by Chris Tompkins
For all those folks still ducking the online-gaming phenomenon, VR1 Entertainment’s Evernight may be your entry drug. Evernight combines plenty of interesting human interactions with the leisurely chess-like pleasures of a solid turn-based fantasy-strategy game.
Evernight simply uses your internet browser as an interface. The game consists of maps, statistics tables, and email communications—all presented in a series of dynamically-generated web pages (interspersed with some high-quality graphic images).
You set your own pace for the game; taking as much (or as little) time as you need to manage your empire, study the maps, ponder the importance of emails, and to execute each phase of your strategy. When you are finished, click on “Done” and go about your business. Later on (usually in the wee hours of the morning), the system analyzes the maps and statistics, and the game advances by another “tick.”
Typically, each game begins with a land-grab rush, in which players deploy their non-magical units (called “Lessers”) to grab up as many provinces as they can reach. Different types of terrain confer varying amounts of treasure for every turn that you occupy them. Powerful supernatural entities (“Forms”) and lots of wacky spells are available in exchange for “Fury” points that you earn with your victories. You can also invest in fortresses and temples.
If Evernight was just another expand-and-upgrade contest, it would be pretty thin gruel; but after a few ticks the multi-player interaction kicks in. When you are fighting over a huge map with fifty or more competing players the possibilities heat up fast for deal-making, resource-swapping, alliances, double- and triple-crosses, and some really fine misdirection and duplicity.
Beginners can play a free game to see how they like it; registered users pay only five dollars a month, and can play up to eight games simultaneously (about as many as anyone could handle). I urge you to give it a try at http://evernight.vr1.com. After only three days of play, you’ll be hooked, even (or especially) if you’ve been skeptical about online games before now.
by Chris Tompkins
Anyone who has ever played one of the classic-style role-playing games has been through the standard prototypical small village. You know the scenario… Adventurers casually stroll into a small idyllic village and do as they wish, while the villagers sit back and do little more than offer the occasionally useful rumor. In the miniatures microgame, When Good Villagers Go Bad (Inner City Games Designs), the happy-go-lucky villagers are not gonna take it any longer!
At the beginning of the game, players choose sides to play either the villagers or the adventurers. The goal of the game for the villagers is to convince the adventurers that their attitudes and actions are not appreciated in this town—the townspeople have the ever-popular tar-and-feathers option to fall back on if the adventurers happen to be particularly stubborn. On the flip-side, the goal of the adventurers is to teach the villagers a lesson in hospitality by cruelly murdering them, looting their homes, and burning the peaceful little village to the ground. The adventurers are—of course—much stronger, but the villagers have them outnumbered by six to one, so the game isn’t weighted to any one side.
As the adventurers proceed with their looting, burning, and killing they must constantly be aware of line-of-sight for all of the villagers. Every time that a villager witnesses a crime against anyone or anything in the village there is a chance that the town will collectively become increasingly angrier. The worse the crime, the greater the chance. And as the villagers get more and more irate, their stats increase until the adventurers find themselves facing an angry mob.
The game is played using Victory Points to determine the winner. Villagers earn points by removing Courage Points from the adventurers; scoring the big points by running the adventurers out of town. Adventurers earn their Victory Points simply by killing, burning, and looting their way through town. The game ends when the last adventurer has been run out of town or when the village is burned to the ground.
If this strikes your funny bone in a particularly sick and twisted way then go to www.fuzzyheroes.com. For other good beer-and-pretzel laugh-riots, check out My First LARP, (your name here) of the Jungle, and Who’s Your Daddy? the game of paternity battles.
Remakes nearly always fall into one of two categories: bad remakes of classic movies, and bad remakes of crappy movies. John McTiernan’s Rollerball (2002, PG-13) is both: it’s a bad remake of a classic crappy movie.
In the original Rollerball (1975, R), James Caan is a star player of the eponymous roller-derby/demolition-derby sport. It’s not Brazil, but the dystopian vision of the film is a convincing one that still stands up reasonably well today. James Caan, a talented character actor who combines the meanness of James Coburn with James Garner’s easygoing charm, was perfectly cast as Jonathan E., and the endlessly imitated John Houseman does a stunning job as the vile corporate mouthpiece. It’s a bit talky by today’s standards, but the original Rollerball is still a fine evening’s entertainment.
In contrast, McTiernan’s Rollerball is far less talky, but what dialogue there is makes little sense. Creative subtitling would probably improve it, although that might rob it of some of its unintentional humor. The scenes of the Rollerball game itself are, incredibly, even more frenetic than those in the original, which means that the action is impossible to follow rather than merely difficult. Jonathan Cross, played with mayonnaisian blandness by the inexplicably popular Chris Klein, makes no impression at all. Even L.L. Cool J. (Deep Blue Sea), Rebecca Romijn-Stamos (X-Men), and Jean Reno (The Professional) can’t combine their powers to overcome the monumentally stupid script and choppy editing.
