LotS/The Story/Fade to Gold/Guns and Dragons

Guns and Dragons

Hot tears streamed down Adrian Zanfran's cheeks. Ribbons of glistening snot tricked from open sinuses. He snatched his napkin up and made a clumsy, jerking swipe that smeared them across his face. Talia raised her eyebrow.

"Hey, I love Tel too," she said, "but-"

Adrian gasped. Short, sharp breaths shook his face and chest. He scraped his tongue back and forth against his upper incisors, trying to scour it into blessed oblivion.

"Oh!" Talia said. "Too hot for you?"

"Yes!"

His voice was a groaning warble, and brought fresh trickles from nose and eyes. His entire head was on fire. Heat throbbed on his cheeks, scalp, and damp brow.

"Waiter!" She waved at the Rylattu. "Medic!"

Adrian's tentacle groped for the glass of lassi. It tipped, splashing orange gore on the tablecloth, but his suckers latched on before it could topple.

"I don't think-" Talia said.

He didn't either. He brought it to his face so fast he almost glassed himself, and glugged for his life. For a second there was relief. Blessed, blessed coolness. Then the spice returned, having formed a new alliance with the vodka's fire.

"Here, puny human!" the waiter said.

He leaned forward to set a jug down amongst the dishes. Adrian seized it with both tentacles before it touched the table, and poured creamy, sloshing milk down his throat, chin, and shirt in equal measure.

"Thanks..." he said, after some moments.

He handed the empty jug back to the Rylattu, mopped himself with his napkin, and met Talia's gaze. Adrian winced.

"Sorry!"

"You've got something," Talia said. She tapped her index finger against her philtrum.

Blood rushed to Adrian's cheeks, adding its warmth to the vindaloo's. He found a corner of the napkin that wasn't saturated with milk and used it to blow his nose.

"Sorry!"

Adrian Zanfran tried not to imagine what his mother would've said, if she'd seen him sitting there at the dinner table with a leaking nose -- in flagrant violation of the etiquette she'd instilled in him. For that matter, he didn't want to consider what the woman sitting opposite must think of him. But Talia laughed.

"Don't worry," she said. "That's just weakness leaving the body. Want to swap?"

She gestured at the oval dish in front of her plate.

"If... If you wouldn't mind..."

"Go for it." She took hold of the two dishes and shuffled them around. "You'll like it better."

She ladled vindaloo sauce and floppy tentacles onto her pilau rice. Adrian added thick masala sauce and chunks of anaconda to his own. Talia took a forkful of her new meal, while he did the same.

"Not bad," she said. She spoke from one side of her mouth whilst chewing with the other. "Good amount of spice."

Adrian wondered where in the universe curry sauce hot enough to be used as a Rylattu doomsday weapon qualified as 'good'. But apparently the answer was Manchester. He eyed the brown sauce with suspicion, half expecting it to make another attempt on his life, and tasted the masala.

It was smooth, rich, and creamy.

"Like it?"

He nodded and ate another forkful while Talia drank her lassi.

"Telemachus..." he said, once his mouth was vacant. Adrian clamped his jaws shut to stifle a burp.

"Tel's grown up a lot over the years. Sometimes, I can't even believe he's the same kid who used to stomp around in a mech. Then we play videogames, and it all comes rushing back. He still goes for the chainsaws -- every time."

"He's got the highest approval ratings of any king, emperor, tyrant, or despot in human space. Higher than Xagrak Treel -- and she eats people who give her a 'disapprove' on those surveys."

"We knew he had it in him. They'd all be proud. Wu... Illaria..."

She looked away and sighed.

"So..." Adrian said. He waited for a second or two, unwilling to interrupt her contemplations. But curiosity burned almost as hot as the death-curry. "[Player Name] and Noir..."

Talia turned back to him, with the ghost of a smile on her lips.

"I'm getting to that..."

"Hey, Ragnar..."

You've seen a lot of things explode over the course of your life. In many cases you were even responsible for said detonations, either through the judicious use of small arms or by directing heavier bombardments from a vehicle or turret. On a battlefield you could probably saunter among them quite cheerfully as you carried out your objectives. And in the middle of space combat, you'd wind your way between dying ships without batting an eye. But such heroic nonchalance deserts you for the moment.

When you walk into the Silver Shadow's training room, the ensuing explosion makes you dart backwards, swear, and almost drop the things in your hands.

"Yeah?" the Niflung says.

He stands in the middle of the mats, looking you in the eye. If the broken stump at his boots or the debris now scattered around the room bother him, he gives no sign.

"My Wing Chun dummy..."

Chunks of wood lie between you. Some of them sport cylindrical appendages that lie mournful and useless like the limbs of slaughtered soldiers.

"I hit it."

"It's supposed to be unbreakable."

"I hit it hard."

You smile. There are plenty of Wing Chun dummies in the universe, but there's only one Ragnar. It seems like a fair trade.

"I'd pay to see you punch Noir in the face like that..."

"Heh. I'd pay to do it."

"Catch."

You toss one of the bottles. It arcs upwards, performing a slow backflip like a calm and elegant gymnast. Light gleams on glass and within the dark amber liquid. Ragnar stands there, arms at his side. Only at the last moment, when the bottle's about to smash against his broad, chiseled face, does he snatch it from the air. You'd almost forgotten how fast he is.

The Niflung pulls the stopper out. It surrenders with a festive pop.

"Read the label," you say.

His red eyes meet yours, in a look which seems to suggest that reading takes valuable time away from drinking. But he does as bidden. Then he grins.

"A good year!" he says.

"Maybe for us. Not for everyone you've killed."

"Ah, screw them. If I hadn't killed them, someone else would've done it." He glances at bottle in your left hand. "How about yours?"

"Same deal. From the year I was born. When I saw them, I couldn't resist. Might as well blow your creds on something. You never know when the next window you get kicked through will be your last."

You open the bottle and walk towards him.

"What're we drinking to?" he says.

"How about the craziest, most omnicidal killing machine I've ever had the pleasure to call my friend?"

"Same to you."

Glass meets glass with the centuries-old clink of comradery. Then bottles tilt, scotch flows, and hardened drinkers gulp.

"I was lucky..." he says.

"Huh?"

"On Capek. Lucky you all came along."

