High Country 3--Penance

by Walt Staples -

“You realize of course, they’ll all think I bought my way back in,” Torn Herdmaster Morgan’s tone was bitter.

Father Mack looked at him with unconcern. “Do you really think people are going to seriously believe that, should the Archbishop lift the Interdict? Archbishop Siegfried Nicholas? ‘Nick the Dragon Slayer?’ Simony?”

The hawk-faced man rolled that thought around for a moment. He gusted out a breath and shook his head. “Nay. ‘Tis truth. The lizard killer wouldn’t. He’d strike off the hand that bears his ring first.” He settled himself to bargain. “How much?”

The pastor leaned back in his chair and interlaced his nine fingers over his ample belly. The stub of his right middle finger, a souvenir of a miscue involving a rope and a beetle in younger days, marred their symmetry. “First, there is the matter of repentance. You are sorry for what you have done, and what you allowed your family to do?”

“And if I told you I nay give a fig?”

Father Mack tilted his head, raised his eyebrows, and regarded the Crucifix on the wall behind the herdmaster. “I would say that you were most likely speaking God’s simple truth, Morgan.” He paused. “But it’s not that simple is it?”

The other looked down at his unconsciously clinched hands. “Nay,” he whispered. “It nay be that simple.” He looked back up to meet the priest’s eye. “My sister’s third, the thoughtful one, cries every Sunday morning because he can’t serve at Mass. My daughter and my wife speak not to me because she can’t marry Cricket Bree’s Donald.” He snorted and grinned ruefully. “To think, a man could come to miss the wagging of women’s tongues.” His voice dropped back to a whisper. “And the look I get from the herdmaster of Cricket Bree. I walk into the tavern or Palmer’s and he and his family walk out. They say nay word, but the look...”

The Pastor of Bugtussle leaned forward and asked gently, “But, are you sorry, Morgan?”

The herdmaster sat upright and raised his eyebrows, gripping the arms of his chair. “Oh, aye. I’m sorry. I’m most sorry the Archbishop placed my family under Interdict.” He frowned. “To nay receive Communion. To nay be married within the Church. To nay have our little ones baptized--”

“That is a lie, Morgan,” Father Mack suddenly flared. “They are baptized...the Christening is not celebrated.”

The herdmaster regarded him for a moment, then inclined his head. “Aye, I spoke out of turn. They can get into Heaven.” He took a deep breath. “What is to be done, then?”

The pastor looked at him and thought for several minutes. He came to a conclusion. “Perfect penance requires perfect contrition. Without it, there is no forgiveness. Morgan, you are an evil man in that you have done evil and have not repented of it. You are in a state of sin. But...I will grant that you are also a truthful man. Hypocrisy is one sin I doubt I’ll ever hear of you in Confession.” He rose to his feet. “I will inform his Grace that, while you fail to express perfect contrition, the rest of Family Torn does indeed. I will advise that the Interdict be lifted from your family, but that you, Morgan, remain under it.”

Torn Herdmaster Morgan also stood. He tilted his head and looked at Father Mack for a moment, then said. “Aye, it is a fair decision. That’s all that I could ask. Now, how much?”

The pastor placed his hands within the sleeves of his black habit. “For each member of Family Torn, one rosary a day for those in need, by those of age, until the Feast of Saint Chuck de Yeager. Whether you pray it is, of course, optional. Also, you will provide funds to those who are in need of help when I will inform you from time to time.”

The other smiled grimly. “Your slush-fund.”

“My holy slush-fund. I used some recently to pay the way for a family to be present at their son’s Publication on Sheba, at the Abbey of Jerome.

“Now, we’ve some catching up to do. I’ll announce the first banns for Donald and Katta this Sunday. And tell your nephew, Oskar, I want him in the Sacristy an hour before Mass—mind you, one hour. I do not appreciate a server who’s still puffing so hard he splatters candle wax in all directions. Also, I think Monday, we’ll celebrate that suspended funeral Mass for your Aunt Edna.”

The herdmaster brightened. “Good, maybe then she’ll let off caterwauling in my bedchamber every night and I can get some sleep.”

Father Mack stopped and looked Morgan in the eye. “You do realize that you may not take part in the wedding so long as you are under Interdict?”

Morgan looked at the floor. “Yes, I know, Father.”

The pastor nodded once. “Good, we understand each other. I’ll show you out.” As they crossed the rear of Our Lady of Bugtussle, Father Mack stopped, pointed toward the altar, and said in a conversational manner, “You know, there’s a slit in that hanging behind the Crucifix that I’ve got to mend one of these days when I get around to it. If a person were to stand behind it, they could see everything that goes on without actually being in the body of the church.”

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.”

Blowout: A Breath of Fresh Vacuum

by Walt Staples

While many women wore tiger stripes, Emily Shore was one of the few who wore their hair in that fashion so naturally as to not arouse notice. What did arouse notice and comment was the way she moved when in a hurry or on a mission. Many likened it to that a house cat, though only because few were aware of the genus of extinct large Felidae named Panthera. In the present case, she was both in a hurry and on a mission.

Myron DuPont took a drink from the bottle of soft drink he kept on his cleaning cart. He paced himself. 231 was finished. A break of a minute or two, then 233. The other side of the corridor was done. Four more and he’d be done for the day. That was the trick, pacing oneself. He capped the bottle and set it back on the cart. He glanced up and smiled as the lady from 233 hurried down the hall. While they had never really spoken to each other, the apartment’s resident always smiled if she happened to pass. This time was different as the tall, austere women with the tiger stripes stopped and held out a hand. “Give me your master pass.”

Myron blinked at her. “Pardon?”

There was impatience and an undertone of—Myron looked at her—fear?—in her voice as she repeated, “Give me your master pass.” She almost barked, “Now, boy.”

The cleaner fumbled with his pass as he unclipped it from his worksuit pocket. “But, ma’am, I’ve got the apartment set for cleaning.”

The woman snatched the pass from him. “I don’t care. This is important.” She turned to the door and held the pass to it. The entrance obediently dilated for her as she swept in. She stopped just for a moment, surprised to see all the lights on and the doors to the dining and kitchenette, the guest refresher, her office, and the bedroom standing open. She shrugged and stepped further into the apartment. The door closed behind her. Suddenly loose objects flew into the air and pain lanced her ears. She opened her mouth to scream and there came a sensation of a “pop” in her tortured ears as the pressure tried to equalize. There was a shattering sound as the large plastisheet window before her bowed out, fragmented, and disappeared in a loud whoosh of escaping atmosphere. She, along with all the other loose furnishings, went out the empty window into the vacuum and blackness that surrounded the habitat. A mercy was extended as she crashed into one of the support struts of Avenir’s solar array.

RC Rattler: Q Ship

by Walt Staples -

“Ears” Seelowe jerked upright and tilted his head in a listening attitude. After a moment, he spoke into his mic, “Mr. Harris, I got a Bow Tie 23 area search sensor.”

The Officer of the Deck killed his reader and asked. “Where away?”

The electronics countermeasures tech made a minute adjustment. “I make it at twenty-three-point-two degrees, azimuth forty-six-point-four.”