Don’t pay to see Rollerball in the theatre: wait for it to come to video, and then rent something else.
Michael Rymer’s Queen of the Damned (2002, R) is a movie that needs to be seen in a theatre to be fully appreciated. A loose film adaptation of a novel by Anne Rice, Queen of the Damned will doubtlessly be reviled by Anne Rice fans for daring to veer from the holy text of the matriarch (the same sort of people who decried the treatment of Farmer Maggot in Lord of the Rings). Film aficionados will be more concerned with the huge, gaping plot holes. But let’s be frank: it’s a vampire movie, of course there are plot holes (Blade, anyone?). We don’t go to a vampire movie for intricate plots or a complex emotional landscape, we go to a vampire movie for cool costumes, sexy protagonists, and some spooky cinematography. Queen of the Damned delivers these in spades.
The late R&B singer Aaliyah plays the title role of Akasha, who is awakened by a disturbingly Crow-like Lestat (played by Stuart Townsend) and proceeds to run amok. Arrayed against her are a number of fashion-plate vampires who happen to like the status quo. For the next couple of hours, they pose and stare with a pleasantly goth-pop soundtrack. Aaliyah is simply delicious as Akasha, and Stuart Townsend does as good a job as the infamous Lestat as any mortal man is likely to. Classic cinema? No: it’s a vampire movie, with all of the silliness and melodrama that entails. But Queen of the Damned is a fun “date movie” (if your date isn’t a film student or an obsessed Anne Rice fan), and the costumes and cinematography are good enough to warrant repeat viewings.
Pay to see Queen of the Damned in the theatre. When it comes to video, see it again with Blade and really treat yourself.
by Rob Balder
To the tune of “Top of the World,” performed by The Carpenters, written by Richard Carpenter and John Bettis
I can boost a sensor signal gain.
I can even fix a positronic brain.
I know a core from a coil,
From a phytophillic foil,
But I hate it when they ask me to explain.
I was never good at being clear.
So I thought I’d be a Starfleet engineer.
Now when they ask me what’s wrong,
I give them a dance and song,
And I tell them I can fix it in a year.
I’m on the top of a pylon lookin’
Down on the station
And the only explanation I can find,
Is that the tachyon tube
Needs a hyperstatic lube,
’Cause I’m, living in a technobabble world.
I was testing quantum gravity,
When I opened up a subspace cavity.
And then I let loose a gas
That turned half the crew to bass,
So I guess the captain’s pretty torqued at me.
I installed a plasmatropic node,
But I think it
caused a cascade overload.
And now the crew on seven decks
Has had a sudden change of sex,
But I bet it makes a darn good episode!
I’m on the top of a pylon lookin’
Down on the station
And the only explanation I can find,
Is that the warp unit fits,
But the coupling’s on the fritz,
’Cause I’m living in a technobabble world.
I’m on the top of a pylon lookin’
Down on the station
And the only explanation I can find,
Is that the conduit we used
Blew a monatomic fuse…
I mean the sensor array
Caused our leptons to decay…
Turned the pseudo…
[pause, covering face]
They’re all just lousy machines,
I don’t know WHAT the hell it means!
I’m just living in a technobabble world.
by Kevin Ginsberg
I haven’t been able to find my “thing” in life, although I know for a fact that is doesn’t involve poultry. Not the biggest revelation in the world, but it’s nice to rule things out nonetheless. For a long time I thought I might become a musician. I read Paul McCartney’s autobiography to find out how he did it and tried to follow the same path. I met a fella by the name of John, then met a guy named George, and then a man named Raul. That was the closest I could get to Ringo. None of these men could play an instrument, but George did a very interesting interpretive dance to the song “Lady Madonna.”
John and I would sit around writing songs, some good, some not so good. Our best song was one about John’s sister Martha who only had one ear. The song was called “One-eared Martha,” and it’s chorus consisted of Martha repeating the lines, “Talk to my left side, left side, left side.” We couldn’t have been more pleased with the song, but like all great works of art, it went primarily misunderstood.
Raul suggested that we make a pilgrimage to visit the Maharishi. The entire group agreed that such a trip would truly be following the blueprint laid out by the Beatles. The difference between us and the Beatles was our income. We were only able to come up with enough money to visit The Spectacular Kirk, a self proclaimed prophet and taxidermist. There was a lot of talk about The Spectacular Kirk not actually having a taxidermy license, but to us he was the closest thing we were going to get to the Maharishi. We set up an appointment with him and invited Mia Farrow, who declined. We were able to bring along an agoraphobe named Prusella, giving us much of the same effect. We wrote a song about her too.
When we arrived at The Spectacular Kirk’s apartment he was in the middle of drying out a bald eagle. We asked him if it were not illegal to hunt bald eagles. He slowly turned his head to us and winked. That told us all that we needed to know, we were in the presence of greatness. The Spectacular Kirk asked us to remove our shoes. George commented on how similar that was to the great Maharishi; Kirk let us know that he just happened to notice that Raul had stepped in dog shit.
