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WARLOCK RULES

HANK SCHWAEBLE


The silence of the Consort Cruiser was so deep that between breaths Cutter could hear the sloshing of blood as it pulsed through his system.

The official reason for the negative-D surfaces and compartment linings was to thwart hyperspace LVT surveillance, but he figured there were plenty of places on the ship shielded enough for the interior acoustics to be normal. No, he was sure they just liked the way it put visitors at unease. He supposed the others in the room were used to it by now. Or maybe they’d been hacked. The more he thought about it, the more that was likely the answer.

“I apologize for the lack of notice,” the woman seated at the curved conference counter, Marilanjouie Pitt-Summers, said. The two men flanking her, seated at obtuse angles to him around the crescent, hadn’t been identified and had yet to speak.

“You came in cloaked and docked with my tug without so much as a radio call. Lack of notice isn’t exactly the source of my concerns.”

“Yes, well, you were difficult to locate. We were wary that any transmissions to you, especially in this quadrant, might be intercepted or, more likely, ignored. The matter we wish to discuss is rather urgent, not to mention sensitive.”

The light in the conference area was diffused bioluminescence calibrated to the circadian rhythms and vital signs of its occupants, as was the temperature and relative humidity. It was a combination of incredibly sophisticated engineering that harnessed natural organic processes finely tuned to optimize physical and psychological responses.

Cutter hated it.

Natural was natural; this was an environment produced by bacteria and flora and biosynthesis, slapped onto cultures and regulated by quantum chips—artificial crap masquerading as the real thing.

“Well, given you have a captive audience, I’m all ears.”

“Don’t look at it that way, Mr. Cutter. We didn’t track you to this remote area of the security zone to take you prisoner. We’re here to offer you a job.”

“You must know I’m out here because I don’t have a license.”

“Yes. The job I’m talking about is not as a tug pilot—it’s a onetime service.”

Cutter glanced at the two men. Poker faces, grim and expressionless.

“I’m not a smuggler.”

“Oh, we know. This doesn’t involve anything illegal. Your name came up after an extensive AI analysis of candidates who matched the necessary criteria.”

“Criteria?”

“Perhaps it would be best if I explained the situation first.” She stood and circled the curved arc of table separating them, stopping in front of him to lean back against it. Unlike the men, she was wearing a formfitting top and skirt. Cutter decided this was her persuasion outfit. “How much do you know about the Private Noninterference Zone?”

“I know it’s a big buffer where charters with pull mine asteroids. I also know it’s off-limits to planetary authorities. Strictly private sector.”

“It’s much more than that. It’s where the bulk of cutting-edge mineralogical and exo-chemical research is performed. It’s only been available for the last decade, and already the advancements and discoveries are astounding—breakthroughs in the last two years that’ve had immense impacts on humanity.”

“Okay.”

“The Chibula have announced they intend to annex Hephaestus.”

“Hephaestus? What do the Chibs want with that radioactive rock?”

“They contend the Consortium’s research station is engaging in surveillance. With Hephaestus being so close to their sovereign sector, they’re invoking a provision of the treaty based on our presence and are claiming an option to reincorporate.”

“That sounds like something for the diplomatic corps to deal with.”

“Normally, you would think so. But the area is so small, they are asserting a right to alternative resolutions under an obscure provision of the treaty regarding private sector operations.”

“Again, what does all this have to do with me?”

“Are you familiar with the treaty, Mr. Cutter?”

Cutter scratched the back of his head. “It was next on my reading list.”

“It is over a million words, in four languages. What matters to us is a little-known section on minor disputes with nongovernmental organizations. The Chibula have elected to bypass mediated negotiations, or a panel arbitration, and are invoking a right to trial.”

“Why do I get the sense you’re not talking about them taking you to court?”

“They’re claiming a right to trial by combat.”

“You have got to be…Why the hell did anyone agree to that?”

“It has to do with language and cultural barriers and definitions and cross-references that are the product of many months of negotiations and dozens of drafters. There is a definition of ‘trial’ in one section that includes a procedure for low-level claims over small matters to be decided by a single representative for each party. The Chibulan negotiators insisted it be included because it is customary for them to settle disputes that way and, if no such provision like that existed for any disputes, they advised it would not be considered a binding agreement by their standards.”

“Well, of course they would want that. They’re seven feet tall and typically as strong as a grizzly or silverback. Might as well just say they win every dispute.”

“It’s true they wanted it to be hand to hand or to be fought with contact weapons, but our lawyers got them to agree to limit it to extremely small territorial disputes, only invokable once every five years, and that it would be limited to weapons we believed gave us, humans, an advantage. Since they are intimidated by our military technology, we agreed to a weapon over two hundred and fifty years old. One they’d never actually seen in use but were satisfied with the technical descriptions and definition of.”

She turned and retrieved a rectangular box from the table and held it out for him to see. “That definition was included in the treaty.”

Her fingers pulled on the front of the box, opening it to reveal a silver revolver, its metal surfaces glistening in the perfectly fake natural light.

“A gunfight? You want to settle this with a gunfight? You must be insane. Or think I’m insane…”

“Yours was the last class of UDF basic school graduates trained in the use of cartridge firearms. Our records show you were high expert with the pistol and the long rifle.”

“That was twenty years ago. And we were cross-trained eighteen months later into plasma rifles and pulse blasters. Besides, I’d hardly compare electronic-fed, auto-fire mag-guns to six-shooters.”

“Nevertheless, you have training with that general type of weapon, you have experience. You meet the qualifications.”

“So must a few hundred—probably a few thousand—others.”

“These qualifications go beyond proficiency with obsolete weaponry. The combatant must not have served in the military within the last decade, must not have been in the employ of any governmental or security service in the last seven years, and not had any criminal convictions on his or her record in the past twenty years.”

“That’s me,” Cutter said. “A man with no convictions.”

Pitt-Summers continued, ignoring him, “Once we added in the psychological factors and the final condition demanded by the Chibula—there were very few candidates identified. You, Mr. Cutter, were one of those few. In fact, a review of those candidates determined you were, for all practical purposes, the only one truly qualified.”

“What ‘final condition’ are we talking about?”

“You’re UA. As you may be aware, the Chibula take the issue of genetic enhancements very seriously. They refer to in their language as kincreeshix. There’s no exact word for it in English, but it roughly translates to—”

“An abomination,” Cutter said.

“So you are familiar with some of their…idiosyncrasies.”

