

The

Frontier Archives

Series 1

Published by Dyego Alehandro at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Dyego Alehandro

### -Table of Contents-

Introduction

Siitral Speedster

Endgame

Vagabonds

Torch Angels

About the Author

Other books by Dyego Alehandro

Connect with Dyego Alehandro

### INTRODUCTION

Welcome to the Frontier Worlds! On the far side of the Milky Way Galaxy a super-cluster of stars proved capable of supporting the Journeymen who escaped Old Earth. The Barons are in control here but they leave the majority of ruling to the Alpha Cartels, who in turn leave day-to-day governing to the sector and planetary governor-generals. Life can be brutal and cruel, but humanity presses on in the endless need to survive. Here and there champions arise to brighten the darkness, whether through art, science, or simple good deeds.

In these Archives you will find snapshots of the people that make up the universe of the Avarice Dynasty. Few of them are champions and even fewer heroes; they are simply men and women trying to make a living anyway they can.

These are their stories.

#  Siitral Speedster

### Author's Note

Every Frontier Archives story will have an Author's Note that sets the stage for the coming story. Some of them are anecdotes, some are relevant background information, and some simply tell you how to pronounce the crazy words I come up with. None are vitally important but I certainly hope you enjoy reading them.

The word Siitral (pronounced "Sigh-troll" or "Sigh-trall") has gone through many meanings in its checkered history. It was the name chosen by James Isaac Newton to call his corporation of engineers and scientists who helped him create the Memphis Stardrive and the massive colony vessels that he hoped would break him free from Baron control. Of course, the Barons sabotaged his rebellion efforts and took over the Journeymen vessels. Ever since that point the word Siitral has essentially become a swear word. It can mean anything from "devil / demon" to "hellish." The Siitral Trade Route is therefore aptly named, being one of the most difficult shipping routes imaginable. "Stop being such a Siitral!" is a common phrase even in this point of the Frontier Worlds history.

▼ ▼ ▼

The two thugs who stepped from the shadows to block his path could have been inked from the same stamp. They were both short but wide, muscles displayed haughtily to the world through judicious use of short sleeves and fabric cuts. Both had the same nearly-shaved head, both had what they obviously thought were fashionable beards, and each had the same smug look of dominance written all over his face.

It was the same stamp he'd seen a thousand times before and he knew nearly a thousand ways to handle it. He was feeling amiable today so he settled on one of the gentler methods. As he approached the two men he broke out into a wide smile and nodded at them. "Pleasant day, isn't it?" he asked.

"Not for long," they growled. What do you know...they had the same uncultured voice and complete lack of original lines, too. "Give us your money."

It _was_ a pleasant day and even these two bruisers hadn't made a dent in it yet. He decided to try the amiable route for a little longer. He chuckled, still smiling broadly. "I'll give you boys fair warning. I'm in a good mood right now. Don't ruin it. You won't like what happens if you do."

They shared a smug glance before returning their attention to this brazen visitor. "Yeah right. Give us your money. Now."

"Last warning," he returned, his smile just starting to fade. "I won't give another."

"Tough guy, huh? Well, let's see how tough you really are!" They said as they advanced slowly toward him.

He sighed. They really _were_ from the same stupid stamp. He settled easily into his favored combat stance and let them come to him. Thirty seconds later both men were lying sprawled on the ground completely unconscious.

The man continued on his way, his hands deep in his pockets. The fools had ruined his good mood and there was only one sure way to fix that. He was already on his way to the bar, but he now made his way there more quickly.

A rush of cold air followed him as he entered. Most of the patrons ignored this stranger in their midst, but a few curious heads turned his way before dismissing his presence. He smiled slightly. He liked it that way. He had known far too many comrades who had given themselves over to flashy garb, radical haircuts, huge tattoos or other such nonsense. They had all died as a result their arrogance. Most in this business never found the peace that was retirement and then a cozy coffin six feet under; they were random particles floating through the blackness of space. Not him. He planned to enjoy his declining years when they came.

He found a vacant stool at the bar and maneuvered his two-hundred-odd-pounds onto it. The bartender was making a show of polishing a glass but it was obvious he'd been watching the stranger the whole time. Still feeling cheated of his good mood, the stranger wasn't about to wait for pretense. "If you wash that glass any more you won't have a glass left, barkeep. I want a Vyt Bender, rocks, double rum."

The bartender, who probably outweighed him by half, placed the glass down and planted his huge hands on the counter. "Spiced, DravAsian, or dark?" he asked, his tone brusque.

His mood perked up immediately. Spiced rum? Here? Most bartenders didn't even know that spiced rum existed ever since the DravAsian Province had made their particular rums so popular. "What kind of spiced do you have?" he asked, his earlier petulance gone.

The bartender lost his frown, recognizing a fellow spice enthusiast. "Only have Hectar and Juggler-Ross, I'm afraid."

"Hectar will do nicely, and thanks."

The bartender grunted and immediately turned to start mixing the drink. Once again the stranger felt his mood rising. It was nice to see a bartender mixing his own drinks. Most had turned to the convenience and speed of Foodtiers. While compressed food was just fine there were times when only the real stuff would do. This was one of those times.

The bartender returned with the Vyt Bender and it was perfectly silver. Excellent. He looked at the menu and pulled out the appropriate amount of triangular 'Rins. He added a sizable tip and slid it over to the bartender. "Name's Jurvos."

"Carter," the bartender grunted. "What brings you to Javiville?"

Jurvos casually spun a fifty-'Rin chip around his fingers. "Looking for cargo. Know anyplace where I can find some?"

Carter glanced at the coin before looking Jurvos straight in the eye. "Clean or not?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"Oh, whatever's for the taking," he answered before carefully placing the coin on the bar top.

"Talk to Xun. She runs Xundry Goods, five minutes north. Looks like a crashed ship and probably is."

"Much obliged," Jurvos said before finishing off his drink. He placed the empty mug on the coin and moved it toward the bartender. He nodded and left as quietly as he had come.

The streets of Javiville were desolate during winter; the area was rather famous for its freezing temperatures and its ice storms. Jurvos liked it this way, both the solitude and the cold. He liked heat as well, but he'd spent the early years of his career stuck in a jungle with no way out. These days he liked a nice brisk air.

He spotted the building that housed Xundry Goods at least three minutes before he would be able to read the sign and smiled to himself. The bartender had been right: it was indeed a crashed ship. A very interesting thing to turn into a shop, certainly unique in his travels, and he decided he liked this Xun character already.

He entered the shop through what was obviously a melted hatchway and stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting within. Due to the angle at which the ship lay the lines of the place could certainly give one a headache, but the only lighting came from a string of electrics that were tacked onto walls and ceilings, casting shadows that distracted from the disorienting architecture.

"You want something?" a voice called from the darkness.

Unable to quite see the owner of the voice, Jurvos bowed slightly in the direction it had come from. "Merely an independent shipper interested in acquiring materials for an interstellar trip. Carter suggested your place."

Jurvos distinctly heard a snort. "What did you do, tip him less than a hundred?"

He saw no reason to tell less than the truth. "For the information? Half that. Added a sizable tip for the drink, though, so it would come out to just above one hundred. Why would that matter?"

"Oh it usually doesn't," the voice continued, coming closer. "Carter is a strange one. Anyway, what kind of merchandise you interested in?"

Jurvos hesitated. The proprietor had finally made herself visible at the last part of that sentence and he was momentarily taken aback. He wouldn't say she was stunning, or even strikingly beautiful, but she was far better looking than anyone running a chop shop had any right to be.

His hesitation must have been apparent because she glowered at him. "What, not used to a pretty girl working in a dive like this?" she challenged, her hand on her hip near what looked like a pistol.

Trying to think of something to say, he let his eyes roam around the room. "Sentinel, Barb Four class," he stated, naming the type of vessel the shop was in.

"Good eye," she stated flatly, still glowering. "Now answer the question."

He turned back to look at her, realizing that she wasn't the type to let something like this go. Probably dealt with too many idiots and was quick on the temper. And possibly the trigger finger, too. He shrugged.

"In all honesty, yes. In my experience chop shops are run by the dirtiest and grungiest of characters, as that seems to go with the territory. A bit of a prejudice, perhaps, and one that I have become accustomed to. My apologies if I've offended you."

She seemed to mellow a bit at his apology, taking her hand off her hip. But there was still a hard edge to her eyes as she moved behind a scarred counter and leaned over it. "What are you interested in?"

He strolled casually over to the counter and pulled out his Pertier. It was a pretty basic model, but he'd upgraded it for shipping computations and other calculations. He checked his schedule.

"I'm on my way to Stanza Eight. If you have any Mantroc, I'd be willing to unload it."

He had said it casually of course, and he was making a good show of studying his schedule, but he was watching her closely. Her eyes narrowed, and he smiled inwardly, wondering which part she had reacted to. Mantroc was a memory-metal that was the most outrageously expensive trade goods anywhere... and it was illegal to sell privately on any of the Stanza worlds.

"Mantroc isn't among the goods I sell here," she said carefully. "Not enough of a market pull in these parts."

He nodded, making a small notation on his list. She was probably right, after all... Mantroc didn't perform up to standard in cold conditions unless it went through a treatment process that made it worth more than most cities made in a year.

"How about Glyveron?" he asked just as casually, this time actually looking at her. Glyveron was a ubiquitous oil that was in demand just about anywhere... and it also was illegal on the Stanza worlds.

There was another narrowing of her eyes, this one far harder to detect, but it was there. Smiling again privately, he had managed to peg it. She was good: she knew the business well enough to know the black market. That was a very handy feature in a chop shop contact.

"Plenty of Glyveron," she stated, "but there's not that much profit to be made shipping it around. For an inner world cluster like the Stanzas, you'd be better off with high-ticket luxuries like diamonds or gold."

She was even sharper than he'd given her credit for. "You're right, of course! I'd like to buy some diamonds... and some Glyveron. Never know where you can unload that oil."

She lost her smile completely, her eyes on fire. "You a cop or something? If so, you can just invite yourself right out of my shop."

He took a small step backwards, not entirely unsurprised. He'd been accused of being an officer on several occasions. Usually with just as much indignation.

"I assure you that I am nothing of the sort. As I said earlier, I am an independent shipper, always looking for a good deal."

She stared at him for a long moment, obviously ready to kick him out anyway. After letting out a big sigh, however, her expression relented.

"How much of each would you like?"

From an inside pocket of his jacket Jurvos pulled clips of large denomination coins. "That depends entirely on how much they cost. Per Class 5 Crate."

"Class 5? Heavy hauler, eh?"

He smiled broadly. "But of course."

She jabbed her finger into what looked like a bullet-hole and a Comptier screen rose from hiding. She glanced at it for a minute.

"I have twenty crates of Glyveron that I'll let go at five hundred each, eight crates of diamonds that will run you twenty-five hundred each, and also five crates of gold that are just shy of worthless here, and I'll let you have them for a straight thousand each."

Jurvos double checked his coins for a minute while doing some mental calculation. He would be able to make more than quadruple on the Glyveron, but the other two would depend entirely on the day he went to market.

"I'll take them all," he declared, willing to take a gamble on it. That was, after all, the name of the game. "Here's thirty-five thousand."

He had already slipped the entire amount into money clips and he placed them on the counter, sliding them slightly toward her.

She glanced at the clips before smiling. "Xun Saht. Welcome to Xundry Goods."

Jurvos couldn't help but grin. "Jurvos. Aren't you supposed to do that when people walk in?" he asked.

She shrugged and tossed her long black hair over her shoulders. "Never know what kind of people are coming in."

"Point. Delivery?"

"All local space ports, and pickup."

He raised an eyebrow, looking around the place. "You can handle thirty-three crates of goods?"

She smiled mischievously. "Trade secret. When do you want it?"

He glanced at the time displayed on his Pertier. No time like the present, his father had always told him. "As soon as possible. I'm docked at the Nibunea Dream. _Spinster's Wheel_ is my ship."

"I'll have it delivered in less than an hour. Anything else I can help you with?"

He shook his head and gave her one of his famous smiles. "Afraid not, but I must say that it was a pleasure doing business with you, Xun."

Her eyes might have twinkled; he couldn't tell. "Likewise, Jurvos. Don't hesitate to drop by when you're in the area. I'll throw in a discount for repeat business."

They finished their farewells and Jurvos walked slowly along the streets toward the space port, entertaining thoughts he had no business thinking. He still had too many years to run the trade routes before he retired, and marriage was the equivalent of retirement in this business. But if she knew the business as well as he...

He shook his head violently and turned his attention to the skies. The sun had disappeared behind thick clouds while he had been inside and the wind had died down. White crystals of ice were beginning to float toward the ground, their tranquil descent almost hypnotic. The temperature was dropping rapidly, but he didn't mind. The Vyt Bender was still warm in his stomach, and the image of an attractive smuggler was warm in his thoughts as he trudged along the still deserted streets.

Turning down a side road he made his way to the space port. It was the matter of a few minutes to make it to the port, through the security, and into his freighter. This week it was Spinster's Web, but he had bought it as the Yonder Yearning and still privately referred to it as his Double Why. Both names were fitting. He was always yearning for things out yonder...and he always asked himself why.

That was a question he really needed to ask himself right now. Why was he suddenly thinking thoughts of companionship? Sure, Xun Saht was good-looking, verging on the beautiful, but he'd seen hundreds of women of equal or greater attractiveness in his travels through the stars. Maybe it was her obvious toughness and the level at which she was familiar with the darker side of shipping. That was certainly a new combination in his travels. He'd met female smugglers, of course, but none who had the looks along with the brains. He tended to avoid congregating with his kind, but lately he'd been tempted to just settle down somewhere and relax with someone. Xun had reawakened that temptation.

