I’ve maintained a schedule for most of that year, with posts every day and Netflix every Friday. I want to move the thing forward to its next logical step, but that requires time and energy. Most of the last couple weeks, I haven’t had the time. Today? I just don’t have the energy.
I’m taking a break here, guys. Not a long one, not more than a couple days. Just stepping away from pushing myself to hit these deadlines as much as I have. I’m not quitting, and I still have big plans for the new year, I just need to throttle back a bit for the next, say, 48 hours or so.
So, no ICFN this week. New fiction tomorrow will be available in the post at first, and I’ll update the Free Fiction page when my moritorium on blogging ends.
I hope everybody has a safe & happy New Year celebration, and I’ll see you on the other side.
I was admittedly a little surprised when I saw how well Greek myth and tragedy translated into non-Greek settings like science fiction. I wanted to try and experiment with other mixes, taking classic stories and putting them in different genres.
Norse myth and Westerns felt like the next logical attempt.
The Eddas are full of manliness, with epic tales of heroes facing down monsters and often paying a dear price for being who and what they are. And many Old West tales bring us images of stalwart, stoic men standing in dusty roads, eyes narrowed at an opponent, unwilling to back down even if it means a bullet for their trouble.
It felt, to me, like a match made in Asgard, and the result is The Drifter’s Hand.
You can read the text below, or download the PDF here. Either way, read, comment & enjoy.
Spoiler
For a good portion of the late 1800s, the Arizona boom-town Midgard was every bit as prosperous and populous as her sisters. She never quite grew to the proportions of Tombstone, though, and as the new century approached she began to shrink. There was talk of the railroad going through or near the town, but local lawlessness kept the Santa Fe people from really committing to any sort of construction.
The stranger approached Midgard on a strong but tired horse, his hat half-tipped over his eyes, his beard disheveled and lips cracked from the road. His boots were caked with mud and his duster had more than a couple holes in it, some natural wear and tear while others clearly indicated the paths of past bullets. He seemed heedless of the looks he was getting from Midgard’s locals as he rode into town, his horse unerringly heading for the nearest trough of fresh water.
As soon as his steed was positioned to wash away some of the dust from the road, the stranger swung down from the saddle, tying the horse to the nearby hitch. Removing one of his gloves, the man bent to the trough and drank some of the water himself. Flicking some droplets away from his beard, he turned and headed in the direction of the saloon.
His spurs tapped against the wooden floor. The mid-afternoon crowd in the saloon barely numbered a dozen, roughly half of them at or near the Faro table in the corner. The man behind the cards, a well-groomed gent with a dark waistcoat and thin mustache, glanced up at the stranger before declaring the player to his right the winner. The stranger removed his hat and approached the barkeep.
“I’d like a room, if one’s available.”
“Ain’t seen you ’round here before,” the barman observed as he placed a shot glass on the bar and produced a bottle whiskey. Seeing it, the stranger nodded. “You just passin’ through?”
“I’ve been on the road quite a while. Not sure if my last stop’ll be Tombstone or further west.”
The barman nodded, pouring the drink. “Well, there’s a room available for the night, if you want it. Ten dollars to occupy it, and that entitles you to breakfast in the mornin’.”
“Sounds like a good deal.” The stranger was rummaging under his duster for his money when the saloon doors swung open again, permitting a stocky man in a widebrimmed hat to enter. The sash around his waist, the band at his arm and the kerchief tied around his neck were all the same color, the red of blood pumping from a gaping wound.
“Oh, horseshit.” The color drained from the barman’s face.
“It’s Tuesday, Dwight,” the newcomer bellowed. “Fenris wants their money.”
“I don’t have it all.” The man behind the bar, his hand shaking, produced a modest iron box with a handle. He opened it and pulled out a small wad of bills. “The rooms ain’t been full all week and not many people been stoppin’ by…”
“Stuff it.” The newcomer snatched the money from the shaking hand offered to him, and quickly counted it. “This is all? What about that city slicker in the corner?”