Cutter said nothing. His status as UA was the only thing he had to fall back on, so he knew he had to tread carefully. He couldn’t tell her, not if he wanted to keep his rating. Only unaltereds were allowed to fly in interplanetary neutral zones. This was partly because the Chibula refused to donate star-system easement tracts for safe passage if altereds weren’t forbidden, and partly because it was the only way to keep fugitives from being able smuggle themselves through. The DNA of altereds could never be trusted in the gene pool, which was why it was strictly controlled on Earth, through licensing and monitoring, and violations were severely punished. Likewise, every ship in the Zone was subject to boarding and gene-scans of the crew, no exceptions.

So far, his undocumented modification had proven to be as undetectable as he’d been assured, the technique being proprietary and secretive and banished to the no-go sectors near the edge of the galaxy because of its lack of a residual signature. But he imagined the Consortium—not to mention the Chibs, as fanatic as they were regarding the issue—would use scans and techniques that were a little more thorough.

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions,” Pitt-Summers said. “Like wondering what’s in this for you.”

“Well, yes, but that’s not what I’m wondering at the moment.”

“What would that be?”

“Whether the real reason you want me is I’m likely the only one on your list who’s killed a Chib. Up close, I mean.”

“We don’t appreciate you using that term, Mr. Cutter.” It was one of the men seated on the other side of the curved counter. He had harsh, ruddy features, an expression forged from decades of corporate battles and boardroom maneuverings. Cutter caught a glint in his eye and realized that was his enhancement, some sort of visual receptor modification. He was probably seeing Cutter in infrared three-D, noting changes in his body temperature.

Cutter snorted. “Doesn’t that make you the virtuous one.”

“What Mr. Barris means is, this is a delicate situation, Mr. Cutter. Believe it or not, this is still considered a diplomatic remedy. It avoids a potentially contentious face-off that could easily lead to a renewal of hostilities after over fifteen years of peace.”

“So, you want me to kill one of them, but using a slang term is over the line?”

“What we want,” Pitt-Summers said, “is for you to demonstrate some respect for what’s at stake.”

“Okay, let’s talk about what’s at stake. If it’s so serious, why don’t you just let them have it?”

“What do you mean by ‘it’?”

“Hephaestus, that little corner of the buffer. What do you care? It’s a radioactive hunk of ore and I don’t know what else, magma or the like. Just let them have it. A show of good faith. It’s just lines on a chart.”

Pitt-Summers glanced at the men behind her and shifted her weight to her other buttock, clasping her hands together and resting them on her thigh.

“To concede something like that could encourage more attempts, invite more aggressive moves, while signaling that there was merit to their allegations, further emboldening them to challenge consortium activity.”

“First of all, I’m sure they’re right, that you’re spying, so let’s not play games. You’re hiding something. Something else, I mean. I can tell by the way the two Sphinxes back there are watching me. And by the way you’re being so polite. Just tell me what’s really going on.”

More glances were exchanged. Cutter thought he saw the other man, the one with dark skin and hair that fit his head like a helmet, dip his chin in a barely perceptible nod, but he couldn’t be sure.

“We began our study of Hephaestus a few years ago because the radiation signature didn’t correspond with our calculations. After sending probe after probe, we finally penetrated the crust deeply enough to identify an unknown isotope. This new isotope, paradigmion, will provide decades’ worth of information for us to analyze. It can’t be duplicated, as we are simply unable to match the energy necessary to compress subparticles artificially to equal its density.”

“And…?”

Her lips tightened, puckering slightly. “It’s also come to our attention that it pairs naturally with calabantium. According to our modeling equations—ones beyond my ability to explain—these two elements, when combined properly, could provide an intergalactic level of stellarator energy. Do you understand the implications?”

“I’m guessing you mean, it would let you power a ship that could move really, really fast.”

“Yes. Hyper-leap speeds. That is orders of magnitude faster than current ships. But that’s not all. It could, potentially, power a weapon able to reach across star systems. A weapon that could devastate an adversary’s planet before they even knew hostilities had commenced. And would you like to offer a guess as to where the only substantial deposits of calabantium in the charted territories are known to exist?”

“The Chibulan System.”

“Now you see why we can’t let Hephaestus fall into their hands. And why we can’t risk escalating matters. We mustn’t let them discover its importance.”

He thought for a moment. “Aren’t you forgetting one minor but important detail?”

“What’s that?”

“That the Chibs—I mean, the Chibula—are not only bigger and stronger, but faster than your average human.”

“Yes. Considerably faster than your average human. But I would venture not considerably faster than you.”

There it is, he thought. The other G-Boot dropping.

“Given your training, I mean,” she added.

“Reflex speed is not the deciding factor,” the man seated behind her to the right said. “The Chibula are fast, and strong, but the nature of their physiology does not lend itself to fine motor skills.”

“You’re saying they’re not accurate.”

“According to our kinesthesiologists, the accuracy you displayed in your training records is superior to anything a Chibulan combatant could attain without years of training.”

“Let’s say I believe you. Why should I risk my life like that?”

“For your people. For your country. For the security of Earth.”

“Now I know you’re insane.”

“We know you’ve been saving platinum warrants, hoping to negotiate a resolution to the charges pending against you. You want to buy your way back home, where, as things stand, you’re unemployable. We can arrange a full pardon. As well as a complete reinstatement of transit privileges.”

“And how could the private Extro-logistical Geo Consortium arrange that?”

“Like I said, the UDF wants to avoid direct involvement in this dispute. But that doesn’t mean they’re not keenly interested. You pull this off, you get to keep all those warrants, return with full privileges and a clean slate. A completely clean slate, including transit and full biomedical waivers.”

Cutter dipped his chin, chuckling. Full biomedical waivers. Letting him know they knew without letting him know they knew. He suddenly felt stupid. Of course they knew. It wasn’t something they were willing to overlook, it was the real reason they chose him. He had no idea how they found out, but they did.

“When?”

“Five solar days. Sorry. It took a long time to find you. This transport is equipped to allow you to familiarize yourself with the weapon. The rules call for each combatant to have a second, and we’re providing you one. Her name is Vaneshka Khoudry. She’s both a kinesthesiologist and a mechanical engineer. She’s studied the weaponry extensively and will train you. The Colt .45 Peacemaker fires a—”

“I know what a Colt .45 fires. Where is this supposed to happen?”

“There’s an abandoned outpost in Meridian Five. It’s on a class-C dwarf moon with a dense mercury core that equates to .9 Gs and has an atmosphere that is thirty-one percent oxygen, sixty percent nitrogen. It’s the only spot in neutral territory that meets all the necessary criteria.”