A beep from his CommuniCator told him a message was incoming. He accepted it, heard a robotic voice inform him that it was here for Xundry Goods delivery, and pressed the button that deactivated the cargo hold security. Heaving himself out of the comfortable chair where he spent most of his life he made his way to the cargo hold.

He smiled when he got there. _Trade secret my eye,_ he thought, amused. It was a VreeSled, a robotic cargo hauler that cost more than his ship. Apparently, Xun did well for herself.

Twenty or so minutes later all the crates had been stacked, and Jurvos spent the next couple of hours rearranging the contents. He'd almost always been able to slip onto a planet without getting his cargo searched, but there was nothing ever wrong with having a backup plan.

With everything out of the way and ready, Jurvos sat down once again in the captain's chair and started up the engines. He was strangely reluctant to make the call to the space port and announce his intention to depart. The face of Xun flashed in front of his eyes and he shook his head. _Getting soft_ , he mused. With resolve he punched the 'Cator button and in five minutes he was floating above the city of Javiville. For one full minute his attention wavered between the now rapidly falling snow and the silhouette of a certain crashed Sentinel Barb Four.

But with another sharp shake of his head he dislodged the crazy thoughts that had been swirling through his mind and he oriented his ship for space.

The sale couldn't have gone better. With a maximum of looking over his shoulder and a minimum of problems he ended up leaving Stanza Eight with twenty-five crates of Titanium, which was heavily in demand for building, and a pile of extra 'Rins amounting to just short of thirteen thousand... after expenses. He had been edgy the whole time, though. Nervous... or something. He'd thought maybe he was being watched, but that hadn't been it.

It had to be the girl, he decided as he burned Patrinium for orbit around Stanza Eight. She'd entered his thoughts every single day of the trip, and not just once or twice a day either. For some reason he couldn't get her out of his mind. He resolved to visit small Javiville on out-of-the-way Uuranda, and offer to buy one Xun Saht a drink or more at Carter's place.

As such he put in the proper coordinates and sat back, more pleasant thoughts in his mind.

There was a blanket of snow on the ground and a heavy layer of clouds sitting low in the sky. Letting his coat hang open and enjoying the biting cold, Jurvos smiled up at the dimly lit clouds. They threatened to add even more inches to the icy piles below.

His hands deep in his pockets he walked slowly toward a building with a very unique outline. Smiling softly, fully aware of how much of a fool he was being, he entered the shop.

"Well, look what the storm blew in!" a cheerful voice called out from the darkness. A pair of bright lights switched on, and Jurvos looked around in amazement at all of the details he hadn't been able to see before.

But the ship only held his attention for a few seconds. Turning back to the counter, he smiled broadly at Xun. "I always come in with the cold," he said, risking a wink.

With the added lighting he could see her eyes twinkle. She was dressed in a spacer jumpsuit that would have detracted from nearly anyone's beauty, but on her it seemed to only add to her image. An image that he'd become quite fond of, lately.

"Was wondering if you were free for a drink," he continued, walking over and leaning on the counter.

She switched position to lean on the counter as well, looking closely at him. "I get asked that question by just about every spacer, trucker, and smuggler who comes in here. You're the first one to wait for your second visit to ask."

He shrugged, his stomach acting oddly. Was this what the so-called 'butterflies' felt like? It was a new sensation. Very strange. "Well if you're not free for a drink I hope you're free for some business. I have some goods to unload and plenty of 'Rins to spend on another load."

"Business first my mother always said. What have you got to unload?"

"Titanium."

Her eyes widened slightly and he knew he'd chosen the right place to bring it. Javiville was on the verge of expanding its borders but there was a severe lack of building materials. If she got a hold of titanium she'd make a killing in the construction market.

"How much do you have?" she asked eagerly, her professional exterior cracking a little in her excitement.

He looked around at the ceiling, pretending to try to remember. Her eyes narrowed a bit but a smile creased her face. After a moment he snapped his fingers. "That's right. Twenty-five crates."

She chuckled. "Well, Jurvos, I can definitely find a use for that. Perhaps you'd be interested in bartering for some Caxil? I got a new shipment just yesterday. Market conditions are wonderful in the Anvay system right now."

She was right, of course. He would be able to sell Caxil for an absolute huge profit, and the planet Guuuv Legii was nearby. He'd be able to sample their galaxy-famous drink list again, as well as visit the Poseidon Shipyards and get his ship some upgrades. "Sounds like a deal," he said suddenly, smiling.

It took half an hour to hammer out a deal that worked to both of their advantages. Jurvos unloaded all twenty-five crates of his titanium in exchange for five hundred crates of Caxil and a few thousand 'Rins on top.

Xun accompanied her VreeSled to the _Neverland_ , Jurvos' name for the ship this time around. She helped load the cargo, chatting almost nonstop about the local and distant market fluctuations. Jurvos found himself enjoying the conversation immensely. He was used to being alone; in fact he found it uncomfortable to be around anyone for too long.

But he liked this. She was smart, she was attractive, and she knew the market almost as well as he did.

When they were done loading she accepted his invitation to a drink. The only really good spot to drink around here, she explained, was back at Carter's place. So they made their way through the falling snow and enjoyed a couple of drinks together, him another Vyt Bender and her a rather exotic Saucanay Rim.

He walked her back to her shop, promised to visit again soon, and made his way slowly back to the _Neverland_ , a very warm and contented feeling swirling about him. If he kept this up his life would be very different soon, but for some reason the prospect didn't scare him.

Getting clearance from the spaceport he headed for deep space, his monitors and mind squarely focused on Xundry Goods. Taking a deep breath, he entered in the coordinates for Anvay and went into his cabin to rest.

Another flawless day in the black markets netted him fifty crates of Sparklenic, a drug that he didn't normally get his hands on. He would end his current run at Guuuv Legii with a combined net profit of just under three hundred thousand 'Rins. It was one of his better runs, and it was a week shorter than usual, thanks in part to the assistance of lovely Xun. He'd upgrade his ship at Poseidon and still have a load of Sparklenic and plenty of leftover 'Rins in case he caught a bad trend in the market. He plotted out just what he'd need to upgrade as he calculated the least expensive trip to the nearby luxury planet.

He was so preoccupied that he didn't even notice the Predator-class Star Cruiser coming up behind him until it was too late. Only the tell-tale shriek of a dozer shot rocked him from his planning.

His 'Cator burst with static, indicating his antagonists were breeching the call-waiting system, and he used the time to frantically press buttons on his command console. Damage diagnostics... yes, they'd only used a dozer shot. Would put most ships' engines under for at least twenty minutes, but his wasn't an ordinary craft. He set up the coordinates for a quick escape. Swiveling in his chair he turned to another console just as a voice burst from his speakers.

"Freighter _Neverland_ , you are ordered to power down your systems fully and prepare to be boarded."

He glanced at his displays and swore. There was no way he would be able to overcome the effects of a dozer shot in the time it took the Predator to overtake him. Might as well try bluffing and see if he could shave the time schedule down a bit.

He tapped the speech button and put as much belligerence and self-righteousness into his voice as possible. "On whose authority are you doing this, bloody scumbag? I'll have you know I don't take kindly to pirates."

The same voice replied. "This is Captain Deved of the Anti-Smuggler Patrol Cruiser _SnakeBite_. Under the authority of the Cartel Discrepancy Outfit, the Barons, and the local Alpha Cartel IronClads, you are ordered to shut down your ship and prepare to be boarded."

Jurvos swore again. The ASP was almost as widespread as the CDO. Even the Alpha Cartels didn't like people shipping stuff through their embargoes, and the ASP had total authority in the realm of smuggler hunting. He ran through a few more tricks to try and speed up the repair process his ship systems were currently trying to undergo. It didn't do any good. More bluffing.

"Under what charges or suspicions?"

There was an audible sigh. "If it's from the ASP, you know very well what the charge is. Shut down your ship now or we'll do it for you. In a more permanent manner."

He couldn't afford for them to do that. Thankfully, with this ship he always had one excuse that never failed. Maybe, just maybe, he could get out of this one alive and free.

"I can't," he snapped, actual anger seeping into his voice this time. "This is a Calwest _Klickste_ r-class freighter. Do you know what happens when a dozer shot hits the engines of a Klickster?"

There was silence for a few seconds, a few precious seconds that cut down his timer. It was common knowledge about the feedback surge in Klickster vessels that would disable the ship's ability to control its own systems. What wasn't common knowledge, even to sleuths and snoopers like the ASP, was that there was an extremely expensive and undetectable way around it. The Double Why, of course, had undergone that retrofit eighteen years ago.

Before the counter could run down even to the mid triple digits he knew he was out of time.

"Prepare to be boarded anyway. Starboard hatch... and we know full well you can manually open it. See that you do."

The 'Cator popped, indicating the connection had been cut, and Jurvos sighed. He gazed at his rearview monitor and watched as the _SnakeBite_ expertly moved in to dock. He tapped the appropriate button and the starboard hatch was opened. They'd equalize the pressure before moving over and he had several ways of taking advantage of that against pirates... but against an ASP ship he'd better not. There was still the chance he'd be able to bluff his way completely out of this, keep fifty crates of sparklenic and stay the nank out of a prison cell.

The docking procedure cut down the timer considerably, but he was past that point at the moment. He heard footsteps in the hallway and heaved himself out of his chair. He was standing innocently with his arms clasped in front of him when the door to the cockpit was opened.

One officer with an immaculately clean white and orange uniform and two guards in full black strode into the cockpit as if they owned it. The officer was tall, at least six and a half feet, and very thin. He was also old. But his voice matched that of Captain Deved from earlier, and it had even more power in person.

"Jurvos Rafiel in person," the Captain stated almost casually and Jurvos twitched as if he'd been stung.

_They know who I am,_ he thought, his hopes of bluffing lowering quite a few notches.

"Never thought I'd meet the famous Siitral Speedster, let alone be the one to bring him in," Deved continued, almost smiling.

"My exploits are highly exaggerated and none can be proven anyway," Jurvos stated between stiff lips. He decided to try and bluff, just in case. "What makes you think I'm not on an honest trip?"

Almost before the words were out of his mouth a fourth person entered the cabin, and Jurvos' heart sank to his toes, all hope vanishing completely. The face that had haunted him for the last week and a half was right there, smiling sardonically at him from atop a white uniform.

"So you're saying we won't find any leftover Caxil in your cargo hold?" Xun Saht asked, her voice almost as casual as her captain's.

Jurvos took a very deep breath and let it out slowly. Despite his best intentions he'd made a name for himself over the long years he'd been smuggling. As the air left him slowly so did the springy resolve that had kept him going. _It's over,_ he thought in shock. _It's all over_.

They saw it on his face, too. No words were spoken as the two guards moved over to flank him. Xun looked almost sorry and for a minute it also looked like she going to say something, but her mouth stayed shut.

They were almost through the hatch when he finally snapped. Somehow every ounce of courage he'd ever had welled up in one final act of defiance. With a speed that surprised even him he leapt back between and behind the guards into his own ship and in the same motion threw them through the corridor in front of him. Before anybody could even shout he'd punched a button on his side of the corridor. The hatch closed shut with a gratifying clang and he ran into the hallway. Once there he jabbed two more buttons but didn't wait around to see the blast doors close.

_They're not going to get me! They can't get me. They can't get me,_ he chanted to himself over and over as he sprinted into the cockpit. Time was short. It would take them at least five minutes to burn through the blast doors, but they might not even bother to do that.

They might just blow him out of the sky.

A running jump brought him successfully but painfully into his chair and he noticed with gratification that the timer had counted down to zero. Flipping a large green switch he felt a jolt as the engines came back online. His hands darted over the controls for a few seconds as he made sure everything was in place. Finally, he grabbed the flight stick and wrenched it to the side.

A terrific tearing noise accompanied the shudder that meant he'd disengaged violently from the _SnakeBite_. With no time to lose he tapped an intricate series of buttons on his weapons console.

The roar from the Flash missile was even louder but he didn't flinch. Flash missiles were the space equivalent of Flash Bangs and their construction caused painful sound waves to reverberate the length of starship hulls.

It was the perfect diversion and three buttons later he was speeding through hyperspace. His hands were shaking, sweat was dripping off his forehead and down his back and his breathing was labored.

Exactly three minutes after entering hyperspace his ship reverted to normal travel and he took a deep breath. He'd made it.

As he slowly keyed in the coordinates for a new destination his mind flashed back to Xun. She might have been clear of the corridor when he'd escaped. If not, she'd been exposed to explosive vacuum. He felt a sharp pain for one full minute as his mind wandered over the possibilities and the might-have-beens. She would have made a lovely companion. If she was still alive she would make a dangerous opponent.

Typing in the final bit of coordinates, he shrugged. He was the Siitral Speedster. He never stayed long in any one place.

Not even love.

With a flare of engine light he disappeared into the stars.

# Endgame

### Author's Note

Cards may have changed names in the Frontier Worlds but their function hasn't. Poker and blackjack are two of the most popular games that have survived from Old Earth history and they are played regularly by amateurs and professionals alike. 109 years after the Landing a man by the name of Wendall Staff changed the suits to their current form. He also invented seventeen new gambling games; he was extremely bored. The Treaty of Seven, which ended the First Cartel War, standardized ranks and medals, and that led to a changing of the face cards. The Barons forced another change with the Treaty of Six and instituted themselves as the highest face card. By far the most popular poker variant is Mercs, which is loosely based on Texas Hold'em. Here is a list of the new face cards, suits, and hands of poker.

_Hand Ranks:_ Alpha Link (Royal Flush), Chain Link (Straight Flush), Quad (4 of a kind), Broadside (Full House), Link (Flush), Chain(Straight), Triple(3 of a kind), Double Duo (Two Pair), Duo (Pair)

_Card Suits:_ Shivs (Spades), Patriniums (Diamonds), Cores (Hearts), Dupes (Clubs)

_Face Cards:_ Baron (Ace), Kingpin (King), Crimelord (Queen), Hitman (Jack)

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Millions of lights twinkled on and off in the distance, looking for all the world like a giant fireflit convention. It was a beautiful night, especially this far from those glimmering city lights. One could actually look up and see the stars, the dozens of constellations and the bright red orb that was the sister planet he'd seen in the sky since he was a child.

