LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void

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"Intro"=
"Sabotage, ma'am."

"You're sure?"

Frank Toyotomi got out from under the complex mass of metal. He stood up, snorted, and wiped his hands on his bare torso -- leaving greasy black streaks across thick muscle.

"I know this engine better than I know my own pecker," he said, "and I've handled it twice as much. This wasn't a fault. Someone's been tampering."

Astrid Jaeger, captain of the Dark Delight, swore. Her fingers curled into fists then extended into talons. The ship's engineer was six inches taller and a foot wider than his employer, but he shrank away from her. He'd seen those slender digits tear an eye from a man's head and the testicles from another's trousers. At the same time.

"Who did it?" she asked.

"I don't know! The cameras, remember?"

He nodded at the room's far corner. Astrid turned, met the dark blue eye's sightless gaze, and swore again.

"It was your order, ma'am."

She whirled back to him, eyes glinting. Frank stumbled away until his brawny shoulders thudded against the wall.

"Shut up!"

Astrid took a deep breath, and let the anger drain from her face. The last of it twitched in her fingers -- yearning to seize, rip, mutilate. Toyotomi was right. She'd told them all to deactivate the cameras. To blind those watchful eyes...

"Can you fix it?" she asked.

"Yeah. But it'll take-"

"Do it. Now."

"Yes, ma'am."

Frank dropped down and rolled back under the engine. Astrid tapped her communicator.

"Casp," she said. "We-"

"Just a wee minute..." Casper MacAlister's voice sounded in her ear, against a backdrop of incomprehensible babble. "The passengers want to ken why the ship's nae moving."

"Because one of the bastards screwed with the engine."

"She says it's because one of ye bast... Oh!"

Astrid rolled her eyes. At the other end of the connection, a door hissed open and then closed. The cacophony fell silent.

"Dae ye ken who did it?" Casper asked.

"If I did, they'd be swimming in space with their brains coming out of their ears."

"Can we fix it?"

"Your husband says he can. But if we start running low on power before that, we'll have to use the distress signal."

"With our cargo?"

"Listen, get all the passengers into the mess hall and keep them there. I'll have Susie and Remmler search their rooms. One of them did this. I want to know who and why."

"What dae we tell them, captain?"

"Say there's-"

"...a problem with the engine," Astrid said. "There's a small chance it's emitting radiation into parts of the ship."

One of the passengers gasped. Another swore. A third cast a suspicious glance at the mess hall's sealed doors, as though expecting radioactive particles to storm the room like a barbarian horde sacking ancient Rome.

"This is outrageous!" a gaunt, sharp-featured woman said. She hugged her boy to her chest despite his struggles. "I was promised safe passage! You've exposed my son to... to... radiation!"

The boy pulled his head away, blinked at his mother, and looked at Astrid.

"Does that mean we'll get superpowers?" he asked.

Captain Jaeger smiled for an instant, before remembering to adopt a more appropriate look of solemnity.

"There's really no danger, Mrs. Bassingthwaighte," she said. "Those doors are safety sealed, and Mr. MacAlister's scans showed that everyone and everything in this room is clean."

"Aye, nae even a wee dram of green goo to turn us all into superheroes!"

He winked at Josh Bassingthwaighte, who giggled and smiled. His mother glared at Casper until the crewman coughed and looked away.

"As soon as we've scanned and purified the entire ship," Astrid continued, "there'll be no further danger to any of you."

"It can't be helped, I'm sure," said the handsome gentleman in the dapper suit. His suave accent was British, or Novocastrian. Astrid could never tell the two apart. She tried to grope for the passenger's name, yet couldn't recall it. "But perhaps I could retire to my quarters instead? I'm near the end of the mystery novel I'm reading, and I really must know who murdered the poor fellow."

"I'm sorry, but there are safety protocols. I really couldn't allow that."

He sighed.

"Turn the TV on," said a voice from the corner. "Screaming B's playing a gig on Plerna."

Astrid stared at a mop of bushy green hair, an impressive assortment of nose rings, and the face that fought for visibility amongst them. Ayesha. The name had been all but spat at her when she'd tried to introduce herself to a young passenger who looked to be on her first space voyage. The tone and unwelcoming glare had quelled Astrid Jaeger's materteral instincts on the spot, and almost made her slap the girl.

"The ship's entertainment systems will nae work without the engine running, lassie," Casper said. "Emergency power's for the essentials. Ye may have heard of a wee thing called life support. It's all the rage on the best ships."

Ayesha snorted. Her nasal jewelry clattered like unmelodious wind chimes.

"Then how about a game to pass the time?" Salim Khan asked.

A deck of playing cards slipped into his left hand. With a flick of his wrist and a blurred twitching of his digits he launched the blue-backed rectangles into the air. Each card spun past his face, making three or four complete rotations as it described a perfect parabola. An instant later the full deck rested in his right hand.

"That was awesome!" Josh stared at the dusky man in the same manner an adult might gaze upon his messiah.

Salim smirked, while his cards fanned and shifted around his fingers.

"Poker, blackjack, quisrat... I'll play anything." His eyes flicked to Astrid, Casper, and the other passengers in turn. "Small stakes, just for fun."

"Mr. Khan," Captain Jaeger said, "a long time ago I heard a rumor that a man on my ship was playing with marked cards, cheating people out of their creds. I took his deck and told him I'd shoot him once for every marked card I found."

"Oh..." Salim's deck disappeared into the recesses of his garish red jacket.

A sound which might have been either a snore or a quiet guffaw emerged from beneath the tilted cowboy hat that concealed the last passenger's face. He sat at a small round table, slumped in an armchair. Six drained glasses stood before him. An empty bottle watched over them like a proud mother, a single brown tear trickling down her smooth cold side.

Astrid glanced at Casper, who shrugged his shoulders.

"The man asked for bourbon, so I gave him a wee drop."

"Got any more?" Ayesha asked.

"Not for ye, lassie. Maybe in a few years when you're older."

"Probably still be stuck on this heap of junk by then..."

Her nose rings chimed once more, and she returned her attention to whatever interesting specimens she could extract from under her black-painted fingernails. A long moment elapsed -- punctuated by sighs, grunts, and exasperated glares. Captain Jaeger cast an appealing look at Casper MacAlister. Had enemies been boarding the ship, she'd have pushed him behind her and handled things. But shooting, swearing, and gouging were less practical when it came to dealing with passengers.