"Almost too lucky, huh? I used to think we should hit the casinos. I mean, what're the odds? First we crash-land on Gallea and find a prince with a heavy assault mech to help us out, then we find you."

"Used to?"

"Yeah. I don't think I believe in coincidences anymore. The Dragon-Rider was the same. And some of her descendants. Everywhere they went, they found good friends and powerful allies. The kinds of people who'd have their backs no matter what. I don't know if it's the blood, or whatever watches over it. Heaven, hell, or anything in-between. But when Kasans need help, the universe delivers. And it couldn't have done better."

You take another glug. Ragnar quaffs half the bottle.

"Are you any good with a sword?" you say.

"Huh?" He wipes the back of his broad hand across his mouth.

"I know you like axes better, but..."

He shrugs.

"I beat a guy to death with his own leg. Put something in my hands, and I'll use it. Why?"

"Because if Noir kills me, I'll need a backup plan. And you're the best one I've got."

Ragnar's eyes shine. He opens his mouth, but you hold your hand up to forestall him.

"I know you what you'd want to do. As soon as you got word, you'd want to jump in a ship, track him down, and take your axe to him. Because you're Ragnar Ragnarsson. And if someone hurts your friends, their brains end up on your boots."

"Yeah. I don't care if he's human, alien, or a dragon. I'll kill him."

"If anyone can, it's you. But not without the right weapon."

"That fancy sword of yours?"

"If I go down, Noir gets that. He won't leave that thing lying around."

"Then what?"

"There's another blade. I've seen it in my... I mean, my ancestor's... memories. It used to belong to a hero who fought like a swordmaster and drank like a Niflung. For all I know, it's the only other weapon from Tor'gyyl left in the entire universe."

"You know where it is?"

"Hundreds of years ago, it was on Earth. Sorry -- needles and haystacks."

He grins.

"Hit people hard enough, and they'll give you your needle. If that thing's out there, I'll find it."

"Even if you do, it might not be enough. Noir's strong, fast... Better than me."

"Yeah? Then after I kill him, I'll be the best in the galaxy."

"Damn straight. Bring his head to my grave, pour out a bottle of scotch, and piss on him for me."

"You got it."

Bottles clink, and two friends drink.

The main lights are turned low in the Silver Shadow's flight cabin, yielding to the luminescent strips around the walls, floor, and consoles -- which glow in an array of bright and gaudy colors. Perhaps you're just feeling nostalgic. Succumbing to memory, where outcomes are known and distance brightens joy even as it softens tragedy. But nostalgia or not, the decor reminds you of a dozen places. The Cybertollahs' chamber on Occulus. Drekchester. The Twisted Steel ring. Blackpool. Reminiscences clutter life -- especially one like yours.

Talia spins round in the pilot's seat, glances at the bottle in your hand, and meets your gaze.

"Nice," she says. "The biggest fight of your life, and you're going in drunk."

"I'll pop some sobriety pills before I head out," you say.

"Got enough of those to go around?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Then let's have a drink."

You sit in the co-pilot's chair and hand her the bottle. She pulls the stopper out.

"All set, captain?"

"I have a cool sword and a crazy plan."

"Sounds good enough to me."

Talia takes a swig. She passes the scotch back, and more memories come. A dozen. A hundred. A thousand. How many times have the two of you done this? Just sat there sharing a bottle of hard liquor? You drink and pass, drink and pass, with the casual familiarity that exists between friends... no... family... who've been together through all the gunfire, gore, and glory.

"Remember the first bottle we shared?" she says.

"Yeah... I had to help you walk back to the barracks."

"Nice try. It was the other way around."

"Just a couple of scrubs... And look at us now. You're a war hero and the captain of a thugby team. I was Imperial Jian."

"And soon we might both be getting our asses kicked."

"Yeah... Maybe things aren't so different, huh?"

Gunmaster

Patricia Jyza left the bar's warmth and stepped out beneath a rusty sky. Drizzle dampened her hair. Droplets seeped into her sweater, tainting the wooly fabric with whatever stinking pollutants had rotted the heavens. Water trickled from the corners of her smile.

She turned side-on and slipped between the chem fiends in their puffed-out leather jackets. Blue, red, green, and purple smoke drifted from their crack pipes and hovered above in voluminous tree-shaped clouds. Rain hissed against that rainbow canopy.

"K-crack?" a girl with a pink mohawk said.

She held out her pipe. Patricia shook her head and kept walking till she reached the mouth of the alleyway. She glanced behind her. The only eyes looking in her direction were glazed over -- and probably watching something far more interesting, given the way their owner giggled and touched himself.

The alley was narrow. Fire escapes blocked the space overhead, intercepting the plinking rain and dull daylight. Shadows pooled around the three people crouched behind the dumpster's dark green shell.

"Yeah?" Crendo said. He scratched the straggle of beard on his chin.

"Yeah," Patricia said. "It's her."

"You're sure?" Shrishi said. She leaned forward, her brown face almost black in the gloom.

"Yeah, I... Hey! Ask before you go in my head!" Patricia snorted. "There? See? That's her, isn't it?"

"I think so."

"Show me," Draka said.

Three eyes gleamed in her furry purple face. Patricia looked to Shrishi.

"I can't project images yet," the acolyte said.

"Let me," Shrishi said.

"Show me too!" Crendo said.

The older woman's mental touch was soft. Gentle fingers caressed the surface of Patricia's thoughts, and in the acolyte's psionic sight -- which had always been the strongest of her skills -- she watched thin, glistening streams of liquid pass from her forehead to Shrishi's, then bounce to the others' in languid ricochets. Mystical tendrils linked their minds like the cables of a beautiful and ephemeral machine.

"All you humans look the same..." Draka said.

Then I don't want to be around when you start shooting, Patricia thought. Shrishi stared at her, and the acolyte winced as she sealed her thoughts. The watery trails evaporated in the air between them -- parting into shimmering mist.

"...but I think that was her."

"Looks the same as the pics and vids," Crendo said.

"Did you..." Shrishi said.

"I didn't try a mind probe," Patricia said.

"Good."

It'd been tempting. Just one swift skim, to make sure the woman really was Jessica Atranx. But she'd held back. The reports said Atranx might have anti-psionic training, and Patricia didn't want to be the one to tell Multheru she'd blown their cover and ruined the operation.