Roy Baket took a deep breath of the country air, letting it out slowly. He'd always wanted to visit Jaynus. The red planet was a lot harsher than its twin but was certainly still livable. Jaynians, as they were called, looked down on what they considered the plush lifestyle led by those on Janus. While Jaynus was often plagued by sandstorms and giant, hemisphere-spanning thunderstorms, Janus was much calmer and more temperate. They were twin planets, it was true, but there couldn't have been a greater difference between them.

Roy leaned forward on the railing, taking a sip from his Xix Liquor. It really was a lovely view with Jaynus slowly rising from the north while the sun finally disappeared from sight in the southwest. Off in front of him sat Tiara City, the largest city in the entire Augustine Star Province. Tonight he would walk down the same paths he had walked as a child. Tonight he would see the same buildings he had seen while growing up. But tonight he would do something very different. Tonight he would go into a building he had never been old enough to visit, back then.

For tonight was the time of the Grand Tiara Tournament. It was held at the Alcazar, the largest drinking and gambling establishment in the closest three systems.

When he'd left Janus he'd been four years away from being able to enter the Alcazar. He had never come back, not in the long thirty years that had passed. He'd had his reasons and they weren't any different after three decades.

But tonight he was going to have to put away all the bitterness and hatred. Tonight, he was going to waltz into the Alcazar as if he owned the place and he was going to play like it was his last hand.

Which it probably would be. Roy downed the rest of his drink and pulled on his coat. One way or another, tonight was going to be a night to remember.

The streets were packed with people and Pulsers going in every direction. As the largest city in a collection that boasted two dozen worlds, Tiara got more than its fair share of visitors. It was impossible to go anywhere in the city without encountering a crowd.

There were at least eight uniformed police officers in view as Roy neared the Alcazar. Swallowing against a sudden lump in his throat, he inserted himself into the line that was streaming into the entrance.

He came up to the security barricade and presented his identification to the guard. The man pushed it into the scanner with an uninterested grunt. When the machine started beeping, however, he suddenly became a whole lot more involved.

He pulled out Roy's identification and looked at the screen. Roy knew exactly what it said, of course. He'd read it more times that he cared to count.

The officer turned around and stared. "Roy Baket?"

"Hello Jayke. Been awhile."

Jayke Delahyme's mouth hung open. "It's been...but you...I can't just...we used to..."

He shook his head suddenly as if clearing it. "I'm sorry, Roy, old times or not I'm going to have to take you in." He pulled out his stun cuffs and stepped forward.

"Can't do that, Jayke. Statute of limitations is fifteen years from the issue. That means it ended a long time ago."

Jayke hesitated. "Even for arson?"

"Murder and sexual assault are the only statutes that don't expire. Most others would have ended eight years before mine did. Didn't you know that? Or are you new on the force?"

Jayke grimaced. "Temp work; they needed extra hands for tonight. Well, I guess I'm going to have to let you go in. But... you aren't here tonight because of..."

He trailed off as if afraid to finish. Roy hesitated a second himself before answering.

"What I'm here for, Jayke," he said quietly, "is to play some cards."

"I hope for your sake that's all you do tonight, Roy. Even if half the force here remembers you fondly they aren't going to stand by and let you get away with anything."

Roy held out his hands in a defenseless posture. "I just want to play cards. Really. May I enter? I need a drink."

Jayke stood to the side and opened the gate. "Good to see you again, Roy. Please observe the laws of the Alcazar and I hope you enjoy your evening."

Roy's hands were shaking as he neared the bar. He'd spotted Jayke standing at the barricade from halfway down the stairs but he'd hoped his old friend wouldn't remember him. If it hadn't been for the automatic marking of all past crimes he'd have been able to walk in unnoticed. Now he was sure that Jayke would spread the word and that extra attention would be paid to his doings.

It took a drink and a half before he was able to notice the foyer where he was standing. He remembered when he was growing up... the Alcazar had always been the place that every kid couldn't wait to be old enough to enter. Every adult he'd ever met had billed the Alcazar as the most amazing cantina casino they'd ever seen.

Roy had been to probably a hundred bars, cantinas, and casinos since leaving Janus. If he had taken all of them and combined them into one they still wouldn't have matched what he was looking at right now.

The entrance foyer was designed to move you right past the bar area, as it was a large oval shape with the bar in the middle. Like almost every casino bar in the frontier worlds this one had a large 'shed' surrounded by mixing equipment and a waist-high bar in a full circle. Opposite the entrance, impossible to see until you moved around the bar, were the doorways that led to the various dining and gambling rooms.

It wasn't the layout that impressed him, however; it was the sheer grandeur. The foyer ceiling was a dome that appeared to be fifty feet above the floor, with the largest chandelier he'd ever seen dangling all the way down into the bar's mixing area. What made it unique was the fact that all of the bar's fresh water came in over the chandelier, which doubled as a waterfall feature. A hundred tiny lights were submerged in the waterfall, giving off a tranquil and almost hypnotic caustic effect all over the room.

He swiveled around in his soft bar stool and admired the crystal mural that made up the entire wall decoration. It seemed to be an abstract rendition of the night sky as visible from the Alcazar's famed upper balcony. Whatever it was, it had probably cost a small fortune. Shipping costs alone for the sheer amount of crystals involved had to have cost as much as the building itself.

He glanced at his Pertier's watch. It was almost time for the tournament to start. He finished off his drink, placed the ornate goblet on the table, and walked slowly around the bar toward the main casino floor. The layout was a maze, as is usual for casinos, but situated off to either side of the entrance was a large door marked Fast Track: Tournament Room. That was where he was heading.

He stepped into line behind the stream of other people who were also going toward the Fast Track. Roy expected a major traffic jam but the designers of the Alcazar had anticipated such a crowd and had installed a set of eight moving sidewalks, four going toward the tournament room and four moving away. At the moment the number was reduced to two going away and the other six going toward the tournament room.

It was only a matter of minutes, really, before he got off the moving sidewalk and entered the Tournament Room, which was unofficially known as the Crystal Room. It was a bit of a disappointment in style compared to the foyer but it was still several leagues above any other casino he had visited. There were at least seven hundred tables scattered about the room at various levels and each one had a unique crystal chandelier above it. Almost all of the tables were already at maximum capacity, full of gamblers eager and ready to begin.

To enter the tournament room required another pass through a security barricade. Roy wasn't even ten people away from the barricade when he noticed the guards keeping an eye on him. _Great_ , he thought, rolling his eyes. _Just what I need_.

To his surprise there weren't any problems when it was finally his turn. The guard simply pointed him toward the Chip Dispenser, handed him a card with a table and seat number, and told him to mind the playing rules.

And that was that. No frisking, no vague warnings, no threatening. It was nice. Roy walked over to the Chip Dispenser, pulled out his 'RinCard, and slid it in. Two million 'Rins worth of chips went into his right jacket pocket. He glanced at his seat and table numbers, walked over, and sat down at the table with three other men dressed as impeccably as he was.

"Welcome to table Six Hundred Eleven," the man seated to his right said with a smile. "Sajjev." He pointed to the man next to him. "This is John and this is Leht."

"Call me Roy," he replied, smiling slightly. "Nice place here."

John raised his eyebrows. "Never been here before?" he asked, his accent marking him as a local. "I've been coming here for eleven years."

"Nine years," Leht said.

"Six years here," Sajjev chimed in. "Greatest casino in the Worlds."

"Wouldn't know," Roy replied. "I just want to play some cards."

"And play you will. It'll only be a few minutes now. Most of the tables are already full."

Sure enough, less then ten minutes later a voice boomed across the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the sixty-fifth annual Grand Tiara Tournament!"

Cheers, whistles, and applause erupted from the regular participants. Roy simply sat back and smiled.

"Starting tonight's events will be an elimination round of California Pyramid, five thousand 'Rins. Minimum bid of fifty, maximum quad bet. Last man standing."

Roy and the men at his table all pulled out five thousand 'Rins worth of chips just as the middle of the table opened up. Out came a deck of cards, the four-sided-die tumbler, and a dealer marker. The dealer marker came out on the side of Leht, so he shuffled the deck as the players paid an ante of twenty-five 'Rins. Leht dealt out the cards, and the games began.

At the end of nearly an hour, Roy was the last man standing. John had been the final opponent and Roy felt almost bad about beating him. They'd all been excellent sports, however, and John wished Roy luck as he left. He was probably heading for the restaurant.

Roy placed the deck of cards and the dealer marker in the middle of the table near the dice tumbler and watched as they disappeared. A few minutes later the last of the tables finished their rounds. The maitre d' announced that there would be a ten minute intermission to sample the appetizers and then all survivors would meet again and be assigned to new tables.

He stood up and walked slowly toward a random spot on the wall, his hands deep in his pockets and his eyes scanning the crowd. A large portion of the people were leaving already, having suffered from the first-round elimination. They'd drink out their sorrows in the bar areas and would probably turn to the regular gambling areas to get their fix. The first-round elimination was something Roy wasn't particularly fond of, but the Grand Tiara Tournament was famous for a brutal opening followed by a more relaxed setting.

It did accomplish one thing, of course... it got rid of the casual and unlucky players early, making sure that everybody in for the later rounds played like they meant it. All in all it wasn't too bad a tradeoff, he guessed. It would have been a nasty state if there was a cover charge to get into the tournament.

Roy decided to forego the appetizers and remain leaning against the wall. It afforded a great view of the many people. Even though the first round was last man standing there were still more people than he'd ever seen in a single tournament. Would certainly make things interesting.

The ten minutes were up and the maitre d' instructed everyone to head for the center of the room to acquire their new seat assignments. Obediently the crowd moved, Roy right along with them. His new seat was much closer to the middle this time and he found it easily.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the maitre d' intoned solemnly. "Please be sure that you are seated, as it is time for the Ascension to Cloud One."

His three table companions finally showed up, moving quickly so as not to miss this, one of the most famous of the Grand Tiara Tournament's traditions. Roy had heard of it, of course. Just about everyone who'd ever heard of the Grand Tiaras had heard of the Ascension.

The barricades went up in a sweeping circle around the edge of the furthest occupied tables, leaving a large ring of unoccupied seats outside of the barrier. A chorus sounded throughout the room and the lights dimmed slightly as the ceiling slid open. A split second later the large circle of the floor they were on started to rise.

It brought a smile to Roy's face. As the floor finally stopped, twenty feet higher from where they had been, he looked around. The rising floor had brought them into a new room segment, one that had been blocked from view by the ceiling. It was decorated a completely different way and the chandeliers were all new as well.

The three others at his table, two women and a man, appeared unfazed by the move. Considering the fact that they'd made it this far, Roy assumed that they were regulars.

"Cloud One will feature Double Elimination Two-Twenty-Two," the Maitre 'd announced. "Let the games begin."

Roy grimaced slightly. Two-Twenty-Two wasn't his strongest game. He'd spent three decades gambling and could honestly claim to be one of the best, but a Double Elimination Two-Twenty-Two meant he'd have to play better than at least two of the three people with him. Only the two best continued in a Double Elimination.

"Not fond of Two-Twenty-Two?" one of the women stated, her bright turquoise eyes scanning his face. She'd obviously caught his grimace.

"Afraid it's not my strongest showing," he admitted. "At least I made it to Cloud One."

The man, a weasely looking sort, laughed out loud. "Cloud One is kreecake. Cloud Three, on the other hand, is not. Been there twice."

Both of the women rolled their eyes and Roy felt a strong temptation to do the same himself. The same woman who had addressed him, the one with pretty turquoise eyes, smiled sweetly at the little man. "Cloud Five is much nicer than Three," she said simply. The little weasel man promptly shut up as she took the deck of cards, shuffled it expertly, and dealt the five cards out.

Two-Twenty-Two was a strange mixture of Baj Natek Poker and Blackjack. Five cards were dealt, and like Baj Natek you were to separate them into two hands, one of three and the other of two. In Two-Twenty-Two, however, the purpose of the 'high' and 'low' hands was not to come out with a better poker hand but rather to come out with the closest to twenty-two. It was an odd game with some odd betting rules and although it wasn't his strongest game Roy rather liked it.

The time passed quickly, with fortunes raging back and forth between the four contestants. Twice in a row Roy had a hand he was sure would win only to come crashing down and lose a heap of 'Rins on the deal. It was quickly becoming apparent that the woman with turquoise eyes and the little weasel man would be the two that would be advancing to the next cloud, and something deep inside of Roy snapped. He absolutely had to make to the top cloud. It was the sole reason he had come. Gritting his teeth with determination he turned his mind solely over to winning.

His mind began working feverishly, calculating odds and bet percentages, and he began taking risks he normally wouldn't. Slowly but surely Lady Luck began to smile upon him. The others at the table, especially the weasel man, were sitting up straighter now, suddenly aware of the new threat in their midst.

A particularly nasty hand was dealt and Roy fought the urge to rub his eyes in frustration. He was still trailing the other three and if he didn't pick up the slack he would soon be eliminated. Cornered by a high bet and reckless, he matched the wager and slammed his hand down on the table, knowing as he did that he had lost.

Sure enough, weasel man had a perfect Twenty-Two, entitling him to double the bet. That meant Roy was finished. It was over. He looked up and gazed into the eyes of his conqueror. The little man was smug and completely sure of himself. Shaking his head, Roy started to push all of his chips toward the center of the table when a large beefy arm stopped him.