“Is he painting us yet?”

“Ears” shook his head even though the watch officer could not see the movement through the back of the environment suit’s helmet. “No, sir. I’m pretty sure we’re just out of range. Looking at the Doppler shift though, he’s burning reaction mass like Santa left it for him.”

Lieutenant (junior grade) Toco Harris grinned to himself. “Chief, please sound ‘general quarters.’” He looked to his right as Muguto Roberts, the cutter’s Chief of Boat, sounded the klaxon. “Sparks, stand by for their hail. And remember, we’re just a fat, dumb, and happy peace-abiding merchantman with lots of goodies in our barge tow.”

The signal floosie’s grin was that of a wolf as he replied, “Aye, sir, I’m ready. I’m piping a bit of music through so they’ll hear it in the background.”

“Out of idle curiosity, Sparks, what is it?”

The grin became innocent, “Gregorian chant, sir. I didn’t want to make them think ‘military.’”

Harris chuckled. “Works for me.”

The cutter’s captain chose this moment to nonchalantly make an appearance on deck, or as nonchalant as a man in an environment suit can appear while carrying an assault weapon and load-bearing equipment. The A.I. obligingly sang out, “Captain on the bridge.” He stopped, ran an experienced eye over the various readouts, then turned to Harris. “XO, I relieve you. The deck is mine.”

Harris stood. “Aye aye, sir. You have the deck.” He reached for the load-bearing equipment and slung it about his person, then reached for the assault weapon.

Lieutenant (senior grade) Ryku Gomez grinned at his executive officer. “There now, XO, don’t say I never give you nothing.”

The younger man brought his weapon to a reasonable salute. “Aye, sir, I shan’t. But I really don’t remember any of this on my Christmas list.”

“Maybe next time.” Gomez tried to keep it light as did his friend. He tried hard not to think about everything that might happen to his XO in the next hour. “Off with you, now.”

Harris flashed him a grin and departed for the portside airlock.

 #

Exiting the portside airlock, Harris joined the seven environment suited members of the boarding party standing on the cutter’s exterior skin on the side opposite the approaching ship. He continued to monitor the situation via the cutter’s open communication channel. He heard “Ears” report, “Captain, another sensor’s just joined the Bow Tie. I make it a Square Box 5 ranging sensor. And...they’ve spotted us.” A lisping voice suddenly sounded, “Ahoy, Quartermain Tow! Heath to and prepare for boarding!”

“Boats” Halsey snickered over the laser line-of-sight, “Oh, we be preparin’ all right, darlin’.”

Sparks’ voice was that of a man jerked totally awake as he rapped out, “Who be hailing us? Identify, mun, yes?” The chant provided a nice counterpoint in the background.

“Thith ith the Devil’th Tea Party. Now heath to!”

The flare on the drive unit promptly flickered out. A few moments later, they felt a tremor run through the cutter and the barges attached to her starboard side as the pirate matched course and grappled. There was a second tremor as the “panic party” launched a lifeboat in an apparent escape attempt. Pieces of the blown lifeboat cover fluttered in a cloud. At this, Harris called, “Boarders away!” and the boarding party triggered their reaction packs, flying outward until they reached the ends of their tethers.  Their impetus carried them out and around the cutter’s starboard side, hidden among the debris from the lifeboat cover. He looked down to see the pirate boarding party enter the cutter’s starboard airlock and the outer hatch close. They touched down lightly on the hull of the Devil’s Tea Party. Halsey led his two boarders aft to the engineering spaces, “Guns” Morgan and one other covered the pirates’ airlock hatch., while Harris led his two forward to the bridge. The two crewmen with him set their burdens on the hull and stepped back.

One of the pirates in the cutter’s airlock shouted, “Open, blast you!”

The captain’s voice rang out, “This is the Revenue Cutter Rattler. Devil’s Tea Party, surrender, cut your drive, and open your lock.”

There came the dull sound of a shot and a projectile ricocheting in an enclosed space mixed with screams. Gomez said three words, “Boarding party, execute!”

Both demolition men at the bridge and the two at engineering triggered their igniters and the four shaped charges burned through the pirate hull. As the charges disappeared in a flash, a column of water vapor, dust, and debris, exploded outward from the breaches they made. A human body was blown from one of the holes over the bridge. Harris felt a chill queasiness as he watched the body cartwheel out of sight.

Captain Gomez’s voice was conversational. “You in the airlock. You have a choice. You may surrender and show this by unloading your weapons, field stripping them, and removing all clothing. Or, you may wait there in the lock until your suits’ consumables are exhausted. As I say, your choice.”

The six pirates in the airlock, including the one wounded by his own ricochet, began surrendering when their suits’ water gave out. The last held out until his O2 was used up and his compatriots stripped his unconscious form. The two survivors still aboard the Devil’s Tea Party made it known that they also would like to surrender.

#

Harris gazed at the light playing through his glass of near-beer as he asked, “So, how long can we use this wheeze before they get wise to it?”

On the other side of the Wardroom table, Captain Gomez blew on his tea like a proper ash-eater, then took a sip. “Don’t know, Toco. It’s going to get out eventually. If nothing else, when the mutts come up for trial.”

“When’s that?”

The Rattler’s CO tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “Council’s sitting on it as long as they can in good conscience. They badly want this section of the Oort Cloud cleared of ice pirates.”

“How long do you think that will take?”

Gomez thought for a moment, then answered, “Probably not all that long. We’re making it pretty hot for them. According to intelligence, they’re not moving in to fill the niches we open nearly as fast as they were. Tells me they’re getting spooked about this area.” He took a sip, and half smiled. “Near as I can figure, when it gets scary enough, they’ll move their hunting somewhere else.”

The XO took a sip of his drink. “And we’ll go chase them there, until they move on again.”

The Captain broke into a grin. “You got to admit, the Revenue Service does foster job security.”

Engineer

by Walt Staples

The wrench slipped and clanged against the manifold. Israel Hands grimaced. He held his breath, listening. All he heard were the normal ship sounds—the wheeze of the air handlers, the creaking and pop of the hull as the rotating freighter turned a new side to the glare of 94 Ceti A's blaze. Satisfied, the engineer went on with installing the spigot on the blower motor supply line.

His mind wandered to Captain Merry, the late Captain George Merry he reminded himself. He thought of the orange bodybag holding the captain with which he had shared John Silver's walk-in-cooler while hiding. Outside in the galley, he first heard angry voices, then sounds of a commotion, a scream, finally silence. When he could stand the waiting no longer, he eased the door of the cooler open. Silver, the tall cook, lay on his face; the handle of one of his carving knives protruding from his back. Somehow, his prosthetic leg had become detached in the struggle. Hands scowled at the murdered man; no doubt Jim Hawkins' handiwork. He enjoyed doing Smollett's dirty work.

Hands had not cared for Smollett since the first officer came aboard. While Merry was quiet, competent, and easygoing, Smollett—now “Captain Smollett”--showed the marks of a martinet.

The engineer considered the opposition. Smollett, Hawkins, Livesey probably, Hunter, and Joy. Gunn? Maybe yes, maybe no. Ben Gunn was impossible to figure; more a force of nature than a man.