"Dae any of ye ken a good story?" he asked. |-|

"First Love"=
Susie Unette stopped in the corridor, beside one of the cabin doors, and looked down at her datapad.

"Maurice Hornung," she said.

"The British guy?" Remmler asked.

"I think he's Novocastrian."

"Whatever. I don't trust men who talk all funny like that one."

Susie tapped a sequence of buttons on the pad. The door's electronic lock recognized the override signal and yielded. A red light blinked green, then the tough metal moved aside -- ensconcing itself within its berth in the bulkhead.

The crewmen entered the small, neat chamber. Remmler Wuln made straight for its other door and disappeared inside the adjoining bathroom. The sound of liquid splashing into liquid made Susie wince.

"Couldn't you have done that in your own cabin?"

"Can't fight nature."

"Hope you're aiming better than you do at the range. Hornung didn't pay his creds to walk in your piss."

"Just look around, like the captain said."

Susie cast her gaze about the room, scanning its meager contents. A paperback novel rested on the table by the bunk. Its pages were yellowed, either by genuine age or by design. Some hardcopy readers printed them that way. The cover depicted a shadowy, indistinct figure creeping out of a window -- leaving a well-dressed corpse stretched out on the carpet behind him. Susie riffled through the volume but found only pages of printed text. She set it back down exactly as she'd found it.

The toilet in the next room flushed. Its churning accompanied Remmler through the doorway.

"Found anything?" he asked.

He reached for the novel. Susie slapped his wrist.

"Wash your hands! He doesn't want his stuff smelling like your prick."

Remmler grunted, but he went back into the bathroom. Water ran from the faucet. When he returned a few moments later, he was rubbing his hands on his thighs -- darkening the khaki.

Susie pulled a black suitcase from under the bunk. It wasn't locked, and opened to disclose a number of garments folded with meticulous care. She removed each item, placing them on the mattress one by one.

"What's that?" Remmler pointed at a disc of black fabric.

"Collapsible top hat," she said.

"La de da. Guess he's one of Frank and Casper's sort."

"Because he knows how to dress nice?"

"Yeah!"

"Did your mother screw any Niflungs before you were born?"

The case contained a few more paperbacks. All old mystery novels, from the lurid covers and titles. But a strange taste in literature didn't prove Maurice Hornung was a saboteur. So Susie repacked the case and pushed it back under the bunk. The two of them scoured the rest of the room, but found nothing suspicious.

"I still don't trust that guy," Remmler said, as they stepped back into the corridor. "Decent folk don't dress all prim and proper like that."

"I might have a story or two up my sleeve, old boy. Anything to liven up this drab gathering of ours."

The drunk continued to drowse under his hat, but everyone else in the mess hall turned to the handsome man in the immaculate attire. Even Ayesha deigned to stare up at him -- albeit with an expression that told of sarcasm waiting to be born. Mrs. Bassingthwaighte looked at him askance.

"I trust it will be suitable for my son to hear?"

"Of course, madam. Perhaps a heartwarming tale of a boy's first love?"

She snorted.

05:36, 9 November 2013 (CST)

"Thomas."

Emma's hair was spun gold. It captured the sunlight from the classroom's lofty window and drew it in, turning each lock into a priceless gleaming treasure.

"Thomas?"

Her skin was ivory, pure and unblemished. A smile began at the corner of her mouth. It promised to bathe the world in its radiance.

"Thomas!"

"Oh..."

Two dozen faces were turned towards him. Emma Wilbraham's sapphire eyes met his, and her lips began to part. Thomas blushed. His gaze snapped to the front of the room, where Miss Kirkham stood with her arms folded.

"You weren't paying attention!"

"I... I was! I..."

"Then answer the question."

"Um... Hubris?"

"Wilfred Owen wrote the poem because of... hubris?" The teacher blinked at him.

"Oh! He... I mean, yes. He was caught up in his own suffering, and thought it was the most important thing in the world. That's hubris."

"I suppose a person could interpret it that way..."

Miss Kirkham's hawk-like gaze and questions swooped on another unsuspecting pupil, leaving Thomas to exhale. When it came to English literature class, 'hubris' tended to work more often than not.

The schoolboy's gaze crept back to the vision of aureate beauty. It lingered there till the bell rang.

"Isn't it marvelous?" Josie Egerton asked.

The holographic image hovered above the gaggle of girls, projected from their leader's phone. They tilted their heads back and cooed as though witnessing a divine revelation inscribed upon the heavens.

"Father says I can wear it at the Michaelmas Ball," she continued.

Gasps and simpers joined the coos. Some of the girls seemed on the verge of swooning. Thomas found them ridiculous, but even his eye was drawn to the floating treasure. It was a pendant -- a magnificent work of gold, platinum, and precious gemstones. Diamonds, rubies, and sapphires contrived to form the image of a phoenix, the bird on the Egerton family crest. By all rights anything fashioned from so many stones should have seemed garish. A gaudy monstrosity better suited to nouveau riche gangsters or celebrities whose creds far outstripped any semblance of taste or propriety. Yet the work was exquisite. The extended wings, the proud head and noble beak... All those jewels celebrated and enhanced these things rather than overwhelming them.

The phoenix rotated, preening itself before the awestruck audience. Each slow, elegant spin brought fresh moans of delight from Josie's flock. But Thomas was looking beyond them now. Emma stood beneath one of the oaks that lined the school playing fields, her golden hair a rich fire that seemed to inflame the autumn leaves. They bore tales and echoes of her loveliness through the branches -- scattering them far and wide as they performed their deciduous duty.

His breath caught in his throat. But her blue eyes were fastened on the pendant's simulacrum, gazing and yearning. That gave him courage. He could understand desire, understand it and share.

Thomas went to her side.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he said.

He waited for her to brush him off with a curt, dismissive word. But instead she spoke in a soft, dreamy voice.

"I'd treasure it..."

Thomas' mind reeled, searching for a way to capitalize on this unexpected opening, to harness the sudden sincerity.

"I could get it for you," he said. His tongue spoke the words before his brain comprehended their stupidity. "I... I mean..."

Emma's beautiful sapphires transfixed him. He expected to read mockery there, but saw only eagerness.