At mention of the corner, the crowd around the Faro table scattered. The man who’d been dealing raised his eyebrows at them.
“Looks like he just lost most of his profit,” he observed, not looking at the newcomer. “I already paid Dwight for this week.”
The newcomer slammed a fist into the table in frustration and grabbed Dwight by the lapels. “I oughta break your face. You holdin’ out on Fenris? You know that ain’t smart.”
“I’m sorry! I’ll have it tomorrow!”
“Tomorrow is when Fenris comes through here and burns this stinkin’ waterin’ hole to the ground!”
The sound of a gun being cocked echoed through the saloon. The newcomer’s eyes slid to his right, towards the barrel pressed to his temple. The stranger set down the shot glass with his right hand, the left occupied with gripping the Colt Peacemaker.
“I think now’s a good time to leave,” he told the newcomer.
“You lost your marbles, stranger? This ain’t your concern.”
“I plan on sleeping here. If you and whomever this Fenris guy is plan on burning the place down while I’m sleeping in it, I’d say that damn well makes it my concern.”
“Fenris ain’t one guy. Fenris is a force of nature! It’ll sweep through this town like a plague outta the Bible!”
“Well, you can tell Lucifer all about it when I send you to meet him. Which’ll be in 5 seconds if you don’t haul ass.”
The newcomer’s face slackened, his eyes flicking between the hard countenance of the stranger and Dwight’s disbelieving expression. At the fourth second, he swallowed. “This ain’t over.” He backed away from the gun, and then shook a fist at Dwight. “This ain’t over!”
“It is for now,” the stranger said. “Disappear.”
He did. Dwight poured the stranger another whiskey.
“Nobody’s stood up to a Fenris man for months. You must really not be from around here.”
The stranger knocked back the shot. “Mind telling me who or what Fenris is?”
“Wolves of Arizona.” The voice came from the man behind the Faro table, who stood and walked over to join the stranger at the bar. “Thieves, bank robbers, kidnappers and murders. Just the worst sort of cowboy. Most of ’em just wear the red sashes. Fenris folk go the extra mile with those red kerchiefs and armbands of theirs.”
“Heard most of the cowboys were down near Tombstone.”
“So they are, stranger, so they are. One for me too, Dwight.”
“Right away, Mr. Frey.” Dwight produced a second glass, cleaning it quickly to pour the dealer his whiskey.
“Needless to say,” Frey went on, “you’ve made yourself an enemy, and one that won’t easily be placated, Mister…”
“Tyr. Jim Tyr.”
“Pleased, Mr. Tyr. Arthur Frey, at your service.”
“You can just call me Jim. Mr. Tyr’s my father.”
“In that case, Jim, why don’t you call me Art?”
“So why are we playing poker now, instead of Faro?”
Art shrugged. “I like changing the game. I call.”
Jim rubbed his trimmed beard and considered his hand. Three threes wasn’t a strong one but it wasn’t bad, either. He didn’t fold. The locals at the table did. Art turned his cards over, showing a straight. Jim leaned back and gestured to the pot.
“All yours.”
Art smiled a bit and raked in the winnings as Jim turned back to his supper. Dwight had waived the fee for his room earlier, and after coming back from a bath and shave, Jim had found a plate of warm food waiting for him, also courtesy of the barkeep.
“I hear you ran off one of the Fenris boys.”
Jim stopped in the middle of slicing a bit of chicken with a dull knife.
“He was hassling Dwight and threatening to burn the place down. I’m sleeping here tonight. Didn’t want to wake up on fire.”
“An understandable concern, stranger, but most folk around here don’t want to piss off the Wolf.”
Jim looked up. The man standing over him wore a dark patch over his left eye and the star of a United States Marshall.
“They aren’t afraid of you, I take it?”