He tightened the coupling. Hooking the wrench to his belt, he paused and listened once more. Nothing. Hands quickly threaded the heavy hose onto the spigot and snugged it down.

“Barratry,” that's what they called it—a captain stealing the cargo with which he was entrusted. The goods in the strongroom had proved too much for Smollett. The engineer wondered what was on the manifest that set the crime in motion.

Hands crossed himself and said a quick prayer for the spirit of “Long John” Silver. Had he not overheard the plot and pushed Hands into the cooler when he heard Smollett's faction coming, the engineer was sure he too would be lying on the galley deck beside the Imperium Traveler's cook. He smiled sadly as he remembered Silver tickled to death that Steve Jackson, the shipping line's owner, knew him by name. He sighed, a good man gone.

Down the companionway, someone dropped a metal object. Hands heard a snarled profanity that could only  have come from Hawkins. The engineer grinned wolfishly. The tell-tale on the bridge showed Hands back aft in the drive room rather than in Life Support. Amazing what one could do with a screwdriver.

The Imperium Traveler's engineer pulled on a pair of heavily padded gauntlets and picked up the  free end of the hose. He checked that the nozzle was closed, then opened the valve on the spigot all the way.

He heard footfalls approaching from forward. He peeked a bit too far around the door combing. Jim Hawkins, in the lead, saw him and snapped off a shot from the ship pistol he carried. The frangible bullet hit the combing just to the side of his head and shattered. The projectiles wouldn't hole hard surfaces, but they would hole skin and muscle.

Smollett called out, “Jim, put that away. Israel is a friend. There's no call for that sort of thing.” After a moment, he continued in a wheedling voice, “Now, Israel, Jim has put the pistol away. Why don't you come on out and we'll discuss the whole thing.”

Hands stayed hidden. “There's nothing to be discussed. You're stealing the ship and her cargo. That's barratry! We've nothing to talk about.”

Smollett sounded pained, “But, Israel, that's such a harsh word. Besides, you can be a rich man.”

Hands felt the blood rise in his face. “I work for Steve Jackson,” he shouted. “I've eaten his salt.” He stepped around the edge of the door into the companionway, pointed the nozzle at the four men there, opened it, and roared, “I will not break my oath.”

Hawkins got off one shot before the stream of live steam took him and the others. The round hit Hands low in the right leg, causing him to fall back against the bulkhead and slide down to sit on the deck. He managed to keep the steam on its targets until the screams ceased. Eventually, he closed the nozzle.

His leg burned to the point that he glanced down to make sure he hadn't scalded himself as well. He dropped the hose, and opened and slapped a med pack over the wound. He looked at the four bodies that shared the companionway with him and decided that med packs would be of little use. Between the painkillers in the med pack, nervous exhaustion, and the horror at his success, Hands zoned out.

When he returned to alertness, he found Doctor Livesey treating his wound. The ship's rabbity medico smiled sickly at him, then glanced up nervously at Ben Gunn. The latter leaned against the bulkhead idly cleaning under his fingernails with a vicious-looking dagger. Livesey turned back to Hands. “Ah, Israel. You've returned to us. Everything's under control. The Revenue Cutter Wolverine will be along side in an hour.” He looked at Gunn. “See, Ben? I told you I'd take care of him.”

The cargo master leered down at the medico. “Oh, aye, pleasant as pie aren't we, good croaker? The thought of spending time, just the two of us, strongly concentrates the mind, does it not? No forgetting a syllable of the Hippocratic Oath as well as the one you made to this ship, is there?” He giggled, then cocked his head to take in the hose and spigot. “And, Israel, my young lad, wherever did you find steam on our darling old Imperium Traveler?”

Hands nodded toward the Life Support compartment. “The steam's a byproduct of cooling the fusion chamber. It's piped forward to turn the blower motors.”

Gunn thought it over for a moment, then giggled again. The engineer reflected that it was proof of Gunn's genius as a cargo master that captains willingly put up with his oddity.

Gunn looked at him with a bird-like twinkle. “How came you by the idea to use steam in such an innovative way, my boy?”

Hands glanced at the bodies and shuddered, then back up at Gunn. He said, tiredly, “The ancient classic about a ship's engineer, The Sand Pebbles.”

Rockstars: Lion Killers

by Walt Staples

I knew it was time to drink up and leave when Choice Ranson pushed in through the doors. Crazy Eddie's isn't the most high-toned place in Heartbreak Pass. The fact that Eddie hasn't picked Ranson up by the scruff and seat and pitched him back out the door is proof of this.

Ranson is a troll. He likes to pick at people. On the whole, he's a pretty fair geologist, which is why Survey keeps him on—that and they don't have to look at him in the home office. That no one's shot the creature yet is put down to people's basic law-abidingness here on Sheba, or the general opinion that Ranson isn't worth the waste of powder.

The bridge game conversation had turned to Admin's latest publicity blitz to try to attract more settlers to Sheba. Old Ed Grinder was saying, “They been tryin' to make it safe an' borin' fer years.”

Ranson loomed over the table with his beer. “Boring? You find settling this place boring? You old coot, this is the greatest adventure in the system! And you sit there and call it boring! Madness!”

The four of them sat looking up at him in silence. Dick Ewell, George Topolopis, and Harty Gunther were old enough to be his father. Ed, old enough to be their father.

Ed carefully laid his cards face-down on the table as the color rose in his neck and face. His voice, though low and even, betrayed strain, “Admin up on Avenir's doin' their dangest to sanitize life here on this rock. They want to convince ever'body that livin' and workin' here is safe, routine, an' borin' as bein' up on Avenir.”

The others put their cards down as he warmed to his subject. Ed's stringy muscles knotted as he gripped the edge of the table and continued, “One reason is to sucker people into sellin' ever'thing they've got to come down here—that's good fer gettin' rid of the troublemakers, extra mouths, an' relievin' crowdin'. It's also good fer their buddies who buy up the stuff fer next to nothin'. But the main reason”--he raised an index finger--”is that they are bureaucrats. An' the knee-jerk reaction of a bureaucrat is to cover his butt. No matter what might happen, he's scared he's the one who's gonna be tossed out the airlock—so nothin' ever happens, ever'thing is always A-OK an' routine...safe.”

He swallowed. “But it ain't safe. It ain't routine. An' things happen.” He looked at the others at the table, then back up at Ranson. “We come here before there was a hole in the ground. I was lucky; I partnered with my missus. Hoppers weren't invented yet; you yomped ever' single kilo in on yer back. It took a generation to get rockhead environment suits to the point they sorta work. Like I say, I was lucky—the missus wasn't. I buried her three years to the day we made planetfall.

“Way back when sometime, they was a critter called a lion—some kind of mantid maybe—that ate people. A boy became a man by killin' one.” He swept a hand to include the others at the table. “These men killed their lion. They went through it. They survived it. They ain't quit. They won't.