Kirk excused himself to go to the bathroom and we couldn’t help but to snoop around a bit. We found pictures of Kirk with many celebrities, including the musical groups Winger and Stryper, and Danny Bonaducci. We all agreed that we were on the right path.
The Spectacular Kirk came from the bathroom and invited us to meditate. We sat in a circle and hummed as Prusella sat alone in a bedroom. When the meditation was over Raul and John admitted to feeling very relaxed, while George and I were looking for something more. We couldn’t quite put our finger on what it was until The Spectacular Kirk mentioned something about drugs. Then the light bulb lit. The Beatles did a lot of drugs, and it was said to have expanded their minds. Kirk apologized for not having any drugs himself, but suggested that we put on some coffee and drink “a LOT” of caffeine.
We began drinking the coffee, and we were bouncing off the walls in no time. This prompted us to write our most intriguing song to date, “We Like Coffee a Lot.” We left The Spectacular Kirk and all agreed later that he was a fool. We couldn’t think of a good song to write about him though, I doubt anyone could.
The band eventually broke up after John adopted a Shar-pai. Most people think that they are ugly, but John loved it. It was probably best that we broke up. We had accumulated one hundred and nineteen songs and performed none of them. We were fortunate enough to have one of our songs performed by a local bar band called The Sofas. They did an outstanding job on our song, “Don’t Waste Your Socks.”
To make a long story short, I’ve now ruled out being a rock star. Currently I’m scooping ice-cream at a local dairy shop, but I’m about two thirds into President Nixon’s book, so look out Washington!
by Lloyd Montgomery
Confederation Military Forces, Bauer-Rim Worlds Theatre of Operations
To: Commander, Long-Range Explorer Corps, Hellstrom Base
Special Orders RE: Completion of Enlistment
Fandrill, Richard L. (CSN 142-665-2973) Lieutenant (Senior Grade)/Flight Commander Confed LREC-2nd Battalion-Air Support, attached to Task Force 4/2
Khan’shrr Mrenn, Feerann (CSN 996-438-2975) Platoon Sergeant/Scout-Sniper Confed LREC-2nd Battalion-Recon, attached to Task Force 4/2
Individuals listed will proceed via Confed transport to Hellstrom Base, Bauer-Rim Worlds upon completion of current assignment, and will report to Commanding Officer LREC for separation from active duty as per current regulations. Individuals are to remain listed as Active Reserve for a period of not less than one Standard Year. All perquisites for rank are to apply.
It’s all about a fight. I can’t really say that all the important parts of my life have involved a fight; I don’t remember my childhood being particularly violent, despite growing up in a place called Ares. It just seems like several of the important bits later on always ended up in a fight. I’ve talked to perfectly normal people who go through life without the first hint of conflict. I can’t really complain; it’s a damn sight more interesting than being a groundhog, poor fools they. I suppose that choosing a job like small-craft pilot for Confederation might be the reason that violence always found me. Everybody always shoots at the little guys.
I thought that would change when I left the Explorer Corps. I was wrong.
After mustering out at Hellstrom Base, Khan and I got on the first low-tech, low-life, low-class civilian freighter that we could find. Destination unimportant. Khan, by the way, is an Ithri, and falls into all the classic Ithri stereotypes — basically stone crazy. And yes, her full name sounds like she’s coughing up a hairball.
Our final destination was, of all places, Alpha Centauri. AC was the furthest you could get from Civilized Space and still be able to fly out when you wanted to. Granted, that isn’t saying a lot. Most of what goes in and out of AC barely qualifies as FTL. Indie freighters — either one step above or below the pirate line — bulk carriers from the major haulers, and the occasional military craft are about it for there.
In keeping with the great traditions of the Explorer Corps we did what any red-blooded (literally in our case) ex-military beings would do upon mustering out; we got truly ripped. Keep in mind that the Ithri, as a race, subscribe to a rather fatalistic philosophy — they don’t care if they live or die. The whole race understands that they’re going to check out eventually, so there’s no sense in worrying about it. Whatever the excuse, this makes for some memorable parties. Which is pretty much what we did for about a week; blowing off the accumulated pressure of a long campaign in places civilized beings didn’t dare to venture. I am continually glad that the other prevalent species in the galaxy, like the Ch’ and Sari, find alcohol as much fun as we do; though every race finds its own way to get messed up. I’m convinced that those who don’t discover some method of recreationally killing brain-cells self-destruct before they get this far. It’s a big headache being a civilized race; sometimes you have to find a way to turn your brain off and act silly.
After the dust of a seven-day-long bender had subsided — beer consumed, tail chased, bars emptied, fines paid, and having dragged Khan’s sorry ass out of the third casino in a row (gambling and death wishes seem to go hand-in-hand) — we realized that our mustering-out pay wasn’t going to go much further. You’d think that former members of the Confederation Long-Range Explorers (the cream of Confed military forces, just ask anyone) would be worth more. And since everything there cost like crazy, it was time for us to start exploring new career paths.