He looked up, startled. A positively huge man, six foot eight at the least and most likely three hundred and fifty pounds, had somehow materialized at their table. Without a word he reached over and wrenched weasel man out of his chair. Striding over to the edge of the gaming floor he promptly tossed the little man over the edge of the railing.

The shock had barely set in when another man, much smaller and immaculately dressed, showed up. "Your tablemate has been caught cheating. As this was double elimination his proceeds will be divided among the three of you, and all of you will be advancing to Cloud Two. You may snack or play among yourselves. However, there will be no more betting at this table."

A bot appeared at the man's elbow and scooped up the chips that had belonged to the cheater and within a minute he had distributed the evenly divided amount to the three remaining players.

"Well that was fun," the woman with turquoise eyes said. "I didn't quite trust him."

"Me neither," Roy responded, heaving a sigh of relief. He'd come this close to being eliminated from the tournament altogether... "Well at least we'll have something to talk about. My name's Roy Baket. It was a lovely game while it lasted."

The other woman smiled and offered her hand. "I'm Penalope Wons. You sure lit a fire under yourself toward the end there. I was afraid I'd be the first eliminated."

"I agree with the fire," the woman with turquoise eyes said, offering her hand for a handshake after Roy had greeted Penalope. "I'm Lynda Freohn, and you turned into the most motivated player I think I've ever seen."

Roy's smile faded, despite the fact he was shaking the hand of the third prettiest gambler woman he'd ever met. "Yes, well... I'd really like to reach the upper echelons."

The two women nodded. "It is quite the incentive, isn't it?" Lynda asked, her smile still in place. "I can guarantee that if you keep that spark with you, you'll make it far. But come...it appears that the other tables aren't even close to finishing. What say we get a drink, a snack, and then practice our Two-Twenty-Two skills to pass the time?"

His smile returned. "I'd like that."

The night passed quickly enough. Clouds Two, Three, Four, Five, Six and Seven were each on a smaller circle of the floor, and each level they raised to was another twenty feet above the one before. Not only that, but each new alcove was even more exquisite. They ranged from dramatic recreations of the ice fields of New Mercury to the current, Cloud Eight, which had a stunning rendition of the jungles of Kellossia, where the BlackJack's famed biological works were manifest.

On Clouds Four and Six Roy had been at the same table as Lynda and both times the younger woman had trounced him thoroughly. Thankfully, both cases had been a Double-Elimination and he had been able to advance to the next Cloud regardless. With each new round the battle to stay on top grew more vicious. Two more cheaters had been tossed over the edge since the first man and the last had been stupid enough to try it on Cloud Five. Roy was certain that if the man had survived the hundred foot drop he wouldn't be in a position to be cheating anytime soon.

There wouldn't be any more cheating here, that was for sure... it would be an instant death sentence. But more than that, all of those present recognized what they had achieved... win or lose, each of them had made it past Cloud Six, where so few had ever trodden before. They would have a story to tell, and better yet, all those that had survived past Cloud Seven would receive a special diamond commemoration statue and access to the coveted Heaven Reachers club, which offered discounts at just about every casino, bar or cantina in the Frontier Worlds. Roy, now leading the pack in Mercs on Cloud Eight, was merely a few minutes away from gaining access to the even more sought-after Empyrean Club, which was essentially the Heaven Reachers club but with more benefits, including discounts and free stays at some of the best resorts that only the richest ever made it to. Rumors had it that those of the Empyrean Club could even rub shoulders with a Baron or two. Acolytes or Militates only, of course, but a Baron was still a Baron to the social elite.

A feral grin spread across Roy's face despite his best efforts to keep a poker face and he doubled the bet on the table. Two of the five remaining people folded immediately, giving up sizable portions of the last of their Patriniums. The other three made small but significant twitches that told Roy everything he needed to know: one was too proud to back out now, one thought Roy was bluffing, and the third was supremely confident in his hand. He was the one Roy had to worry about, but was ninety-five percent certain that the other wasn't holding anything higher than a Broadside, with a five percent possibility that he was holding a Quad.

The betting continued for another few minutes, Roy managing to play cautious and drag even higher bets out of the three. He was certain for a moment that the prideful player wouldn't touch the final bet, but an offhand comment by one of the other betters made him match and Roy called. The man who thought Roy had been bluffing was holding a low Broadside, the man who had been too prideful had a respectable high-end Link, and the supremely confident man had a Quad of Tens.

Roy whistled, nodding. He would have bet that there was only a five percent chance of that. In fact, he had bet on that five percent. Either way, it didn't matter. He laid down his cards, the most sweet of sensations coursing through his veins as the others' eyes grew wider. "Alpha Shiv Link," he announced triumphantly, eyeing the Baron, Kingpin and Crimelord of Shivs that completed the Hitman and Ten of Shivs already on the table.

"Without cheating, and without a Merc Card either," one of the men who had folded said softly, his voice and face awestruck. Roy himself couldn't believe it. He'd seen Alpha Links in his time, of course, but he'd only once seen an Alpha Shiv Link, the highest of card suits, and that had been with a Merc card.

The players were good sports about it as he raked in his earnings, all of them feeling a sting at losing so much, but also feeling a bit of pride at having been witness to the rarest hand a Merc game could possibly produce. They had made it to Cloud Eight and it had taken an Alpha Shiv Link to finish them off. It was a story they could tell for decades to come.

And it had finished them off. None of the players could afford much more than the next game's ante. If he wanted to, Roy could steamroll his way through any of the last hands, and the others knew it. They decided to quit while they still had some money left. After all, they were Heaven Reachers now and at least one of them was a Twice Heaven Reacher. As Roy shook hands with the men, he realized that it was partly a desire to leave while they still had cash, but it was also a sort of tip of the hat to the man who'd been so blessed by Lady Luck as to have acquired a non-Merced Alpha Shiv Link. A tip of the hat and perhaps a healthy superstitious fear. Better to leave while they still could.

He sat back down in his chair and watched as his assistant bot moved in to stack and count his earnings. That particular luxury had been available since making it to Cloud Six. Then there had been maybe two hundred winners. Now, the trip to Cloud Nine would have less than a fourth of that. The immaculately dressed man who had informed Roy earlier that they had been playing with a cheater returned. "Congratulations on making it to Cloud Nine. More importantly, welcome to the Pure Alpha Shiv Link Association. A special picture will be taken. If you'll come with me, please?"

Roy stood up, a bit sandblasted. "There's a whole association for it?"

The man looked over his shoulder with a smile. "It was developed a couple years ago. Only those who have acquired the rarified Pure Alpha Shiv Link are inducted into the PASLA. Even those of the Empyrean Club bow to the PASLA. You will be a member of both and I can guarantee that not a single gambling establishment will ever charge you for drinks again. You are now on a social level that is just below that of a Baron or a Crimelord."

Roy smiled as his special hololaser picture was taken and he accepted the engraved Mantroc card, which weighed far more than anything of that size had any right weighing. He returned to the gaming arena just as the Maitre d' was announcing that the Final Ascension would be taking place in ten minutes. Roy accepted his new seat placement from his assistant bot, who also informed him that he had thirty three point eight million Patriniums for the final tournament. Two million had become thirty million, and the grand prize of the tournament was a hefty fifty million 'Rins, along with instant access to the Grand Tiara Champion Company. It was all about clubs and associations and companies for the upper class, Roy realized suddenly. He'd never been upper class. He'd been rich from his gambling prowess for awhile now but he'd never made the transition into upper crust society.

He sat down at one of the inner tables and was pleasantly surprised when Lynda Freohn sat down next to him. "I see we both made it to the Empyrean Club for the first time tonight," she said, a sparkle in her eyes that made them even more pretty.

"Indeed," he responded, and sat back in his chair as the announcer spoke up.

"Final Ascension in three... two... one."

A particularly grand collection of organ pipes, arachnaphones, choir voices and other instruments came from the speakers, reverberating across the entire game floor. There wasn't a doubt in anyone's mind that they were going to something special, and as the floor rose above the simulated jungles of Kellossia, Roy wondered what all the fuss was about. But then the floor sped up and the walls blurred into a uniform gold color, and he felt his eyebrows rising quizzically. Then the floor slowed and Roy was rendered speechless for the first time in his life. The floor had locked into place before his mind caught up with what he was seeing.

They were sitting on top of the Alcazar, on top of a particularly long and unadorned tower that many people had questioned. Estimates had placed the height at just over nine hundred feet, and with his current view Roy had no doubt at all about that. It was completely dark immediately under their feet, with only the tables lit, and the entire city of Tiara lay around them, glittering like its namesake in the night. Jaynus was directly above them, majestically shining its soft red light upon the world. A soft breeze ruffled his hair, and that alone was as much of a marvel as the whole setting... this high up there would be high-speed winds, but some kind of barrier was in place to keep it down to a simple breeze. A simple breeze that still carried on it the smell of the grasslands, forests, and rivers that surrounded the city.

"So romantic," a voice murmured from his side, and he turned to see Lynda staring at him. The soft lighting from the tables would be more than enough to play in, more than enough to gauge each other's faces, and he was seeing something in Lynda's face that he hadn't seen for a very long time. It really was a romantic place..

"Welcome to Cloud Nine, the Empyrean. Please remember to stay seated, even after you have been defeated. The sonic barrier is designed to keep the sounds and high-speed winds of Tiara from penetrating, but the only thing keeping you from a nine hundred foot drop is the barrier. If you require restroom services, make your way to the lighted post where the guards are standing and we will arrange to transport you below. Otherwise, enjoy your final two tournaments. Mercs, Double Elimination, minimum five thousand bid, no maximum."

Roy reached over and gripped Lynda's hand. "Play to beat me, Miss Freohn. Winner buys dinner."

She laughed and gripped his hand back before turning her full attention to the game at hand. Roy did the same.

Or at least he tried to. Sitting only two tables away was the sole reason he had come to the Alcazar. Bitter memories of so many lifetimes ago welled up in front of his eyes.

He choked down the memories, but as he played the game, he could almost see the ghosts of his past dancing about in the city below. Mocking him.

He didn't even notice when he won. He simply let his assistant bot rake in his 'Rins and prepared his mind for the next hand. It continued like this for nearly an hour, as person after person fell to his calculated strategies and his sheer backing by Miss Luck. In the end the Double Elimination left him the undisputed winner, with Lynda in second. It was the only time he'd beaten her tonight, but even that failed to penetrate the fog that had enveloped his mind like the mist that was settling over the rivers so very far below.

The next round was last man standing, down to two final tables. Once again Lynda was seated with him and once again the object of his hatred was not. Slowly but surely Roy hounded the other players, taking their money in small or large batches, showing no mercy, taking no risks that were too large. Slowly but surely he ground Lynda into the ground. In the end he stood alone at the table, having defeated everyone else, including Lynda. The players had spoken little. They'd picked up on his mood and had played their best, but there was going to be nothing that stopped him tonight.

The Maitre 'd announced him as the winner at table two, and Lord Dwight Asuner as the winner at table one. The two would face each other for a final battle of cards in the middle table, the one table that had not been used yet.

So they sat facing each other, exchanged pleasantries that were extremely strained on Roy's part. After that, the cards were dealt and everything else in the universe ceased to be important. His mind turned to autopilot and he played the game like he had before, calculating odds and strategies at lightspeed. He played ruthlessly, without mercy or any joy of playing. He became a gambling machine, as he had become twenty-six years ago, learning every trick of the trade and every nuance of character as fast as he could, logging it all away into his memory in preparation for one night he knew would come...one fine night of revenge. Tears came unbidden to his eyes on several occasions as the ghosts appeared to come up from the city and dance on the table behind his opponent. He choked past the lump in his throat and played, played like it was the game to end all games.

And it was. With forty million 'Rins on the table he laid down the cards, knowing in his heart that he was triumphant, knowing that this Broadside of Barons and Eights had to beat Lord Asuner. He smiled the smile of the just, the smile of those who have enacted sweet, sweet revenge upon their enemies.

And the smile vanished as Lord Asuner laid down his cards. One, two, three... four eights. A Quad. Roy had lost.

A million ounces of fury pounded into him. There was no way he could recover from a loss this large and the ghosts of his past sneered in his face as his mortal enemy chuckled, unaware of the sheer sledgehammer he had just dropped.

"You played well," his opponent said. "Very well. Perhaps we can meet again, or at the Empyrean Club sometime?"

Roy was still staring at the cards, blood washing over them in his fevered and troubled imagination. He looked up slowly and he knew that his face was paler than death itself.

"You don't remember me, do you?" he asked harshly, his voice low and cold

Lord Asuner appeared quizzical, but Roy continued. "No, of course you don't. It was nearly thirty years ago and you wouldn't remember a fly that you had crushed under your boot. Allow me to introduce myself, Lord Dwight Asuner: I am Roy Allen Baket."

A shock of recognition flashed across the Lord's face. "Baket?" he asked, a horrified tone making its way into his voice.

But Roy didn't care. "Yes, Baket, as in Justyn Allen Baket, the man with the compulsive gambling addiction. The man who _you knew_ had a compulsive gambling addiction. The man who you proceeded to grind into the ground and take every last 'Rin he'd ever possessed. The man who wound up hanging himself from the limb of a tree in the yard because you'd broken him and rendered him unable to take care of his family."

Asuner snorted, his face showing obviously that he was going to try and talk his way out of this. "You already extracted your inch of flesh for that, kid, thirty years ago. We're even."

"Inch of flesh?!" Roy bellowed, his voice sounding oddly distant as the blood pounded in his ears. "I burned down your ill-gotten mansion and you call us _even_?! I found my father's body on that tree limb!"

And with that admission Roy snapped. Not the beautiful view, not the fact that he was in the Empyrean Club, the Pure Alpha Shiv Link Association... not even the beautiful Lynda entered into his mind to stop him. In one smooth motion he was out of his chair and had two fistfuls of Asuner's shirt. Before anyone could react he threw himself and his mortal enemy over the edge, his scream echoing strangely in the quiet night air.