“Now, let me ask you a question.” He pointed up at the younger man. “Who are you partnered with? Anybody?” At Ranson's silence, he continued. “No, I figured not. That, maybe, suggest somethin' to you? Man don't live out here long without somebody to watch his back. Somebody who cares about him.” Ed hooked a thumb at George. “Now George, here, is my bunkie. He puts up with my feet an' I puts up with his wind. Are we cuddle-bunnies? Nope, but we're partners an', generally, friends.” He picked up his cards and the others followed suit. The old man didn't bother to look up from his cards as he dismissed Ranson, “Boy, you come back after you kill your lion.”

Ranson stood looking at the bridge players, then at the rest of us. Nobody gave him any slack. Even Eddie just returned a blank look. After a couple of minutes, he sat down his glass, turned, and slowly walked out.

Night Terrors

by Walt Staples -

The Bourbon was expensive.

A sip.

But this is an important occasion.

Hefts the ship pistol.

Probably the most important of my life.

Opens the magazine loading gate.

Poor old man. Trying to stop a knife fight at his age.

Another sip.

Maurine choosing cyborg so she could be sure I'd see her from time to time.

Sets the bottle down and picks up the ring.

Her version of revenge from beyond the grave.

Light picks out the engraving of the two names on the ring.

Betrayed by me for the sake of my mistress, the Law.

The ring makes a “pling” as it lands on the table.

A cold lover, my mistress.

Picks up bottle.

Fourth one this week.

Liquid sloshes around in bottle as it is set down.

So many dead people.

Removes cartridge from box labeled “12mm Shipload.”

Some launched into Ceti in coffins; some walking around.

Pushes cartridge through loading gate.

So much blood everywhere.

Hand stops while removing second cartridge from box.

At this range, I'm pretty sure of a hit.

Picks up bottle and holds it to the light.

You and I have become all too good of friends since the trial—lovers, almost.

The light through the bourbon casts reddish reflections.

But my other lover, the Law, is the jealous one.

Liquid in bottle becomes agitated.

This ends tonight.

Bottle shatters against wall.

“Hello, Father? We met at my wife's trial. You said to call you if I ever needed anything...I-I need help.”

Academic Question: King in Check

by Walt Staples

Walt left this life on March 14, 2012. He will be sorely missed here at Avenir Eclectia; we have several more of his unpublished stories scheduled. This one is perhaps the strangest of his submissions here, but shows that twisted humour of his...


“Your move.”

Abram looked up from the psychosociology periodical he had been perusing. His bishop was very much in danger from the knight. “Hmm, decent, Mclean.” He regarded the board for a moment, then his bishop slid over one square of its own accord. He raised his journal again.

The biology instructor stared at the configuration of the pieces, then smiled. “Ah. Pawn takes knight.” One of the pawns began to waddle forward. “No, not you. The other one.” The pawn stopped, managed to look embarrassed as only an out-of-place playing piece can, and stepped back as the proper one waddled over to displace the offending knight. Mclean held the deceased knight between thumb and forefinger. “Abram, you’re holding up the game.”

The psychokinesis instructor surfaced long enough to note the proffered game piece, pluck it from his opponent’s grasp, and set it down beside his other lost pieces without bothering to touch it. He scrutinized the chessboard for a few seconds and said, “Concede.”

As the pieces, both taken and untaken, waddled to their proper starting positions, Mclean remarked, “You know, Abram, if you paid a bit more attention, you’d win more often.”

Abram nodded as his white queen’s pawn slid two squares. “Yes, probably. But when would I do my reading then?”

Doctor Professor Erschreckendmann, known to most as “Doctor E,” entered the club and arrived at their table. “Ah, I see you’re using Mclean’s board this time, Abram.” He leered at the biologist and hooked a thumb at the chessmen. “Have you got them housebroken yet so they don’t void themselves at awkward moments?”

Mclean sighed. “No, I still have to be careful with the timing when I feed them.”

Doctor E nodded with questionable bonhomie. “Good, good. I’m sure you will have them trained in short order—though at the moment, they seem to have you well trained.” He changed the subject. “Have either of you gentlemen seen His Majesty about?”

Abram glanced up at the alchemy instructor. “Who? Pomphee? Haven’t see him here today.”

Mclean smiled wickedly. “Perhaps he’s hiding from you.”

“No, that generally happens after I’ve seen him,” the small man said, distracted. He turned and strode off, hands clasped behind his back, apparently lost in thought.

#

Doctor E stuck his head in the door and greeted the department head’s receptionist, “Mistress Bright, is your master back yet?”

She smiled. “No, Doctor, not yet. Are you sure you don’t want to leave a message for him?” Like many, she wondered at the green lights that glimmered in the shadows cast by his enormous eyebrows.

He ran a finger over his huge mustache in thought. “No…” He smiled at her. “T’would probably spook the quarry.”

“I could send a few of the gnomes to look for him.”

He pulled at his lower lip as he considered. “If I don’t kick him up by tea, I may ask you to do so.”

He smiled at her. “Don’t let him hear, but I’m beginning to be a bit concerned.”

“Do you think there’s something seriously wrong?”

He shook his head. “No, I shouldn’t think so. It’s like having one’s key in the wrong pocket. I just don’t like things out of place; especially Pomphee.”

There was a hiss as Doctor E passed a large potted plant in the hall. He stopped and examined it. A pair of bloodshot blue eyes peered back at him. Pomphee’s voice hissed at him, “Don’t give me away. Please.”

“Give you away? I’d never think of such a thing, Pomphee. Why, your bodily elements would bring at least 23 credits on the open market.” He paused. “Though, I suppose, now that I think of it, you might fetch more as a teaching cadaver.” He leaned closer. “You are hiding and that’s not a man-eating plant?”

“Yes, I’m hiding,” the department head hissed back.

Doctor E straightened. “Oh, good. I’ve always been very bad at botany.” He regarded the blue-eyed plant. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what you’re hiding from, would you?”

“Professor Henpartie. She thinks I’m ‘cute.’”

“Can’t say as I know the woman all that well other than she’s known as ‘Queen’ Mim; I don’t get over to the Literature Department all that often.” He smiled sadly. “Though I must admit from the evidence of what you say, she obviously might be a case for Doctor Professor Schadenfreude over in Psychiatric Re-manipulation.”

Pomphee’s hiss became cobra-like, “Will you stop being funny and help me?”

The alchemist looked at the plant askance. “Did you just admit that I’m funny? Besides, why me?”

There was a sigh. “Because…because you make things happen.”

Doctor E crossed his arms and stroked his mustache in thought. “So the point of the exercise is to lower your ‘cuteness’ factor.” He came to a decision. “Okay, come with me to my lab.”

“But she might see me!”

“No, I think not.” He shook his head. “I doubt she’d be able to be absent from the aroma of silverfish and binder’s glue that long.” He gestured at the plant. “But, if it makes you feel better, by all means, bring your friend.”

#

Pomphee looked at the capsule suspiciously. “What’s in it?”

Doctor E assured him in a coaxing voice, ”It’s perfectly safe. Just fructose, an enzyme for catalyzation, a touch of tri-methylinidole, tri-hydroxybutyric acid—“

The department head shrank back in terror. “Acid?”

The alchemist shook his head. “It’s not going to hurt you.” He switched to wheedling as one would a recalcitrant 150 kilo child. “Come on, Pomphee. Just take the capsule and your woman troubles will be over.”