“Abandoned outpost? Warlock? You’re talking about Warlock?”

“That’s not its official name, but yes. You’re familiar with it?”

“Yes, I’m familiar with it.” Every Force Infantry soldier who fought in that war was, he thought. It was called Warlock because it had gravity like Earth’s, on a moon the size of a large asteroid, and its hard-packed sandy terrain looked like a movie set, something the guy who ran the outpost played up to draw in military personnel on R&R and shore leave. Cutter had a difficult time believing the choice of location was a coincidence.

“I have a cargo container I’m tugging. If I were to say yes—and that’s a big if—I’d have to deliver that first. I can make it in three days; you can meet me when I drop it off. I’m not sure if that gives you enough time.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. We need to be in orbit at Kronos Four a day early. The coordinates for your delivery put you four days away from our destination. And in addition to your training, we will need to fit you with proper attire. No synthetics or metals allowed. The Chibula were quite clear about this. They don’t trust synthetic materials wouldn’t be designed to neutralize the effects of the weaponry. They only wear garments made of natural fibers and expect us to do the same. The wind and sand will call for a long coat made of actual leather, as well as boots. Your other garments will be natural cotton, for the most part.”

“You’re not listening. I have a cargo container I have to deliver. I know you’re promising me stardust and Jupiter rain-diamonds, but these are not the kind of people I can disappoint. If I don’t show up with it on time, I’ll have a bounty on my head.”

“That’s not a concern, Mr. Cutter.”

“Maybe not to you.”

“Not to you, either. We purchased your cargo from its owner an hour ago.”

“Let me get this straight. If I were to say no, I don’t even have a delivery fee waiting for me?” He sucked in a lungful of fake, phony, perfect air. “In that case, you do know the binary stars stay directly overhead for almost twenty hours on Warlock, don’t you?”

He cast glances at the two men, then locked eyes on Pitt-Summers.

“So, you better get me a friggin’ hat, too. And since there’s a good chance I’m going to die in it, make it a damn nice one.”


“Have I mentioned how insane this is?”

“Not for at least five or ten minutes.”

Cutter stood in the tiny shuttle, clinging to the hand-strap along the ceiling as the craft rumbled into the dwarf planet’s atmosphere. “Well, it bears repeating.”

Khoudry did not respond. The shuttle’s AI autopilot made thousands of adjustments to the flight surfaces and thrusters per second, making for a remarkably smooth entry, but she monitored the instrument panel closely for discrepancies anyway. Cutter watched her, admiring her intensity, even if she wasn’t exactly his type. She had dark hair and dark eyes and bronze skin, which were all more than fine by him, but she was on the short side. In his experience, short women were always trouble. The same contents as taller ones, only packed under pressure, ready to explode when you least expect it.

“You really think I can beat whatever Chib they brought down there for this?”

“I think your chances of getting out of there alive are much higher if you don’t use derogatory terms like ‘Chib’ to describe them. There are rules to this duel. Get them angry enough to make it personal, those may go out the window.”

After a moment’s silence, she let out an audible sigh. “Your reaction time is near the ninety-ninth percentile. No matter how fast the Chibulan may be, you will likely get a shot off. And their musculature doesn’t—”

“Lend itself to fine motor skills. Yeah, yeah. So everything is riding on me being on target and their guy missing.”

“We have no way of knowing if their combatant will be male or female. They are sexually dimorphic, completely binary, but genderless. There is no apparent difference between males and females perceptible by human senses at casual distances. It makes for a far more efficient social structure.”

“Remind me when this is over to not ask you if you’d like to have a drink.”

The surface came into view through the forward window, rushing toward them. Khoudry readied her hand near the control stick. The shuttle decelerated smoothly, a momentary feel of negative Gs washing through Cutter’s gut and head. Then the craft leveled and lowered itself through a series of controlled discharges as it settled onto the flat expanse of sand.

“And there they are,” Cutter said, peering through a side port. “Just tied up and waiting for us.”

A few dozen meters away, two saddled creatures stood on four legs, seemingly bored. Xenobex. Cutter had never actually seen one but had heard about them. They looked like someone had taken a horse, put camel humps like saddle bags where its ass was, and gave it a long neck that led to a head shaped like a wolf’s, with two pronged horns.

“I can’t believe we have to actually ride those things.”

“The Chibula are extremely paranoid that we will cheat. It was only after we pointed out there was literally no way for us to get to the surface without using a transport shuttle that they even agreed to that. They think we’ll smuggle in weapons or shielding or something to tilt the playing field.”

“I never understood them. They’re practically an entire race of engineers, yet their weapons were noticeably inferior to ours. And for a warrior culture, their tactics were nonexistent and their strategies transparent.”

“They didn’t evolve the same way our species did. Their visuo-spatial intelligence is far beyond ours. But they are mainly linear in their thinking.”

Cutter nodded and his ears popped slightly as he listened to the engines wind down while the craft performed an atmospheric equalization. He had seen the Chibula weaponry firsthand, seen their ships and fighters. Masterful feats of engineering. But it had been like having the galaxy’s finest knife at a sword fight. They lacked almost any imagination, were practically incapable of creative thinking. They had no tradition of storytelling or cinema or fiction. Just science and an austere religion that, as far as Cutter could understand, worshiped the universe as a conscious being.

“Yeah, as a race, they always struck me as…weird.”

“I’m sure they could make the same argument about us.”

Cutter grunted. “Some more than others.”

Khoudry looked at him, her mouth bunched into a frown. “Before we go out there, we should go over a few things. Keep them fresh in your mind. The Chibula and his or her second will meet with us for a mutual display of skill prior to the dual. Each of you will then be asked to deem your opponent worthy, which you will.”

“I never asked, but what would happen if I didn’t? If I said, you know, this Chib…ula is not up to my standards.”

“It would be considered a personal insult to be settled without rules, probably without warning. The outcome would not resolve the dispute, though. It would just result in one or both of you dead.”

“Considering the average Chib could probably rip my head off and eat it like an apple—might actually want to do just that—I guess my vote is ‘worthy.’”

“You joke, but this is serious.”

“I know. That’s why I joke.”

“After a period of rest—religious meditation for the Chibula—you will meet at the designated spot, separated by a distance of thirty meters. There will be one signal, chosen by the neutral officiating authority, probably the interpreter. You may draw and fire at will once it is given. If you both empty your weapon without a fatal or debilitating injury being sustained, you will reload and close the distance to twenty meters and repeat. Then to ten meters. If no decisive injury is sustained, it will be considered a draw, and you will retreat to separate areas for rest—or prayer—and start again. As indicated, the contest is over when one sustains a fatal or debilitating injury and can’t continue.”