It was a long nine hundred feet to the ground below, and long before the bottom the ghosts of his past had quietly slipped away. The end game had been worth it, after all.

# Vagabonds

### Author's Note

Only the Barons know the full secret of Patriniums, the currency of the Frontier Worlds. Here is what the general public is aware of: Kanjer Machines, also known by the codename Thunderbolts, convert any matter into energy. That energy is then compressed into a suspended (inert) form of exchange (money) commonly known as 'Rins. 'Rins exist in two primary physical forms: coins in the shape of a rounded equilateral triangle or as a rechargeable mini-card known as a 'Rincard. Digital transfers of money are generally frowned upon unless you're really rich and credit does not exist. In many ways the Frontier Worlds closely resembles the United States' Old West period of history: money is carried on your person and is carted between the worlds in heavily guarded convoys. On the other hand, the value of Patriniums is standardized by the Barons and inflation has never occurred.

On a personal note, this short story has existed in an incomplete form in my mind for longer than any other and it is a relief to finally have it finished and readable. I hope you enjoy it!

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She caught sight of him from across the room and felt her stomach lurch. Only supreme effort and many years of practice kept a smile on her face. He was just like the rest of them: rich, arrogant, stupid, and worst of all, a tourist.

Springtime on South Pavibon was famous across the Frontier Worlds and it brought millions of tourists. The entire planet was nothing but a string of large islands full of sandy beaches. They were never short of visitors but spring was the worst. The tourism industry did extremely well: the souvenir shops, the restaurants, the hotels, cantinas and brothels. The tourists brought a lot of money to her town of Hydrosphere, of course... but they also brought a lot of _trash_. Not just the junk the tourists threw all over the place, but the people themselves.

Like this guy. Despite the tropical heat he made a point of wearing an extremely expensive Admiral Orion suit, complete with unnecessary baubles of self-important narcissism. He was an ugly man with an ugly gaze that followed her like a hungry animal. Verda was not an unattractive woman, she knew, but she also knew that this man would never remember her face. He probably never even _saw_ women's faces. Another burst of revulsion washed over her but along with it came a steely determination. She clutched her mug of Movic tighter for a moment, allowing the revulsion to be completely replaced by the sheer joy she took in her job. A wicked grin tried to spread across her face but she fought it. She gulped down the rest of her bitter liquored coffee and headed toward the bar for a refill that she would never get.

Her eyes were conspicuously elsewhere as she ran full-tilt into the ugly man. He did exactly what he was supposed to do: he reached out to grab her shoulders, to steady her and get a feel for her skin. They were all alike. She looked up at him with surprised eyes and bubbled out a hasty apology. His eyes started to glaze over just holding her but she managed to carefully remove herself from his grip. With another apology and a gushing statement that she hoped he would enjoy his trip she disappeared into the crowd.

It wasn't until she was well clear of the cantina that she felt safe enough to finger the large chit of Patriniums she'd deftly pulled from his jacket.

For you see, the tourism industry wasn't the only group who made money off the annual influx of people. There were also the Vagabonds.

"Have a good day, Vee?" Myrna Sanchez asked, her red ponytail swinging in rhythm as she ran on the treadflow.

"Better than usual," she answered as she flopped down onto the couch. "Hit three businessmen and a guy who had StarTalon written all over him."

Myrna tsk-tsked her younger sister playfully as she turned off the exercise machine. "How many times have I told you to leave the Cartels alone?" she asked.

Verda, 'Vee' to her sister, simply shrugged. "He was drunker than Mayor Bavro on tax day, Emm. I don't think lighting him on fire would have gotten his attention."

Myrna grinned widely for a minute as she toweled off her forehead. Her grin disappeared after a minute. "I've got some bad news. I think Stalker's back."

Verda sat bolt upright, her idle thoughts of dinner evaporating. "Stalker?" she asked, her throat tight. "Are you sure?"

Her sister looked grim. "Pretty sure. I only caught a glimpse, but it looked like him. He was gone before I could get a closer look."

Verda swore with feeling. "What wonderfully rotten timing! The season just started!"

Myrna sat down on the couch next to her sister. "I don't think he's going to get in the way of operations. If he was police or CDO or anything official I think he would have struck by now. Don't you?"

She thought back. They'd first noticed a man watching them about three years ago. He'd kept his distance, appearing and disappearing at will. Myrna had dubbed him 'Stalker' and at first they had been extremely cautious. Over time they'd practically ignored him, but now... now his timing was absolutely horrible. "If he _is_ anything official we need to do something. But what?"

Myrna shrugged. "I don't think we should run, and you know we never hurt people."

"Why not run?" she interrupted. "There are other cities on this planet just as well off. There's nothing here worth losing our freedom over."

"We don't run just yet," Myrna said with authority. "Let's see what he does over the next few weeks. Keep an eye out. Don't do anything stupid. Then we'll call a Gathering and discuss it then."

"You're the boss," Verda said, sighing. Her sister was in charge for a reason: she was smarter, more logical, a better organizer and a just plain better conwoman than any _two_ Vagabonds put together. She was usually right about everything.

Usually.

It was another cloudless, warm day with cool breezes coming off the ocean; another perfect South Pavibon day. It was the kind of day that brought millions of people to the planet, and thousands to her own sleepy little town. If Verda were an honest citizen she supposed she would have been proud of Hydrosphere's billing as a Top Fifty Frontier Worlds Location.

As a Vagabond she simply liked the job security; job security that could very well be slipping away. She'd hit two extremely easy marks, netting at least a couple thousand 'Rins, when she spotted Stalker. He was sitting at a side café that was popular with a particular set of daring clientele but was not considered "mainstream." It offered foods that were acquired tastes, to the say the least, or it offered normal food in a raw or even living form. The list of health warnings on the door was a mile long but there were enough rich, bored thrill-seekers to give the place a tidy profit.

Stalker had chosen a table that afforded an excellent view of the entire shoreline but that was itself secluded beneath a large seuyta tree. If she'd chosen to take the beach route, which she usually did on Shuday, he would have seen her the entire time. And she probably wouldn't have even suspected he was there.

Myrna was forever and always getting on her case about her impulsiveness. Verda defended it; it got her bigger and better marks. So far the money had spoken for itself. She'd gotten used to being impulsive, to taking large risks and reaping equally large rewards from them.

So, impulsively, she walked swiftly forward and sat down at Stalker's table. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, her pulse thudding in her ears.

He didn't shout, twitch, or demand an explanation. He didn't even spill any of the drink he had in his hand. He simply raised an eyebrow, finished taking a sip, and set the glass on the table carefully. That alone told her a _lot_ about him.

"I'm enjoying the somewhat esoteric fare of this delightful seaside restaurant," he said in a voice that was deep, rich and almost syrupy. She got a not-entirely unpleasant tingle when he spoke. "And what are _you_ doing here? Besides interrupting my meal, that is."

She eyed his plate. "You've only taken two bites out of your food and that was at least fifteen minutes ago. That means you have been drinking very leisurely. What are you doing here?"

Stalker chuckled softly, sending another tingle through her. "Observant and beautiful both. Tell me, what else are you good at?"

Verda stared at him, the tingle eaten alive by a cold fury. He was far too casual, and she was mad at him for his casualness. He was a threat. She could feel it to her very core. And yet here he sat, pretending to be completely innocent. Her eyes searched his face. A strong jaw, straight black hair, slit-like eyes of a piercing blue that were deep with intelligence and hidden emotions. He was probably handsome. She didn't care. She was positive that she'd never marked him before. Whether any of the other Vagabonds had... that was a different matter altogether.

"Let's cut the snarf, huh?" she growled. "You've been watching this area for three years, maybe longer. You're no tourist, so what are you?"

He took another sip of his drink as a particularly stiff gust of wind blew in, rattling the hut and bringing with it a soft spray of salt water. He finished his sip and looked her straight in the eyes.

"I'm curious," he said. "I've heard tales, here and there, of the Vagabonds. I wanted to find out more."

Verda's heart skipped three beats but she managed to snort derisively. "Whale snarf. The Vagabonds don't exist. They were invented by the Governor-General as an excuse to raise taxes and send cops on useless errands."

He spread his arms in an innocent gesture. "And yet here you are, interrupting a perfectly innocent meal being enjoyed by a perfectly innocent man. You're either hunting a date or you're scared. If I were a smart man I'd say it was the latter. I'm not smart, so let's assume it's a date you want. Tonight at seven? I can meet you here."

She resolutely closed her mouth, which had opened of its own accord during his speech. Here he was, Stalker, danger to the entire Vagabond way of life, and not only was he lying about his intentions but he had the gall to ask her out on a date!

"Seven sounds perfect," her mouth said of its own accord.

He raised his glass in a mock salute, drained it off, stood up and disappeared before her brain could catch up with what her mouth had said. She turned to decline the offer, to spit curses at him... but he was already gone. As always he'd disappeared at will.

She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. She'd confronted Stalker and learned nothing. Well, that wasn't true. She'd learned he was extremely smooth, very smart, and completely unflappable.

She'd also learned where he was going to be at seven tonight. Perhaps tonight she could learn something else about him.

There was no way she was going to tell Myrna about this, though.

The sun was low on the horizon and the stars were just beginning to peek through the turquoise atmosphere when she arrived at the café. She was intentionally a few minutes early so she could get a feel for the situation. If this was a trap she wasn't going to walk blindly into it. She'd watched every single person on her way here, looked at every single shadow where somebody might hide, and took a route she'd never taken before. So far, so good.

Lo and behold, Stalker was already there, looking out at the ocean. He was carrying a single pink rose in his clasped hands. Verda snorted. A rose. He was really playing this one. She would have to be careful.

She also hadn't had a date in five years. Her nerves of steel were rusty and her heart and stomach were fluttering. She took a few calming breaths, plastered her usual smile on her face, and walked out to meet the man who she knew would be the end of them all.

He heard her coming and turned, bowing at the waist. "I was afraid you were going to stand me up," he said, his face lit by the setting sun. He _was_ handsome, actually, and her stomach fluttered some more. He pulled his hands from behind his back and offered her the pink rose. More flutters. "Would you care to join me for dinner and dancing at the Starlight Gazebo?" he continued.

She took the proffered rose and hand, but kept her grip tight on the latter. "Why not dance here?" she asked, her nerves back. "I need some answers before I join you for anything."

He smiled, a heart-melting gesture, and put his other hand on her waist. "Answers from me?" he asked, still playing the innocent. He began to dance to some unheard tune, a simple star step. She moved easily with him and tried desperately to be mad that he was acting innocent. She thought of her beloved sister and the rest of the Vagabonds that were also like sisters to her. She could do this. She _had_ to do this.

"You can act as innocent as you want," she said with resolve. "But we both know the truth. You've been watching us for three years. Why?"

He was silent for many moments but she could tell from his expression that he was finally not going to dodge the question. He was most likely trying to figure out just how much to say.

He finally sighed. "I've considered asking you for help," he said simply.

Verda stopped dancing. "Excuse me?" she asked carefully. Of the many scenarios she'd pictured _this_ was certainly _not_ on the list.

He clasped his hands behind his back and flashed a nervous smile. "I know, it doesn't make sense. I could probably make a lot more money turning you Vagabonds in."

"I told you already: the Vagabonds are a myth invented by the Governor-General."

He looked at her with those piercing blue eyes. She felt suddenly exposed, as if he were searching her very soul. "You seem to have a grudge against the Governor-General. Any particular reason you don't like William Greco-Stevens?"

She tensed without wanting to and cursed herself for it. An obvious giveaway. She gritted her teeth. "I don't have any particular reasons for anything. I'm interrogating _you_ , not the other way around."

He shrugged, still far too innocent and calm. Con _found_ him, anyway. "I simply wanted to know if your reasons were strong enough to consider a joint effort to drain him dry."

She stood up straighter and immediately cursed herself again. Another giveaway. She wasn't in control. Stalker was pulling her strings like an expert and she was reacting like an amateur. It was time she pulled her own strings.

"The more important question is what _your_ grudge with the Governor-General is," she said, careful to not call him by name lest she tense up again.

He smiled again, still completely in control. "He took the two most important things from me: my job and my reputation. I want to see him pay for that."

She decided to gloss over the details of the 'job and reputation' for just now. "How do you want to see him pay?"

"I want him to lose the same things: his job and reputation."

"How do you plan to do that?"

He shrugged. "He's hosting the Mantroc Gala on this fair planet in two weeks. I was hoping to do something to him then."

She looked past Stalker to the darkened ocean on the horizon, trying desperately to not let her surprise show. The Mantroc Gala was the biggest event on South Pavibon. Every year the Vagabonds avoided it like hard vacuum: there were simply too many cops and prying eyes to risk anything. And if the Governor-General himself was coming the amount of security would easily quadruple.

"What were you hoping to do?" she asked in spite of herself.

He shrugged again, his façade finally cracking. "I don't really know. Steal the Shards? Make it look like he did? That's why I need your help."

Plans and possibilities shuttered through her mind and she felt a grin spread across her face. She turned on her heel and started to walk away before Stalker could see just how much this was affecting her.

"Wait! Will you help me?" he called after her.

She looked over her shoulder, smothering her grin. "Meet me here in three days. I'll see what I can do."

She continued to walk into the starlit night, her grin unstoppable, her impulsive impishness roaring like a firestorm within her. This was a perfect opportunity, the perfect crowning achievement and ultimate revenge she could have ever hoped for.

She just knew her sister was going to say no.

"No!" Myrna practically screamed. "You know why we never attend the Gala! _Especially_ with the Governor-General coming!"

Verda pulled out every trick in her book. Myrna stood steadfast. Verda finally pulled the ultimate card. Myrna cracked. She sighed. "Let's see what the others say," she finally conceded.

