire!” shouted his com system. He shut it off and plunged downward toward the gray skies of Eclectia below.

His anti-collision radar picked up no fewer than four vessels in pursuit, far more than would be expected from a missing flight plan. It seemed Hobson had found him already…

Escape, Part 3

by Travis Perry

In the early morning hours, the holding cell’s lights dim, Ernsto awoke from his thinly padded steel bed to the sound of the cell door opening. He sat up, clutching his single blanket for warmth.

Officer Salzar stood on the other side of the open door, an unknown peacekeeper beside him. “Come on,” said the young officer. “We’re getting you out of here.”

“What…why?”

“I believe Hobson means to kill you. And the angel as well. I don’t think we can keep you safe here, or anywhere else I know of. He’s too well connected and too…powerful.”

As Ernsto stood up and dropped the blanket, he felt the crude bandages on his back sticking to the bright yellow jumpsuit he’d been forced to wear. “I don’t suppose you brought a change of clothes for me?”

“Yes, but not here. We need to move, no talking.”

The two men escorted him out of the Avenir upper brig. For some unknown reason, no other officers were in sight. Through a back corridor they escorted him to a loading dock. A familiar black pressure tank on a robotic wheeled cart waited there. Ah, angel babe, so glad to see you, said his mind. A familiar rush of warmth answered him back.

“On the other side of the airlock is a shuttle, with clothing and some equipment inside,” Salazar said. “You do mean to return the angel to the sea, right?”

“More than anything.”

“Then take her and go.”

“Er…as much as it’s not like me to question good news, won’ this get you in trouble?”

“Possibly. But who knows that the infamous smuggler Ernsto Mons didn’t force his way out? Not that I would ever lie about that. Or anything else. But I hope people draw their own conclusions. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to come back here for trial, after you set the angel free, risk to your life or not?”

“I don’ suppose you’d believe me if I said I would?”

“I don’t believe so,” replied the enforcer with a grin. “Well, don’t think this means I won’t put your face on every enforcer bulletin I can. You’ll be more famous than ever after this—which will make it very tough to sneak anything past anyone ever again. I’d give up smuggling if I were you.”

Before he could answer, the unnamed peacekeeper inserted himself into the conversation. “If it wasn’t for the angel, I wouldn’t do anything for you. If I see you on Avenir again, I’ll shoot you on sight. Understand?” The tall, gray-haired man scrunched his eyebrows together as he spoke, making his menace clear.
“Understood,” he said mildly, some part of his mind surprised that he’d let anyone threaten him without any desire to threaten in return.

Officer Salzar shook his hand before he departed, but the peacekeeper kept glaring at him and warned, “Hobson is still after you. If you don’t keep a low profile, he’ll have you dead within the week.”

“Understood,” he replied again, this time in a whisper.

Within minutes he had changed, astonished to find his coin bag inside his pants pocket. He then powered up the small shuttle, getting ready for the quick flight to Eclectia, the angel in her portable tank behind him.

Escape, Part 1

by Travis Perry -

Each movement brought a spasm of pain to his back and his left ear felt like a hot poker had been shoved inside it. In the angel’s chamber, Ernsto maneuvered the robotic cart carrying the portable pressure tank to the circular lock near the floor, below the transparent wall that physically separated him from the angel.

Two doors entered this room; the one behind him he felt confident was secure—shut tight, its locking mechanism damaged. His left hand held the plasma blaster, covering the door in front of him as his right hand worked the controls to the circular entrance into the angel’s tank.

Waves of comfort and empathetic caring emitted from the angel, reminding him of his grandmother’s touch when he’d been sick as a child, a warm soothing blanket and hot honey tea from her gentle hands, her voice telling him she loved him. The angel’s care probed not only into the suffering of his body, but reached deep into hidden parts of himself, working to soothe the damage he’d done by destroying other men.

The light near the door flickered and he fired on the entryway, a plasma bolt peeling the blue paint on the metal sliding door. Easy, easy, said the warm embrace of the angel’s mind.

He replied, “Babe, the lock’s ready. You needa come out so I can transfer you to this tank, so I can take you back where you came from.” His voice rasped in a whisper, but he knew she understood him. He hadn’t actually needed words at all.

She came out and he physically pulled her from the lock and briefly her body was in his arms, wet and rubbery. Now she suffered the pain of low pressure and his mind clumsily tried to comfort her with it’s okay, it’s okay. But then she was in the portable tank, the lid sealed shut, and the rising water pressure returning her to normal.