The big man turned the suspicious look on Doctor E. “How do I know you won’t poison me?”

The little man beamed his most beatific smile. “Pomphee, I promise you as your most ardent enemy, I am not going to poison you.”

The department head looked at him searchingly. Then accepted the capsule. Doctor E handed him a glass of brown sparkling liquid. “What’s this? Is this part of the process?”

The alchemy instructor shrugged. “No, just Dr Pepper, I figured you needed something to wash it down with.”

“Oh.” Pomphee relaxed, popped the capsule in his mouth, and emptied the glass.

Doctor E was watching his watch four minutes later when the head of the Materials Department began to sniff. The alchemist took an exploratory whiff and stepped back two paces. Pomphee continued to sniff as he looked in all directions. He turned red and asked, “Oh, dear. Is that me?”

Doctor E clapped his hands and, smiling, said, “Pomphee, I now declare you un-‘cute.’”

Without the courtesy of a knock, the lab door flew open and a tall, gangling, purple-haired woman strode in. “The receptionist said she thought—Oh! Norquist! There you are!”

Pomphee paled and replied forthrightly, “I, ah…er…uh, you see—“

Suddenly an odd expression crossed her face. She snuffed, as opposed to sniffed, first in Doctor E’s direction, then in that of her balding Lord Byron. Her pupils went to pin-points as she began to hastily back out the door. “I, I…really must be going. Lots of papers to grade you know, and all that. Tootles.” She slammed the door.

Pomphee gave a satisfied grunt then turned to Doctor E. “Er, how long is this, er, my condition going to last?”

The alchemist took another step back. “By my calculations, approximately six more hours.”

The department head was horrified. “I can’t see people like this. And I can’t possibly go home to my wife in this condition. What will I do?”

Doctor E put a handkerchief over the lower part of his face. His voice was muffled as he said, “Do what any normal intelligent creature would; hide in your office and read journals.”

Word Carrier: Mission

by Walt Staples -

In the infirmary, Brother Kadfell, the abbey’s medico, asked, “With or without, Douay Bede?”

The Bible smiled at him. “Without, Brother.”

The other nodded. “As you wish.” He set the hypo to dispense the first-aid spray without its anesthetic component and sprayed Bede’s blistered palm. The choice of each newly Published Bible was a secret Brother Kadfell would keep. It was a choice that by tradition was not discussed with anyone.

Outside the infirmary, Brother Charles waited for Bede with a frown. Bede took in his erstwhile teacher’s expression and his heart sank. His assignment had been decided. He had hoped to be assigned to a mission among spacers with the priest he would be paired with. From Brother Charles’ face, he knew it was bad. Probably a mining settlement on either Sheba or Quatermain. He consoled himself with the thought that if it did turn out to be Sheba, at least he could visit the abbey on occasion. He took a deep breath. “I take it that my assignment has been decided?”

Brother Charles nodded grimly. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Bede braced himself. “Where?”

Brother Charles answered in a voice of doom, “Thou art assigned to the Spacers’ Mission.”

Bede blinked. Had he heard right?

Brother Charles leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “You know, you might want to close your mouth before Hubert or one of the other cats decides to go rat hunting in there.”

It took Bede a couple of tries to get enough air to ask, “Why didn’t you just say so?”

His teacher grinned at him. “Because I was afraid you’d try to swarm up me and slobber all over me.” Putting the lie to his fears, Brother Charles threw his arms around the Bible in a bear-hug. “Congratulations, boy. You worked hard for it and you’ve earned it.” He held Bede at arms’ length. “You’ll do us proud.” He raised an admonishing finger. “But only in a proper non-Seven Deadly Sins meaning of the word. Understand?”

Bede beamed back at the big man. “Yes, Brother. I’ll remember. When and where do I go?”

Brother Charles dropped his hands and folded them within his sleeves. “The where is the Spacers’ Mission Mother House on Avenir, sort of neutral ground, as it were. The when is a couple of days from now; after all, it would be a bit rude to skip dinner with his Excellency and the rest of the abbey, tonight.” He cocked his head and squinted one eye. “Besides, you left off the most important part of the question as far as your future success goes.”

The Bible raised his eyebrows. “What’s that, Brother?”

“The who. You’ve been matched with Father Oaku Mary, T.O.R.”

“What’s he like?”

His teacher shook his head. “Don’t know, really. His records look okay and he’s fresh-caught like you. His Ordination was day before yesterday. I guess you’re going to find out first-hand in a few days.” He changed the subject. “Let’s go find your folks. I suspect your mother probably wants to maul you some. I hear their parish priest sprung for their fare?”

“Yes, bugherds don’t make a lot, so Father Mack came up with it. Said only that it had to do with a penance.” They turned the corner.

Flashback: In Remembrance

by Walt Staples

Dr. Nordheimer Pomphee slammed his fist on his desk, producing an almost musical note. “I will not have it. Not in my team.”

The little man on the other side of the desk raised one bushy eyebrow. “Oh? And you plan to do what exactly?”

The head of the Avenir's astrophysics team purpled as he gripped the arms of his executive swivel chair. Through gritted teeth, he answered, “The name stays 'Sheba.' I am the team lead...ergo, I am the team.”

The other preened the huge mustache that hid most of his lower face, a green glimmer playing in the shadows beneath his luxuriant eyebrows. His reply was quiet, “Then you are a team very close to fragmenting and flying off in unfortunate directions. Look, it was bad enough that you personally jumped the gun and announced that 94 Ceti A's second planet has a satellite before we're close enough to nail down why that planet has a fast wiggle of its axis. What's the rush? I mean, how long has Avenir been outward bound from Earth? A week or two more's going to make a difference? Then you had to go and name that satellite, 'Sheba,' without input from the rest of the team. Why 'Sheba?' Where did that come from? What has it to do with 'Eclectia?'”

“Rank hath its privileges.” The tall man brought his hands together on the desk in front of him and looked down a beaky nose at the astrochemist before him. “Now, get out.”

Tony Brazzi was waiting in the companionway outside. “Well, that went well,” he said brightly. “A rather rank situation I should think.”

The little man squinted one eye at the astronomer, then smiled ruefully as he tapped the bulkhead. “Does seem the shipwrights skimped a bit on sound-proofing.”

“So, what do we do, Dr. Niemand?”

Clasping his hands behind his back, Dr. Niemand set off toward the lift. “So, you go back and try to find out why both Eclectia and Sheba have the shimmies. And I go and try to find out where 'Sheba' comes from.”

Tony hooked a thumb back toward the door. “What about him?”

The astrochemist cocked his head. “I've always been of the opinion that once someone flatly rejects reason, the only course open is to find a comfortable place to sit and watch them make a fool of themselves. After all, one should not stand in the way of high art.”

#

During the dog watch, the little astrochemist stopped before the door of an auxiliary to the main data office. After bypassing the door sensors and those of the office, he settled himself at the subsupervisor's console. He punched in “Personal: Nordheimer Quintilius Pomphee” and a long string of alpha-numerics. He leaned back watching the blur of information flow across the screen. At the point of Pomphee's sixth birthday, he slowed the flow and turned up the volume. He replayed the sequence three times, watching the young Pomphee joyfully accept his wiggling birthday gift. Dr. Niemand sat lost in thought for some time, then coming to a decision, made a modification to the record so that it could only be opened with Pomphee's biosignature.