Draka opened her jacket. She pulled one half away from her body, holding it out to the side like a bat's wing. A veritable arsenal of pistols and blades nestled in holsters or dangled from fastenings sewn into the garment's lining. The Vlarg reached for a gun.

"Wait," Patricia said. "There are weapon scanners by the inside doors. Everyone has to stick their gear in the lobby drop boxes, and pick it up on the way out."

"Screw them. If they try and take my stuff, I'll-"

"You'd set the alarms off. We might lose her in the chaos."

The Vlarg hissed.

"If everyone hands their guns in," Shrishi said, "that means Atranx isn't armed."

"The bouncer's got a handgun. That's the only shooter I saw."

"Probably chipped," Draka said, "so it doesn't trigger the alarm."

"Even better..." Shrishi said.

"The perimeter guns?" Bonderbrand said.

"Down," Halfec Robtri said. The cyborg's left eye rotated and clicked.

"You said the system was secure!"

"They didn't deactivate them! They blew them up!"

"How many attackers?"

"The guards said... They said it was a Niflung army."

"What!?!"

His jowls quivered. They hadn't anticipated this. If Sigurd Spinebreaker's warriors were in the fight...

"But... One of the drones got a good shot, before it exploded. Thermal imaging. I only saw two attackers."

"Two!" The professor exhaled. "Then we-"

"One of them looked like Ragnar Ragnarsson."

Bonderbrand swore.

"Heavy weapons for everyone who knows how to use them. And send Norka here."

Robtri nodded and ran for the office door. Professor Bonderbrand leaned back in his chair, bracing his large hands on the desk as though in anticipation of an earthquake. He took a deep breath before standing up and walking over to the azure metal panel set into the wall.

"The past and the future," he said. "Hail Kalaxia."

He touched the sensor. The safe's door rattled open with a series of heavy, growling noises.

"Desperate times," he murmured. "Desperate measures..."

"Evening," the bouncer said. Slabs of pectoral muscle undulated under his black shirt, as though echoing the word.

"Evening," Crendo said.

The cultist held his fist out and waited for a bump, which Patricia assumed was his way of blending into the local culture. But the bouncer just stared at it. Crendo coughed and walked past him. She and Draka followed. The Vlarg's shoulders were bare now, and the exposed fur made her seem more dangerous somehow -- a predator stalking its prey. Her three eyes smoldered. It'd taken some persuasion to make her leave her jacket and its portable armory in a bundle underneath the dumpster.

The trio stood between the bouncer and the inner doorway leading to the barroom, doing their best to look like conversing friends instead of co-conspirators, whilst screening the man and their sister.

"Give me your gun," Shrishi said.

"Huh?" the bouncer said.

"Give. Me. Your. Gun."

"Oh... Here."

He pulled the weapon from its holster and handed it to her, then stood there blinking.

"Come on," Shrishi said.

She handed the gun to Draka and hustled the three of them through the doorway. Patricia looked over her shoulder, but the bouncer was still just blinking at the empty air in front of him.

"That booth at the-" Crendo said.

"Don't point!" Draka snatched his arm before it finished rising, and pushed it back down. "I saw it too."

A high back concealed the booth's occupant. Patricia had needed to cross the noisy barroom to get a glimpse of her before. They moved together along the same path, brushing past the drinkers who stood around small, high tables. Draka held the pistol against her leg. Patricia stayed beside the Vlarg to help conceal it.

More of the booth came into sight between the milling bodies. First the corner of a table, followed by two empty tumblers. Then a bottle, standing watch over its smaller brethren -- lording it over them with its rich, dark innards. And then a gloved hand.

Draka hissed when the rest of Jessica Atranx came in sight.

"Move!" she whispered.

Patricia began to shift aside, clearing the shot.

On her left, the men's room door opened. Draka flinched at its sudden movement. She pressed the gun into her thigh and glared at the grey-haired man who emerged. He held a cigar in his hand.

"Any of you got a light?" he said.

"Get lost," Crendo said.

The man raised his eyebrow.

"We... We don't smoke," Patricia said. "Ask the barmaid?"

Draka twitched beside her. And though Patricia's telepathic skills were far from powerful, she felt the anxiety as an almost physical thing seething against her flank. The first shot had to count. Because when they started shooting, pandemonium would break out. And anything could happen then. If they alarmed the old man... If he cried out...

Shrishi must've felt it too.

"The barmaid has a light," she said. Her voice hummed with psionic influence, like a dozen whispering bees. "You should go..."

She gasped. Patricia glanced over.

"You're..." Shrishi's eyes widened.

"Duncan," the man said.

Draka spun towards him and raised her arm. Movement blurred between them. The Vlarg blinked at her empty purple fingers, then at the pistol in the old man's hand. Shrishi's eyes flashed. So did the barrel.

The gun was faster.

Patricia tried to scream, but it was faster than that too.

Jessica Atranx smiled when her father sat down, and pushed a newly filled tumbler towards him.

"You're getting slow in your old age," she said.

Shouts and screams filled the barroom. A rush of bodies surged towards the exit -- leaving the four corpses lying alone and forlorn. Duncan lit his cigar, picked up his glass, and looked over at them.

"Maybe," he said. "But I'm still fast enough."

Six Shooter Special

"Professor?"

Bonderbrand didn't turn around when the Piscarian entered the small, brightly lit room. He continued to fiddle with the transparent cylinder he held in one hand and the twisting cables bunched together in the other.

"I'll require your assistance, Norka."

"But that's-"

"I know what it is. That's why I need your help."

For a moment she was dumbstruck. Norka looked around the room, seeking someone to share her incredulity. But the only eyes there to meet hers were the flashing slices of cyan on Kalaxia's painted faces. Three wyrms stared at her from the walls, and a fourth from the ceiling. None seemed perturbed. She felt her own bewilderment shrinking beneath their somber gazes.

"There isn't enough," she said. "We don't even know if it'll-"

"One of the most dangerous human beings in the galaxy is outside these walls, slaughtering our brothers and sisters."

"I know! But-"

He gave a little cry of triumph, and slotted the cylinder into a depression within the pedestal's metallic surface. Dark tangles hung from it in a shallow parabola -- leading away to devices attached to the padded chair's armrest. Professor Bonderbrand turned to her at last.