At that moment the door snapped open and two enforcers scrambled into the room, plasma pistols raised, shouting, “DROP YOUR WEAPON!” He was ready to kill or die trying—the angel flooded his mind please please please, begging him to stop. His left arm twitched to raise his weapon but he found his hand had let go of it. It dropped to the floor and his heart accepted what the angel wanted. He would allow himself to be captured.

Behind the first enforcers came two others, and then another two. The first pair threw him to the ground and handcuffed his wrists together. They hauled him to his feet and he saw there were now at least ten enforcers in the room and a plainclothes peacekeeper and some firecrew. Among them, in the safety of their numbers, stood Hobson, a triumphant smile on the wizard’s face.

The Trouble With Croix

by Edward M. Erdelac -

“He’s dying,” said the Doctor outside the interrogation room where Croix was sitting peaceably.

Considine wasn’t overly surprised. The man looked almost as if he’d died already. Lung deterioration was a common cause of death to Topsies. They worked half their lives to get out of the poison air only to find it had already killed them long ago. Sometimes the knowledge drove them to a nihilistic kind of crime. It made a kind of sense. He just wished he knew what Considine’s target had been.

“What of? Not his injuries, surely.”

“Without a complete scan I can’t say, but by his symptoms, a multitude of things.”

“A multitude?”

“Pneumonia, syphilis, orange and yellow fevers….”

“What?” Enforcer Brendermyer interjected. “Is he contagious?”

“Oh yeah. But most of the things he’s got we’ve all had inoculations for. The thing is, he should’ve had them too prior to entering the city.”

“Couldn’t he have slipped the requirements?”

“Not on your life. The Zirconia Medical Bureau is extremely tough on topsy immigration. Even the crooks don’t bypass the physical requirements. Nobody wants some nasty bug bite disease running rampant in Zironia. Could deep six the whole population.”

“How could he have contracted multiple viral infections?” Considine wondered aloud.

“I don’t know,” admitted the doctor. “I’m going to have to request that he submit to a full scan back at the Medical Bureau before I release him to psychiatric care. I’ve got to catalog all he’s got, make sure he’s safe to move.”

“He’s not going to psych. The Peace Council’s requested he be extradited to Avenir.”

“Well he’s not going anywhere till he’s released medically.”

“Alright, Doctor. Can you arrange transport?”

“I’ve already alerted the ZMB. They’re sending a haz-mat team to bubblewrap him and take him back.”

“Fine.” He would have to tell Gorsh Croix wouldn’t be ready in two hours.

Considine looked through the porthole in the door at Croix. The man smiled at him, a little wearily, but still present of mind.

“Could his condition affect his mind, Doctor?”

“Definitely.”

“Will you alert me once the scan’s complete?”

“Sure thing.”

Jelly came tromping down the corridor in his Enforcer gear.

“Hey Inspector, that freight jockey’s gone through the personnel pix from Morgenstar, says she thinks she’s got a match.

“Thank you, Jelly,” Considine said, going off toward the room they’d left her in.

“Hey Inspector!” Brendermyer called.

“What?”

“The club! My gig! Can I go or what?”

“Once the ZMB comes and picks him up, and as long as the Doctor checks you out, it’s alright with me.”

“I’m not gonna have time to change out of all this crap,” he said, gesturing to his tactical wear.

Considine shrugged.

“Maybe it’ll improve your act. Make it a gimmick. Brendermyer: The Laughing Enforcer.”

Jelly at least, chuckled.

High Country - Gubee: Griper's Clinch

by Walt Staples -


Delbert Meeks couldn’t see them, but he could feel the eyes. He knew they’d been watching since he’d landed the hopper. He surveyed the settlement, Griper’s Clinch—nothing extraordinary, just the usual High Country village one would expect to see up on one of Eclectia’s plateaus. The enforcer snugged his ash mask as he took inventory; a couple churches, three—maybe four—taverns, a Palmer Company trading post, and six houses—two prefabs and the rest “hobbit-holes.” He decided to set out for the trading post first, figuring that the Palmer employees, or at least the factor, probably wouldn’t be locals.

A small bell tinkled cheerily as he pushed open the inner door of the trading post’s ash porch. A fat, red faced, redheaded man bustled from a back room and called out heartily, “Yes, sir, and what can we do for—“ He stopped short as his eye fell on the star on the rawboned visitor’s chest. He swallowed and spoke the eternal enforcer greeting, “Is there anything wrong, Enforcer?”

Meeks unhooked his mask and regarded the man from a pair of cool, colorless eyes. “You the factor?” When the other nodded, he continued, “Meeks. I’m investigating Fitzroy’s death.”

The factor relaxed. “Help you any way I can, Enforcer. Valentine Choker.” He cocked his head. “Something to drink?”