Gatherings were rare events for the Vagabonds. Each woman had a sector and an area of expertise and they were expected to take care of each without intervention. Funds were distributed by several dozen drop sights and each Vagabond was expected to give at least some of their income. The total percentage was left up to each operative. To host a Gathering was dangerous but occasionally necessary. This time it was urgent.

The reactions of the twenty-one women were mixed, as could be expected. Five of them were absolutely fanatic about going along with the plan; these were the five that thought they should go to the Mantroc Gala every year anyway. Seven were equally strong in their opinion against going. Two were adamant about not trusting Stalker. Four didn't care about Stalker, they just wanted to see if they could pull it off. The other three just wanted to know what Myrna and Verda thought. That left nine firmly against and nine firmly for, with three undecided.

In the end it was really up to Myrna. Nobody else could make a decision of this magnitude. Verda sat back and watched her older sister. They were close, closer now than they'd ever been. They'd found their shared love of con work and pickpocketing. Verda could almost read Emm's thoughts. The Vagabonds' very vow was to make chauvinistic males pay a very painful and expensive price. And yet here they were on the verge of making a deal with a man who might very well be leading them into a trap. On the other hand, the Mantroc Gala _was_ a prime fruit ready to be plucked from the trees; more money could be taken in one night than the Vagabonds made in six months.

And then there was the Governor-General. Forget that he was placed in his position by the NovaSons. Alpha Cartels weren't omniscient despite all their claims to the contrary. Forget the security that would surely be added to protect the man. He was a long-standing emotional wound for Myrna and Verda... and a chance to make the most chauvinistic of pigs pay _big_.

Verda knew what her sister was going to say before she even said it. "We're going to do it," Myrna declared.

The nine opposed made various noises of exasperation, but every single woman in the room owed their lives and livelihood to Myrna's tactical and logistical genius. None were about to question her motives. None knew her personal feelings might be getting the better of her. Verda knew. But they were the same feelings _she_ had and she didn't care. The risks were nothing compared to the potential gain.

Myrna looked at her sister. They both nodded slightly. Verda couldn't help an evil little grin from spreading across her face. This was going to be fun.

The two sisters met Stalker at the same time and place. He was dressed in a different suit, one that was more expensive but less flashy than last time. He also had another pink rose. He looked slightly astonished to see two women approaching him. He looked between them and bowed to Myrna. "If I had known my contact had a sister nearly as lovely as she I would have brought two flowers."

Myrna and Verda exchanged surprised glances. It was an established fact that Myrna was the prettier of the two. It had always been that way. Verda had accepted it and even appreciated it; Myrna had _had_ to hone her skills to make up for the fact that she was easier to notice than her sister.

"A lie is a horrible way to start off this meeting," Verda said. "And before we go any farther, let's get some introductions in order. Who are you?"

Stalker flashed his heart-melting smile and Verda could tell that not even Myrna was unaffected. "I am Ford Barton. Do I get the privilege of addressing either of you by name?"

Myrna smiled her own winning smile and for the first time in history a man didn't immediately offer her everything he owned. "I am Myrna and this is my sister Verda. Have you come up with any plans for the Mantroc Gala, Mr. Barton?"

"Please, call me Ford. All my friends used to."

"'Used to?'" Myrna asked.

Ford shrugged. "Before William Greco-Stevens ruined my life and I actually _had_ friends, yes." He paused. "I see that you share your sister's hatred for the Governor-General."

"You see nothing of the sort!" Myrna snapped. "Do you want our help or not?"

He bowed his head low. "My apologies. I have made no secret of my disdain for the man. Your stake in all of this is your own. And yes, I do have a few plans. Would you care to sit down so we can discuss them?"

Myrna shook her head. "Not here."

They went to one of Myrna's favorite 'quiet spots' and spoke long into the night. Well, Ford and Myrna did. Verda was not the planner her sister was. She was the impulsive one. She spent the time listening as closely as she could, but mostly she watched Stalker. She still couldn't seem to call him Ford. He had been an intermittent and always-distant part of her life for three years now. Actually meeting him had done nothing to diminish the exotic mystery that seemed to clothe him. He was unflappable, he was extremely smart, and he was gorgeous. Verda sighed quietly to herself. She'd been the unseen sister her whole life. She knew she was attractive but the moment anyone interested in her had met Myrna... well, that had been it. For a few years she'd hated her sister for it but had eventually realized it wasn't anybody's fault. Her sister was simply prettier, more level-headed, and just plain better at everything.

It was obvious that Stalker found Emm's plans absolutely flawless. "Simply amazing," he had said more than once. Verda sighed some more. She couldn't blame him. The plan, or the parts she'd actually paid attention to, seemed perfect. She wondered if Emm had secretly been planning to hit the Mantroc Gala at some point.

"What do you think, Verda?" Myrna finally asked.

"I think it's sound," she said. "You know me."

"This isn't a situation where your impulsiveness will win you over," Emm said, sounding annoyed. "You're going to have to follow everything to a tee."

"Unless the plan breaks down somehow," Ford said, leaning back and stretching his broad, muscular shoulders. "Then impulse just might come in handy."

Myrna bristled. "The plan won't 'break down,' unless you know something I don't," she said hotly.

"My apologies, Myrna," Ford said, bowing his head again. "I've survived for many years now by realizing that no plan ever survives combat completely. Backups, contingencies, and plain winging it have kept me alive."

Myrna bristled some more but seemed to calm down. "Two weeks, then?"

Ford smiled and this time it wasn't a friendly, heart-melting thing. "Two weeks and we topple the Governor-General for good."

The two weeks did not pass uneventfully. The Vagabonds trained every day in different locations and worked on the plan. Beth managed to get her hands on an up-to-date floor plan of the Palace where the Gala would to take place. Mildred got a list of the Governor-General's personal bodyguards. Helen and Susan got personnel lists for the South Pavibon Public Protection Force, in addition to many of the cops' personal likes. Verda had smiled at that one. Helen and Susan were twins and were rather famous for their exotic dancing. They made a pretty good living before they even fleeced their 'customers.' She hadn't found it the least bit startling to know just how many so-called public protectors frequented the brothels they had sworn to protect the public from. Even better, a few days later the twins had come back with personal invitations to work at the Gala itself.

"Nothing like an inside job," Myrna said, complimenting the two. "This just might be easier than we thought."

Each day Emm did her best to get Verda to participate in the planning. Each day Verda did her best to pay attention. She could follow three or four of the proceedings but after that got bored. Her sister was exasperated but knew better than to push. They both knew that it had nothing to do with a short attention span or an inability to grasp what was going on. It wasn't even that she didn't care; she simply worked differently from the others. Her brain and skills did best under pressure and under fire, inventing plans on the fly and following them through. Pre-planning was something she rarely did. But she still participated, still did her best to make sure that all of the Vagabonds were going to be in perfect form for the biggest job any of them had ever attempted.

It was going to be beautiful.

The big night seemed to come quicker than anyone had expected. A hundred firework displays flashed across the sky as the sun set on the watery horizon. Each of the Vagabonds was to arrive at the Gala on her own, each one had her own job to do, and Verda couldn't have felt better about it. Myrna took a cab, but Verda decided at the last minute to walk. It was one of those warm nights she loved so much and the excitement of a huge score made her almost giddy.

She was three blocks from the Gala when a certain man sidled up to her. "Mind if I escort you to the Gala Event, Verda?" Stalker asked, grinning.

She snorted but found herself staring. He was in his best suit yet, his hair just shy of messy and just too messy to be perfect. No man had ever looked better.

"Certainly, Mr. Barton," she said, entwining her arm through his extended elbow.

The streets were packed. The Mantroc Gala event was huge anyway but with a Governor-General attending it was going to be gigantic.

"This is good," Ford said, his eyes scanning the crowds.

She knew what he meant. The more people there were, the better their chances of succeeding. And they _had_ to succeed tonight. Ford led the way toward the front doors and she took a deep breath, her smile locked in place. This was it.

The plan was really very simple and two weeks of practice had honed each of the Vagabonds into a machine. The first priority was security. Everyone involved had pretty good guesses as to what the setup would be like... and looking around, Verda felt her smile grow just a bit bigger. They'd pegged it, down almost to the exact point where the guards would be standing. The patrols were within ten feet of where they should be, the cameras were on the proper pillars, and the plainclothes bodyguards were looking as conspicuous as possible.

The second priority was mingling. A slow waltz that sounded like it was Journeyman era was playing and Ford gestured toward the dance floor. She hesitated. This was the part that was definitely _not_ in the practice; this was the part that she was completely unsure of. But she kept her smile in place and joined him on the dance floor. A Vagabond and the man she'd only known as Stalker, a man who she'd been absolutely sure was going to be the end of them all. But right now none of that mattered. All that mattered was that he was a superb dancer.

Half an hour flew by without her even noticing, which never happened. But she didn't care. In fifteen minutes the final part of their plan would begin and for the first time she didn't want it to. She was enjoying herself too much, and even more shockingly she was enjoying being in the company of a man. _This one is different_ she kept telling herself. She was even starting to believe it.

"It's time," he whispered in her ear, tickling her and sending goosebumps all over her skin. She took another deep breath and, on impulse, kissed Ford Barton on the cheek.

"I'll be right back," she said, gazing into his blue eyes and wanting to linger there.

He smiled crookedly and gave her a playful push. "Get going," he said quietly.

She took one last deep breath and headed back toward the Alcove of Stars. It was a display area, full of expensive and gaudy items that was enough of a tourist attraction in its own right. The upper crust who sniffed disdainfully at beaches and bikinis would still have a reason to visit South Pavibon, especially at the Mantroc Gala. Even more so now... for the Governor-General always traveled with the Five Shards of Landfall.

Her breath caught in her throat despite her jaded attitude. It was almost impossible to be near the Shards and not feel _some_ connection to the past. According to the history buffs the Five Shards were remains of the engine of the first Journeyman ship to touch down on a Frontier Worlds planet. A Doctor Von Morgen had written entire books about the subject. Three hundred and sixty years ago the Shards had been functioning pieces of a Memphis engine, taking the Journeyman on the long trip from Old Earth to the new worlds...

She shook her head. They were small pieces, the largest no longer than her forearm, passed down from the original ship captain's family... which is how they ended up in the hands of a lowlife like William Greco-Stevens. She felt her muscles tense and had to consciously relax them. The so-called 'Great Families' had been leeching off their historical connections for hundreds of years with few, if any, of the modern members actually contributing anything. The Governor-General of the Australis Province was just another parasite and this time he was going to pay for it.

Verda glanced casually to her left and hid her smile. Sure enough, exactly on time, Myrna was making her way to the right spot. Any second now and the distraction would begin, and the two best Vagabonds would set to work on their greatest job.

"Guards! Alert!" a syrupy-smooth voice shouted suddenly and Verda felt her blood freeze. _It can't be!_ She spun around and noticed in her peripheral vision that her sister had already bolted.

But Myrna ran right into the trap as Ford Barton, Stalker, grabbed her, cuffed her and bodily hauled her toward the guards. Verda's feet felt welded to the floor and her tongue was somehow attached to the bottom of her mouth.

"I have reliable information that these two women were planning to steal the Shards of Landfall," Stalker said, his voice painfully loud in Verda's ears. She managed to catch her sister's eyes but the fire in them made her flinch. Her sister would never forgive her. The Vagabonds, if they survived, would never forgive her.

She would never forgive herself.

"I suggest we increase security _immediately_ ," Stalker said, his voice still unnaturally loud. "We cannot know how many others are involved."

"What's this commotion?!" a wheezy baritone voice asked.

Verda's heart made a reservation with her feet as she felt the handcuffs close on her arms. She knew without looking who was speaking. But she had to look. She had to see it with her own eyes. She raised her head and, sure enough, there was Governor-General William Greco-Stevens, attracted by the noise. He looked at Stalker and then at the two girls who'd been captured. And he twitched.

"Hello, Father," Verda said.

The stunned silence seemed to fill the entire room for but a split second. "Verda! Myrna! What in the name of the Barons are _you_ doing here?!"

"They were planning to steal the Shards, Governor-General," Stalker said, the creep.

"Get them out of here," Greco-Stevens hissed. "Before-"

"You have _children_?!" a tall, leggy blonde said as she suddenly appeared. "Willaim! You lied to me!"

"Taffy, honey, I can explain!" the Governor-General said desperately.

"Explain it to the lawyers!" the blonde said, her face bright red. "We're _through_ , you Siitral!" She spun on her diamond-plated heels and was gone as quickly as she came.

Several veins were clearly visible on William's face as he slowly turned back around. "Get the Shards to safety," he said quietly, his throat seeming to throb with every syllable. "And then bury these two somewhere dark and deep."

"Burying us won't get you anything," Myrna spoke up. "The press already know your little secret."

"Shut up!" the Governor-General shouted, his face turning an unhealthy color. "Just shut up! Guards, get them the vret _out of here!_ And get the Shards to my ship! _NOW!_ "

Stalker saluted. "Yes, _sir!_ Guards! Take the women to the southeast post where a car is waiting for them. Governor-General, I'll..."

Willaim Greco-Stevens was already gone.

Verda looked at Stalker, her throat tight as unbidden tears came to her eyes. "Why?" she whispered.

He smirked at her, a hateful little gesture. "We've all got jobs to do. Guards, you know yours."

And with that he was gone, striding off to betray and crush some other person's life.

The walk to the car was short and silent. The ride _in_ the car was long and silent. At least, it was silent at first.

"I'm sorry," Verda said finally.

Myrna sighed and lifted her head off the headrest. "You betrayed our tenets, our fellow members, and your sister by listening to a man."

Verda felt her heart splitting.

"But I forgive you," Myrna sighed.