"You'd do that? For me?"

"But... You'd never be able to wear it! Everyone would know!"

"I don't care. I'd still have it. It'd be mine. Even if I could only put it on... in private."

Her mouth shaped the final word with such immaculate care that it became a promise and captured Thomas in its inescapable web. His own promise followed, folly made nobility by two soft blue gems.

"Show me again," Thomas said.

Simmons, the butler, favored him with an indulgent smile.

"Once more," he said. "Then I have to bring your mother her tea. I used to show you this one when you were a boy. Do you remember?"

"Which-" Thomas began.

The schoolboy blinked. His eyes widened. The tie which had been fastened around his neck now dangled from the butler's hand.

"But that's..."

"Impossible? Very little is, if you're fast and confident, and understand the way people see and think. Now if you'll excuse me, Thomas..."

He set the tie on the table, lifted the tray of fine china and cream-filled scones on his fingertips, and glided from the room. Thomas stared at the snaking fabric for some minutes. Thoughts both frightening and enticing danced in his mind.

At first he'd imagined breaking into the Egerton mansion, of circumventing its security measures, cracking the safe, and absconding with his treasure. But even in his wildest fantasies -- those that began with nocturnal prowling and ended with golden waves, blue eyes, and ruby lips -- he knew how foolish it was. The mansion's defenses would thwart a professional burglar. And he was nothing of the sort. Then another inkling had teased his besotted mind. Simmons, the family butler, had once been a master stage magician. The majordomo's trickery had often delighted Thomas during his younger years.

"...fast and confident, and understand the way people see and think."

He had until the Michaelmas Ball to learn.

Thomas watched. He'd always been good at watching, and the magnitude of his intent now sharpened that skill. His gloved fingers twitched. Perhaps they yearned to bring all those hours of practice to fruition. Or maybe they wanted to plunge into the pockets of his dress trousers and play no part in this insanity. He didn't know, and wouldn't until the moment came.

Darkness shrouded him. He was safe and hidden within its depths. But he couldn't nestle in that soft, secure embrace forever. Speed and sureness would have to serve instead. If cowardice didn't intervene first, didn't drive him off into the night amidst the shame of failure.

Josie and her coterie basked in the soft illumination behind the hall. The boys were black sentinels, their dinner jackets all but indistinguishable from one another. Moths around the glorious colored flames of the girls' gowns. A gentle breeze shimmered over sumptuous material, through lavish tresses. It was cooling and soothing after the warmth of the ballroom. But that wasn't why they'd withdrawn. Glowing cigarettes hung from the mouths of boys and girls alike, incongruous adornments. The delivery systems of the designer drugs their parents and teachers railed against. Hipflasks marked with coats of arms passed from hand to hand, lip to lip -- bearing expensive scotch and brandy to drown the lingering traces of sobriety.

The heiress of the Egerton family was in the midst of it all, the brightest star in the firmament. A blue cigarette rose to her lips. Cyan smoke puffed from its end. After the second breath it turned orange, and her eyes twitched at the release of new sensations. The pendant glittered on the perfect tanned flesh of her neck. A priceless treasure nestled amidst drifting smoke and drunken chatter.

Thomas didn't belong in such company. His place in the social hierarchy had long since been established. But other insignificant boys and girls had begun to flit out from the hall's rear doors, keen to linger at the periphery of Josie's empire and feed on whatever scraps of delight drifted out to them. He could join those hangers-on without drawing attention.

His body froze. If he left the shadows and moved amongst them, he'd be one step closer to that dreaded point of no return.

Gold, sapphires, rubies. Promises.

Thomas' brain swam and allowed his legs to lead him onward.

He exchanged words with the other minnows. He even managed to laugh and banter, as though his heart wasn't hammering against his ribs. Confidence. Or at least its facade. This was important. But all the while his eyes were on Josie Egerton and her neck. That was safe enough. Lustful boys and envious girls were doing the same on all sides.

So many people... It was insane. How could he possibly...

"You slut! You... you slut!"

The shout tore through the chatter, silencing it. All heads turned towards the tall, muscular boy who staggered in from the gloom. His dinner jacket was disheveled. His bowtie hung from his neck, loose and crumpled. The knuckles of his right hand were red.

"Slut!" he repeated.

Charles Mordsley... Josie's boyfriend. Thomas cursed himself for not noticing his absence. On a night when so much depended on observation and caution, that shouldn't have escaped his attention. But even as he cursed, he scented the opportunity fate had sent his way. All eyes were on Charles. All of them...

"Charlie?" Josie said. "What-"

"Ludwig! I know!" Mordsley brandished his bruised and bloody knuckles. "I know!"

"I don't know what-"

He stormed towards Josie Egerton. One of the boys tried to interpose himself between them, but a shove sent him tottering away. The others took a single look at Charles' face and moved aside.

"Slut!"

Thomas slipped through the crowd, moving closer and closer. Anticipation burned in his brain.

"Charles!" Josie tossed her cigarette aside and stamped her foot. "I-"

His bruised hand seized her throat. Josie squealed as the strong, angry fingers dug into her flesh. Gasps gave way to shouts. At last the others moved. Some of the boys and girls grabbed hold of Charles and tried to pull him off. He thrashed and struggled, battering them back with his skull and elbows.

It was like a rugby scrum in formal dress. Half the crowd was around Mordsley now, trying to secure a handhold. The others watched, breathless. Except for Thomas. His eyes were on Josie.

"Get off me! Get-"

They yanked Charles away, and his hand left the girl's reddened throat. An immense grappling match ensued. It existed at the very edge of Thomas' perception, known but ignored. Josie's hand was rising to her injured neck. He glided behind her and moved faster.

He'd practiced it so many times. First on a dummy, then with Simmons.

Josie's fingers touched her abused flesh. They rubbed and caressed. It was several seconds before she screamed.

"My pendant! He snatched my pendant!"

Her accusing finger jabbed at Charles, half-obscured amidst the other overdressed wrestlers. Meanwhile Thomas walked back into the shadows.

Emma opened the door before he rang the bell. Her blue eyes were vast lakes, their gleaming waters both troubled and excited. She put her finger to her lips and pulled him inside.

They went down the hall and up the staircase in silence. Her bedroom door closed behind them, and locks slotted into place -- shielding them from the world. At last she spoke. Her voice was almost breathless.