“Do you have some coffee?”

Choker grinned ruefully as he shook his head. “Too rich for people’s blood around here. Got some tea made.”

“That’ll do, thank you.”

The factor ushered Meeks to a rough table and returned with a tea-cozy encased kettle and a pair of large cups emblazoned with the Palmer Company’s rampant stag beetle. After they raised their cups to each other, blew on the tea, and sipped, Meeks got down to business, “I figured I’d start with you since, by your accent, you’re not local.”

Choker smiled, “And being an outsider, I’m more likely not to have a cricket in the fight.” He chuckled. “Yeah, makes sense. I’m from Christchurch. Three more years and I get a bigger posting.”

“Pretty rough, huh?”

The factor took a sip and looked thoughtful. “Well, the people aren’t bad—in fact they’re a pretty nice lot, to tell the truth. I like them. No, more the loneliness and boredom. I see the same twenty-some people day in and day out. They’re good people, like I say, but I’ve nothing really in common with them.”

“How about Fitzroy?”

Choker shook his head with a smile that was more a grimace. “Brandon Dawkens Fitzroy was a real piece of work.”

“How so?”

“He had the ability to tick off every person he met, at least here. I suspect, after the doctor slapped him, his mother probably hauled off and swatted him just on general principles. One majorly dislike-able man, the Administrator.”

Meeks empted his cup and extended it for a refill. “What’d he do?”

Choker did the honors. “He was going to fix things. Make things work better. Even when the things weren’t broke. He was pestering everybody. Telling 60-year-old bugherds how to milk bugs, where to pasture them, what to do about Ladybirds. Wouldn’t have been so bad, but it was stuff they’d tried years ago and found didn’t work. Got so’s people quit going to church just to avoid him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every Sunday, he’s up trying to tell Reverend Charles over at the Methodists the proper way to preach and pointing out mistakes with his theology.”

Meeks quirked one corner of his mouth in an almost smile. “He was Methodist, then?”

The fat man shook his head. “Not that I know. Wasn’t a Catholic either. Father Arnwulf shoved him out St. Boniface’s door; probably would have picked him and thrown him off the front porch if his Bible hadn’t grabbed him and held him.” He shrugged. “Near as I could tell, the Administrator wasn’t much of anything. At least he seemed to always have a sneer when such things came up in talk.”

“So, he made enemies,” Meeks observed idly.

Choker threw back his head and laughed. “That trail’s going nowhere, Enforcer. While Fitzroy was meeting his maker, Father Arnwulf was dying and his Bible, Ignatius Paul, was nursing him.”

“What’d he die of?”

The factor shrugged once more. “Ash Lung, like most. And before you ask, Reverend Charles and I were carrying supplies over to the rectory for them.”

Meeks cocked his head. “Rectory? I only saw the Administrator’s prefab and the one next to the—I guess—Methodist church?”

Choker took a last sip of his tea. “The Catholics use the nearest hobbit-hole to their church as a rectory.”

“Who lives in the others?”

“Other than Dad Gesler, nobody at the moment. They’re usually used during marketing and shipment by the buyers and the flight control crew. All the bugherds and their families generally stay at the taverns.” He shook the kettle and set it down.

Meeks set his half-filled cup on the table and slowly rotated it with the tips of his fingers. “So if the clergymen and you didn’t kill him, how did Fitzroy die?”

“Accident—like we reported.”

The enforcer leaned across the table. “What kind of accident?”

The factor sighed and spoke as one not expecting to be believed, “Fitzroy, in spite of warning from just about everyone he came in contact with, went down Wazzo’s Gulch and the Gubee got him.”

“The Gubee?” Meeks voice was flat. “What’s that?”

Choker looked down, then back up at him. “I don’t know. None of us do. People go down that collapsed lava tube and just die. In ones, twos—hell, the five Sullivan brothers and their uncle Mort went down and something killed the lot.”

“Why did Fitzroy go in there?”

The other shook his head. “No one knows.” He paused, then grinned sourly. “Or…will admit that they know.”

“Uh-huh.” Meeks looked the other in the eye. “So, how did you recover the body?”

The redhead returned the taller man’s look steadily. “We used the rescue drone. Nobody flesh and blood goes down in there anymore. At least, not anybody intelligent.”

Meeks changed the subject. “What’s Gesler like?”

The factor snorted. “Dad? Enforcer, if anyone around here will tell you the truth about anything, it going to be Dad. Man’s a buzz saw.”

“How so?”

The Palmer Company man grinned. “Couldn’t care less where the chips land.”