"If I'm stronger... faster. Like-"

"It won't make you like him!"

"I know! I just need enough strength and speed to match the Niflung's cybernetics!"

"We don't even know if it'll work. Our experiments haven't-"

Bonderbrand sat in the chair. Clamps clicked into place around his right arm. The limb twitched as needles penetrated flesh.

The Piscarian met his eyes, nodded, and moved to assist him.

"The usual, Marshal?" Grant said.

"Six of the worst," Marshal Roth said.

"You got it."

Grant thought about it very hard, picturing half a dozen glasses of rotgut bourbon -- clustered together like the bullets in a revolver's chambers.

"You've got legs, don't you?" his wife said in his head.

He sighed, and glanced across the room.

"William Cornelius Grant!" This time the telepathic voice made his skull shake. "Don't think I didn't catch that! If you're so mighty eager to take that pretty tourist girl's order..."

"No, dear," he thought. "I was just..."

"Just getting Marshal his drink?"

"Yeah..."

"Good."

Grant sighed, went to the bar, and took a bottle of Grinning Grave off the shelf. He hadn't even pulled the stopper out before the saloon's doors flew open.

The lady who came through them was petite. Her frame might've been a child's instead of a grown woman's, and the brim of her hat looked wider than her shoulders. A pretty little thing...

"William Corne-"

"What? I ain't allowed to think a girl's pretty anymore?"

"Not if you can't keep her clothes on while you're thinkin' it!"

One of the tourists began a wolf whistle. When the newcomer looked around and her duster shifted, when her eyes glinted like the gunmetal at her hip, he sucked it back in and lowered his gaze.

"Ev'nin', Penny," Mary Grant said. "What can I get you?"

"Just Roth," she said.

"I'm here," Marshal said from the corner. "And from that look of yours, you ain't here to share my six-shooter special."

"Some of us were watching the old Hebner farm, like you said. There's folk snooping around out there. Off-worlders, from the look of 'em."

Roth sighed and got up.

"How many?"

"Six," she said.

"My lucky number." He glanced at the Grants and touched his hat. "I'll have to come back for those drinks."

Roth went to the door. Penny turned round, the hem of her duster sweeping like a blade, and moved to follow. He shook his head.

"Way I hear it, bringing impressionable young minds near these folk is asking for trouble. We got a rifle up by the Hebner place?"

"Jade has hers. Watched 'em arrive through the scope."

"Then she can cover me. You sit down and have yourself a drink. Won't be gone long..."

Roth's robotic horse was fast. The last of the dying sun's blood still painted the horizon when a scattering of low buildings came in sight. Fast, and loud. Its hooves pounded, throwing clouds of dust behind.

A woman stood near one of the outbuildings. She looked towards him before turning her head. The inaudible shout was easy enough to imagine, and it did the trick. Her companions tricked out to join her. He counted the entire half dozen. Safety in numbers, but poor tactics. Maybe they were just tourists after all. It wouldn't have been the first time off-worlders traipsed around the old farms and ranches, drinking in a world so different from their cities of gleaming glass and metal. More than a few of the local criminals relied on it for their living. Visitors learned that six-shooters were a lot less romantic when the barrels were pointing their way, underneath grinning faces. Right before they ended up rotting in the corpse pits...

Roth glanced at the hilltop on his left. It looked deserted. Good. Jade was smart enough not to show herself, and cautious enough to hold fire until he gave a sign. Penny... Well, she was a little on the trigger happy side. And he didn't want a tourist going home with a hole in their head because they'd made a sudden movement.

His horse came to a halt faster than a real animal could've. The sudden stop shook him in the saddle. Roth got down, walked a few paces, and touched his hat.

"Marshal Roth," he said.

"You're the law around here, partner?"

The man -- a tall, trim athlete with a vague hint of Japanese heritage around his eyes -- spoke the word in a way that matched his smirk. Roth was used to that sort of thing. Off-worlders...

"You folk just taking in the sights?"

"We're looking for... a friend," a woman said. Her blue eyes held his stare, unflinching but without a hint of challenge. Truth-telling eyes. Roth never trusted those. "Kathy Peralico. She lives here, right?"

Yep. Never trusted them at all...

"Matter of fact, I heard that name from a feller not too long ago. Not the kind of man I'd call a friend... More of an acquaintance. Sad to say, he's a lawbreaker. But that's the galaxy for you."

None of them moved, but eyelids twitched. So did a couple of lips and fingers. Telepaths should play a little poker, he mused, and learn to cover up their tells.

"She around?" the tall man said. "No offence, sheriff, but we're not here for homespun stories."

"Sheriff?"

"Officer... Marshal... Whatever you lawmen call yourselves around here."

"Never said I was the law. Marshal just so happens to be the name my daddy gave me."

More twitches.

"And speaking of names..." Roth said. "This acquaintance told me he put a few of them out there. Names and places. A trail, you might say. Said folk might come around looking. Asking. Searching for a woman who's got herself a new name and doesn't want to be found by folk who knew her by the old one. Guess he was right."

Hands slipped behind backs, or towards deep, bulging pockets.

"Where's Artemis Kess?" the woman with the steady eyes said. Her voice thrummed like a cheap generator. "Tell me."

"Tell us," the tall man said.

Fingers groped inside Roth's brain.

"That's a mighty fine trick. Getting inside my head, making it tough to send a thought to any muscles 'cept the ones I need for talking. Just one problem... See, around here, some stuff becomes so natural there ain't no need to think about it."

His revolvers rose and barked.

The fingers slipped back out of his mind when the tall man and steady-eyed woman's brains splashed out through their brand new head-holes. If the others had any parlor tricks of their own, they didn't try them. They went for their guns instead.

That was just fine with Marshal Roth.

Jade's bullet took one of them. Exploded the lady's head like a melon tossed off a barn roof. His guns snatched the other three before she could fire another.

The smoke was still snaking from Roth's revolvers when he dropped one of the weapons into its holster, took his communicator off his belt, and made a call.

Steel Heart

Lydo Ossydo shuffled off dreams of chems and muscular man-whores, and smiled as she awoke to the real thing. She got up off the floor -- shrugging aside a nice looking boy whose face someone had slashed a couple of times. Probably her. But hey, it wasn't a real party until someone got mutilated.