"Rach called me. She said... The pendant. It's missing!"

Thomas opened his hand. Precious jewels and metals shimmered in her gaze. She reached for it with slow, hesitant fingers. As though it would vanish or disintegrate the moment she touched it.

When it was around her neck, she stood in front of her full-length mirror for perhaps a full minute. She kept it on while they made love. Emma pinned it against her skin with hot fingertips, arresting the magical bird's flight.

That night Thomas dreamed. But not about golden hair and ivory flesh. Not even about precious stones or vast riches. He dreamed of that single thrilling moment when the pendant left Josie's neck and slipped into his hand. One day, perhaps soon, Emma would leave him. He knew that. But the magnificent sensation would always be there, as long as he had the courage and confidence to invoke it.

05:36, 9 November 2013 (CST)

For some seconds no one spoke. The story hung over the group like mist, settling into their minds by degrees. When a voice penetrated the quietness it made all of them flinch.

"Fornication, Mr. Hornung?" Mrs. Bassingthwaighte said. "Fornication!?!"

"No thank you, madam. I fear it would be wholly inappropriate under these circumstances."

The lady's mouth opened, ready to fire but for the moment empty of ammunition. Ayesha grinned. Salim smirked. Casper began to giggle, though he masked it with a cough. Astrid's gaze drifted to young Josh. To her surprise and disquiet, the young boy was trying to suppress laughter.

"Your story was... was... inappropriate!" Mrs. Bassingthwaighte said, when she'd reloaded her outrage.

"Well, I dinna ken about that," Casper said. "But maybe someone else has a story that'll be a wee bit more to your liking." |-|

"Salim and The Devil"=
Salim Khan," Susie said.

"I like his suit," Remmler said.

"Bright red? It's a fashion disaster!"

"Maybe after we get paid, I'll get one myself..."

"Good thinking. In gunfights the enemies can all aim for the red guy."

The door to the cabin opened. Remmler snorted and followed Susie inside.

"He brought his own carpet," Remmler said. He pointed at the dark green rectangle in the middle of his room. Arabic characters danced across the fabric in calligraphic swirls. At the far end a black cubic structure was depicted, surrounded by a sea of white-clad worshippers. "Weird."

"It's a prayer rug, idiot."

Susie Unette picked up a datapad from the bedside table while he rummaged through the drawers. It was password and retina scan protected, but her electronic toolkit took care of that. The pad opened and yielded its secrets. There were several books on the device, including a copy of the Quran in both Arabic and English, and vast quantities of emails. Susie flicked through some of these -- enough to get an impression of the man without violating more of his privacy than she had to. Many were from his mother. They included pleas for Salim to stop drinking and gambling, accompanied by religious quotations and warnings of damnation. Terms such as "nice girl" and "arranged marriage" were also sprinkled throughout these maternal missives. Other emails were from his employers in the Contella Consortium. Those were rather more colorful and amusing in their language, but they contained little of interest.

There were photographs as well. In one of them Salim Khan posed with a Tommy gun. Susie recognized the weapon he'd turned over for safekeeping upon boarding the ship.

"Looks like he's who he says he is," Susie said. "Let's finish up and keep moving."

"I saw Iblis," Salim said.

"Ib-what?" Casper said.

"Iblis. Shaitan. The devil."

"Preposterous!" Mrs. Bassingthwaighte said. "Satan was the invention of superstitious peasants on ancient Earth!"

"I used to believe that too..."

05:49, 9 November 2013 (CST)

"Which store are we hitting?" Salim asked.

His fingers drummed on the steering wheel, like they always did before a job. It helped keep him centered. Behind him, hidden from the outside world by tinted smart windows, three men and a woman checked their weapons and their disguises.

"No store," Imran said. He slotted a power pack into his blaster pistol. It went home with a soft click. "This time we're going for a ransom."

"What the hell? I told you I didn't want to-"

"Why'd you think we didn't tell you?" Samina asked.

The men grinned. Khalid slapped Salim's shoulder with a meaty hand, numbing the driver's arm all the way down to his wrist.

"We're robbers," Salim said, "not kidnappers!"

"These people are loaded," Imran said. "We'll make way more from this job than knocking over a million kebab shops or corner stores."

"But-"

"Just do your job and shut up!"

"It's okay," Samina said. She cocked her assault rifle. "When Sal gets his share of the creds, he'll stop whining."

The vehicle's doors opened and slammed closed, leaving Salim alone. He drove his palms against the wheel and spewed out a stream of Punjabi profanities.

"Anjam heard it from Fazan Mahmood," Imran said. "The bastard's bought a restaurant on the Curry Kilometer. The only crime he's doing anymore is food poisoning."

"Fat Faze? How many chems did he sell for that?" Salim asked.

"It wasn't chems. It was that van he ripped off in Karachi."

"Huh? That was a screw up. He thought it was full of guns, but it was just crap for the museum. How'd he make any credits out of that cock-up?"

"A bunch of religious nuts wanted something from the van. They paid a fortune for it."

Salim whistled.

"Some bastards have all the luck," he said.

"And some cults have more money than sense. So how about we get our share?"

The conversation replayed itself in Salim's head, punctuated by assorted swearwords, until the click of an opening door dragged him back to the present. He jerked round, reaching for his gun.

"Relax, Sal!" Samina said.

Imran came next, pushing a slim, freckled, redheaded girl into the car. There was a splatter of blood across her blue blouse -- the exact same shade as her hair. The others piled in after them. Anjam has holding his arm with crimson fingers.

"What happened?" Salim asked.

"A kanjar cop shot at us," Anjam said. "Imran made us go before I could blast his brains out!"

"How bad-"

"Shut up and drive!" Imran said.

Salim turned around, swore, and hit the accelerator.

"Pretty," Khalid said. "If they don't pay, give her to me and I'll get our money's worth out of her!"

The girl stared up at him. She was trembling. Salim didn't blame her -- not with her arms and legs tied to the armchair, and that ugly face leering down at her.

"It's okay," he said. "No one's going to hurt you."

"Right," Samina said. "As soon as your people pay up, we'll let you go. They're rich. What we're asking's nothing to them."

"You don't know who we are," the girl said. "Please, just let me go, before..."