Verda looked at her sister, stunned. "Wha?" she stuttered.

Emm actually smiled. "Our father ruined our lives more than either of us have ever admitted, Vee, leaving us and Mother when he did. Any chance to avenge that wrong... well, I would have done the same thing. I _did_ the same thing, Vee. I made the decision to follow through." She leaned her head back and lowered her voice. "It was worth any try."

Verda smiled and choked back a few tears. It _had_ been worth it. She looked out at the city lights, her spirits soaring. They might have lost, but they had tried. That counted a lot.

The car pulled to a stop in front of a small warehouse and the doors were opened. The guards pulled them roughly from the car and marched them over to a small access door. Verda felt her stomach being squeezed tight. "You're going to kill us, aren't you?" she asked as the guards shoved them through the door.

"Why on Prime would I kill you?" a hauntingly-familiar cultured female voice asked from the shadows within. "You did such a splendid job."

The sisters stopped dead in their tracks and exchanged startled glances. "Mother?" they both asked at the same time.

Their mother stepped from the shadows, a cigarette in her mouth and a smile on her lips. "You look good, girls. How have you been?"

"What are you doing here?" Myrna asked, her voice as stunned as her face.

"Taking care of the Governor-General of course," another familiar voice said from the door. Verda spun around and would have launched herself at Stalker if her handcuffs hadn't still been in place. "What's going on?" she demanded

"Miss Abigail Sanchez has been trying to take down William Greco-Stevens for many years," Stalker responded. "And tonight, with your help, she finally succeeded."

"Mother?" Emm asked.

Abigail took a long drag on her cigarette and let it out slowly, her smile spreading. "It's true. That rat-Siitral is finished. It's been too many decades, but finally he's finished."

"But _how_?" Verda asked, her head still spinning. "Getting his bimbo to leave him does nothing to topple him from power. Sure, it hurts and he deserves it, but it won't do anything permanent."

"Yes it will," Abigail said with authority. "He lied to the only wife the public has ever seen him with. They'll start digging and his sordid past will come to the fore. More than that, he lost something the Greco-Stevens value far more than family values. Mister Barton, are the Shards secure?"

Stalker grinned. "They won't notice the fakes until they're out of the system. We've got the originals all packed up and ready to go."

Verda stared at Ford Barton, her reality doing several back flips. "You used _us_ as the distractions? Why didn't you tell us the truth?"

"Because I wasn't sure how you'd feel about it," Abigail responded for him. "Working for your mother? You two don't hold me in much higher esteem than your dear daddy. I also wasn't sure if you could handle the job."

"I knew they could," Ford said, smiling. "I watched the Vagabonds for three long years. I knew they were perfect."

Abigail snorted. "I have to be honest, girls. When Mister Barton told me that my own two daughters were head of a con organization... it was better than I could have hoped."

"So you used us," Myrna repeated her sister's accusation. "Used us to distract Father, to break up his latest marriage, and distract the guards so that Ford Barton here could steal the Shards."

"You've got it," their mother said, smiling. "By the week's end your dear daddy will be a broken husk of a man if the Greco-Stevens even let him live."

"You could have trusted us," Myrna said after a moment of silence.

"Well, I trust you now. And that's very good."

Verda tore her eyes away from Ford. "Why is that very good?"

Abigail's smile grew larger as she took an even longer drag from her cig. "Because," she said, exhaling the smoke. "I've got another job for us."

The sisters looked at each other, each slowly mirroring their mother's smile.

The Vagabonds were back in business.

#  Torch Angels

### Author's Note

Emergency crews have a long and turbulent history in the Frontier Worlds. Funding for any sort of medical or emergency function comes very stringently from the Barons and so most technicians are forced to look elsewhere to cover operating expenses. Many planets are more than willing to support medicine and public services through minor taxation, but there are still plenty of places where the First Response teams are composed entirely of volunteers because money is tight.

The Emergency Deep-Space Ship Utility Mechanic/Medics, or EDSSUMMs, are a fairly new addition to the Worlds but have gained almost instant recognition. They are nicknamed Torch Angels after the Torch of Life, a highly sophisticated piece of machinery that is extremely unique: they carry the smallest Memphis Engines and Kanjer Machines in existence. The details of Memphis Engines are public knowledge and the benefit of having one installed is the by-product of breathable atmosphere and drinkable water, both highly important in the realm of deep-space rescue. The Kanjer Machine, being strictly of Baron design, is sequestered in a special container in the Torch that will disintegrate the entire machine, along with its holder, if it is ever tampered with. This extreme paranoia and self-preservation by the Barons is very typical. Quite a few lives have been lost because of a glitch in the Torch that caused the machine to activate its security wrongly. The Barons don't particularly care; as long as the secret of the Kanjer Machines remains safe, collateral damage doesn't matter.

Also, most ship designs are lacking escape pods. Travel between the stars is generally safe enough that most manufacturers forego the added expense of putting in said pods.

On a personal note: I prefer to write stories that are grounded in reality, no matter how fanciful the science-fiction itself is. Because of that, this story was written with the consultation of my mother, who once upon a time served as an EMT and was nearly a Paramedic. Here's to you, Mom!

▼ ▼ ▼

Even the smallest explosions can kill. A tiny pop, barely a firecracker, sent heated metal shards straight into Johnson's airtube and facemask. He was dead before the vacuum of space could claim him.

Monica bit back a curse and forced herself to concentrate on her task. There would be time to mourn Johnson but that time wasn't now. _Time is your enemy_ she heard in her mind. She viciously fought back her feelings and peered closer at the breach she was trying desperately to seal. The distressed ship had floundered into an asteroid storm and was much the worse for wear. Sixteen hull fractures, a shattered engine and three coolant leaks. If the passengers survived it would be a miracle.

"Losing frac 2!" a panicky voice shouted in her ear.

"Switch to quadroxide!" she shouted back.

"But that's dangero—"

"Just do it!" she snapped, beads of sweat making it past her bandanna. She shook her head and moved in a little closer. There was something wrong about the crack she was working on. It was irregular, and it appeared to be... moving. She fired her jets and tumbled in zero-gee just in time. The fracture erupted into a spray of fiery liquid. If she'd stayed put just another second longer...

She stared at the flames as her stomach sank. Somehow they kept burning, even in a hard vacuum. That meant there were gases leaking with the liquid. That meant it was more than just a simple breach, something even deeper was punctured. That meant...

"Retreat!" she shouted.

Her coworkers wavered. She knew why. She knew the sense of duty, she knew the pain, she knew everything they were feeling. But if they didn't get out right now they wouldn't be feeling anything. "That's an order!" she snapped, hitting her emergency thrusters and rocketing away from the doomed vessel.

She had one more task to do and she had to do it quick. As she circled the vehicle, making sure her coworkers had listened to her order, she dialed in to the ship's communications. "You've got a fire in your Altron Thrusters," she said as calmly as she could. "There's nothing we can do."

She'd met the captain only over the 'cator, and only thirteen minutes ago, but she'd gotten the distinct impression he was a strong man. His words confirmed that. "Altron burn, understood. Get to a safe distance."

"We already have. I'm sorry."

"So am I," he replied, his voice cracking just a little. "Good job, and thank you."

It sounded like he was going to say something else but the explosion cut him off. The entire aft end of the vessel twisted as the Altron Thrusters burst. Flame erupted and the ship expanded as its internal atmosphere vented into the harshness of space.

Only then did Monica feel the tears running down her cheeks. She stared at the dark coffin of the starship for a few moments before taking a deep breath and heading back toward the rescue vehicle.

Sometimes even Torch Angels couldn't provide miracles.

The debriefing was somber. She went over the point-by-point inspection of the ship, pointing out each of the problems and the order they had been worked on. She was blunt when she needed to be, like when she had to reprimand Franky for not using quadroxide sooner.

"Yes it's a dangerous welding technique," she said. "But it's far more dangerous to let a hull breach become unworkable. Time is your enemy, people. _Always_ remember that."

She moved on to the discussion of the Altron Thruster burn and the tell-tale signs she'd noticed that led her to that conclusion. It was these signs that had saved the lives of her coworkers. Well, all but Johnson. She looked out at her coworkers, her eyes scanning their faces and their expressions. This had been a bad day. They'd lost a friend and a charge with eight people aboard. Five of the remaining ten workers were veteran Emergency Deep-Space Ship Utility Mechanic/Medics. Two of the other five were green rookies and this was their first job. It was mostly for the newcomers that she continued her speech, but even the veterans could use a reminder.

"We did the best we could out there today. Yes, we all make mistakes, but in this case there was nothing we could have done. It's a hard thing to live with. Talk to your coworkers. Talk to me. Each and every one of us have lost charges and friends. Today we lost Dave Johnson. We will have a memorial service for him tomorrow. Pour out your grief. Don't bottle it up. Trust me. We have enough things working against us. But we do our job because nobody else can."

She paused, looking out at the faces again. They were just a little brighter. That was enough for now. "Dismissed."

The men and women of EDSSUMM-1497 got slowly out of their seats. She turned around and sat at her desk and took a deep breath. The sheer number of forms she would need to fill out today was mind-boggling. Triplicate forms detailing the circumstances of Dave Johnson's demise. Letters of condolences to four of his family members and an official announcement for the local newsvids and for the local EDSSUMM chapter headquarters. Fifteen separate reports on the failed operation. Performance and pre-psych evaluations of the two rookies. A report on her early detection of the Altron Thruster burn and how better to train others on the warning signs. She might even have to turn that one into a technical exercise. A day's work order, two equipment requisition forms and a funding update...

Somebody cleared their throat and she snapped back to reality. "Miss Navratil?"

She turned around and smiled at Franky. "Call me Monica. Everyone else does."

Franky was clearly uncomfortable calling her Monica. He was also clearly uncomfortable about the day's operation, and even more clearly uncomfortable talking to somebody about it. "Uhm. Monica?"

"What can I help you with, Franky?"

"Can I sit down?"

She smiled outwardly but inwardly she sighed. She had a pretty good idea where this was going. Rookies almost always did this. "Sure. What's on your mind?"

He sat down and took a long time to answer.

She decided to answer for him. "Let me guess. You want to transfer out of the EDSSUMM and into something less demanding?"

He twitched. "How did you know?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Because that's the exact same thing I want to do every time we lose a charge," she admitted candidly. "I even have the form bookmarked on my Pertier."

He looked at her with equal parts confusion and pain. "Why don't you?" he finally asked.

She leaned back and lost the smile as she looked closer at Franky. He was young, just past nineteen, and just two days ago had been full of idealism and visions of heroism. Most of the rookies were like that, but Franky had been perhaps a little more eager than most. Shattered expectations, shame and regret, and probably a little bruised ego at being publicly reprimanded. She was used to that.

"Sometimes I really want to, Franky," she admitted again. "Why don't I, though? Because I can do more good here than anywhere else."

"Well yeah, _you_ can," he said, his voice turning bitter. "But I can't."

"It was your first run and all you were guilty of was not using quadroxide earlier. Everything else you did was spot on. There was nothing _any_ of us could have done today, Franky. She was a lost cause before we even got to her."

"How do you deal with that?" he asked, tears coming to the edges of his eyes as the words tumbled out of him. "The... the feeling of helplessness? Of defeat? Of knowing that, even though you tried your best, you couldn't have saved them?"

She sympathized with him. It was one of the hardest lessons a rookie had to learn. To let go. "I deal with it by trying to do even better on my next job," she said softly. "That's one of the reasons I don't really like the nickname the media has given us. It makes us sound superhuman, that we can work miracles. We can't, Franky. Like anybody else we do the best we can. Sometimes we mess up and people die. Sometimes we do our best and people still die, like today. The important thing I remember is that I'm doing more good here than anywhere else. Do you like helping people?"

He nodded.

"Then don't give up just yet. This is a rough and often thankless job but there's not a better one out there. We risk our lives every time we go out. Risking your own life to save somebody else's is the best feeling you'll ever get. It helps you through the times when you fail."

"You really think I've got what it takes?" he asked, hope returning to his voice.

"I do. Wait until we actually rescue somebody. Then you can make up your mind whether it was worth it. Promise?"

A tentative smile came to his lips. He saluted her smartly as he stood up. "Promise, Monica."

She smiled inwardly this time. Another rookie helped back onto the path. It was almost as rewarding as the rest of her job.

Well, except for the forms. Those weren't rewarding at all.

The next week passed without much in the way of incidents. Like most emergency jobs there were long lulls between the extremely stressful rescuing parts; it all evened out in the end. Monica spent the week working out a training exercise on Altron Thruster fires and the rest of the time inspecting and re-inspecting her equipment. The deep-space suit was most important and where she spent most of her time. Even triple layers of tear- and burn-resistant MarlinWeb fiber could begin to degrade. The transparent duCarbon bubble that made up the helmet had to be inspected at a microscopic level for any pits. The jetpack thrusters on the back, legs and wrists had to be in top shape. Any number of things could go wrong with just the suit. That didn't even begin to cover the innumerable problems that could crop up in the XenosTec 'Torch of Life.' It was a wonderful piece of technology, combining a welder, a cutter, five types of pliers, a sonic defibrillator and a dozen or so smaller repair and medical tools... but XenosTec had been the lowest bidder. That meant a thirty-six-point inspection after every job.

It was almost a relief when the klaxon sounded. Eleven men and women scurried throughout the hangar, grabbing their personal equipment and getting into the rescue vehicle. Monica was last, her eyes scanning the hangar and personnel to make sure nobody had forgotten anything. Less than three minutes after the alarm had gone out they were out of the hangar and in hyperspace.

"Today is not an immediate emergency," Monica told the crew as she read over the briefing file. "But it could quickly become one. Our charge is none other than Brantic Trauma Facility." She paused as a few cheers broke out and she couldn't kept grinning herself. Her group had a special relationship with BTF. Six of the current eleven crew, herself included, had received their emergency medical training under the direct tutelage of Master Healer Brantic.