Her aural implants registered her awakening. They opened up, letting sound pour into Lydo's darkened bedroom -- thumping music and a dozen voices.

"Where's the rum?"

"You're holding it, wanker!"

"Oh, yeah..."

"Plerna Pirates! Woo!"

"We're the best arooooooooooound!"

"Hey, I ordered a hermaphrodite hooker!"

"That's what I am, honey."

"Then where's your sodding afro?"

"Here, where'd Lydo go?"

Lydo Ossydo smirked. The party was still going strong, even after two straight days of enough alcohol, chems, inadvisable sex, and fried food to annihilate half the galaxy. She kicked the door open.

"Here am I, you motherlovin' stick-suckers!"

She strutted into the hideout's big main room, amidst shouts and cheers.

"Lydo! Yeah!"

"We've run out of fried chicken! Let's go rob the nearest Chicken Chavs!"

"Plerna Pirates!"

"Oi! Did you know hermaphrodites don't have afros? False bloody advertising!"

Lydo, glorious leader of this band of assorted miscreants, grinned. She picked her way across broken glass, puddles of vomit, and copulating lovers, snatched a machinegun from a pirate's back, and gazed up at the gold and silver mountain which dominated the middle of the room. Neat piles of hard creds had experienced more than a few avalanches over the course of the celebration. Shining streams flowed down haphazard slopes. But disarray only made it more beautiful. Apparently One-Eyed Rolf and his latest girlfriend agreed, given that they were writhing around on it.

"Lydo! Lydo! Lydo!"

She ascended the mountain in a series of surefooted leaps.

"Lydo! Woo!"

Lydo stood on the summit and basked in their cries. After two days, it was still the sweetest music she'd ever heard.

"Plerna Pirates!" she said. "We're big-time now!"

"Yeah!"

Lydo aimed the machinegun heavenward and opened fire. The heavy roar ripped through the room, adding its voice to theirs. Flame danced around the muzzle. A heady smell of oil mingled with the stink of chemicals, food, and unwashed flesh.

Someone screamed.

She stopped shooting. Silence fell. Everyone gazed up at the perforated ceiling.

"Er... Who's up there?" she said.

"The hostages from last week's raid," One-Eyed Rolf said. "We were gonna ransom them off."

"Screw 'em!" Lydo said. "With hauls like this..."

She lifted her foot and drove her boot heel down into the creds.

"...who cares about that nickel and dime crap?"

She pulled the trigger again. The others joined in, blasting away. Their gunfire and laughter almost drowned out the shrieks.

"Okay!" Lydo said at last.

She waved her gun. The shooting and shouting died down by degrees, and ended with one final handgun discharge.

"Hold it! We still need a roof over our heads!" she said. Lydo tossed the machinegun down to one of her pirates. "And I'm starving! We got any more donners?"

"Yeah, boss," Lurdrux said.

The Snuuth waddled over to a table, picked up a foil-wrapped cylinder, and threw it at her. Lydo caught it. She sat down on the pile, shifting her buttocks until they found comfort, while the others went back to their drinking, snorting, smoking, injecting, fornicating, and other such present participles.

Lydo unwrapped one end, exposing broad, thick ribbons of fatty meat, nestled in a slightly charred naan. The first kebab house they'd visited had only offered pitas. The Plerna Pirates had therefore massacred everyone inside, burned the place to the ground, and taken their business elsewhere. Her first bite justified that decision.

She closed her eyes and sighed. Vast wealth under her ass, donner meat in her mouth, and loyal pirates reveling around her... Life was good. Lydo pulled back more of the foil and took another bite.

Her phone rang while she was still masticating it. She grinned, and a few flecks of saliva, fat, and chili sauce rained from her mouth. Over the past couple of days she'd been getting a lot of calls. After their big score, everyone wanted to either join them or sell them weapons. She put the kebab down and pulled her phone out of her pocket to see which it was this time.

"Yesh?" she said, between chews.

"Is that Liddo Ossiddo?" a woman's voice said.

The pirate gulped, swallowed, and frowned.

"It's Lydo Ossydo. Lie-doh Oss-eye-doh."

"Whatever. This is Yolanda Reuben again, and-"

"Huh? Again?"

The woman sighed, and Lydo had the distinct impression that eyes were rolling on the other end of the line.

"I called last night, and you told me to... *ahem* Go shag a walrus?"

"Hah! I was pretty high. What're you selling? Chems? Guns? Ships?"

"I'm head of public relations for the Plerna Pirates."

"We have a PR department?"

Lydo shrugged. It probably made sense. After all, they were big-time now. Maybe one of the others had run it by her while she was wasted, and made it happen. She liked it when they showed initiative.

"No, the real Plerna Pirates."

"What're you talking about? We are the-"

"The IFL team!" The woman sighed again. "You know -- the Intergalactic Football League?"

"I don't watch sports."

"Yeah? Well our fans and investors watch the news. And when they see your so-called Plerna Pirates looting and murdering, it damages our brand. That's why I called last night. To ask you to change your name."

"Screw you! We're pirates, and we're from Plerna. If you don't like it-"

"I don't. So I made another call, and I tipped someone off about your hideout. Someone who doesn't like pirates. I just called back to gloat."

"Who-"

The music was loud. So were the pirates. But the explosion was louder.

Lydo dropped the phone and swore. It bounced away down the hard cred mountain, which shook and shifted beneath her. She stared at the entrance. Flickering tongues of fire, billowing grey clouds, melted steel, and shattered masonry filled the space where the double doors and surrounding wall had once been. A big lump of metal plodded through the destruction.

"Natalia Keplex!" someone said.

"That is correct," a hollow, computerized voice said.

The mech's arms rose. Missiles flew.

And the last thing Lydo Ossydo ever thought, before one of them turned everything above her waist into a rain of charred gore, was that she wished she'd eaten the rest of her donner first.

Natalia Keplex stomped through the rubble. Her electronic senses swept the ruin and carnage.

"Ugh..."

Her arm pointed towards the groan. A purple blast flashed. The pirate's head melted. Next she directed her attention downwards, where a woman sprawled and stared up at her.

"I... I was just... delivering... pizza?"

"My scans detect no pizza or pizza debris in this building," Natalia said.

"Oh... Yeah..."