"Before what?" Salim asked.

"Before they send him. He'll kill you all!"

Anjam looked from the girl to Imran, his eyes wide. He scratched his sealed wound.

"What's she talking about?" he said. "Who does she work for?"

"The most powerful force in the galaxy," she said.

"Yeah?" Khalid snorted. "Here's a more powerful one!"

His bulging, chem-enhanced muscles flexed when he grabbed his groin. The girl flinched away, tugging at her bonds. Khalid laughed.

The young, freckled face looked up at Salim through cold eyes.

"He's coming," she said, "and he'll kill you all. KILL! YOU! ALL!"

She burst into laughter.

"Sal! Get up!"

Salim Khan's eyes flicked open. He groped for the gun under his pillow, but strong fingers grabbed his wrist.

"Chutiya! It's me!" Anjam said. "Your turn to watch the girl!"

"Oh..."

Salim shrugged him off, stood up, and stretched his protesting muscles. The sleeping mats they used in their safe houses left a lot to be desired. Anjam went to his own mat. He was snoring before Salim had even left the room.

The lounge was quiet and dark, its lighting dimmed. Their prisoner's fiery hair was the brightest thing in the room. She turned to Salim when he entered, and for an awful moment he expected the same cold eyes and chilling words from his dream. But there was nothing on her face but resignation.

"Hi," he said. The greeting seemed stupid even as he spoke it, but it was hardly a situation he knew how to handle. How were you supposed to greet a woman you'd kidnapped?

"Hi." A faint smile crossed her mouth. Perhaps she understood the insane awkwardness of the situation too.

"Are you... okay?"

"No. A bunch of armed criminals snatched me off the street and tied me to a chair. You should call the police..."

She gave a dry, parched cough.

"Water?" he asked.

The girl nodded.

Salim went into the kitchen and turned on the faucet. He came back with a glass of cold water that he proffered to her for a second -- before realizing that she had no way of grabbing it. Instead he held it up to her lips. She took several short, quick sips.

"Thanks," she said.

He moved to the couch and put the glass down on a table.

"Did Anjam give you any food?"

"No. But it's okay. I'm not hungry."

They sat in silence for a while. Salim glanced at the TV and wondered if he should put something on to mask their mutual discomfort.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Huh?" For an instant he thought he'd misheard. "Sorry?"

"My people can be generous to anyone who helps us. But they won't pay a ransom. They'll send someone instead, and he'll... Please, let me go. You don't know what you've done."

He stared into her eyes, searching for desperate bravado, for deception. There was only sincerity.

"They'll pay," he said. "Imran knows how to scare people."

She sighed. Salim didn't know what to say, so he activated the TV's holo-screen and flicked through the channels until he found a marathon of old Super Slaughter reruns. He was still watching the televised carnage when Khalid's massive frame lumbered into the room.

"My turn, Sal," he said.

The girl looked from Khalid to Salim. Her eyes pled.

"I'm watching this," Salim said. "I can take your shift."

Khalid scowled. He crossed over to the other couch and sat down. Salim bit the inside of his cheek, like he always did when he was nervous. The TV blared. He kept looking from the screen to Khalid, and each time met two glowering, bloodshot eyes that made him avert his gaze. The veins in the big man's neck were throbbing. Whatever chems he was taking these days, he'd injected a fresh hit. That was bad. It always put him in a foul temper.

Khalid's glare shifted between the screen and the girl. His hand crept down to his crotch. She glanced at Salim, and again her eyes begged him for help. Khalid followed her gaze. His biceps bulged against his shirt's loose sleeves. His neck seemed to convulse, as though it was on the verge of exploding and launching his head into orbit.

Minutes passed. They might have been hours. Then Khalid got up and went to her. She shuddered.

"Khal..." Salim said.

The big man said nothing. He dropped to one knee, like a lover on the verge of a proposal. One huge hand clasped the girl's thigh. The other reached for her breast. She squealed.

"Khal! Get off her, you bastard! Khal!"

Khalid's head snapped round. His eyes were almost all red now, twin pools of blood that reflected the screen's brutality and let it drown in their crimson depths. His neck, arms, and pectorals all pulsed. His entire body was one giant beating heart.

"Shut up, or I'll rip your head off and take a crap down the hole!"

He turned back to the girl, thick tongue dropping out between his jaws. She mouthed the word 'help'. Salim snatched up the glass of water and launched himself off the couch.

Khalid didn't even look around. Not till the glass shattered on the side of his head, and the shards tore at his flesh.

"Bastard!" he roared. "Kanjar bastard!"

A huge, muscle-laden arm swung round. It crashed into Salim's jaw and sent him flying. His back slammed against the floor, pain thundering through his spine. Something hard fell down his throat and nearly choked him. A distant part of his mind, beyond the bright explosions in his head, recognized it as a tooth.

Khalid's dusky, demonic face loomed up through the haze. His cheek hung from his skull like a piece of butchered meat. Blood rained down in torrents.

"Khal! Sal!"

Light flooded the room. Samina stood in the doorway, clad in a dressing gown. Imran was behind her in his boxer shorts. Anjam brought up the rear -- still fully dressed, his shirt and pants rumpled by sleep.

"What the hell?" Imran stormed past her and grabbed Khalid's arm. "You're-"

"Get off me!"

Khalid swung at him. It was a clumsy, savage blow. Imran ducked and shuffled backwards.

"Khal!" Samina had a pistol leveled in both hands. "Get away from him, you crazy bastard!"

"He glassed me! He fuc-"

"He tried to..." the hostage cried. Tears ran down her cheeks. "He... he..."

"So what?" Khalid thumped his chest like an ape. "Who cares if I have a bit of fun with her? I wasn't going to kill her!"

Imran, Anjam, and Samina looked at one another. Salim groaned. He read the expressions on their faces. They didn't care what happened to the girl, as long as they got their creds. And Khalid -- big, dangerous Khalid -- was too important to antagonize. They'd side with him. Unless...

"Idiot!" Salim sat up and spat out a stream of blood. "If word gets out that we do that to our hostages, think everyone'll just hand over their creds? They'll kill us! Cut our goddamn balls off, like what happened to that pervert Haroun!"

"He's right," Imran said. "Khal, go to the bathroom and let Samina fix your face."

"I want-" Khalid said.