#

Tony rubbed tired, aching eyes, then looked at the numbers on the screen once more. There was something there, but he just couldn't put his hand on it. He turned to where Dr. Niemand lounged, feet up, reading a hardcopy from Tony's collection. The astronomer sighed, linked his hands behind his head, and tensed his muscles. He relaxed and asked, “Which one are you reading?”

The astrochemist smiled and answered without looking up, “King Solomon's Mines.”

Tony grinned. “Printed that out yesterday. Stayed up most of the night reading it. Alan's quite something.”

The little man turned a page fondly, “We're old friends, the hunter and I.” He looked up. “Problem?”

Tony gestured toward the numbers. “There's something hiding in there, but every time I get close, it skitters away.”

Dr. Niemand gazed at the screen thoughtfully as he ran a finger over his mustache. “Ne, as someone said once, 'when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'”

Tony turned back to the screen with a frown. After a moment or two, his eyebrows went up. He stared at the screen unseeing for a moment longer, then said quietly, “Oh, my.”

#

“They are Sheba I and Sheba II,” Pomphee blazed. He and the astrophysics team had been deadlocked for the past four days. One by one, those who normally backed his decisions had fallen by the wayside; either convinced by argument or through exhaustion. He looked from grim face to grim face like a boar brought to bay. His glare settled on one who entertained a half-smile. “You find this funny, Niemand?”

“Sorry, gas.” The astrochemist replied blandly. He nodded slightly to Elizabeth Rona, the tall, shapely planetologist.

Taking her cue, she spoke, “I can make it worth your while, Nord.”

He stared at her, thunderstruck. Coming to himself, he stormed, “First argument, then threats, now you offer yourself?”

Her laugh was musical. “No Nord, I have much too much respect for both of us. No, what I offer is something unique on the Avenir. If you will yield and accept Tony's name for the second moon, I will supply you with one chocolate covered fresh strawberry per day until we reach orbit around Eclectia. Think how long it's been since you tasted one, Nord. Each from my personal plant in hydroponics.”
The team leader's face lost its anger as he looked back over the decades to a very special birthday. He licked his lips and swallowed. He nodded curtly. “All right. The second moon is Quat—what was it again?”

“Quatermain,” Tony supplied.

“Fool name.” Pomphee lowered his head as if in remembrance of something and walked out.

“Not perhaps as good as the name of a beloved pet from when one was a boy, but a good name on the whole,” Dr. Niemand observed to himself just loud enough for Tony to overhear.

The astronomer asked from the side of his mouth, “How did you know he would go for it?”

“Ah, t'would be telling.” He tilted his head and grinned.

Tony shook his head. “You are a scary man, sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” the little man agreed.

High Country: Bugherd

by Walt Staples -

The ancient woman moved her stethoscope to the lower right of Silas’ chest. She sat back with a grunt and a thoughtful look.

Silas coughed and asked, “So?”

Granny Gillman turned and stirred the scrubby brush fire under the pot. “Two lobes fully involved. Spot on a third.”

The old bugherd began to pull on his shirt. “When?”

She looked at him. “Candlemas, maybe Feast of Notker. I’m sorry, Silas.”

He smiled at her. “You’re doing what you can.”

“You could try the medicos at First Port.”

He shook his head. They had been through this before. “No, too expensive. Besides, what could they do that you can’t? I mean, Ash Lung? They can’t even save the rich people with that.”

She lifted the pot and poured reddish-brown liquid into a chipped cup. She held it out to him. “Here.”

He looked at it. “Medicine?”

The granny lady smiled. “Tea.”

As they sipped the tea, he considered. “Let’s see…tomorrow is Holy Innocents. All the eggs are laid. So I guess we can drive to market. Martha’s brother, Japheth, can take over with the grubs when they hatch.” He coughed some more. When he got his breath again, he continued, “The boy’s taken care of. Don’t know what to do about Martha, though.”

Granny Gillman brightened. “Oh, that reminds me. About Martha. Father was asking after her. See, my Beatrice is a good child and a hard worker, but truth to tell, she couldn’t cook her way out of a chrysalis to save her life. Anyway, Father was asking me to ask you, next time I saw you, if you thought Martha might be willing to cook at the Rectory.”

Silas’ forehead furrowed. “Don’t see why she shouldn’t be. She loves to cook and she likes Father Mack.” He shot the healer a look. “What about Beatrice?”

Granny Gillman laughed. “The child is always going on about how it keeps her hopping just trying to keep up with the ash in the church and rectory. ‘Sides, I ‘spect she’d like to eat something edible herself once in a while. And, she’s the one who carried word to me from Father.”

The bugherd smiled. “Yep, that would likely do for Martha.” He took another sip of his tea.

The granny lady poured herself another cup. “By the way, how’s Ruben doing?”

Silas broke into a wide grin. “He doing tolerable. We just got back from his Publication on Sheba. You know, they take a new name when they enter holy orders. His is 'Bede,' after Saint Bede the Venerable.”

The other raised her eyebrows. “Which one was he?”

“Oh, he was a writer or something.” Silas’ brows knitted. “History? Well, some such anyway. Way back before settlement sometime.” He launched into a coughing fit. He wiped his eyes with a piece of rag after it ended and drained his cup. “Well, I guess I’d better be getting down the road. I’ll ask Japheth to have one of his youngins bring you over a nice dermestid. One of the gentle ones.” He rose to his feet and, before putting his mask in place, smiled. “You know, it makes a body feel good when things are lined up straight.”

Blowout 1: Tap

by Walt Staples -

The pointed end of the chipping hammer made a “chink” sound as the chip spalled off the plastisheet. The mouth above the hammer smiled. Perfect. All that was necessary was to set the trap and wait for routine to takes its course.

Fools! Think no one knows? I know. Just do what comes natural, and the problem’s solved. A sigh. So sad. The cosmos will weep. But tears are easy after what you’ve put me through.

The tools were collected and the incriminating chip was picked up. A watch was consulted. By the pricking of my thumbs, something dead this way comes. The lights came down. The last sound was a door dilating, then closing.

Smoke-Eater: Hero

by Walt Staples -

“Fresh Fish, door!” the squad leader bawled.

Tyler Takku, Fire Team 6’s “Fresh Fish,” was an ugly little man--though his mother didn’t think so. He was short and squat, as were the others of the fire team. It was a must as they hauled heavy equipment into Avenir’s tight spaces and survivors or bodies out.

The atmosphere feeding from his “bunker gear” or fire armor’s life support system tasted faintly of smoke and burning volatiles; something he’d ceased to notice while in training. It was only at times like this, when he should be concentrating, that the sensation snuck into his awareness. No matter how often the filters were changed out or the bunker gear was cleaned, the bouquet remained. He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs.

The shop’s door was the normal atmosphere-tight kind found on the other businesses on the mall. The large temper-plast windows attempted to not remind patrons that hard vacuum waited its chance outside.