“What if one is injured and the other dies?”

“The surviving party is considered the victor.”

“Yay.”

A tone sounded, indicating the chamber was equalized. The hatch to the shuttle opened, separating with the hiss of a vacuum seal being broken. Cutter stepped down the footrail and onto the surface.

The ground was hardpan, dried out and mostly flat, with wisps of loose sand slithering and winding across the top in gusts of hot wind. The sky was a bright, hazy blue, like a shade of ice, and the twin stars that warmed everything seemed to be holding hands high overhead. In the distance, the sand turned from beige to yellow to orange to red. There were hills to one side, far away, but nothing else visible—just the hitching post a couple dozen meters away and the Xenobex tied to it, waiting with a quiet patience Cutter found disturbing.

“Those are really our only means of transportation?”

“Yes, unless you want to walk through almost thirty kilometers of aridscape. The only technology they would allow is a comm unit for a Panurian translator and, of course, the gene-scan.”

“Of course. I have a hard time picturing a Chibula on one of those things.”

“Oh, no, they’re walking. Or jogging. Their gait at a mild pace is three times what a human spans. And given that their worlds average 1.1 Earth Gs, I would expect they’ll be particularly light on their feet here.”

Cutter walked up to the nearest Xenobex. When he closed to within a meter, it turned its head toward him and spat. He flinched, arching his body to avoid it. A large gob of slime caught the front of his pant leg and slid down to the top of his boot.

“Well, isn’t this galaxy-class wonderful?”

“Hey, be grateful. It’s marking you. They usually don’t do that right away. They don’t have great peripheral vision, but do have keen senses of smell. They spit to be able to keep track of you. In case you fall off.”

“Fall off?”

“Yes. Try to keep to a trot. Nothing faster than that. They can move rather quickly, but their gait at a gallop is…just don’t let them go faster than a trot. A gentle tug on the reins straight back is probably enough.”

“You seem to know a lot about them. Where did you learn to ride?”

Khoudry walked over to the other Xenobex and put a foot into the stirrup. “On the transport, yesterday,” she said, swinging her leg over and settling into the saddle. “By reading the fact sheets.”


The ride to the outpost took two hours. The Xenobex trotted at a consistent tempo, their efficient legs moving them about as fast as the average person could sprint and doing so in a way that seemed effortless. Cutter could occasionally hear a snorting breath, but all in all he got the impression this was a leisurely pace for the beasts.

A strong wind crossed in front of them, whipping a cloud of sand into funnels and forcing Cutter to clamp down on his hat and pull the bandana around his neck up over his face. That action brought with it the understanding of why the large piece of cloth was provided with instructions how to tie it. He was glad he hadn’t given in to the urge to leave it on the shuttle.

When the dust devils faded away, and the sand finally settled, he could see the outpost. A small collection of domed buildings in two rows facing one another, each of them rounded and sloped to the ground to allow smooth airflow over them.

All but one.

In the center to the right was the Saloon—a relatively sizable building with a wooden façade. The owner had built it to cater to UDF forces wanting to blow off a little steam. It advertised drinks and pleasure droids…though rumor was, for a steep fee, he would supply the real thing. There were supposedly no rules on Warlock, but that was never the case, anywhere. Every place had rules, the only question was, how did you learn them, and who enforced them?

Cutter always thought the owner had started the rumors about everything being for sale there, droid or human, just to make the place sound exciting. Truth was, there was no shortage of either men or women in the UDF looking for a casual good time, so there wasn’t really any need. Besides, after a few stiff drinks, most people couldn’t tell the difference, anyway.

The entrance to the outpost was through a framed archway that used to bear a sign but was now just bare. The Xenobex slowed to a walk as they crossed through.

A man stepped out into the corridor separating the rows of buildings near the Saloon. He was wearing a long green robe and a white coif on his head, the flaps covering his ears with a slender tendril hanging from each. He had no facial hair, not even eyebrows, which, to Cutter, immediately marked him as Panurian.

He raised a hand as they approached.

“You’re late,” the man said.

Before Cutter could respond, Khoudry said, “We were given a time to land, not a time to arrive at the outpost.”

The Panurian didn’t reply. He gestured toward the Saloon and waited while Cutter and Khoudry dismounted.

“The Chibulan representative and his second are inside. They’ve been here for some time. They are quite agitated at your…tardiness.”

“Well, tell ’em to come out here, and let’s get this thing over with.”

A worried expression passed over the Panurian’s face. “That’s not the way it is done. They are keen observers of custom and decorum. They insist the rules be followed.”

Cutter looked at Khoudry, then at the Panurian. “We’re here now, aren’t we?”

The doors to the Saloon pushed open and another Panurian came out. He was wearing the same kind of coif and robe, only his robe was blue. “This is Krilbin,” the first one said. “He is to perform the genetic scan. My name is Fanjir. I am the interpreter.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure. Now, can we get on with this? I’m hungry and thirsty. The sooner we get to the rest period, the better.”

Krilbin straightened his back, pushed his head high. “After discussing the matter with their superiors, the Chibula have requested a forfeiture. This contest will exceed the time allotted under the rules, due to your lack of punctuality. They have spent the last three point six dakkha—their standard units of time—in meditation. It is their belief that humans do nothing by chance, but seek every advantage to exploit.”

“A forfeiture?” Cutter laughed. “Tell them no. Tell them not only no, but hell no. We weren’t the ones who screwed up. We landed at the precise time we were given.”

“What my associate means,” Khoudry said, stepping forward past Cutter, “is please tell them that this was a simple miscommunication, and that we would like to accommodate their concerns. If they have already engaged in restful meditation, perhaps if we were to waive that rest period? As a show of good faith?”

The Panurians exchanged looks. Fanjir dipped his head in assent. Krilbin turned on his heel and reentered the Saloon.

Several minutes passed in silence, Cutter kicking his boot against the hardpacked sand, Khoudry staring at the Saloon doors. Cutter heard a noise like something scraping, followed by the sound of heavy footfalls, then the opposing doors swung open. A towering creature pushed through and came to a stop on the wooden boardwalk. Another one followed. Krilbin shuffled out from behind them and hastily made his way to the front and exchanged some words with Fanjir in a low voice.

“They would like some assurance this is not a trick,” Fanjir said.