Prize Puppy

by Joseph H. Ficor -

The Governor gave Shouhei many trivial errands to run, mostly taking things to the other aristocrats of Carlston's Cove. Everyone praised Shouhei for being so favored by the Governor. The young man's discipline was pushed to its maximum tolerances every time he heard a greater-than-thou exclaim “Here is the symbol of Bokassa's benevolence” or “Here is the epitome of rich charity.”

The other members of the security detachment chose to call him the “prize puppy.”

His “cuteness” began wearing off after a month on board the station. The Governor and other higher ups started showing disdain and boredom when he came around on official business.

Fear seized him when an Enforcer Second Class shouted at him as he passed a guard station on the Governor’s level, “Hey, prize puppy! You're going to play with the big dogs soon.”

His soul forecasted ill times ahead.

Stony’s World: Apocalypse Preempted

by Walt Staples -

Bishop Cosgrove stared into the mirror as he shaved off his signature split beard. “Tommy, you must understand, I’m not doing this for me, but for all the others.”

Tommy Rathman looked at the man he had followed for the last several years in confusion. “But why, Bishop? Why just disappear? I mean, yeah, the prophecy was wrong, but—“

The leader of His Love Fellowship cut him off. “Tommy! I wasn’t wrong! The prophecy wasn’t wrong!” He swallowed, smiled, and continued, “The calculations were incorrect; that’s all.” He turned back to the mirror. “After all, God’s time isn’t our time.”

“But why should we have to run away?”

Bishop Cosgrove glanced at him, then back to the mirror. “We’re not running away. We’re merely…taking a hiatus.”

“We’re still leaving Avenir. We’re still going out to the ice stations without telling anybody.”

The newly shorn bishop turned and placed his hands on Tommy’s shoulders. “Look. Tommy. It would be devastating to the belief of my flock…our flock, if everyone saw that the faithful had not been assumed into heaven.” He thought for a moment and continued, “Now, probably most have been. It’s just not noticeable in the population because so few follow the true path—my path—our path.”

“But—“ Tommy began to protest.

Bishop Cosgrove released his left shoulder to raise an index finger. “Now, hear me out. For some of us, the time apparently isn’t right. For you and others it may be that more preparation is needed on your part. For me, I’m afraid that I must stay in this realm to continue preparing more to receive their reward, as much as I wish His plan was different and I could leave this world of travail. But, one must make sacrifices and die to oneself if one is to faithfully follow the Spirit.” Bishop Cosgrove dropped his hands and turned brisk as he pulled on a top, “Okay, the ship for Ice Station Zebra departs Lloyd Line’s docking station L2 at 23:00. Now, that’s on deck 18.” Rather than his usual fuschia clericals and collar, he dressed in a nondescript workman’s travel suit. “Be there with only one carryon at least thirty minutes before to go through boarding. Remember, just what you can carry in one piece. Leave everything else behind—in fact, it would be best if nothing looks missing.” He flashed Tommy loving grin. “I’ll see you tonight—remember, 22:30 or so, Lloyd L2.” He left the suite.

#

Tommy wandered down the main community corridor in a fog. Was this real? Was the prophecy false? Was Bishop Cosgrove a liar? He shied away from the next question in the sequence--is God a lie?

He noticed he was outside a church. The sign read “1st Baptist of Avenir.” On impulse, he went in. The church was empty and quiet. He sat in a pew near the door. What should he do now? He thought about his options. He could be at the docking station tonight and go with Bishop Cosgrove and the others and—what? Live a lie the rest of his life? Try to find a job and put up with the derision of everybody for the rest of his life? Or just end everything and cut his pain short?

A hand was on his shoulder and a friendly voice asked, “Need an ear?”

Tommy turned and found himself facing a man with a gentle smile. After a moment, he recognized the man. He was the enforcer who lived down his residence corridor, Stony Oreman. Instead of his gray uniform, he was dressed casually in a wildly patterned luau shirt. He asked the enforcer, “Is there something wrong, Enforcer?”

Oreman grinned. “Not that I know of. I’m off duty and you don’t appear to be in commission of a crime. No, you just looked like you needed to talk to somebody.”

“Do you go to church here?”

The other shook his head. “No, actually I go to Calvary United Methodist. But this one is closest to my apartment. I come here to think sometimes because it’s usually quiet on weekdays.” The burly enforcer grinned again. “With a wife and five kids, you appreciate quiet sometimes.” He turned serious. “Now, want to talk? I listen pretty good.”

Tommy regarded him for a minute or two. He shrugged--what did it matter? “I think somebody lied to me.”

The enforcer’s expression was mild. “The prophecy?”

“Yeah. You heard?” Tommy looked down in shame as he waited for the laughter.