“They know I can’t be everywhere at once. And when I’m gone they think it’s fun to shoot my deputies. Always have plenty of witnesses to say it was self-defense or some such, though. Everybody’s afraid of ’em. They, on the other hand, don’t seem to be afraid of anything.”
“They should be. Every man’s got the same blood, same skin, same tendency to die when shot or stabbed.”
“Now there’s a pitch-black observation.” The Marshall leaned on the bar. “Where are you from anyhow, Mr. Tyr?”
Jim bristled. “Back East. Grew up around Arlington.”
“You fight in the war?”
He looked at the Marshall. “Yeah. Did you?”
Before the Marshall could answer, the doors of the saloon burst open. Three men walked in, all wearing the red of Fenris. Dwight ducked behind the bar and the music stopped.
“Odin! Where is he?”
The Marshall turned. “Right here next to me, Luke Hundr. And you ain’t taking him tonight.”
Luke stalked towards the table, his two cronies in tow. Art made a move to stand, but Jim shook his head. He stepped away from the others and hooked his thumbs in his gun belt.
“You looking for me?”
Luke scowled. “Hear you pulled a gun on my man Butch.”
“Butch was shaking down Dwight for money he didn’t have. He threatened to burn the place down. Since I’m sleeping here, I asked him not to.”
“You’ve got it wrong, stranger. Butch wasn’t going to do a thing on his own. WE will burn this place down. We put up the money for Dwight to open this little establishment, and if we want to burn it down since he can’t pay us, we’ll do just that.”
“Not in city limits,” Odin said. “You got a permit for this land, Luke? if so, you’ll want to evict Dwight and foreclose.”
Luke waved a hand dismissively. “That takes too long. I want my money or my land. If I can’t have one I’ll take the other.” He smirked at Odin. “And I know you got a hangin’ to be at tomorrow, Marshall. Got that nasty murderer Surtur locked up an’ ready to swing. Wouldn’t want to miss that, would you? Been chasing him, what, ten years?”
Odin’s eye narrowed and his mustache curled around his face in a frown. Luke looked past the Marshall at Jim.
“Tomorrow, you meet me out in the street or I burn this place down with you in it. Got it?”
Jim crossed his arms. “So you and all of your boys can shoot me at once? I didn’t fall off the stage yesterday.”
“It’ll just be you an’ me. We’ll settle this.” Luke smiled unpleasantly and tipped his hat to Odin. “Have a nice trip, Marshall.”
The Fenris men left in short order. Jim rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Regretting pulling that gun on Butch?”
“I don’t do regret, Marshall. I take it he’s met men in the street before?”
“Many a time. Like I said, always plenty of witnesses saying the deputy or other poor sod drew down first. They say Luke’s got a sense for traps. Any time more than a couple of my men have been waiting for him to show, he doesn’t.”
“And I gather Luke won’t be showing up alone.”
“Probably not.” Odin patted him on the arm. “Nobody’ll think the less of you if you’re gone before dawn.”
“And leave them to burn Dwight’s place down? No way, Marshall. I’m not letting a mongrel like that run me out of town, and Dwight’s place is better standing and unscorched.”
“I have to agree.” Art Frey had resumed shuffling the cards, but wasn’t paying much attention to them. His eyes were on the men discussing the showdown. Music was playing again and people were going about their business. “This is our town, Marshall. It doesn’t belong to Fenris.”
“Art Frey, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” Odin looked the gambler over with his good eye. “Siting here behind your cards for months not doing a damn thing about these hooligans. Why now?”
“They never threatened Dwight like this before. It’s be a very lean time. He hasn’t had lodgers, nor I many punters. Dwight and I got a good partnership going. I don’t want to see it end in flames.”
“Do you even own a gun?”
“Matter of fact, I do. Damn peculiar Henry rifle. Most people find it’s too heavy in the barrel or the stock, but if you know her balance and how to use it, the damn thing very nearly aims itself.”