"I don't give a crap what you want! Get your face fixed and go back to bed! Anjam, Salim, you watch her."

Khalid roared and stormed off.

The others were all in the lounge with the girl when Salim woke up. He'd stayed up after Anjam had fallen asleep, and sat with the prisoner until Samina and Imran came in with the morning light. He'd done his best to calm her down. Then he'd grabbed an hour or so of rest. It wasn't nearly enough. His eyes were heavy, and his head ached.

Khalid glared at him from the couch and grunted. His eyes were less bloodshot now, and his muscles weren't convulsing.

The girl gave him a faint smile.

"Get breakfast," Imran said. "Then we're going out. Her cult sent a message -- they want to meet. You're driving me and Khal."

Salim just nodded, and went into the kitchen. He rooted through the cupboards for something soft enough for his abused mouth. He was reaching for an old, brown banana when the crash came.

The banter in the next room turned into screams.

Salim pressed himself against the wall and glanced round the arched doorway. The house's security door lay flat on the carpet. Sunlight poured into the room, illuminating his friends, the girl, and a terrible black specter with burning blue eyes.

Khalid jumped at the intruder, brawny fists swinging. A fast, crisp kick splintered his ribs. The sound of tearing muscle and crunching bone made vomit rise in the back of Salim's throat. He pressed his hand to his mouth to hold it in. Khalid tottered, doubled over. The ebon fiend grabbed him in a front headlock and wrenched. The crack shuddered through Salim's whole body.

The black creature swept through the room like a djinn, a whirlwind of supernatural force and eternal malevolence. Anjam went for his gun. He died with it still in its holster, gurgling through a crushed throat. Imran moved in front of Samina. One punch shattered his temple. The next launched Samina's screaming form through the air.

Salim ducked back from the doorway as her body flew into the room. She smashed against the fridge, denting the white metal. Samina collapsed at its foot, leaving a red smear in her wake. She blinked at him once and was still.

He closed his eyes and uttered a wordless prayer, entreating the being he'd never addressed since childhood.

"Are there any others?" asked a voice. No... Not a voice. Two voices -- one with a strange accent, the other an ominous growl.

"No. That's all of them," the girl said.

Salim held his breath.

There was a loud noise, almost a... Yes... A sniff. The djinn, the demon, the monster, was sniffing the air like a beast. Searching for a scent. For a victim...

"You are certain?" the double voice said.

"Yes. Let's go..."

Salim stayed frozen for several minutes. Then he slumped against the wall and wept.

05:49, 9 November 2013 (CST)

"That night I bought a prayer rug and a Quran," Salim said. "Because if Iblis exists, a man needs better protection than guns or armor." |-|

"Ayesha Breaks Free"=
This one's the kid's," Susie said. "Ayesha Vall."

"Isn't she a bit young to be sabotaging ships?" Remmler asked.

"Probably. But orders are orders."

The door opened, revealing the brand of apocalypse which only a teenage girl can create. Articles of clothing were strewn about the room. Some lay in pools on the floor, forming a colorful wasteland of cloth and leather. Others were draped over every single piece of furniture. Sweater arms and pants legs dangled like the tentacles of lethargic monsters.

"Maybe someone planted a bomb in her trunk," Remmler said.

Susie sighed. The two of them picked their way through the debris, examining each garment and accessory. Remmler opened her trunk. He reached inside and tapped.

"False bottom," he said. "It's locked. The old-fashioned way."

"Move aside."

Susie pulled out her lockpicks. She didn't often have a chance to use the archaic tools, and an opportunity was always welcome. It only took a little fumbling. The lock clicked open, and she pulled the cover aside. Remmler leaned over her shoulder.

The two of them whistled.

"You've got to be kidding me..." he said.

"I guess I'll tell one," Ayesha said.

She looked around, daring anyone to challenge her. But there were only indulgent smiles and nods. The girl grunted, clinking her nose rings.

05:53, 9 November 2013 (CST)

"One day all this will be yours," Aubrey Vall said.

"Whatever..." Ayesha yawned and picked her nails. God, her uncle was so boring...

"This isn't a laughing manner!"

"I wasn't laughing. I was yawning. Can I go now?"

"Ayesha Millicent Vall!" her aunt said. "Your uncle is trying to teach you about the family business! When you're older-"

"Feels like I'm already a year older than when we started this crap."

"Go to your room!"

"Finally!"

Ayesha left the balcony, stomped through her uncle's study, and tried to slam the door behind her. The door's sensors prevented such uncouthness, however. She had to make do with kicking it a couple of times from the outside instead. This hurt her foot, and did little to improve her mood.

A petite, grey-haired woman accosted her in the corridor.

"Ayesha! You missed your military history lesson! We were supposed to be studying the Battle of Arginusae!"

"I don't care!"

"But-"

"Did we lose?"

"What? No, this planet wasn't even-"

"Then why'd I need to know about it?"

"Because-"

Ayesha had already rounded the corner. The teacher's annoying voice faded into a humph of displeasure. The girl liked that sound. It always told her she'd won. With that victory fresh in her soul, she ignored the bowing menials whose constant attentions always aggravated her, made her way to her bedroom, and threw herself onto the bed.

The bed's advanced systems shifted the mattress around her body in an attempt to maximize her comfort. She punched it until it stopped. Everything in this stupid house thought it knew what was best for her -- even the damn bed. As was often the case, this displeased her. Even the morose girl in the mirror, who shared her discontent, was proving vexing. So Ayesha grabbed a hefty, jewel encrusted box from her bedside table and threw it at the mirror. But a small droid whirred into life, shot across the intervening space, and caught it. The teenager swore. She couldn't even break stuff!

Ayesha slumped back down on the mattress and waved at the entertainment center. A huge holographic screen opened above her. It displayed a number of unicorns in bright primary and secondary colors. They appeared to be engaged in some kind of absurd adventure.

"Why are you playing this crap?" she asked.

A holographic teddy bear appeared next to the screen. It floated parallel with the girl below, like the galaxy's most ridiculous ghost.

"But, Ayesh, you used to love this show!"

"God, update your stupid protocols! I don't watch kid's stuff anymore! Put something better on, or I'll cut your face off and juggle with it!"

"Golly, Ayesh! That isn't a nice thing to say!"