Stony nodded, “Yeah, it was hard to miss with it splashed over the media for the last couple of months.”

Still looking at the floor, Tommy shook his head. “I just don’t know what to do.”

Stony leaned back and interlaced his fingers in his lap. “Well…basically you pull up your socks and get on with your life.”

Tommy smiled bitterly. “Easy for you to say. You’re not going to be laughed at for the rest of your life.”

Stony put his interlaced hands behind his head and grinned. “What? You’re the first person in history to screw up royally?” He shook his head. “Son, you ain’t the first and you certainly ain’t going to be the last. No, everybody manages to do it at sometime or other. Most of us more than once.” He dropped his hands to the back of the pew on either side of him. “As far as the laughter, yeah, you’re going to have to put up with it for a little while. But pretty soon, people’ll be chasing after the next wonder, and the only ones bringing it up will be the jerks, and like the poor, we’ll have them with us always. The big thing is to learn from your mistakes.” He laughed. “And I must have a doctorate, I’ve made so many.”

Tommy sighed. “I can’t believe the fool I made of myself.”

Stony tipped his head to the side. “Oh, you had a lot of help doing it. So did a lot of others.” He leaned forward. “Look, the trick is to not fall for the same thing twice. If it’s a matter of religion, I’ve found the best thing is to go back and look at the original manual.”

“What? The Bible?”

Stony shrugged. “Whichever one matches your beliefs, Bible, Torah, Bhagavad Gita—whichever. In this case, I think, ‘But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father only,’ covers the situation pretty well.”

“He and a bunch of the others are leaving tonight.”

The enforcer smiled. “The Bishop and his coterie? Yeah, we know about them beating feet for the Oort Cloud. They’ve broken no laws that we know of, and the creditors will be taken care of. The Law has no interest in him or his flock.” He looked at his watch. “Well, the wife should have dinner about ready, if the kids let her. Why don’t you come along? There’s an extra chair.”

Customs

by Travis Perry -

Ernsto fidgeted in the line. He remembered when moving goods up to Avenir used to be a lot easier. But then the Anti-smuggling Acts had been published...

The pressure tank next to him, roughly the size and shape of a coffin, but rounded and made of burnished steel, was mounted on a robotized wheel cart. The line he stood in was for commercial passengers with oversized luggage.

Some part of his brain picked at the word “CUSTOMS,” which had been newly embroidered in bright letters across the armbands of the enforcers standing in this designated section of Zirconia’s upper deck. Somebody must’ve pulled that out of an ancient dictionary somewhere. The word meant nothing to him.

“Next!” said the voice and he stepped forward, the robot cart following him with the tank as he’d programmed it to do. “Papers please,” said the man in his sharp new black-and-white uniform.

“Sure,” said Ernsto, handing over actual printed paper, not digital, not bugshell, supplied to him through a contact of his wizard benefactor in Avenir. The enforcer’s eyes widened at this rare form of official documentation.

“Well, sir,” he said, “All is very much in order…you may proceed.”

“Hold it, Smit!” barked the supervising peacekeeper, stepping toward them. He was not in any kind of uniform, but his badge hung prominently from his belt.

The peacekeeper snatched the papers out of his subordinate’s hand. “Gabril Jons, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Ernsto, attempting a smile.

The man evaluated him from his toes up to his face. “You look a lot like the image capture I’ve seen on that smuggler Ernsto Mons.” He glared straight into his eyes, looking for any sign of inappropriate response.

“I’ve heard people tell me that a time or two before,” he muttered. “Can’t say as I like it bein’ accused of criminal activity. I’m Gabril Jons, general merchant, just like the papers say.”

“I think you and your cargo need to be scanned,” said the peacekeeper.

Of course, that would never do. The scan would reveal the presence of the angel in the tank, illegal to transport. And it would also show the weapons hidden under the loose merchant’s shirt Ernsto wore.

“The papers don’t allow that.” He enunciated carefully, “This cargo may not be exposed any extreme form of magnetism or ionizing radiation. This is a special delivery to Wizard Hobson in Avenir and has been pre-inspected. Just as the papers say.” Even as he spoke he was calculating. The peacekeeper and enforcer near him he could kill before they’d realized he had hidden weapons. But the two behind would have time to react, to maybe pull an alarm of some kind, if not actually fire back. And there were more enforcers at the scanning station and the commercial shuttle itself, along with surveillance devices. Plus plenty more on the upper decks of Zirconia. His chances of escaping them all seemed slim, no matter how many he killed.