Cutter studied the creatures. Their physiques, their features, their overall appearance was one Cutter had always found bizarre. They looked like someone had taken a giant praying mantis and tried to turn it into a person. Dominating their smooth, gray-green, triangular heads—with a bony crest crossing over the top toward the rear—they had bulging black eyes the size of a man’s fist and mandibles that closed from side to side. But they also had lips and a tongue, a flat but humanlike nose, and tiny ears on the sides above their eyes. Their torsos were long and convex, narrowing to a perch for their head on one end and angling back to a point at the other. Their arms were long, resting in a curled position with their forearms against their chest. At the ends of those arms were hands that were almost human-looking, with three sharp fingers and a flat, blunt thumb. Their legs were probably the most normal thing about them, except for the fact they bent in the opposite direction at the knee.

What Cutter found the most remarkable, however, was how absolutely ridiculous, how utterly preposterous, the closest one, the big one, was dressed. He was dressed in a white shirt with fringes along the sleeve, a calfskin vest, a bright red bandana, and brown leather chaps. He had a tall cowboy hat somehow affixed to the top leg of his triangular head and, although he didn’t have boots due to the tripod shape of his feet, his outfit did come complete with a holster and a six-gun tied down to his leg.

“You got to be shitting me,” he said, wagging his chin.

Khoudry elbowed cutter in the ribs. “This is not a trick.” She took another step closer to the Chibula. “We meant no disrespect.”

Fanjir addressed the Chibula and spoke in sounds Cutter couldn’t follow. The Chib in the back responded, and the big one up front added something curt.

“They say your proposal is acceptable, but only because they do not wish there to be any controversy regarding the outcome. They will not allow themselves to be made to look foolish.”

“Too late,” Cutter said, letting out a soft chuckle.

“Thank them for us,” Khoudry said. “And tell them we may begin when they are ready.”

Fanjir bowed and passed along the message, or seemed to, and after a short back-and forth the Chibula stepped off the boardwalk.

Krilbin walked up to the tall one and held out a thick hand tablet. He tapped the screen a few times, then directed it toward the top of the Chibula’s head and lowered it slowly until it was pointed at the ground. A blue glow cut across the creature and followed the tablet the entire way before disappearing. Krilbin tapped the screen a few more times then turned to Cutter.

The tingle that ran through Cutter’s scalp and down his spine was not unpleasant, but he did find it unnerving. A flash of blue momentarily blinded him as the scan slid down to his feet. Krilbin started to tap the screen, then stopped, his finger hovering a few centimeters away. He looked at Cutter, his gaze narrowing. He stared at the screen for a few more seconds, hesitated again, then tapped it.

“You have all been genetically cleared as UA.”

Fanjir made some noises in the direction of the Chibula, prompting the big one to pull its head back, catching Cutter’s gaze as it did. It spun on one prong of its three-pronged feet and strode down the length of the building away from the direction Cutter had come.

“This way,” Fanjir said. “Per the rules, we will have a brief display of skill, and then the contest shall commence.”

Cutter and Khoudry fell in a few steps behind Fanjir. Cutter leaned in close and whispered, “What’s with the getup? Are they trying to be cute, poking fun at us? Or do they think I won’t be able to hit shit if I’m laughing my ass off at them?”

“The Chibula are more or less literalists, Cutter. When they studied the treaty and saw the manner of combat, they requested video of the contest in practice. No one had actual footage of a gunfight like this, so they sent them a library of old Hollywood Westerns. If you’d bothered to read the materials, you’d know this.”

“Isn’t that what I have you for?”

Fanjir stopped next to the Chibula at the gap between the Saloon and the next building. As Cutter approached and the angle widened, he could see a pair of targets between the structures. Two metal squares with concentric circles of colors brightening as you moved outward from the center, with the middle being a deep red.

“Please, step to this line.” Fanjir indicated a strip of black holographene. He waved a white length of linen. “When this cloth hits the surface, you will each draw and fire at the target on your side. If you draw too early, it will be considered a fault and you will redo. This is ceremonial, not competitive, but it will allow each of you to assess your opponent.”

He proceeded to repeat the instructions in the Chibulan tongue.

Not Competitive, Cutter thought. Right.

Fanjir held up the cloth, jerked his wrist a few times, then released it. Cutter watched it float, ghostlike, fluttering slightly, weaving back and forth before riding a tiny gust of breeze and then, finally settling to the ground.

As Cutter drew his revolver, he became abruptly aware of a shot ringing out, but it seemed premature. He heeled the hammer back with his palm and heard the report of his own shot, the gun kicking in his hand.

Cutter looked at the targets. He’d managed to nick the edge of the circle one perimeter removed from the center. At first, he thought his opponent had missed the other target completely, then he saw a small dot dead center. A perfect bull’s-eye.

The Chibula turned to face him. It held its revolver out, almost as if it were going to shoot him, then it twirled the gun around its finger, forward, then back, then forward again, before lowering its hand and giving the piece a final spin so that the barrel plunged itself into the holster. It walked past him with long hard steps, and Cutter wondered if it was his imagination, or if he actually saw the lips between those bug mandibles curl into a smile.

“The Chibulan Proxy has indicated you are worthy,” Fanjir said. “What say you?”

“Whatever it takes to get this over with,” Cutter said.

The Panurian frowned, then uttered more strange sounds to the smaller Chibula near him.

“We may commence,” Fanjir said, before walking back to the front of the Saloon.

Cutter took a few steps, then veered slightly, stopping and yanking Khoudry aside. “I thought you said they weren’t accurate?”

“And I thought you said you were a good shot. And what the heck kind of draw was that? Those Xenobex could pull faster than you did.”

“It’s called not showing your hand. If he thinks I’m slow, he may take his time.”

“That’s the last thing you want to let him do.”

“Why?”

“Because”—Khoudry leaned over, looking past him—“that was him taking his time.”

Krilbin started to speak in a loud tone. Fanjir did the same, only in the Chibulan language. “The participants will please walk along the outer edge of the corridor until you pass the third line. That is your mark. Follow that line to the center. Once you take your marks, I will toss the cloth again. You may draw once any part of it first touches the surface. If you fault, but the other side is uninjured, the non-faulting combatant will be entitled to a free shot. If the non-faulting side is injured or dead, the contest is forfeited. Do you understand?”

Cutter nodded. The Chibulan combatant twisted its head sideways, then back.

“Take your marks.”