"Yes, we get to see the good Master Healer again. The problem is a spatial-engine crack in the East Wing. The engine started to hiccup yesterday and just this morning it split. We need to contain the damage and make sure that nothing worse happens. Remember: it may not be an L6 emergency but if we mess up it could easily get that way. Brantic Trauma houses dozens of the finest medical minds there are and they currently have two hundred and seven patients. We _cannot_ afford to be lazy today. I've sent the details to your Pertiers; I also want everyone to catch up on their spatial-engine theory. Let's see if we can spot trouble areas before they begin, ok? We've got thirty minutes until destination."

The thirty minutes were not wasted. Between herself and her two most veteran Angels they worked out five potential breaking points in BTF's East Wing that could be affected by the lost spatial-engine. Even Franky spotted a potential line severance that could cause combustible liquid spillage. She praised him vocally. It was important to her that everybody be reprimanded publicly when they did wrong and be praised publicly when they did right. Whether that was the best way to handle a crew of Torch Angels she didn't know; but it seemed to work thus far.

The rescue pilot, James, was an expert. They came out of hyperspace less than two minutes from the East Wing of the floating Brantic Trauma Facility. The facility, looking odd as it sat in the middle of nowhere in deep-space, evoked powerful memories. It was aboard BTF that she had been brought by Torch Angels as a child, and it was there she had determined what she was going to do in life. She would give every last ounce of her strength to keep it safe and sound.

As they came to a coasting halt and began docking she reminded her crew that this was every bit as important as an actual L6 emergency. She would not have her people acting lax just because there was no immediate threat to life. Six men and women boarded the medical facility. Monica remained onboard the rescue vehicle; all but one of the veterans would handle the outside work while Gar, her lieutenant, handled the less experienced crew working inside. By working both sides of the problem they could ensure that nothing disastrous occurred.

The rescue vehicle made a slow barrel-roll in space and brought the target spatial engine into view. Monica's breath caught in her throat; the device was _huge_. Her mind automatically went over everything she knew about spatial engines. They were a strange mutation of the Memphis Engines that allowed interspace travel; instead of propelling ships through hyperspace the spatial engine kept them locked in a relative position in space. It made facilities like Brantic Trauma and Stardock Valupent possible; otherwise a giant floating station would get lost in the drift of planets. They had been discovered by accident, if she remembered correctly, and because of that they were incredibly complex and could be extremely temperamental.

If this one hiccupped one more time, or if the split got any worse, it might stop moving in the right direction. That would cause it to tear off, and if that happened it might just take the whole section with it. That was the last thing a hospital needed, especially one like Brantic Trauma.

The vehicle stopped its barrel-roll and she was outside the airlock in an instant. Most of the rookies had a rough time with vertigo, but not her. She'd always felt _born_ for zero-gee. She loved it and experienced it whenever she could. A smile split her face despite the tense situation. As long as she was working in space she would be happy, come what may.

The job went even smoother than she could have hoped. She located the faulty jumper and had it replaced within ten minutes. The split itself was less than a foot in length, and was also properly welded in less than ten minutes. The symptoms resolved themselves within another two minutes and she felt a larger smile on her face. Days like this were practically vacations. She had both crews inspect the rest of the troublesome engine while she jetted across space to inspect the next closest spatial engine. They might as well run the gamut while they were here. It wouldn't be fun to come back out here to fix a different engine a week from now.

She'd just finished her inspection when six low, urgent tones sounded. Her blood turned cold. She switched on her 'cator instantly. "Brantic! What's happening?"

"I don't know," the Master Healer answered immediately. "We're just getting the details now. Starliner accident..."

"Oh no," Gar breathed, listening in on the team's channel.

"Looks like an explosion," Brantic continued, his voice going grim and hard. "Monica, I'm sorry...it's the _Starsong Way_."

Time froze in front of her eyes as her body went numb. Dimly, she heard voices calling to her but she couldn't understand them, couldn't make sense of them. The _Starsong Way_ ...and her family's trip on the Exotic Line. Her parents, her brother, her two sisters...

It wasn't real. It wasn't happening. It was all just a twisted dream, some unrealized fear of losing her family materializing in a vivid nightmare.

Gar appeared suddenly in her vision and shook her shoulders. "Monica!"

She felt bile rising in her throat as she realized it was only too real. "Monica, can you hear me?" Brantic asked on the 'cator.

She took a shuddering breath. "I can hear you."

"I am truly sorry," the Master Healer said, his voice soothing yet urgent. "But I need to know if you can answer this call. Hundreds of lives are stake, including your family's. Will you respond?"

_Respond_. Always the word had meant duty, a job she loved, saving lives when she could. But now that her own family was involved...would she respond? Could she?

"We'll respond," she heard herself say, and suddenly the word meant something different. She just didn't know _what_ ...yet.

Her crew responded in record time, something that would have made her proud at any other moment. They entered hyperspace less than three minutes after the L6 alarm had gone out. For the first time since joining the EDSSUMM she was glad she wasn't the pilot. It would have been much worse. The minutes seemed to pass instantly and before she truly realized it they had arrived.

Never before had a job made her sick, but this one did. It wasn't just about her family. Out there in front of her was a blackened husk that had once been the greatest starliner in existence. It had been a crown, a jewel, a treasure and now...now it was little more than space debris.

"EDSSUMM-1497 responding to L6 Emergency," she said on the open-wave frequency, her throat burning. "Point us in the right direction."

Long-range life sign scanners were being defeated by an unusually large amount of radiation and that meant old-fashioned deck-by-deck searching. There were fourteen teams already onsite and so Monica and her crew found themselves working a lower deck room location, moving upwards to meet another team in the middle before moving on. Of course, 'room location' was now a bitter pseudonym for 'coffin collection.' It was obvious that there were dozens of explosions that had erupted aboard and even outside the _Starsong Way_ , and the ship bore the marks visibly. Nearly everything was crushed, torn, splintered or burned. Some parts of the ship were open to the vacuum of space and it was only these areas that were eerily empty. Everywhere else there were bodies, or parts of them. It was the worst disaster she had ever personally witnessed, by far the worst disaster since the end of the Second Cartel War. She knew her rookies were taking it badly but she couldn't stop. Every room, every bathroom, every corridor had to be searched visually.

Her Torch of Life beeped weakly and her heart skipped a few beats. A life sign! The map on her HUD blinked fuzzily, showing a probable location. "Gar, you getting this?" she asked, holding as still as she could.

"I'm getting it!" he confirmed excitedly. "Anybody else?"

Two of the others had the signal as well and they set off as quickly as they could. A twisted bulkhead blocked their path but judicious use of their Torches let them through. With the hull resealed to keep the vacuum out they pressed onward, calling out as they went.

They found the life less than two minutes later.

"Get her in a vacsuit!" Monica snapped, staring in open wonderment at the blonde woman. She was standing up as they entered, dressed in normal clothing. Surprisingly, she only had a few scrapes and burns on her. She double-checked to make sure Gar was setting up the vacsuit properly but needn't have worried; Gar was almost as good as she. She stepped back to survey the area and couldn't help but shake her head in wonderment.

"What's your name?" she asked the woman once Gar was done.

"Katrina."

"Katrina, you are extremely lucky," Monica said, still not quite believing it. "The decks above and below you bent in just a way to encase your room and three others in a cocoon, and you're the only one in it. You should thank whatever you believe in."

"I already have," Katrina said quietly, staring off into space. "I already have."

Monica peered closer at the woman. There was nothing physically wrong with her but it was obvious that she was in extreme shock. You didn't need to be injured to be dazed, she'd always said.

"Gar here will assist you back to our rescue vehicle," Monica said carefully, making sure Katrina understood. "And from there you'll be on your way to Brantic Trauma Facility. We've got more decks to search." Still shaking her head, Monica left the room with the rest of her crew and continued on.

Franky walked up next to her and her private 'cator link turned on. "Have you noticed the excess radiation?" he asked in a whisper.

She smiled slightly despite the grimness of the situation. Private 'cator links were nearly impossible to eavesdrop on unless you were really close and yet he still felt the need to whisper. "Yes, why?" she answered.

"I'm thinking this wasn't an accident."

Monica pursed her lips as she used the Torch to cut herself an opening in yet another twisted bulkhead. Different types of radiation were put off in small amounts by any number of large starship components, but now that Franky had brought it up...it _was_ looking ominous. Enough radiation to block long-range life sign scanners wouldn't be a natural residue from a natural explosion.

"That seems likely," she said slowly. "What does it have to do with us?"

"What Alpha Cartel would be stupid enough to destroy the _Starsong Way_? Isn't it owned by the BloodGutters?"

"No, not directly. But it does fly mostly in BloodGutter space, and that's where we are now..."

"Exactly!" Franky hissed. "Who would be stupid enough to do that?"

Before she could even think about that, yet alone answer, her Torch beeped again. "Hold it!" she snapped, switching over to her team frequency. "Anybody else get that?"

"I got it for a split second before it disappeared again," Franky answered.

"Anybody else?"

There were negatives all around. She stared at the map, watching as the little circle that represented a human life blinked in and out of existence right at the edge of her range. Every rescue instinct in her body flared to life. It was erratic, very weak, and probably blocked by tons of metal, but it was still...there!

She took three steps to her right and one forward and suddenly the circle blinked brightly for a moment before disappearing. "We're losing it fast!" she shouted. "Let's go!"

But before she could take another step a loud whistle sounded in her ear, causing her to jump. "All rescue crews, abort operation," an arrogant voice ordered. "Repeat: abort operation."

"Excuse me?" she bristled, responded to the wide-frequency order. "I've got a life sign here!"

"Stand down," the voice responded coldly. "And abort your operation immediately."

Another voice spoke up into the conversation. "This is MediMaster Gregor Larson. Who is issuing the abort command?"

The first voice returned, dripping with even more arrogance. "I am Instigator Thomas Massfield of the Cartel Discrepancy Outfit. The Barons have issued a lockdown of the site. All crews: you _will_ abort your operations."

Monica shivered. The CDO, here, and an _Instigator_? They ranked higher than Interrogators even. Franky had been right all along: this was no ordinary accident.

Her Torch beeped again, the ever-elusive circle fuzzily showing up. On the one hand, a direct Baron lockdown was just about as serious as anything ever got. And on the other hand...here was a human being, a living, breathing, thinking person who was probably dying right now. How would she respond?

_Respond_. There it was again, that word. What was her responsibility? Her mind flashed to all of the people she had saved in her line of work, all of the times she had failed to save lives. Would she blindly follow orders? Or would she live up to her vow, her dedication?

Something deep in her snapped. The fading life might be a family member but the odds of that were low. It didn't matter if it was a family member or a random stranger: right now there was a human being whose life hung in her hands. There was only one way to _respond_ to that.

"Torch Angels don't take orders from the Barons," she said as strongly as she could before turning off her wide-frequency 'cator. "None of you have to follow me," she said on her team frequency. "This is my decision. I cannot allow this life to fade, not because of the Barons or anybody."

Her heart swelled with pride as every member of her crew stepped forward next to her. They were one and all, rookie and veteran, standing up for what they believed in.

The life scan was a Siitral to hunt down and she knew their time was limited. One did not defy a CDO order and have long to keep doing so. Monica busted through bulkheads with an almost reckless abandon as she kept following the tiny beeping circle. It grew brighter and brighter as they moved through wrecked parts of the ship. She flipped on her external speakers and called out, her voice getting lost in the tangle of metal, wires, and pockets of air leaking into the vacuum.

The signal locked into place and they rushed forward. A muffled scream caught their attention. They didn't have to fight the vacuum here; they were deep in the bowels of the ship. Two decks had collapsed onto the one they were on, and even now several areas were still on fire. Her team swept the fires away and cracked down through the metal with their Torches, desperately cutting away the shards that held a life in stasis.

And finally they made it. Monica bent back one particularly sharp piece of metal and felt her throat catch. A man, burned almost to a crisp, was trapped, his body twisted and broken between girders and wiring. Monica spoke softly to the man, unsure if he was even still conscious. "You made it," she said, crying in reaction as adrenaline flowed out of her body and she started to shake. "You've survived."

They stabilized the man with everything they had, injecting him with pain killers and broad spectrum antibacterials. As they lifted him out of his makeshift coffin Monica couldn't help but smile. She had probably lost her entire family this day. She couldn't bring herself to think about that, not yet. But what mattered most was that she had saved two people. She had brought all of her training, her determination, and her sheer stubbornness to work.

And in the end, one never knew just how essential a single life was. The man she was carrying back to the rescue vehicle might just well be more important than they ever realized. She would probably never know. She would probably lose her job for this, maybe even the jobs of all of her crew. But it didn't matter. They had rescued two people from the very jaws of death.

They were Torch Angels. And that was enough for her.

###

Thanks for reading my short stories! I hope you enjoyed this little view of the Frontier Worlds. If you want more adventures in this universe, you can find them in _Avarice Dynasty: Evasion_ , a 99¢ ebook available at most retailers.

About the Author

Dyego Alehandro is an author who has been writing since a very young age. He enjoys creating his own cover art and has received many accolades for his work. His hobbies include playing Legos, board games and PC games with his wife. He lives in Phoenix AZ and really needs to move somewhere that has rain.

You can read his Smashwords interview here: <https://www.smashwords.com/interview/ArcaniArts>

Other books by Dyego Alehandro

The Chauncy Rollock Series

(with Alex Zabala)

Treasure of the Mayan King

The Golden Scepter

The Mind Games of Doctor Sova

Chauncy Rollock Chronicles

The Avarice Dynasty Series

Avarice Dynasty: Evasion

Connect with Dyego Alehandro

Friend me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/dyego.alehandro

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/ArcaniArts