Natalia stomped on her head. Brains splashed across the floor. She scanned the room again, but there were no more life signs. So she headed through the smashed wall where the building's original entrance had been, and plodded back across the dusty, arid stretch of wasteland.

Her ship was a pale, scarred bulk in the heat haze. An animal's carcass left to rot in the sun. Its ramp was open -- a dangling, motionless tongue, languishing in the dryness. Her senses flickered as she approached it. Scanners pulsed electrical information through their connections to her organic brain, informing her that they couldn't obtain clear readings. This displeased her. If her systems were malfunctioning, or some local interference was hampering them, the building behind her might still have survivors.

She'd have to bomb the place from the air.

With that resolution made, her metal feet clunked and thudded their way up the ramp, into the dark interior of the ship's cargo hold.

Natalia froze. Something felt... wrong. This strange, niggling sensation troubled her. It was... illogical. A vestige from the days when flesh, blood, and bone had housed her brain, and such inklings had been just another weakness of the human condition. She cast her sensors around her. Electronic eyes, ears, and fingers probed their surroundings.

"Natalia Keplex."

The voice, a man's voice, was wrong too. It didn't come via her audio systems. Instead it... appeared... in her mind. She tried to focus on him. To locate and analyze. But everything flickered -- twisted, distorted -- and blinked out of existence. Blackness surrounded her brain.

"It's okay," the man said. "I've got her locked down."

Hear... She could still hear. She couldn't see anything, but she heard the sound of boots on the metal floor.

"You sure?" a female voice said.

"Yes." The man's face, round and bearded, hovered in front of her. A lone image burning in the darkness. "Natalia... It's time to rest. To sleep."

"No..." Natalia said. It didn't come from her speakers. Nor was it the dull, robotic voice which had echoed in the pirates' base moments before. It was inside her head, just like his. "I..."

"Your existence is a travesty. A parody of life. This metal body is a sarcophagus, holding your remains. There's nothing left for you in this universe. So sleep. Sleep... And be with your family again."

More images... Patches of color blooming in the starless night. Faces. Smiling, happy faces. Her husband... Her children... Yes. There they all were, waiting for her. She'd been a fool. Wandering the galaxy, killing pirates. Seeking revenge which had only delayed this reunion.

"Go to them. Go..."

Faint, distant noises whispered at the edge of her consciousness. Soft and almost inaudible. Footsteps. Murmuring voices. They didn't matter. Only the smiling faces mattered.

"Huh?" the woman's voice said, somewhere across the universe. "What was that?"

"I didn't..." a man said. "Behind those crates!"

Her children were waiting for her. Natalia reached out for them.

"I'll... Hey! It's a girl!"

"Get off me! Help! Nat! Help!"

No... No!

Her family flickered. Their smiles wavered. Natalia Keplex's human face was long gone, but somewhere, deep in her being, among thought and memory, her eyes blazed.

No!

"Nat!"

The cargo hold appeared. The intruders appeared. And so did Miranda, struggling in a woman's grasp. The little girl stared at Natalia with wide, desperate eyes.

"She's moving!" someone said.

"I've lost her!" the bearded man said. "We-"

In Natalia Keplex's display, in her resurrected omnidirectional sight, crosshairs appeared on faces. A weapon barked in a woman's hand. Its blast sparked against Natalia's metal hide. Her own guns answered. Thin, precise beams scattered the shadows. Bodies fell.

"Miranda..."

The girl ran across the hold, averting her watery eyes from the carnage. She threw her arms around the cold metal bulk of Natalia's leg.

"I couldn't stop them getting in! I had to hide!"

"It's okay. Everything's okay..."

At the edge of Natalia Keplex's mind, her family smiled and faded away.

"I'm here now," she said. "I'm here."

Go Dragons!

"I'm Jesse Shark, here with Bob 'Blam' Boser, in Sian's Eternal Dragon Stadium. This is just like a regular thugby broadcast, Bob!"

"Sure, Jesse. Except without the players, fans, or any actual broadcasting."

"That's true, Bob. We can't transmit our thrilling play-by-play and insightful color commentary to the galaxy like we usually do, but at least the arena's loudspeakers are still working!"

"Great. That means anyone within a few hundred feet of the stadium can hear us scream as we die."

"If you're just joining us, let's have a recap of tonight's action. Bob and I were in front of the stadium, recording a commercial for Thug Juice -- the amazing new energy drink that's-"

"Those cameras aren't on us now, Jesse. You don't have to pretend you like that crap."

"Good. Just between you and me, I drank that sample can they sent me, and it burned when I went to the bathroom!"

"It's like Cythera all over again!"

"Anyway, while we were filming, a group of masked men-

"And women, Jesse."

"...and women, opened fire on us -- killing the entire crew and-"

"Are you sure they all got shot? Maybe some of them just drank too much Thug Juice and dropped dead!"

"Maybe. I was too busy running to get a good look. By the way, Bob, good thinking -- heading for the broadcast booth. Even if you did try to slam the door in my face."

"Survival of the fittest, Jesse."

"That door's holding up pretty well."

"They built it to keep out angry thugby players and rioting fans."

"Hey, maybe we'll get out of this alive after all."

"Who are these guys anyway? Reckon some rival commentators want us taken out so they can steal our jobs?"

"Actually, Bob, I may have some inside information. Earlier today, I received a call from Talia Ryx."

"Captain of the Sian Dragons?"

"Yes! Ms. Ryx told me that a cult of dangerous lunatics was hunting down some of her friends and associates."

"Wait, we got shot at because of Talia Ryx? We're not even friends! We just call her matches!"

"It does seem like a tenuous link, Bob."

"Hey, if you guys are listening out there, we don't give a crap about Talia Ryx!"

"Careful! Remember that we're on Sian. If any Dragons fans hear us, we'll have them after us too!"

"Wait a minute, Jesse... The banging and shooting's stopped!"

"Hey, it has! They probably realized they couldn't smash or blast their way through that armored door!"

"This is a great day for thugby!"

"Should we go take a look?"

"Be my guest, Jesse. But I'm staying where it's safe."

"Fair point, Bob. Fair point. So... If we're going to be stuck here for a little while, why don't we tell our listeners a little something about the upcoming match between the Warlords of Mars and... Oh..."