But he’d known “Forcers” his entire life—he’d known from experience that many of them joined up just to boss others around, to make themselves feel powerful. When given the chance, they could be cruel beyond belief. He was not about to fall into the hands of those dregs—he’d rather die first.

That wizard said it was all arranged! He was angry at the old man. And with himself for having trusted anyone.

The needle gun in his sleeve he’d set up to fire by orienting his arm and squeezing his armpit just so. He turned to the peacekeeper, arm in place, ready to kill. “But officer—”

And then a powerful emotion swept over him, interrupting his plan in motion. It was a deep calmness, slapping away his rage with a shocking coolness, like getting hit on the shore with a sudden surge of the ocean. He gasped.

It showed in the eyes of the lawmen that they felt it, too. Deep, sudden calmness. They probably didn’t know where it had come from, but he knew. He recognized the presence behind it. It was the angel in the pressure tank—she had sent this emotion.

The peacekeeper, calmed and perhaps beyond that, perhaps influenced somehow, took a second look at his high-class forged papers. “I’m…I’m sorry to trouble you, sir. Officer Smit was right. Everything is in order. Please proceed.”

As Ernsto moved forward toward the Avenir-bound shuttle, he wondered why in the name of all Holy-in-the-sea-below-and-the-stars-above would that angel do that for him. Why did she save my life?

Extraction

by Ed Erdelac -

Inspector Considine called the team in at 0300.

Considine had traced the illegal sale of some mining explosives to an ex-grit-breather named Croix, but somebody had tipped him off and he was barricaded in his cabin with the stuff, threatening to blow the entire southeast habitation ring into the Boatic Trench if he wasn’t given safe passage to Avenir.

There was a negotiator cooing at him like a babe through his door com, but Croix sure as hell wasn’t going to Avenir.

At 0305 as he laid out his demands, the Enforcers had suited up on the north end of Zirconia. Haj began passing out standard-issue GTL’s and pneumatic pistols, but Wilfort pointed out Croix’s cabin pod on the outer edge of the habitation ring and laid out the standard extraction plan. No need for hardware, but Haj was trigger happy and brought his pneumatic along anyway.

At 0310 Croix and the negotiator were arguing over the details of the shuttle that would take him up to Avenir. He wanted to pick the pilot himself from the duty roster. At the same time, the team was already wet, gripping the handlebars of a six-man sea-sled and puttering the long way around the city. Haj spotted an angel, a bioluminescent ghost stroking its way across the blue-black. He tried to take a shot at it, but Galveston, the pilot, warned him not to, and backed the warning with a meaningful tap on the diving knife on his belt. He was the only believer on the team—Jelly, they called him—short for Jelly Roller, the name some called the ones who attributed divinity to the angels.

At 3:17 Croix had the duty roster and was combing it for a name he knew. The team had ditched the sea-sled and cut their external suit lights, freefalling to the habitation ring, being careful not to bang their equipment against the hull. They hand over fisted their way to Croix’s outer shell connection joints and broke out their ratchets.

At 3:19 Croix selected Arden Pacoy as his getaway pilot. Considine made a mental note to nab Pacoy for questioning and checked his watch while the negotiator assured Croix his shuttle had been scrambled on floating launchpad B and was just about fueled and ready.

3:20 Croix was pacing his cabin, getting impatient. The team could see him through the portholes, a wiry, unshaven man with the terminally dirty, red-eyed look of a grit-breather. He hadn’t lived in Zirconia long enough to shake the look yet, long enough to know about the emergency surfacing apparatus installed in every habitation pod. The automatic release controls were on the wall beside Croix’s bunk, hid by a gaudy antique hula girl lamp. In the event of some catastrophe, the controls blew the explosive bolts that held the inner titanium pod in place, and the air-filled sphere would shoot to the surface like an inflatable toy. Of course, the ride wasn’t a smooth one by any means. It was fast and dangerous and survival wasn’t even guaranteed. Even if you lived through the ascent, you still had to get to a hyperbaric chamber or your blood would bubble up in your veins. The team was doing it the old fashioned way, from the outside. They’d bypassed the safety casings and were halfway through loosening the shell bolts. Brendermeyer was moonlighting as a comic in the Starboard Bar. He started to tell a joke about how many grit-breathers it took to empty a CO2 scrubber, but the punchline was lost at 3:22.

3:22. Croix asked the negotiator if Pacoy was ready to go yet, but received no answer. Considine and the negotiator had retreated beyond the emergency airlock in the outer hall and sealed it. The team popped the last of the bolts and Croix’s buoyant cabin was released from the outer hull container. The lights in Croix’s cabin turned red and the air inside lifted it away from the rest of the ring.