He ran through the Snuffy’s Alphabet—C-A-E-S: Contain the fire-cut Air circulation-cut Electrical current-Search for victims—in his head as he helped place the temporary airlock over the door. Behind the windows the shop looked frightening close to flashover. He bulled his way into the lock ahead of the other firefighters. It was this aggressiveness to get to the fire that caused the Snuffys to refer to each other as “Idjits”—they ran toward danger rather than away.

“Fresh Fish in the lead,” sounded in his earphones from both the internal radio and his gear’s external mikes. One corner of his mind reminded him how happy he’d be when he wasn’t the new guy and had a proper nickname. Then the next new guy would be “Fresh Fish” until christened by the squad.

The atmosphere in the lock was evacuated and replaced with inert nitrogen. There’d be no backdraft when the door was opened. He dropped to his knees and scrambled forward as the emergency charge blew the door halves back into their slots in the jamb. He was conscious of someone behind him directing a heavy stream of CO2 and soda above him through the door as smoke billowed in to mix with the lock’s atmosphere. Vision being useless, he relied on the heads-up display on his visor’s interior for his view of the shop. It occurred to him that he hadn’t noticed what sort of shop it was. Well, if anything had been explosive or oxidizing, he would have been warned forcefully by dispatch.

The picture produced by his radar showed a body on the floor to his right. The thermal overlay showed it as well above 37 degrees C. He sighed as he grabbed it and began to back out, dragging the body behind. He’d hoped his first experience would be a rescue instead of a recovery.

Outside, he cracked his visor and turned away as the med team took over his burden. He stood, looking at the mall’s carpet as he felt the letdown. The heavy slap of a hand landed on his shoulder. “Why so blue, kid?”

He glanced at the squad leader’s smile, then back at the floor. “Guess I just wanted the first one to come out alive.”

“Oh? Well, that one never was.”

Tyler looked around at the squad leader in confusion. “What?”

“You rescued a dressmaker’s manikin.” The other pointed to where a mousey-looking woman was putting a variable geometry dressmaker’s smart-dummy through its paces surrounded by the grinning med team.

The new man cringed. Oh, Lordy, could it get worse?

As if reading his mind, the squad leader gave his shoulder a rough shake. “You done good, kid. That gizmo cost that lady a lot of credits. You probably saved her business.” He walked over to talk to the Fire Marshal.

The lady broke away from the other group and approached Tyler. She smiled at him and he wondered why he had thought her mousey. “I want to thank you so much for saving ‘Edda.’ She’s not covered by my policy yet and it would have taken months to replace her.” He couldn’t decide whether her eyes were blue, gray, or green--and, for some reason, this suddenly seemed very important to him. She colored slightly and looked down. “I was wondering if…if I could thank you with dinner and a vid? Oh. I’m Amy.” She smiled that smile again.

As he helped break down the lock, a blond firefighter jerked on his bunker gear’s rescue strap and grinned at him. “Hey, ‘Dollman,’ great work.”

“Dollman” Takku returned “Bucket-Head” Schmidlap’s grin, as Squad Leader “Rabbit-Tooth” Morgan looked on with a smile and “Fancy-Pants” Brenan continued knocking down the lock’s other side.

Peacekeeper: The Darkness Within

by Walt Staples -

“Sonny, this can’t go on.”
 
“Why not, Ray?”
 
“It’s not right. You can’t do things like that.”
 
“Don’t see nothing stopping me. Besides, why get upset now?”
 
“Look when it was a transient here or there, I didn’t say anything.”
 
“You got that right, Ray.”
 
“But now, children?”
 
“What do you mean, ‘children?’”
 
“Sonny, I know what you do, what you think. I know you’ve been watching them. Waiting for one to be alone. Just waiting.”
 
“So?”
 
“It isn’t going to happen.”
 
“And who’s gonna to stop me, Ray?”
 
“I am.”
 
“Ray, put that down. You don’t want to do this.”
 
“You’re right, Sonny, I don’t. But it has to stop. And if no one else can do it, I will.”
 
“Ray, can’t we talk this out?”
 
“We two have been talking since I can remember. It stops now.”
 
“Ray—“
 
#
 
“Who took the initial call, McGee?”
 
“Hennesy, enforcer from Section 4, Peacekeeper.”
 
“Bug pistol; he wanted to be sure.”
 
“Yes, sir. Sure makes a mess.”
 
“Wondered how long it would take.”
 
“You know the victim, Peacekeeper?”
 
“Yep. Arnold Sol. Pretty famous over at Forensic Psych.”
 
“How so, sir?”
 
“The most classic MPD case on Avenir.”
 
“MPD?”
 
“Multiple Personality Disorder, McGee. He only had two, but what made him a classic is they, the two personalities, were aware of each other.”
 
“What do you think happened, sir?”
 
“According to the door logs, nobody in or out.”
 
“No, sir.”
 
“Guess he lost an argument with himself.”

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.”

Word Carrier: Publication

by Walt Staples -

In the silence of the chapel, the muted roar of the blowers was noticeable as they ran on “high” to handle the smoke and soot from the unusually large number of candles burning to either side of the altar. The Rite of Publication was one of the few times Brother Marius, the abbey’s life support engineer, allowed such abuse of his air-handlers.

Bede and the other Manuscripts stood shoulder to shoulder as they faced the main celebrant, Bishop Guash. The usually dyspeptic prelate actually seemed to be in fine fettle and to be greatly enjoying himself, as the occasional smile escaped his Excellency’s bulldog-jowled continence. As an acolyte on his right handed him a lit candle, he sobered. “My sons, you have been called to one of the highest callings in Mother Church—that of Bible. Know you that you carry God’s Word to and among his children—all of his children. You may not force yourself on others, but you must be ever ready to open yourself to any who wish to hear God’s Word. It is not an easy calling that you follow. The evil one has used fire in the past to try the destruction of God’s Word. This flame is to remind you of what you may be called upon to face…and what you may save souls from by your efforts.”

Each Manuscript held out his left hand. From left to right, the bishop passed the flame under the outstretched palm. Bede sucked in a breath as the flame reached Antonio, the Ignatius Manuscript on his left. His stomach muscles tightened as readied himself. He would not show a sign! Not before his parents, up from Eclectia. Not before Brother Charles Maria, his second teacher. Nor before Brother Eustis, his first teacher, who, Bede was convinced, watched from a higher plane. There was an instant of burning pain, and the flame passed on to Tommy, the James Manuscript, to his right.

Bishop Guash handed the candle to the acolyte on his left. His face broke into a huge smile. “My sons, today you are no longer Manuscripts, but are Published Bibles. From this point on, you will be known to all by your personal name, and that of your version.” He made the sign of the Cross in blessing over each of them in turn. “Go you hence and serve all.”

#

In the infirmary, Brother Kadfell, the abbey’s medico, asked, “With or without, Douay Bede?”

The Bible smiled at him. “Without, Brother.”

The other nodded. “As you wish.” He set the hypo to dispense the first-aid spray without its anesthetic component and sprayed Bede’s blistered palm. The choice of each newly Published Bible was a secret Brother Kadfell would keep. It was a choice that by tradition was not discussed with anyone.