We were beginning to regret the choice of Alpha C as our mustering out destination. We had been retired in the Rim Worlds though, so our options were limited — the Rim Worlds being a far-flung collection of old Imperial planets just recently rediscovered and admitted to Confederation. I’ve been told by people who study this sort of socio-political crap that AC has enormous potential to contribute to the rebuilding of C-Space, but at the time all I could see was a handful of gravity-wells just barely out of the Dark Ages. It says something when Alpha Centauri is the best of the lot. The rest were even less of a dream choice. Who really wants to end up on some zero-tech hole like Montclair? Step right up, the next starship will be along any year. Most of those places didn’t see an FTL vessel more than once a generation or so. At least at Alpha Centauri you could see some movement outside the planetary envelope.
Y’see, AC had once been a major Imperial shipyard, a couple of hundred years ago, before the Empire did the big Crash-and-Burn. I wasn’t there, but the history books make it out to be one serious mess. Every planet in the Empire lost FTL capability one way or another, mostly by having it shot out from under them. It was over a century from the fall of the Fraser Dynasty to the establishment of Confederation. Looking at all the leftovers in the Alpha C system — orbital defense bases, drydocks, and enough derelict ships to make your own spacefleet — it made you wonder who, other than themselves, could have brought the Imperials down. Historically, empires have always been their own worst enemy. This bunch had been no different, over-expansion, internal dissent, and an annoying tendency to mess with peoples genes had spelled the end of this Empire. At its height though, the Imperial spacefleet must have been huge, if the remnants were any indication. So there we were in the galaxy’s biggest junkyard, the remains of several centuries worth of Imperial expansionism all around us. Name your price and buy it by the kilo. And everybody did; even Imperial junk was a quantum leap higher than what most Free Traders try and fly with.
The vultures had been feeding off the carcass of Alpha Centauri for almost a century now, with little care for what they left behind. The smell off the shipyards and scrapyards had become an ingrained part of the atmosphere; a combination of metal oxides and free radicals wafted through the stew that they called air. The entire city surrounding the starport smelled like a year-long tire fire. I’ve always preferred cockpits to armpits like that one.
Checking the datanet for possible employment The Day After did not improve my outlook on life.
“Khan, my love, I don’t suppose you know WinTenX data processing procedures? There’s an Administrative Assistant position open at Blueshift Passenger Lines that has your name all over it.” OK, it was a poor joke, but the sun hadn’t even cleared it’s way through this rock’s soup of an atmosphere yet. From the response I got, a pillow to the back of the head, I figured she wasn’t up to learning to ride herd on an admin deck this early in the day. She grumbled something in Ithri about how I should go tell the God of War that he was having problems with his sexual orientation and rolled over, stealing my pillow to cover her head.
“How about a couple of berths on an indie leaving for the Sari Directorate? They’re asking for a co-pilot and a quartermaster.”
“Richard, you silly primate. The Sari are the most civilized Sphere in this galaxy, no independent freighter has a reason to go there. That bunch are pirate wannabes that will change their flight plans before they jump and we will end up on Tortuga, or running guns to some hole with a revolution to fight.”
“Here’s one for a company selling ‘droid parts to the Pleiades Far Side. They need a comptroller, two ‘techs, and a programmer.” I was just winding her up at this point, I still owed her for the last bar fight.
“Fan, do not make me get up and kill you this early in the morning.”
“Yeah, like you could find the floor, lightweight. I told you not to drink Sari nectar and try and chase it with Gath-Shemani ale.”
“Mraa, and who carried who back to the room this morning, you no-cargo-carrying flyboy?” She had me there, I had to think fast.
“That’s only because some tiger-striped lunatic decided to pick a fight with a member of her own species. Him and five of his friends, just because he made a pass. Then she left me no recourse but to stand up for the honor of the Corps while she made like a ghost.” Actually, she had been teaching the horny loudmouth some manners, but I wasn’t going to let reality get in the way of a good rant.
“Did we get in the same fight? As I recall I took down four of them while you were kissing floor. Even the Tish… Besides, that tan had it coming, asking me to sleep with him.” Tan meant a normal Ithri, most of the race are light brown. Sports like Khan have stripes, even other Ithri think they’re nuts. The feline Don Juan last night must’ve been cruising for a new thrill.
“Bah, I loosened up the lizard-horsey for you and you know it.” That was the Tish, they’re friggin’ huge, and covered with armor plate to boot.
“Grrr, why am I talking to you at this hour? Even the Gods do not know this time of day, truck driver.”
“Feh, low-life grunt.”
“I bet all the monkey-girls just love you. Go to Rainforest and start a new vocation as a gigolo.”
“I’ll drop you off at Wayside, you could do the freak circuit.”
“That does it, I am putting you down on my appointment calendar: ‘Twelve-o’clock: Disassemble the loudmouth.’ Grrr, maybe one-o’clock.” Khan is not a light sleeper. She can stay awake for days if she has to, but when she crashes, she really crashes. The only way to get her moving is to piss her off so bad that getting up and thumping you seems like a good idea. The dumbest or toughest person in her platoon always got the job of waking her up. Most of them lived through it.