"We've got movement on the field. Maybe those jackasses are going to play a match."

"I don't think they've got sport on their mind, Bob. Look at those crates they're carrying..."

"I bet they aren't full of beer and hotdogs, Jesse."

"No. Actually... Yes, it seems they're assembling some kind of weapon."

"Remember when the Drekchester Megas tried that stunt?"

"I sure do, Bob. But at least that time they were only endangering the other team and the fans. This time, that cannon they're deploying's pointing our way! How tough do you think this glass is?"

"Tough enough to stop a bullet. But that thing? I think the next match we're calling will be heaven versus hell!"

"And who... who do you like in... in that one?"

"Hell, of course! They know how to cheat, and all the best thugby players end up there. They'll have a dream team!"

"I don't want to die, Bob!"

"Me either, Jesse. But... Hey! Look down there, on the pitch!"

"It's... Oh! The Dragons! It's the Sian Dragons!"

"Maybe they're here to help them kill us, Jesse."

"I don't think so, Bob! They're... Wow! Did you see that?"

"That's what I call a tackle! Virgil Jackson put the bastard down hard! And here's 'Great Wall' Guan! If that masked woman knows what's good for her, she'll get out of his-"

"Apparently she didn't! When Guan starts running, smart people stay out of the way. I hope she had a good life insurance policy."

"Hey, did someone toss a thugby ball in the mix?"

"I don't think so, Bob."

"Then what did Kai Wung just kick into the stands?"

"I think that was someone's head! And... Hey, where are you going?"

"I'm going down there to join the fun! You coming, Jesse?"

"Yeah!"

"We'll show those jerks the true meaning of thugby!"

"Teamwork and comradery?"

"No! Stomping on guys until their guts come out!"

Professor Bonderbrand

Bonderbrand clamped his jaws shut to stifle his screams. The professor's burly frame convulsed. Powerful seizures, miniature earthquakes, rattled his bones -- till his body felt like a muddled, gelatinous mess, wrapped in a watery layer of shivering skin. Muscles and organs quivered into liquid oblivion. The chair shuddered underneath him, threatening to tear free from the clamps which held it to the floor; yearning to eject him and bring an end to this abomination that must either splinter his skull and spine or else shatter the entire universe.

"Professor!" Norka said.

"Don't stop!" The words became shrieks, undulating across his jowls. "Don't!"

His teeth smashed together, grating and grinding. The cylinder glowed in the corner of his vision. Inside, dark brown fragments of ancient bone shook in time with his own skeleton. Indiscernible matter squeezed through the tangled cables in pulsating lumps. Bonderbrand's right arm trembled. His skin rose in sudden bursts, bulging outward. Struggling to contain power that yearned to explode from his inadequate body and splash the world with gore.

The Piscarian chanted. Her mind and voice swirled around him in nebulous whirlwinds. He couldn't see her anymore. A cataclysm of color flooded his vision, drowning him beneath inconceivable oceans. He wondered if he was screaming now. He couldn't tell anymore.

"Bonderbrand!"

"Douglas Bonderbrand?"

The young man didn't look up from the collection of datapads and old hardcopy books on the table. His brow knitted. The jowls framing his face quivered like a bulldog's.

"Yes?" he said.

"May I sit down?" the woman said.

"Please find another table, madam. I'm busy with-"

"Kalaxia."

Now he looked at her, through widening eyes. The old woman smiled down at him. It was a warm, indulgent smile. Like a mother's. Bonderbrand glanced around, but the library was empty. The building was a tomb of knowledge during the holidays. Most students shunned it, and he could continue his research in peace.

She sat down on the opposite side of the table.

"Your eyes," he said.

"Ah. You're perceptive. Did they flicker?"

She blinked. The holographic layer vanished, and Bonderbrand gazed into a pair of cyan jewels.

"Who are you?"

"Victoria Ashdown."

"Ashdown!"

"Yes." She reached for one of the books -- an old, worn volume. He almost snatched it away, but held his hand back. "Like Judith. I didn't think there were any more copies of this book left in the galaxy."

Bonderbrand said nothing. He merely stared. The light gleamed on the facets of her gemstone eyes in strange, fascinating patterns.

"You've uncovered a great deal," she said. "Things that stretch back thousands of years."

"To ancient Greece," he said. "Maybe Egypt. I-"

"But this story goes back much further. Eons. Before mankind rose on Earth."

"You have sources?" His eyes shone brighter than hers. "I'll buy them! Copies or originals. I'll-"

"I'm not a merchant. And what I know, what we know, is priceless. I've come here to offer it to you, on one condition. That you abandon this thesis."

"No! This information, my research, must-"

"Must be kept from unworthy eyes. A man of your intelligence, with your scholarly rigor, will find another topic. You'll earn your doctorate and find yourself a position any academic would envy. We have influence, and we'll assist you if you wish. But Kalaxia's name must remain hidden until the right time."

"And if I don't..."

"You'll agree. Not out of fear, or avarice, or a lust for power. You'll agree because we have the things you crave most, Douglas. Knowledge and the truth."

Bonderbrand thrashed in the maelstrom, adrift on a sensory sea. Something glimmered in the distance. A light. A beacon. And it was cyan. It drew him, guiding him through crashing waves; through his father's face and the jasmine scent of his mother's favorite perfume; through the rough, textured paper of the hardcopy Odyssey he'd read as a little boy; through laughter and tears and sorrow and exaltation; through dying worlds that sowed the galaxy with their seeds.

He swam towards it.

"What do you think?" Lady Victoria said.

"It's..." Bonderbrand's gaze swept the tomes in front of him on the azure table, before roaming around the rest of the vast chamber. "...magnificent. These books, they..."

"Lost works. To everyone except the wyrm-mother's children." She favored him with that same indulgent smile. "You want to share it with the universe, don't you? You're thinking about the books you could write, the mysteries you could solve. Of enhancing mankind's store of knowledge."

His jowls wobbled.

"In time, perhaps you will," she said. "When Kalaxia's ready to take her rightful place. For now, enjoy all of this. It's yours. Dive into its depths and see what you can unravel for us."

Eyes glittered in the heavens. Multifaceted jewels, illuminating his path and his destiny, shimmering on the sea -- where the waters parted, and something rose from their primordial melange.