“Thar she blows,” said Brendermeyer over the team’s inter-suit com as the silvery sphere of the inner cabin rocketed away from the rusty outer hull and went tumbling end over end surface-ward.

Croix was tossed and shaken like a shoe in a clothes dryer. He’d be too battered and bloody to remember his own name, much less trigger the twelve pounds of HE detonite the Peacekeepers found in the shambles of his cabin when it bobbed to the surface approximately five seconds after the team had launched it.

Considine flicked the purple stub of a cigarette off the bobbing submersible and watched the cyanotine ash mingle with its distant relatives already drifting in the hot air. The medics carried Croix below. In about two hours he’d have words with the skinny grit-breather, when he’d been released from the decompression chamber.

For now there was Arden Pacoy to talk to.

Charity

by Joseph H. Ficor -

The Enforcer at the checkpoint, just off the elevator, at Upper Level Six smiled after he cleared Shouhei for entry.

“We’ve been expecting you.” He said while maintaining that ominous smile.

Shouhei just said, “Thank you,” as he passed the still-smiling Enforcer.

The orders that had been printed out at the checkpoint stated that he was to proceed to Stateroom 14. He was there in five minutes.

Two guards, both Peacekeeper Level Twos, stood on either side of the door leading into the stateroom. They wore immaculate navy blue uniforms with white berets and broad white sashes extending from their left shoulders to their right waists.

Shouhei saluted and the salute was returned. The PKL2 on Shouhei’s right inserted Shouhei’s ID card into a portable reader. He showed it to the other PKL2 who just grunted and mumbled something about Shouhei being the one.

The ID card was returned to Shouhei. The door opened and Shouhei entered a large office with white walls and red carpeting. Many abstract paintings hung neatly on the wall. A large luxurious desk made of smoothed Zirconian black coral stood four meters in front of the young Enforcer.

A large man with skin as dark as the desk and wearing a robe of bright orange and red came from behind the desk and greeted Shouhei.

“Welcome,” the man bellowed, “Enforcer Third Class Fiko! I have been looking forward to meeting you for a few months now.”

Shouhei’s training brought him back to his place. He straightened and saluted, but his face betrayed his confusion at the Governor’s greeting.

The Governor just smiled. “My boy, I can see that you do not understand that I’m your benefactor.”

Shouhei’s face betrayed more confusion.

“I am your sponsor. I chose you from the dregs of Adagio to become an Enforcer. You are my act of charity.”

“I’m sorry sir. But I don’t understand. I thought that I was accepted because of my scores on the entrance exam.”

“Don’t be silly,” the Governor said, and laughed. “The test was just a formality. You were already in by my word. You see, I had a small wager with some of the members of my club that I could choose anyone from that waste on Eclectia and sponsor him through the Enforcers. They doubted me, but you proved them wrong…”

Each of Governor’s words was like the beating of a hammer driving a spike into Shouhei’s heart.

“…and my boy, you paid handsomely—two platinums. So I’ve decided as a special reward to make you a member of my personal security detachment. What do you think about that?”

Professionalism—and his faith—prevented him from expressing the words.

In Plain Sight

by Walt Staples -

A shiver ran down Reichter’s spine. The great ship was too quiet. With his visor open, the investigating peacekeeper not only heard his own breathing but that of his enforcers, Cooper and Takai. He considered telling Cooper to stop the whistling; he’d been driving the theme to “For a Few More Credits” into the deck since they boarded the liner. Before he could form the words, Takai spoke up, “Coop? Will you stop whistling that? Or at least change the tune.” The outburst was uncharacteristic of the blond giant. Reichter suspected the silence was giving him the creeps too.

“Sorry, Yoshi.” He fell silent. It was rare that the small, dark man didn’t argue.

Reichter came to a decision. “Coop, Yoshi, if you want to, go ahead and turn your internal channels to some music, but keep it low. Turn up the gain on your external mikes; that should let you hear any faint sounds over the music.”

Both nodded and made the adjustments. The notes of the first movement of Raif Von’s “In the Fens” quietly purred in his ear as he followed his own order.

He mentally ticked off what they had. One--lights, atmosphere, gravity, but no ship’s A.I. Two--Avenir Control’s last sailing for the liner was fifteen standard years ago. Three--no cargo manifest or passenger list because it was recertified as a private yacht. Four--the owner and a large number of friends had not been heard from in at least twelve standard years. And five—the biggie—no bodies so far.

They stepped out on a balcony over the promenade deck with its huge pool. Takai remarked, “That’s odd.”

Cooper looked at him. “What’s odd?”

The big man gestured at the pool below. “Most people paint their pools some shade of blue, not purple.”