Cutter made his way to the black holographene in the sand and walked out into the middle of the open space. He dug his boots lightly into the ground, one foot slightly forward of the other, and pulled the edge of his duster back. He positioned his hand over the handle of his Colt and bent his knees just enough to give his legs some spring. He glanced at the Chibula, some thirty meters away, standing awkwardly, arms pinched in like a dinosaur, then he shifted his gaze to the Panurian twitching the cloth above his head. Lower thorax, he reminded himself, remembering the sole time he’d killed one up close, shoving a long piece of broken metal from his crashed fighter into its gut as it descended in a pounce. The medic had told him they had a vulnerable organ cluster he’d managed to hit, but it was only the size of an old-fashioned softball.

Lower thorax, he repeated, mouthing the words silently. That’s the weak underbelly.

The Panurian lowered his arm and flicked the cloth high and forward. Cutter watched it dance on the air, gliding to and fro, riding sheets of current, dipping and rising, until one edge finally scraped the sand.

Not holding back this time, Cutter drew and fired, the gun jerking from his holster rapidly, his other palm fanning the hammer as he held down the trigger. A distant crack split the air just before the much louder report of his gun battered his ears, and he felt a kick in his side. He doubled over, cradling his rib cage, and dropped to one knee. He saw his opponent still standing, watched it twirl the gun a few times before letting it drop back in its holster. Then it took a step closer and toppled forward, falling flat on its triangular face.

Cutter let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and collapsed onto his ass before tipping sideways and rolling onto his back.

He shut his eyes and cursed, then opened them to see Khoudry kneeling over him. “How bad is it?”

Cutter shook his head. “I don’t know.”

She pried his arm from his side and he saw her grimace. She touched the wound, felt around some, and stopped when he winced.

“It caught a rib, but at an angle. It deflected without penetrating further. You do have a cracked one, though. So, the pain is real.”

“And here I thought it was all my head.”

“It probably had the effect of a gut punch, too. Catch your breath and let’s get you some medical attention. Congratulations. You won.”

“Yeah,” Cutter said, grunting as he tried to sit up. “I can tell by how excited you are.”

“If you can stand, they may have a med-kit for this kind of thing. I’ll walk you over.”

Cutter got to his feet, his arm around Khoudry’s shoulders, the lower g-force making it easier than he’d expected. He staggered a few steps, then felt her stop. She was looking up into the distance. He followed her gaze to just above the horizon.

“That can’t be good,” he said.

Krilbin approached them, an urgent pace to his stride. “It’s the Chibula,” he said. “I just established a commlink with the Chibulan Second and their superiors. They are demanding the two of you remain so they can conduct an interview.”

“An interview? Why?”

“They said they have received credible allegations of cheating. Please, come with me into the Saloon. We will try to sort this out.”

“Sure thing,” Cutter said, interrupting Khoudry as she started to speak. “Go on and tell them we’ll be right along to clear everything up. I’m just a little slow at the moment.”

The Panurian nodded warily and turned back toward the Saloon.

Cutter put his lips to Khoudry’s ear. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

“I don’t think that would be a good—”

“Now,” he repeated. He tightened his gaze to make the point.

“Can you ride?”

“We don’t have a choice.”

Cutter looked up as they resumed walking. The objects in the sky were more visible now. Three craft approaching. Still far off, but closing fast.

“V-Tail fighter scouts,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear. “We don’t have much time.”

Khoudry angled their direction slightly, taking them to the side of the Saloon, but instead of stepping onto the boardwalk, she cut behind the corner. They both broke into a jog, Cutter moving as fast as he could. The Xenobex were not far.

He could hear commotion as they reached their mounts, loud alien barking. Khoudry helped Cutter onto his saddle and quickly mounted hers. Krilbin appeared from around the corner, shouting at them.

They took off on the Xenobex, Krilbin running after them, pleading for them to stop. Cutter looked over to see the V-Tails drawing close. He urged his Xenobex faster. Krilbin was still running after them, though rapidly falling behind.

“Careful!” Khoudry yelled at Cutter. “We can’t—”

A ripping sound tore through the sky. Cutter jerked his head to look, caught sight of a torrent of pulse rounds tearing up the ground, slashing right through the Panurian, whose body vaporized instantly, leaving his still churning legs to flop and tumble forward and his head to roll and bounce along the sand.

Cutter reached across, grabbed the reins of Khoudry’s mount, and yanked both of them hard to the right just as a barrage of pulse rounds battered the ground along their prior path.

Overhead, the three V-Tails shot by, making hard-G turns to accomplish another pass.

“I think the time for worrying about holding them to a safe speed is over,” he said.

Khoudry nodded, and the two of them kicked their heels against the Xenobexes’ hindquarters, coaxing them to move faster. At first, the creatures ran at a quick but familiar pace, moving well, but not much faster than they’d been on the ride in. But after a few more kicks, they started to understand. With a sudden leap forward, almost in unison, they broke into a sprint.

Cutter’s eyes sprung wide as he felt the creature beneath him accelerate. His body slid back off the saddle, forcing him to grab onto the horn and pull himself forward. He couldn’t imagine what this looked like to their pursuers, probably just a long cloud of dust. It was like holding on to a missile.

The relative wind was too powerful for him to speak, so he turned his head, squinting at Khoudry, and pointed toward the hills. She nodded from her hunched position, and they coaxed the Xenobex over.

Another barrage of pulse rounds chased them as they cut between foothills, the impacts cascading up the slope behind them. The V-Tails whizzed by overhead.

Cutter pulled his Xenobex to a halt, and they stopped beneath a rocky outcropping.

“We have to make it to the shuttle,” Khoudry said.

“Can that outrun a fighter scout?”

“It’s our only chance. We have to get to it.”

Cutter sucked in a breath, peered out from under the rocky cover. “How far is it?”

She shook her head. “On one of these at full speed? Ten minutes? Maybe seven? They’re as fast as rocket-cycles.”

Thinking, Cutter looked out at the sky one more time. “There’s only one way that might work. But there’s no time to discuss it.”

He gestured for her to come over to him and pulled her onto the back of his mount, surprise registering on her face as he lifted her. He took the reins of her now riderless Xenobex and tugged the creature to face the direction they’d been heading, through the gap in the hills. He tossed the reins onto the saddle and drew his weapon. He cocked it with his thumb and fired it so that the bullet just skimmed the animal’s ass.

The Xenobex took off like it had been fired from a cannon. Within a second, it was out of sight, far beyond the hills, a fog of dust roiling in its wake.