"Oh, go fuc-"

"Anti-swear mode activated! La la la la la la la la la la la la la la!"

Ayesha now remembered why she seldom watched TV in her bedroom. She grabbed a pillow and threw it at the bear. However, gravity was on the bear's side. The pillow rippled through his body and fell back down on her face. This did little to improve her disposition.

"Don't you have another AI? Something that isn't a total loser?"

"Yes, but your uncle and aunt approved me as the most wholesome and suitable-"

"Screw them! Give me a better AI or I'll delete your files!"

"But-"

"Now!"

The bear blurred and flickered. Its body bulged outwards and morphed, until it settled into the shape of a walrus.

"Walruses are stupid! Try again!"

"Perhaps if you requested parameters..." the walrus said.

"Something cool!"

"We walruses often live in temperatures that-"

"Don't try to be cute! You know what I meant!"

The walrus blurred and reformed into the image of a handsome teenage boy with a gleaming white grin, strawberry blond hair, and the musculature of a stylized marble statue.

"Lame! If I saw a guy like that I'd stab him for being a douchebag."

"Understood. Enhancing and adapting."

The image flashed. The boy's face aged half a decade in a split-second. His hair lengthened and darkened into a splash of unkempt blackness. His jacket hardened into leather, studded with metal spikes. The offensive whiteness left his teeth. Tattoos inscribed themselves on his flesh. Jewelry took shape in his ears and eyebrows.

"I think I like this one," she said.

"I don't give a damn what you like, kid. Just tell me what you want or piss off."

"Put something on."

"Oh, that's nice and specific."

"Something I'll like."

"Oh, crap! Really? I thought you'd want me to put on a show you'd hate. Thanks for narrowing it down."

"You're kind of a jerk."

"Welcome to teenage sarcasm mode. Parameters: you."

"Put on something my aunt and uncle would hate."

"There's a rock concert on Drekchester. They're raising money for addicts."

"To get them off chems?"

"No, to buy them more chems."

"Let's see it."

The unicorns were flung into the ether. A new picture replaced them on the big screen. It showed a stage, filled with smoke and zapping laser lights. A Piscarian woman in leather garb stood in the midst of this spectacle. She held a guitar in her hands as though it were a weapon of war. Her fingers slashed across the strings, and she sang.

"Get out of my way, get out of my life, Out of my face or your balls are on my knife! Try to hold me back, make me deal with your crap? I'm not a Japanese schoolgirl for your tentacle wrap!

I'll do what I want, screw you and die! I'll do what I want, even get really high! Do what I want! Do what I want!

My parents tried it first, I told them to sod off, Think I'm gonna take it from a stupid wanker toff? Reckon you're better than me? Tell me what to do? Shoot you with my blaster till you're a puddle of pink goo!"

"She sucks, huh?" the AI said.

"She's awesome!" Ayesha said. "And she's right."

"Huh? About what?"

"About everything! Those jerks can't push me around. Screw the family business. I'm getting off this stupid planet."

"Good luck with that. How're you going to get out of here without anyone noticing?"

"Are you connected to the rest of the systems in this place?"

"Yeah."

"Then help me out, douchebag."

"Fine. A one way trip to the spaceport coming up. Just follow me..."

05:53, 9 November 2013 (CST)

"So I took some of my parents' stuff. You know, for memories and junk. Then I snuck out and went to the spaceport. And this piece of crap ship was there. Knew I should have gone with those pirates instead..." |-|

"The Gunmaster's Daughter"=
Marshal Roth," Susie said.

"So he's a lawman," Remmler said.

"No, that's just his first name."

"Oh."

They went into his cabin and poked around, their movements made instinctive by recent practice. Roth's room was far neater than Ayesha's -- though it was hard to imagine any chamber being less so, unless it had been hit by a tsunami.

"Sure he's not a lawman?" Remmler said. He picked up a six-pointed metal star and held it out to her. The words 'Red Roth' were written across its face in scarlet letters. "He has a badge."

"That's too tacky to be a real sheriff's badge. It's probably a souvenir from one of those Wild West style colonies."

Susie pulled open a drawer and sorted through piles of rough, hardwearing trousers. Between two of them she found a black leather object. She drew it out and showed it to Remmler.

"Funny," he said. "When Roth handed over that revolver of his, I thought he gave us the holster too..."

"Those were some mighty fine stories." The cowboy tilted his hat back, revealing a grizzled face that was more interesting than handsome, framed by a short black beard. "I reckon we've all got our money's worth tonight. If you don't mind, maybe I'll add one of my own. Seems the least I could do. Especially after this bourbon you gave me."

"It was my pleasure, Mr. Roth," Casper said. "But I willnae say no to another wee tale."

"I ain't met the devil like this gentleman, and the story of my first love isn't fit for any company that's got more class than a bordello. Can't even tell the story of how I plucked up the courage to leave home like the little lady did. For me that choice was taken right from me by triggers and bullets. But I've led a more interesting life than most. And I've met my share of folk others might want to hear about..."

05:59, 9 November 2013 (CST)

Marshal Roth looked up at the ceiling while the last chamber of his six-shooter special washed its burning contents down his throat. He set the glass beside its five siblings and blinked. It wasn't the first time, or anywhere close to it, that the world had changed itself between the first glass of bourbon and the last. It always became a little brighter, a little blurrier, and a little happier. But this was the first time they'd altered the universe enough to leave him staring at an attractive young woman with a cigar wedged in the corner of her mouth.

"Marshal Roth," she said.

"Ain't ladylike to talk with your mouth full. But yeah, I'm Roth."

She pulled the cigar out. Grey specks of ash and orange motes fell from its end, the remains of a miniature cataclysm. Some settled on her blue sweater. Others found purchase on the black webbing and pouches she wore, or on the revolver holstered at her hip.

"They say you're the fastest draw and straightest shot out of any unaugmented gunslingers in the system. That you even blew a cyborg's brains out in a high noon showdown."

"Stories have a way of making a man seem more than he is, but maybe that's true. You don't look like you're here to get your picture taken with the big bad cowboy though."

"I'm not. I want to duel you."

"Is that a fact? And what put an idea like that into your pretty little head?"

"Don't make fun of me, Mr. Roth. I'll put up a hundred thousand credits -- and they're yours, win or lose. Yours or your next of kin's. If you win, you can have my ship as well."