“C’mon, Kitty-Kitty. Time to get up and find a job, LREC isn’t going to pay you to take up space any more.” By those of us who are left, aka The Few, LREC is pronounced ‘el-wreck.’
“What do you want for an epitaph? How about; ‘He was a good person despite his suicidal tendencies?’ or perhaps, ‘Most people will miss him?'” She was waking up, in Ithri that last comment was a zinger.
“Half speed at best, General Issue.”
“Give me a moment, then I shall cut you apart verbally. Right before I cut you apart physically.” Nope, she was still on the killing me diatribe. She wouldn’t count as conscious until she came up with a better line of bullshit.
“Big talk from someone naked, hungover, and horizontal.”
“I would like to formally thank you, Richard. No matter how bad the rest of my day is, from here on out it can get no worse.” Better.
Even during the last exchange, I was still checking the ‘Wanteds’ for a new career for us.
“Darling-darling, how’d you like to get paid almost-serious money as a ‘Security Consultant’?” This one looked like a real job.
“Talk to me. Due to a certain person’s charm, I am almost awake.” Her head was out from under the pillow, one ear up and the other down.
“Konstantine Metalworks,” that meant a wholly-owned subsidiary of Konstantine Shipbuilding, one of the Big Five corporations that owned the starports around here, “is looking for beings, ideally ex-military, to act as — near as I can tell from reading the ad copy — guards for shipments from their scrapyard to the ‘port.”
“Why should we be interested?”
“Because they are paying stupid cash for us to do so.”
“Cr. 200 a day, offense/defense provided.”
“Reason enough, call them.”
So with our training, the only honest jobs to be found were riding shotgun on truckloads of Imperial scrap going from one of the bigger junk heaps to the starport. Sure, we had our choice of illegal jobs, but we’d just gotten out of the most legal gig in Civilized Space that lets you carry guns; who wants to fall that fast? We might walk down the stairs of legality, we weren’t going to jump. Of course there was always what the Employment Agency called “Unspecified Labor, Unskilled.” Translation: grunt-work at the starport. Given a choice between guarding crates and moving crates, I’ll take the job with the sidearm.
Face it, neither of us would ever again fit into the groundhog mold; clock-in, clock-out, do your job, and don’t rock the boat. That was the classic military trap. Take a person and give them the best training in the universe, but at the same time change their basic mindset so that they can never truly be a pure civilian again. Make the military their only home and they will never want to take the skills that you have given them and offer them to another employer. Re-enlistment for the Explorer branch has always been high. Hell, I did eight and Khan did twelve for them. I was honestly surprised when our dates came up and she chucked it in with me, no guarantees but my winning smile. Sure, there are the exceptions — pilots working the cruise circuit, scouts signing on as executive security personnel or as ‘port cops — but most of them keep returning to the nest. Some of us just can’t resist the lure of freelancing though.
Ok, I might have been able to land a job with the Star Pilots Guild as a shuttle driver — ships came and went fast and furious around here — but it would have been a solo, and Khan and I had been through too much to break up the team over something as piddly as poor cashflow. She was good at her job, but there’s never been a big call for snipers in the private sector.
What the hell. The guard job paid us good money just to stand around with a gun and drink coffee for eight hours a day. The worst grief we got was from starport security. The depths to which we had sunk; being laughed at by ‘port cops. Even the lousy gear they carried was about twenty years up the technological ladder from what Konstantine Metalworks outfitted us with.
Then came the day of the fight. I mentioned the fight, didn’t I? It seemed like a normal garbage run to me. Khan and I had done this a couple times already so it was no big deal. We were each assigned to a separate truck, kitted out in low-tech body armor, and issued a riot-stunner, with our blasters for backup.
The two hovertrucks were each the size of a seventy-five ton Main Battle Tank, sans guns, with the four cargo containers lashed onto them. The damn things were huge and nobody was going stop one with anything less than an orbital weapons platform once they overcame their inertia.
The only thing making that drive different from the run of the mill garbage-haul was the large number of desk jockeys hanging around the Konstantine Metalworks yard. I don’t know how it is in your line of work, but in my experience critters wearing suits usually mean problems. They were all from the head office at the ‘port and they spent their time walking around, looking at the load, typing onto keypads, and (you could feel it) worrying that they were going to have to explain whatever might go wrong. In their minds they were already trying to cover their asses. The smell of their concern nearly drove Khan nuts.
“They are worried about something,” she mentioned as she walked by me, growling softly in Ithri and twitching all over.
“About what? It’s a trash run.” I shot back, pissed not only because she had just upset my hungover little world, but also because she had spotted it before me.
“Don’t know, but it’s got to do with the cargo. I can hear them talking about it. Sounds more important than usual. Will not say what it is though.”