Just as he’d hoped, the V-Tails buzzed after it. Cutter waited a count of three, told Khoudry to hold on tight, then kicked his mount into action.

Even with their combined weight on its back, the Xenobex sprinted at a speed that was almost impossible to control. Cutter hung on tight to the horn, leaning down to stay narrow to the wind, Khoudry squeezing him. He could barely breath, his ribs hurting so much, but the adrenaline was enough to keep him from passing out.

They reached the shuttle in a little over six minutes. Khoudry jumped off as the creature reared to a stop and slapped her hand against the entry pad. Cutter turned to see the V-Tails coming in fast, maybe two minutes out.

Holding his side, he dismounted and climbed into the shuttle, only to find Khoudry had removed a piece of venting pipe and opened a wall panel to remove a cooling coil. Then she yanked a component from below a floorboard and fit the venting pipe through the cooling coil and attached it to the piece she’d removed from the floor. She pulled a latch, unfolded part of the component to the rear, and flipped down small piece to the front.

“Excuse me,” she said, nudging him out of the way. She jumped out of the shuttle and pointed the end of the pipe toward the incoming sky. Then she stopped, pulled it back with a look of disgust, and drove her palm against a point on the side, resulting in a loud click. The coils began to glow, and she raised the end again.

A burst of plasma shot out, knocking her shoulder back, then another and another. The fourth one caught the first V-Tail, sending it sideways and causing it to flip into another that was trailing it. The third vectored left, reversing course, but Khoudry tracked it down with the sixth burst hitting its thruster and causing it to explode.

She let out a breath like she was deflating and dropped down onto her rear end.

Cutter pushed up the front of his hat and scratched the top of his forehead near his hairline. “What in the bright burning flame of hell was that?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, remind me to make you tell me later. Right now, we need to get out of here.”

“You’re right,” she said, pushing herself to her feet. “Let’s get to the Orbiter.”

They climbed into the shuttle. Khoudry hopped into the pilot’s seat and got it initialized within a couple of minutes. Cutter settled down into a hop seat, wincing, his hand still pressing against his side. He looked down for the first time and noticed a deep crimson plume on his shirt, his hand covered in blood.

“We’ll get that fixed up,” Khoudry said. She programmed the AI to take them to the Orbiter and then sat back as the shuttle thrusters engaged. “We’ll be docked in a few minutes and they’ll do a much better job than I would.”

“I’ll manage,” he said.

“The Orbiter is not responding, though that’s not unexpected. They’re probably in stealth protocol, given what’s happened. I’ll hail them once we breach the atmosphere into low orbit. Now, what the hell happened back there?” she said, her tone flat.

“I guess the Chibs really, really want Hephaestus.”

“Cutter, I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to demand an explanation. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Like you said, it’s a long story.”

“Unlike mine, yours can’t wait.”

Cutter lowered his head, fixed his gaze on the shuttle floor. “There’s a UDF warrant for out for my arrest on Earth. That’s why I was piloting a tug out in Nowheresville-Egypt sector.”

“What’d you do?”

“It’s more what I didn’t do.” He raised his chin and scratched it, but his eyes stayed low. “The war had been going on for well over a decade. I was a pilot-raider for a cleanup crew. Mop-up duty. I came across this Chib supply ship. The Chibs inside were all dead. Except for one. I was ordered to blow the whole thing. I had no room for a prisoner, and no desire for one, either. But there was something about killing an injured opponent that struck me as…unsportsmanlike. So, I put him in a pod and fired it out toward the last known coordinates of where his…whatever you call them were.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad. They ordered your arrest for that?”

“More for the fact that the Chibs were so surprised by the act that they decided to accept the peace terms that had been on the table for years.”

“Wait a second, you’re telling me you ended the war? You? By yourself?”

“No, I’m saying the Chibs ended the war after that, and I got blamed for it. They came down hard. Insubordination. They let me know charges were being brought. Even let me know when to expect to be apprehended. It didn’t take an AI enhancement to know they were giving me a chance to run. Which I took.”

“Blamed? You said they ‘blamed’ you. For what?”

Cutter took in a deep breath, then winced, hitching forward a bit. “That war had dragged on and on and on. The Chibs were warriors by culture and temperament, but they were like an ant colony in their thinking. The kill ratio had to be, I don’t know, ten thousand to one? They had three hundred billion to our fifty billion, but it was clear our weapons, though not nearly as well-engineered, were designed with a lot more ingenuity, a lot more imaginative force. They didn’t understand any way of fighting other than direct engagement. It was like an old-fashioned turkey shoot from hundreds of years ago. But they wouldn’t give up.”

“I don’t understand. If your actions led to peace, why were they so upset with you?”

“You’re right, you don’t understand. It’s not your fault. It’s because you’re not cynical enough. They were upset because they didn’t want the war to end. Our casualties were low, barely more than large-scale training-exercise levels. This war was a boon to virtually everyone—politicians, the space-industrial complex, interplanetary relations that were being forged between us and various civilizations. We were the good guys. Not to mention the UDF. They had more power, more money, more prestige than they ever dreamed. The last thing they wanted was a shift in political priorities. I’d ruined the party.”

“That’s…really hard to believe. Hold on…we’re about to leave the atmosphere. I’ll lock on when we’re within range.” She sat back after scanning the instruments and turned to face him. “Now, what does all that have to do with what just happened?”

“I wasn’t kidding when I said the Chibs must really want Hephaestus.”

“And the cheating? You didn’t exactly act like you had no idea what they were talking about.”

He rubbed his face with his unbloodied hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. He shifted in the jump seat and flinched in pain.

“Maybe four years ago, I was making a run and the side container hitch didn’t lock. I had to open the access panel and reach through to manually adjust it. It broke free just as I did and the emergency seals kicked in.”

“While your arm was in? Ouch.”

Cutter nodded. “Took it clean off.”

“How did you survive?”

“I had a copilot for that run. He put a K-Pac on my shoulder that stopped the bleeding. But given my status, I couldn’t go to any medical station, not with that warrant, so he said he knew a doctor with a surgical vessel who’d been stuck in the buffer, like me. This doctor was…flexible. He had a technique for regenerating a new arm, high-level gene hack.”

She let out a long whistle. “That’s a capital offense,” she said.

“Yeah, but he insisted he had a way of masking it, some sort of mito-cloning technique with genome mirroring. He said that’s why he’d been targeted by authorities, because it would change everything if you could be altered without any way to detect it. He gave me a new arm.”

“And you had him enhance it?”