Outside the infirmary, Brother Charles waited for Bede with a frown. Bede took in his erstwhile teacher’s expression and his heart sank. His assignment had been decided. He had hoped to be assigned to a mission among spacers with the priest he would be paired with. From Brother Charles’ face, he knew it was bad. Probably a mining settlement on either Sheba or Quatermain. He consoled himself with the thought that if it did turn out to be Sheba, at least he could visit the abbey on occasion. He took a deep breath. “I take it that my assignment has been decided?”

Brother Charles nodded grimly. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Bede braced himself. “Where?”

Brother Charles answered in a voice of doom, “Thou art assigned to the Spacers’ Mission.”

Bede blinked. Had he heard right?

Brother Charles leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “You know, you might want to close your mouth before Hubert or one of the other cats decides to go rat hunting in there.”

It took Bede a couple of tries to get enough air to ask, “Why didn’t you just say so?”

His teacher grinned at him. “Because I was afraid you’d try to swarm up me and slobber all over me.” Putting the lie to his fears, Brother Charles threw his arms around the Bible in a bear-hug. “Congratulations, boy. You worked hard for it and you’ve earned it.” He held Bede at arms’ length. “You’ll do us proud.” He raised an admonishing finger. “But only in a proper non-Seven Deadly Sins meaning of the word. Understand?”

Bede beamed back at the big man. “Yes, Brother. I’ll remember. When and where do I go?”

Brother Charles dropped his hands and folded them within his sleeves. “The where is the Spacers’ Mission Mother House on Avenir, sort of neutral ground, as it were. The when is a couple of days from now; after all, it would be a bit rude to skip dinner with his Excellency and the rest of the abbey tonight.” He cocked his head and squinted one eye. “Besides, you left off the most important part of the question as far as your future success goes.”

The Bible raised his eyebrows. “What’s that, Brother?”

“The who. You’ve been matched with Father Oaku Mary, T.O.R.”

“What’s he like?”

His teacher shook his head. “Don’t know, really. His records look okay and he’s fresh-caught like you. His Ordination was day before yesterday. I guess you’re going to find out first-hand in a few days.” He changed the subject. “Let’s go find your folks. I suspect your mother probably wants to maul you some. I hear their parish priest sprung for their fare?”

“Yes, bugherds don’t make a lot, so Father Mack came up with it. Said only that it had to do with a penance.” They turned the corner.

Rockstars: All That Glitters

by Walt Staples

Someone once said you can tell a field geologist’s environment suit from a miner’s by the smell. While in both, sweat overpowers the other normal suit stinks—halitosis, machine oil, and urine—there’s also the whiff of erudition. Whoever said it must have been a field geologist, because it’s a cinch nobody else would.

Oolite-Head Marx and I were working the north slope of Quatermain’s core caldera. Head got his nickname from two things; his head is shaped just like an egg and his was the biggest discovery of oolitic hematite on the south caldera slope.

What’s oolitic hematite?

Look it up, Ace. That’s why you lug that computer around on your wrist, ain’t it? Can’t watch porn all the time.

Anyway, as I was saying, the two of us had been dirtside for about a five-day when we’d made camp the night before. Next morning I’m dragging my butt out of the bubble--we were carrying one-mans because we’d had to leave the hopper eight klicks back down slope while we yomped all the field equipment up to the bluffs—and there’s Head staring through the theodolite at the bluffs. Head is not a morning person so naturally I had to say, “My, getting dedicated in our old age aren’t we.”

Without turning around, he stepped to the side, gestured at the theodolite and said, “Shadup and take a look, funny man.”

I stooped down—Head’s shorter than me—and looked through the eyepiece. About 200 meters down from the edge, something gleamed in Eclectia’s bounce light. “Interesting.” I straightened up and looked at Head. “Do we set up the laser?”

The Whale was below the horizon so we didn’t have our filters down. I could see him chewing the end of that mustache of his. “We could…but if it’s noble, we just gonna put a hole in it.”

“Could be pyrite.”

He nodded. “Could be but…” He let it hang for a minute. He cocked his head and squinted one eye. “Just don’t feel right for fool’s gold.”

Head’s famous for his “feelings.” But, considering he’s right about 80 percent of the time, you listen to him.

With a bit of dread, I asked, “So we go down and drag the laser back up here?”

Head put his fists on his hips and looked at the ground for a moment. Then he looked back up at me. “I’m agin it for the same reason you are, Roy. I’m just as lazy as you are an’ it’ll blow the whole day. Though there is another way…” He leered at me through his visor.

With a prophetic sinking feeling, I knew just what he meant. I shook my head in defeat. “Yep, you did it last time. My turn again.”

#

I checked that the spider silk cable would run free and that the hoist was properly anchored. The old rock hound joke runs that if it’s not, you’re the first to know, the recovery party is the second, and the coroner is the third. I don’t buy it. The insurance types seem to show up pretty fast.

I looked over the edge. In geology, you get used to looking off heights or you go into some other line of work, like pastry chef. Head was small as he looked back up at me from the theodolite about 100 meters from the cliff base. “Okay, Roy, I’ll tell you when you’re in the crosshairs.” The Whale was up and drowning out the bounce light from Eclectia, so we left the theodolite pointed at the location of the glimmer. Head would coach me to the spot.

I pointed the laser rangefinder at the foot of the bluff. The reading came back 643.81 meters. I did a little math in my head. If the hoist has 800 meters of line and something goes wrong, that means I can still dig a 156.19 meter hole in the ground. I hate those Jernigan hoists, they kill too many people. But, when you’re just starting out…

I checked my rig and turned my back to Head. “Okay, starting down.” I swallowed and stepped off. The overhang at the top meant I was dangling about a meter and a half from the buff face on the way down. All I had to do was stop lowering when Head sang out that I was even with the spot and shoot a sample. The sampler bit is rocket powered so there’s no kick to screw up your equilibrium and set you swinging. You might get the feeling that there’re a bunch of us idiots doing this sort of thing.

I tapped the “slow release” button and fell like a stone. Like I say, I hate Jernigans. I managed to say something pithy like, “Holy--!” before the reel seized up. I hung there for Lord only knows how long, trying to talk myself into opening my eyes. Instead, I decided to try to think up some better last words. I’d gotten to “Cry not for me, beautiful maidens of…” when something slapped me on the lower leg. Head’s voice was gentle between gasps and pants in my earphones, “Roy, open your eyes. It’s okay.”

I peeked out of one, then opened the other. I was hanging maybe two meters off the ground. “How do you know my eyes were closed?” My voice sounded shaky in my ears.

I couldn’t see Head’s grin through his filter, but I could hear him still panting from the run. “Because mine would be, son.”

I climbed the rest of the way down. “Now what? That motor’s got to be burnt out.”

Head plucked a pair of ascenders from his belt. “Can’t go down, so you go up. My turn--you go watch through the theodolite.”

Anyway, that’s how Head and I made the “Crappy Jernigan Strike.” He was right, it wasn’t pyrite. The gold assayed out at 18 grams per ton. Ever since, we’ve used a Haman Hoist. Like Head says, “Hey, use the best you can afford.”