She still didn’t look happy, her striped fur was on end. The only time I remember that happening was on a world in the Disputed Territories — we were there to Reclaim the planet for Confederation. The low-tech natives decided to debate planetary sovereignty with the duly designated members of Confederation using shotguns and cannon. The odds that time ran about six hundred to one, so you could see why I was concerned now.
“Keep your pelt down, we run garbage. Y’know, scrap to the ‘ports.” I couldn’t think of anything that might have survived this long on a scrapped Imperial ship, despite their oh-so-high tech reputation, that might get anyone excited. I knew ships pretty damn well, not necessarily Imperials though. “All the impressive stuff got claimed years ago. This crew is dealing in power generators and conduits, maybe some fire control systems. No big deal.”
“Do not tell me, Richard, tell them. They’re about to piss themselves. (And they do not trust their Gods),” she came back.
The last part was pure Ithri. I had picked up that particular sentiment years ago; Khan’s people throw it around like we use the phrase, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” It was enough to make me wake up and forget the last six beers I’d had the previous night. The Ithri have several sayings that transcend normal bullshit. When they start using them it’s time to find cover and check your gear. It means that they are — well, I can’t call it scared, like I said they have no fear of death — it’s more like they know that the fur is about to fly and they want to share the fun with the rest of us. And she was using my first name, which I hate. She only did it when she was wound up.
If her instincts were giving her signals, I knew it was time for me to wake up. I did a few mental exercises and went into Almost-Full-Blown-Crazy mode, “Talk to me Khan, where’s it coming from?”
I instinctively checked my weapon, realized it was a piss-poor riot-stunner, and wished that I’d saved enough cash to keep my Explorer-issue Skorpion when I mustered out. You can’t get a good multiple-duty weapon like that just anywhere.
“What am I? Esper? I’m just getting vibes and scents off the targets.” Target being an Ithri slang term for anyone not armed. She had slung her stunner and pulled out the auto-blaster that I swear all her race are born carrying.
She wasn’t happy.
“All right then, Csi, wait C.” This last was some Confed ground-pounder battletalk that meant, “If we can’t see it, we wait for it.” It came out as “seesigh, waitsee.” I knew it would calm her down, she lived to hear people talk to her in battle-lingo, and the last thing I needed was for her to lose it on the corporate executives simply because they smelled wrong. Like everything on that planet didn’t smell funky.
Khan and I were up to full alert, the drivers were looking at us like we had just grown wings, and the suits were dispersing to do suit things. Maybe Khan was Esper, because suddenly things started getting weird. A glass crab — sorry, let’s be polite — a Nossidar pulled up in a cab and sauntered across the flattop of the junkyard, red sunlight flashing off his crystal carapace.
“Ok people! We need mag-lifts out here on the double!” he ordered, like he owned the place. “And you,” waving a tech-pad at Khan, “I need a copy of the lading manifest. Let’s go!”
I thought he was toast right there. I could see Khan fingering her auto-blaster; her theory being, if you don’t understand it, shoot it.
“Come on, beings! I have one gross of Imperial crystal-card readers in this shipment, and I want them double-checked before anything gets taken to the starport. Get to it.”
Maybe this guy missed the memo about heightened security. Maybe he was just a bureaucratic nutcase. Hard to say with the Noss, they founded a star-travelling society about the same time that humans were shooting rockets at the moon. The Noss had taken a long, leisurely climb up the ladder of interstellar civilization and had made few mistakes. It makes them think the universe is a little less nuts than it really is.
“Is this a problem?” I asked Khan, hoping for some alien insight.
“No clue,” she replied. Apparently I was on my own.
And then some dumbass decided to crash a starship on us.
It happened literally that fast. One moment I was watching the Nossidar to see if he was going to blow up, draw a gun, or go into a song-and-dance number. The next, there was an ungodly crash as a civilian freighter did its best impression of a stone thrown across a pond.
Right through the middle of the damn junkyard. Straight for us.
They drill it into you in the military, they really do. I responded immediately, “Monitor Class Free Trader. Two Mk. X blasters and two Mk. VI turbolasers. Single launch-tube. Civ Delos shield generator, no armor.” I called out stats to Khan as that multi-ton monster ceased being immune to gravity and hit the ground like it was trying to apologize to Newton for all the grief we had been putting his laws through for the past five hundred years. It hit a couple of hundred meters off, skipped, hit again, tried to get lift from equipment that had forgotten how to perform that particular magic, and plowed through a couple tons of Imperial Era scrap. I could tell from where I was standing that they had suffered a major malfunction in their atmospheric drives; you could hear them screaming way out of tune. I could even hear the muffled thumps as the engines’ power converters blew. Big problems. They had the right idea, putting her down in a junkyard. She’d never fly again.
“A-drives are out, converters are gone, she’s not getting back up.” I let Khan know.
“Get the trucks out of here!” one of the execs was shouting, to no one in particular.