"Sit down."

"I-"

"If you want to discuss putting a bullet in my head or my heart, you'll do it civilized like. Sit down."

She pulled out a chair and sat at the table. Her right arm rested on the wood and held her burning cigar aloft. It hovered between them, an angry red eye.

"You may think we're backward folk around these parts, who'll step into the street and shoot a man or woman without so much as asking their name. And maybe some of us are. But I ain't one of them. So let's start there."

"Okay. My name's Jessica Atranx. You might have heard of my father, Gunmaster Duncan."

"So I have. A damn good fighter and an even better commander, so they say. Not the kind who'd go into bars looking for duels."

"No, he isn't. But I'm not my father. And I never will be, unless he agrees to train me. Do you know what the best gunman in the galaxy gave me for my tenth birthday? A doll. I wanted a gun, to be like him. He was supposed to teach me! But he gave me a doll! And he still thinks that way -- like I'm a child."

"Going back to him in a box is a mighty good way of hurting the man, if that's your aim."

"I'm my father's daughter, whatever he thinks. And I've trained almost every waking hour for years. No offence, Mr. Roth, but you aren't my equal. No one is unless they're so packed full of cybernetics that they're more robot than human. If we fight, I'll win. And he'll know what I can do."

"My mother taught me a lot of things, Miss Atranx. One of them was never to mess with a girl who has problems with her father. Mighty lot of good that bit of wisdom would have done me, if I'd heeded it before now. Doesn't mean it's too late though. I'm sorry, but I ain't interested."

"Then I'll make the same offer to every armed man on this planet, and I'll put them all down one by one. You aren't the only gunslinger with a reputation."

"You're fixing to get yourself killed, with a crazy notion like that in your head."

"You haven't seen me shoot."

"Tell you what... I ain't going to so much as contemplate stepping into the street with an angry little girl, no matter who her daddy is. Not unless I know it's a fair fight. But if you prove it to me..."

"I will!"

"Then let's go somewhere nice and peaceful, and see what you can do. But first... You recall what I said about a fair fight? Well, I've got six shots of bourbon inside me."

Jessica Atranx waved her cigar at the nearest barmaid.

"Bring me what he had," she said.

"That's a mighty tall order for a girl your age," Roth said, when the circular tray was put in front of her.

"Like I keep telling my father, I'm not a little girl."

She tossed her cigar into the air. It flew end over end, ascending towards the ceiling. Jessica downed the first shot and slammed the glass onto the table. The cigar fell, still spinning. The burning end landed in the glass with a soft hiss. She smirked and drained the other five glasses.

"You drink like a gunslinger, at least," Roth said. "Come with me."

"Cans? You shoot at cans?"

The two of them stood beneath a purple-black sky and its smattering of stars. Lazy little clouds of dust blew around their boots. In the distance was a fence, on which rested six metal cans -- their outlines faint and labels indiscernible in the gloom.

"We ain't fancy here," Roth said. "But we know what good shooting is. Reckon you could stand here and drop all six with that iron of yours?"

"Of course."

"Then let's see it."

Jessica took a deep breath. Her eyes flicked towards each can in turn. Then her hand twitched. The revolver almost flew into her grasp, and roared. Six reports echoed across the dusty field. Six cans flew away, cast out into the night.

There was a seventh bang. This time a scream followed it.

"I'll be taking that, if you don't mind," Roth said.

He blew the smoke from the end of his barrel, crouched, and snatched Jessica's gun. She clutched her right knee and moaned.

"You bastard! You goddamn cheating bastard!"

"I bet your daddy never would have fallen for that. And it ain't cheating when there are no rules. I never said we'd duel." He tossed her gun aside and reached into his duster's deep pocket. "Put this on the wound."

Roth tossed her a wound-seal pack. She stared it at and then at him.

"That's right. I didn't bring you out here to bury you in the dirt. Mighty hard work, digging a good grave. And you're in no condition to do it for me. Put that on."

Jessica glared at him, her eyes dark diamonds that never left his face. But she applied the pack.

"We're going to take another walk," he said. "Don't worry. I'll help you along..."

"That smell..." she said.

A foul odor assaulted them both. It was a vile, chemical stench that all but smothered the stink of rotting corpse flesh. Something bubbled in the darkness. Roth tapped the side of a tall metal pole set in the ground, and the lamp at its apex flashed into brilliance. It bathed the horrific tableau in light.

Jessica held her breath.

A dozen yards in front of them was a large square pit. Viscous green liquid seethed and popped inside it, along with a legion of dead bathers. Skeletal limbs and visages -- many still crowned by cowboy hats -- protruded here and there, some half-draped over the edges as though they'd tried to pull themselves free from the corrosive hell. Scarred and twisted birds hopped around them, ripping at tiny scraps of flesh with ruined beaks.

"Come here," Roth said.

He grabbed Jessica's arm and dragged her along, ignoring her struggles.

"No! No! Get off me! I-"

"I ain't brought you here to toss you in, if that's what you're thinking. Grant's mighty particular about who we throw in his corpse pit."

She stopped fighting, either because she believed him or because she'd accepted the inevitable. If Marshal Roth wanted her dead he could just pull the trigger and kick her body the rest of the way.

"You ever shoot anyone before?" he asked.

"I-"

"Don't lie to a man with a gun in his hand and a heap of dead at his feet."

"No. Never."

"Thought not. Shooting targets ain't the same. I don't care how fancy they are. Killing's no game. Look at them. Look!" He tugged her arm until she stared down at the grinning faces and clawing hands. "See the hole in that one's head? That's what a bullet does. Shot him down in the street, like he wanted to do to me. Like you wanted to do to me. Made a corpse, a widow, and three fatherless kids with the same bullet."

Jessica opened her mouth, words on her tongue. But she closed it again and gazed in silence.

"Next time you think about shooting a man, you remember this place. Because sometimes it's worth it, sometimes it ain't. But it's never a game. If you want to get back at your daddy, you marry a Blob Beast. Don't you dare go around putting good men and women in the ground because of it."

She didn't protest when Roth heaved her onto his shoulder and carried her to the town doctor.

05:59, 9 November 2013 (CST)

"That girl's come mighty far since then. But I reckon she still remembers that night, and the faces bobbing in the corpse pit."

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