“No! I told him just a regular arm. But I guess he couldn’t resist. After a couple of months of learning to use it, I noticed it was more than a little stronger than my other had been, and noticeably faster.”

“Did the Consortium know about this?”

“They pretended not to. But they dropped hints. And I think that’s why they chose me. Because I offered them the best chance of winning.”

A tone sounded out, and Khoudry turned to the control panel. “That’s…odd.”

“What?”

“We should be in range now. But the Orbiter isn’t anywhere around. Let me try hailing them again.”

“Put it on continuous auto in emergency mode,” Cutter said. “If they’re refusing to acknowledge, it will at least annoy the hell out of them.”

“Why would they do that?”

Cutter said nothing. He eased himself back in the jump seat and tried to keep his breathing light.

Khoudry studied the instrument panel, complaining about various bits of information that didn’t make sense. Cutter remained silent, thinking.

After several minutes, a different tone finally sounded.

“That’s them,” Khoudry said. “Orbiter One, this is Warlock shuttle. Negative instrument contact. Please advise.”

“Warlock shuttle, return to the surface. Await further instructions once there.”

“Orbiter One, we cannot comply. We encountered armed hostiles and were forced to evacuate. Please advise.”

“Warlock shuttle, return to surface. Await further instructions there.”

Khoudry started to respond, but Cutter interrupted her. “Launch a holographic interface.”

“But—”

“Please, just do it.”

A semitransparent field materialized between the two of them. There was no discernible image.

“This is Cutter. Ms. Pitt-Summers, I know you’re listening. I also know this was your doing. The least you can do is prove you’re not too much of a sniveling coward to show your face and own up to it.”

Several seconds passed in silence. Then the field shuddered, flickering, and the woman’s image appeared. “Hello, Cutter. You’re quite self-righteous-sounding for a man accused of cheating. Just head back to the surface, and I’m sure you’ll be given a chance to prove your innocence.”

“Cut the bullshit. I know you’ve encoded the signal so it can’t be copied or transcribed. So there’s no need to keep up the pretense.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. We received word the Chibula are alleging you are enhanced. We are quite confident that’s not the case. Aren’t you?”

“You know damn well what the case is. My question is, why?”

“Why what? Why did we entrust such an important objective to someone like you? You don’t think it was because of your impressive qualifications?”

“Oh, I know why you chose me. The question is, why did you want this at all? I mean, if you didn’t want the Chibs to get Hephaestus, why…do this?”

“To win, Mr. Cutter. Isn’t that obvious? The objective is always to win. How could we possibly have known you were enhanced? I mean, there is no evidence that you are, and we strongly refute any such allegations, of course. Now, I’m sure if you were to go back to the surface, you’d be able to plead your case. Before the Chibula killed you, of course. Which they most certainly would. Enhancement being such an abomination to them and all. Conclusive proof be damned.”

“That doesn’t answer the quest—” Cutter stopped himself. His gaze cut over to Khoudry, who held up her palms and blinked. “Of course,” he said.

“Of course, what?” Khoudry asked. “Would one of you mind telling me what the hell is going on? For real?”

“This wasn’t about the Chibula getting Hephaestus, was it?” Cutter pushed himself off the seat, standing to face the image of Pitt-Summers. “This was about wanting a war.”

“That’s fanciful,” Pitt-Summers said. “The UDF wasn’t even concerned enough to get involved.”

“Oh, they were involved, just not visibly. This wasn’t just you wanting that isotope not to fall into their hands. You were the ones who put the idea in their heads to begin with. What did you do? Leak bits of information?”

“What are you talking about?” Khoudry asked. “Why would they do that?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? At least, it is to me.” To Pitt-Summers he said, “You wanted an excuse to go to war, but it had to be the Chibs’ fault. Couldn’t risk alienating—pun intended—all your new allies, trading partners who saw us as the good guys. No, this had to be the Chibs being militant aggressors. Alleging ‘cheating’ with no proof, refusing to abide by the treaty. UDF gets their war machine going again, you get those contracts, and the big prize: once the UDF pushes into Chib territory, you get to mine that special isotope and all that calabantium, sell it for more money than anyone ever dreamed of, and the UDF gets their superweapon. Everybody wins. Everybody except the Chibs, of course, who probably get wiped out this time, but no one likes them, anyway. And I shouldn’t leave out us, me and Vaneshka here, who get sacrificed while you position yourselves for the ultimate checkmate.”

“Is that true?” Khoudry said, standing and facing the image on her side of the field. “Is that what this is?”

“Why don’t you ask your companion? He seems to think he has all the answers.”

“Not all of them,” Cutter said. “But I know some. And I’m pretty sure I can guess the rest. But there’s one question you’re going to want the answer to.”

“What’s that?”

“How stupid was it for you to leave us alive?”

Cutter shot a look at Khoudry, who instinctively interpreted it and shut down the commlink and, after taking a long breath, fell back into the pilot’s seat.

“How far can we get in this thing?” Cutter asked.

Khoudry shook her head as if clearing away a thought. “Huh? I’m still trying to wrap my mind around this. I can’t believe any of it.”

“Yes, you can. You’re the one who secreted a high-powered weapon in this craft, and did so without authorization and in a way that allowed it to avoid sensors. You still haven’t told me why. But I figure the reason is, you’ve got your own reasons for being considered expendable.”

“Like I said, that’s a long story.”

“Well, that goes back to my question. How far can we get in this thing?”

“It’s powered by a fusion cell. And it’s actually pretty fast. Not very fortified, but I can rig it for stealth.” She looked at the instrument panel, thinking. “I can keep it running maybe a year? That can get us pretty far. In theory. But we have no food, no money. And we don’t have any weapons.”

“Yeah, we do.” He patted the revolver tied to his thigh. “Not to mention that plasma rifle you jury-rigged. That will do for now. Can you patch me up?”

“I think so. It looks worse than it is. Unless I’m wrong.”

“Then get us out of here, and we’ll start planning our next move. First thing is, we upgrade, get a better craft, arm ourselves accordingly. For who we are, that is.”

“And what’s that? Fugitives?”

“Outlaws,” he said. “And after we’ve brought down the Consortium, or at least brought it to its knees, made it so that no one is willing to associate with whoever fills the positions we’ve created vacancies in, then we’ll be able to cut a deal.”

Cutter pulled the Colt from his holster and turned it from side to side, looking it over. He smiled and spun it on his finger forward then back, and let it drop into the holster again.

“And, by the time we’re through, practically everybody in the galaxy is going to know our names.”


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