I didn’t care if the trucks were solid gold or full or Astartian sex chicks; I wasn’t about to put myself between a scraphauler and an out of control starship. Khan, the drivers, and I were already hauling ass away from our rides when the Free Trader hit. The trucks never stood a chance.
I hit dirt just before the truck closest to me burst apart. Vehicle parts and Imperial electronics filled the air like a swarm of Altarian Nightbats.
The Beast that Gravity Remembered slid on her stomach, screaming like a banshee and throwing scrap to all sides, until the main building for the junkyard got in her way. The two met with a truly monumental crash. It took about a minute for all the debris to hit the ground.
I yelled the immortal phrase, “Houston, we have a problem!” into my comm and drew my gun. Khan took cover. The Free Trader had been headed our way when their drives blew; I was sure they still had business with us.
I called out to Khan, “Two locks, port and starboard forward. No locks aft. Four cargo doors, two per side.” She was on one side of the wreck and I was on the other. Normally, communication would be a problem a hundred meters apart with a giant flaming hull between us but, good soldiers that we were, we had integrated our comms the minute we hit dirt on this useless planet. Khan had forced me to do so on the starport concourse while I was trying to find the first pisser that didn’t belong to the scuzzy freighter we arrived on. She’s the type of person who remembers to lock the door and check her gun every night, dead drunk or not.
After less than a minute the two locks opened up and guys with guns started rushing out. They were lightly armored in combat/environment gear, carrying Scattershot SMGs and hosing them around like they didn’t care who got the power bill. I threw caution to the wind and assumed that they counted as the Bad Guys; our job description was a bit vague about situations like this, seeing as how they had already destroyed the trucks that we were supposed to be guarding. But then again, I was on the ugly end of their fire.
I had shit-canned my riot-stunner as useless before the Beast had finished its second bounce, so I was firing my blaster at anything that moved. And there was a lot of shit moving.
The first man out my side stopped a blaster bolt with his head and dropped dead in the airlock. There’s a safety tip for you; don’t lead with your face. That stopped them. Briefly. “Khan. Statchek,” I yelled into my open comm. The comm hissed back at me. Either Khan was busy or something was throwing out static interference on the commband. Like a couple hundred tons of crashed spacecraft. Throttling back my gag reflex, I moved through the foul cloud of smoke and chemical fumes towards the ship.
And then he rushed me. One figure diving out of the wreckage straight at me. I raised my blaster and unloaded right into his chest. Two. Three shots. Dead on.
The headless body of the man I had killed about twenty seconds ago fell at my feet. Through the smoke I caught a brief flash of a laser sight and knew I’d been had.
I had just enough time to curse Konstantine Metalworks one more time for not properly outfitting us. Given another second or two I might have gotten around to cursing my own stupidity as well. Oldest trick in the…
The air crackled orange around me as the shot screamed past me from behind. From behind. Bad guy number two ate it, no thanks to me.
“Damn, Khan. That’s one more I owe you… ” How the hell had she gotten there that fast?
“Yes, human. You do owe me for saving your life,” the Noss said as he scrambled over the debris field, waving a holdout blaster the size of a pen. Apparently this was my day to be surprised. I’d met Nossidar before and they weren’t renowned for their bravery. The usual Noss response to a situation like this was to dig a hole and hide, quietly muttering threats of lawsuits. I figured he had some angle going. He was going to steal something or sue somebody for this. And I was in his debt. Just great.
Fire from two more, waiting in the airlock, sprayed down the area I was hiding in as the Nossidar found some cover. The scattershot hoses they were using had lousy penetrative capabilities — they were designed for use onboard space vessels — so the rubble we were hiding behind took most of the abuse.
I crawled around the debris and, poking my head out from behind a thick slab of sheared-off hull plating, began to lay down cover fire for the Noss. In the space of about two seconds he had moved to a fortified position that gave him vantage on the two idiots left crouching in the airlock. Obviously not big tactical geniuses; even when the Noss started firing on them they refused to leave the airlock to find better cover. After about thirty seconds of firefight they both went down.
I was heading for the entrance when the Noss stopped me, “The door will be locked from the inside, let me go first.”
Someone willing to step in garbage before me? “Ok by me,” I’ve never been burdened by guilt. “Get it open, we’ll take the bridge,” I told him.
I knew where those hatches went; the bridge would be just forward and to the left.
The Noss scuttled up to where I was standing. “These civilian vessels have only rudimentary security,” he said, as he pulled gadgetry out of nearly every pocket of his vest. “Watch your ass left, human.” Using all four arms, he attached several of his toys to the lock and slid a fresh charge into his holdout blaster.
“I owe you one,” I mentioned as the lock cycled open.
“No, human. You owe me two now.” Wiseass.
Ignoring the Noss, I stepped into the ship.
The aft section of the ship was a wreck. I stepped forward, looked right, and then turned left to the bridge — about four meters — I could see the mess from where I stood. That first skip must have taken out the grav-compensators. Anyone that had been in the bridge at the time was turned to paint. A frothy pink paint.