Creation sloughed away in torrents of history, antiquity, and eternity. Visions and vapor rolled off unfurling pteropine wings. A huge reptilian face roared defiance, azure eyes glaring vengeance at the galaxy.

"Gold?" Bonderbrand said.

"Very good," Victoria Ashdown said.

He set the piece of old, fossilized bone back down on the table.

"The imprints of a dragon's soul are strong," she said, "even from so small a fragment."

"Are there more?"

"Yes. Drifting through the cosmos, scattered by Tor'gyyl's destruction. And you'll help us find them."

"Then what?"

"Power, Douglas. Power we can wield in the wyrm-mother's name."

"Sniper," Ragnar said.

Talia aimed one of her pistols and fired. A woman in blue fell off the roof.

"No," the gunslinger said, "there isn't."

Muzzle flashes from the Niflung's machinegun painted his grin. The weapon roared thunder and breathed out bullets, spraying everything with murderous equanimity. Explosive rounds scarred the building's facade -- blasting chunks of imitation stone from the hardened metal beneath. The cultists crouching and shooting from behind the low garden walls fared less well. Heads burst. Torsos erupted. Carnage decorated their comrades' faces and set them shrieking.

"You good here?" Talia said.

"Yeah!"

"I'll loop round and take the side."

The gunslinger sprinted across the lawn, both pistols flashing as she ran. Two masked men fell with matching holes seared into their eye slits. Blaster fire zipped back at her, but their shots were desperate and clumsy. She rolled beneath the only one that came close. Horseshoes and...

Maybe the Vlarg who popped up at one of the windows read that thought, because she clutched a round object in her purple hand.

"Kalaxia!"

Talia shot her wrist, and the throw became a fumble. Then an explosion. Flame and smoke billowed from the wrecked room, along with a scattering of roasted body parts.

"Did it bother you?" [Player Name] said. "How easy it was?"

"Come on," Talia said. She took a drink and passed [him|her] the bottle. "For our first 'boots on the ground' mission? They weren't going to give us anything crazy."

"No..." [He|She] looked away and stared into the darkened glass. The liquor undulated within, thick and black like crude oil. "I mean the killing. It's different in the cockpit, isn't it? When you can't see them..."

Talia waited for [him|her] to drink, accepted the bottle back, and gazed into it in turn -- as though searching for similar wisdom.

"Maybe," she said. "But I'd rather see them die than see them blast me."

That philosophy had stood her in good stead, she mused, as her pistols reaped their harvest.

Ragnar's boots sloshed through blood. A lot of cultists had tried to hold the lobby against him. The Niflung was no psychologist (unless one removed the latter half), but he'd seen enough fighting to know how people thought during combat. They wanted to defend what was theirs. To stop the enemy breaching the door and violating their sanctum. He understood and respected that. But it wasn't smart. It just meant a rake of gunfire and a few swings of his axe had turned the entryway into a crimson paddling pool.

He stormed through the corridors beyond, searching for more enemies. It didn't take long to find them. Two cultists opened fire from a passage, gawped when their bullets rebounded from his augmented flesh, and fled. Ragnar ran after them -- to explain the folly of shooting at things you couldn't kill, through the medium of judicious axe strokes in lieu of words. In his experience, one split skull was worth ten thousand of those.

With that murderous intention in mind, he hurtled down the corridor, bellowing like a ragebeast... And was taken by surprise when something big and heavy flew from a doorway and tackled him.

---

Ragnar smashed through the wall in his opponent's embrace, scattering bricks and chunks of plaster, whirling among the dust and debris. Desks and chairs flew aside or splintered beneath their combined bulk. Then they crashed down amidst the ruination, with a thud that shook the room.

The Niflung's hands opened and closed. Empty... His weapons had snagged on the masonry, and it'd torn them from his grasp.

Ragnar's eyes gleamed crimson.

He rolled, and rose to his feet in the middle of a devastated classroom. His enemy did the same.

"My name is Bonderbrand," the man said. He was big -- almost as large as the Niflung. Muscles rippled against his blue jumpsuit, stretching its fabric. His eyes were two splashes of an even richer blue. "I'm a professor of ancient history, whose work has helped usher in the coming age."

"Yeah? I'm Ragnar, and I once ate a neuro-fag's brain."

The Niflung lunged and threw an overhand right. It met empty air. A fist ploughed into his ribs, and another smashed him in the side of the head. Ragnar staggered -- reeling as much from surprise as impact.

"Despite what you may believe, Mr. Ragnarsson, violence is merely a means to an end. And I assure you, I'm quite capable of employing it."

Ragnar grunted and squared up to him, hands raised in a guard this time.

"I boxed for my university as an undergraduate..."

A jab snapped into the Niflung's face. Ragnar launched his fist in retaliation, but the punch was lost amid a barrage of crisp, hard shots that thundered on his skull and torso. He backed up, growling.

"Cybernetics?" Ragnar said.

"Something greater."

The Niflung snorted.

"Crazy dragon stuff?"

"Your boorishness offends me, Mr. Ragnarsson. But I've met many men like you. Big, brutish thugs who believe their muscles give them some claim to the universe. I learned how to box so I could thrash those churlish-"

"You don't have scales."

"What?"

"Scales..." Ragnar stepped forward and raised his fists in a pugilist's guard. "You don't have them. You're not like Noir. I can break you."

"Try your best. There's enough of Valanazes' power in my blood and bones to outmatch you, Niflung."

Ragnar's fist shot out like a battering ram. Bonderbrand weaved under the limb, pummeled him with a flurry of body blows, and rose into a left hook that snapped the Niflung's head to the side. Ragnar shuffled backwards.

"I was the university system's heavyweight champion!"

"Yeah? I once beat a guy to death with his own leg!"

The professor smiled, stepped in, and threw another jab. Ragnar grunted and kicked him in the groin.

"Too much boxing," the Niflung said. Bonderbrand doubled over and groaned. "Not enough beating the crap out of people in bars."

He grabbed the professor's head with both hands, and drove his knee into the academic's face. Ragnar kept hold and dragged him to the ground. As he pinned Bonderbrand down on his back, he wondered how many punches it would take to break through the 'crazy dragon stuff' and put knuckles to brain.

As it transpired, it took quite a lot. But that was okay. The Niflung didn't tire easily.