The other enforcer shrugged. “Maybe it went better with his complexion.” He turned to their superior. “What now, sir?”

Reichter glanced around the balcony, then at the deck below. “Coop, you go down and start checking the promenade. Yoshi and I’ll check these couple of staterooms,” he nodded toward the doors lining the balcony, “then we come down and help you.”

“Yes, sir.” He turned to the grand stairway. As usual, Cooper ran his mouth. “Pretty impressive. I wonder how many credits the guy was pulling down and whose grandmother’s secret he was keeping.” Reichter listened with half an ear as he pressed buttons to dilate the doors, occasionally needing to use the pass-pad built into his gloves’ index fingers. “Whu-wee! Stinks down here and I ain’t even at the bottom yet.”

Takai’s voice sounded in Reichter’s earphones, “What’s it smell like, Coop?”

“Like our compartment the morning after you had tacos. Like an egg gone evil. I—“ There followed a rattling crash.

Reichter called out, “Cooper! Cooper! Report!” He grabbed Takai’s tool belt as the enforcer rushed by. “No! Yoshi, stop!” The peacekeeper’s use of his command voice halted Takai. He stood impatiently as his superior hooked a safety line from the peacekeeper’s belt reel to his belt’s carabiner. “Okay, you lead.” Reichter drew his sidearm. “I’ll cover you.”

“Yes, sir.”

They began to descend the stairway. Cooper lay in a heap at the bottom. A red light on the back of his helmet blinked. “Dead light’s on,” Takai observed matter-of-factly. Reichter knew it was taking all of the big man’s willpower to stay professional. He knew from his own experience, the tears would come later.

“Yep.”

Takai coughed about the time the stink hit Reichter’s nose. The peacekeeper grabbed the banister with his free hand and yelled as he hung on, “Yoshi! Up, up! Come back up the stairs!”

The enforcer’s voice was slurred as he spoke between coughs, “It’s okay. The smell’s gone. I…I smell sweet—“

Reichter dropped the side arm and caught hold of the safety line. He pulled mightily and surged up the steps dragging the bigger man. “Get up the stairs, Yoshi! That’s an order!” Takai stumbled along behind. At the top of the stairs, he sat heavily, coughing as tears and mucus ran down his face.

Reichter breathed in and out swiftly, hyperventilating slightly as he flushed his lungs. He leaned over Takai and checked his readouts. “Blood Oxygen,” “Heart Rate,” and “Blood Pressure” were at the lower end of the green, but rising. “Oxygen Intake” went from yellow to green as he asked, “You feeling better, son?”

The younger man wiped at his blond handlebar mustache as he asked, “What happened?”

The peacekeeper’s face was grim. “Something hiding in plain sight and I didn’t think of it.” He put a hand on the enforcer’s shoulder. “Are you okay, now?”

Takai nodded. “I…I think so, sir.”

Reichter unclipped the safety line from his reel from the enforcer’s rig. He then took a line from Takai’s belt reel and hooked it to his own carabiner. “Okay, Yoshi, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to go down and get Coop. When I’ve got him secured to my line, you’ll pull me up while I pull his up. Understand?”

Takai nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The peacekeeper smiled at him. “Good. Okay, now you just sit there and rest until I get him hooked up. Then I’ll give you the high-sign.”

Reichter berated himself as he turned and did what he should have done in the first place—he closed his visor and went on internal atmosphere. He set his sniffer so as to confirm the element he knew he would find below.

#

Takai broke the silence on the cruiser’s bridge as they headed back to Avenir, “Sir, it wasn’t your fault.”

Reichter smiled sourly. “I doubt, Yoshi, the council will agree with that opinion when we get back to the Cop-Shop. But, thank you all the same.”

The enforcer shook his head. “Hydrogen sulfide. Where did it come from, sir?”

“That fancy fish pond on the promenade deck. It was a swimming pool when the liner was in service. Apparently, the new owner decided to turn it into a huge koi pond. After the circulation stopped when the A.I. packed up, things died in it and it turned stagnant. Eventually, anaerobic bacteria had a field day and the hydrogen sulfide was the result. That purple color of the pool was the little critters themselves.”

“So the gas killed the people?”

The peacekeeper tilted his head and squinted an eye as he considered. “No, probably not. Water recycling shut down with the A.I. The only food left I found was dry stores. I suppose they tried drinking from the pool; that probably did a number in. It must have been very bad for the last ones--there’s all that water sitting there in plain sight, but they know it’ll poison them. That’s probably why they were huddled in the promenade staterooms.” He fingered his beard as he gazed into space. “Yep, in plain sight.”