Gunfire erupted from the right side of the ship; Khan had met the enemy.
Hauling ass for the starboard lock, I yelled to the Nossidar, “Dump the ship’s computer to disk!” He had already pulled a data storage cube from his vest and was starting his download before I finished my sentence. Nossidar love playing with other people’s computer systems; like Marines enjoy drinking free beer. Give him enough time on the computer and he’d own this piece of shit, and someone would owe him money for parking it here.
I came out the starboard lock in time to witness another group of hostiles learning the hard lesson not to attack a Confederation Ithri Scout-Sniper without proper cover, like maybe a tank. In under a minute, Khan had spotted them, tagged them, and shot three out of four of them without working up a sweat. Well, I guess it’s a pant since Ithri don’t sweat.
I couldn’t make out the last man that Khan was squaring off with, dust and debris were everywhere. He had found cover behind a heap of old comm panels that had survived the near-destruction of the scrapyard and was spraying her position with flechettes. She was pinned down.
Old instincts kicked in automatically. Problem: Partner trapped by hostile force. Could I take him out? Not while he had cover. Solution: Provide distraction.
I ran screaming from the airlock, firing indiscriminately at the comm panels.
As soon as I cleared the airlock, I could make out my adversary. A H’sthai. H’sthai are three-meter-tall lizards with bad attitudes that have built a reputation through not-so-civilized space as top-notch mercenaries. He was at least one step higher on the evolutionary scale of gunfights than the guys he was working with. He also had heavier armor, as I found out the hard way.
Without bothering to get behind something, I snapped two shots into his back. All he did was turn around to get a bead on me. Make that much heavier armor. I dove for cover as he filled the air with flechettes and could hear shots spanging off my armor. Fortunately, the suit I had on was designed for stopping shrapnel and the occasional ricochet. Up close, though, he’d tear right through me.
The H’sthai advanced quickly on me. He had me dead to rights. Just where I wanted him.
Khan nailed him from the side. She put three shots in the weak spot in his armor, right under his arm. He crumpled like a ten-credit note left in the wash.
“Last down. Statchek bridge,” she asked, as I struggled out from under the H’sthai.
Before I could respond, the Nossidar came scurrying out of the ship. “This vessel is about to self-destruct, not too violently I assure you, but bad enough to render the immediate area dangerous. The fusion drives are rigged to melt.” He looked us both over with six eyes like cobalt blue marbles. “If you have no other immediate business dealings here, I might have an offer for the both of you.”
“Time to go then. Khan, the bus is leaving. Clear here.”
“Clear, my side,” she called back.
I needed no incentive to stop guarding garbage trucks, and I didn’t want to stick around trying to explain this disaster to the police or Konstantines squad of suits. One look at Khan and I could tell she agreed. “Find out how well he pays and do not sign anything,” she muttered into her comm as she broke cover and walked towards us. Khan had stopped talking in battle-speak and had started using complete sentences again. That usually meant it was safe to touch her without fear of losing a limb.
We made it, at a run, to the gate of the yard at the same time the Free Trader’s engines went. More specifically; I ran, Khan walked fast, and the Noss scuttled. It sounds like I’m making him out to be a big hermit crab, but when he moved fast he scuttled, his four crystal legs moving in different directions. It’s a tendency of the human race to oversimplify; Ithri look like cats, Nossidar look like crabs, H’sthai look like lizards, and Farthé look like demons. That’s ok, Khan jokes that humans all look like meertuk — a small arboreal primate they hunt for food.
The ass end of the Trader turned red and melted. Her fusion plant’s containment field had failed and shut down.
As the Noss was signaling a cab I asked him, “What’s the job? Konstantine Metalworks paid us well to ride herd on their gear.”
“Also, do you have any damned idea what that was all about?” my partner added.
“I can assure you that if I find what I’m looking for, human, you and your partner will be rewarded with untold riches.” He said it in an off-the-cuff blasé way that made me figure he was either a nut or a serious criminal. Maybe he’d just read too many bad adventure novels. “What you just saw was a poor attempt to hijack the load you were guarding.”
“Yeah, that much I had already keyed into. All the low-penetration weapons seemed to indicate pirates.” Dumb pirates at that, I thought. Smart pirates keep their ships in better shape, making sure the engines don’t go crit on landing. “What were they trying to steal anyway?”
“Old Imperial medical gear. It’s a pity it was destroyed. One doesn’t often find Imperial medical equipment intact.”
That explained a lot — the nervous suits, the hijacking attempt, and the Noss’ involvement — Imperial level doc gear was in high demand; nobody’s been able to copy it.
“What do we call you?”
“I am Keethar.” The Nossidar like to keep it short in the personal name department.
“Keeth, if you’re leaving this gravity-well, I think we can do business.” I had seen enough of the planet to last me a while, and I knew that Khan hated backwater holes like Alpha Centauri. The atmosphere had to be driving her nose crazy. Even illegal or semi-legal occupations were starting to look good.
Anything to get the smell off of us.