Odin looked back to Tyr, who shrugged. The marshall then ordered three whiskeys, drank with the men and replaced his hat.
“I need to see to Surtur’s transportation. We’ll be gone before dawn. I wish I could delay but the judge is eager to put this on in the books. Good luck, gentlemen. You’re gonna need it.”
Odin left the saloon. Art turned to Jim.
“I hear you served in the war?”
“51st Virginia. You?”
“I’m a Massachusetts man, myself.”
They drank their next shot of whiskey in silence.
The horse at the hitching post turned to Jim, as if to ask a question. The drifter saw the look, knowing what it meant.
“I don’t know what I’m doin’ out here, either.”
The dawn broke over Midgard, painting the town and the surrounding parched lands in pinkish reds. The stagecoach with Marshall Odin, his prisoner and deputies had already rattled out of town. The sound of hooves brought Jim’s attention back to the street ahead of him. Around him, the signs of the shops swung in the morning breeze. The large sign for the livery stayed in place, dominating the second floor of the barn on the north end of town and sheltered from the wind.
Jim stepped away from his horse, hands held at shoulder height. He didn’t want to get shot before Luke Hundr had a chance to get off his ride. Eight men on horses came around the corner and down the street. Jim frowned.
“I’m here like we agreed, Luke Hundr.” He waved his right hand. “My gun hand’s empty. I thought you said it’d be just you and me.”
Luke smirked as he swung down from his horse. The other Fenris men stayed mounted, and Jim saw one of them was Butch, the beefy face under the wide-brimmed hat leering at him. Nobody else was out in the street or even near windows Jim could see. That was probably a safe bet on their part.
Without a word, Luke drew his pistol and shot Jim. The impact of the bullet half-spun the drifter to his right and sent him to the dirt. Jim had been shot before, which didn’t make it sting any less, but helped him fight down the sense of panic that always came with it. He saw his right hand, ruined, pumping blood into the dust.
“I told my first lie when I was six years old,” Luke told Jim as the hooting from his men died down. “I ain’t quit since then.”
“Yeah, well. I may not have the experience you do, but I ain’t always a hundred percent truthful either.”
Luke cocked his head to one side, leveling his pistol. “Really? Do tell.”
“For one, I ain’t alone either.”
From behind the livery sign came a loud crack. Butch was taken right off the back of his horse, a hole opened up in his chest. The others’ mouths opened in shock and Luke turned to see what’d happened. That was his mistake. In a flash, Tyr grabbed the pearl handle of his Colt with his left hand, drew the gun and fired. His shot caught Luke in the shoulder, spinning him fully towards his men. Jim rose behind him, the wide eyes of the mounted Fenris men on every move he made.
“For another, I’m a southpaw.”
The second bullet shoved Luke to the ground, his skull shattered from the impact. Tyr, his right hand at his side and streaming blood down his leg, aimed his gun at the next Fenris man. When another tried to draw down on him, the Henry rifle made itself heard again, dropping the offender. The remaining Fenris wheeled their horses, and two more were shot down as they rode for their lives.
Jim sank to his knees. He holstered his gun and raised his right arm with his left hand, trying to slow the bleeding by elevating the wound. Art Frey appeared beside him minutes later, the Henry rifle slung over his shoulder. His clothing was still somehow immaculate, despite having to climb into the trestle of a stable in the dark.
“Here, Jim.” Art handed him a flask, which Art discovered was full of single malt scotch. He nearly coughed when it hit the back of his throat. The gambler helped him to his feet. “Let’s get that hand looked at.”
“Whatever hand I’m holding next, Frey, it’s going to beat yours. I’m feeling pretty damn lucky today.”
Art chuckled. “I’ll take that bet, Tyr. Now, let’s make sure you don’t bleed to death before I take the rest of your money, too.”
I fancy myself a writer of speculative fiction. Sure, I’ll write non-fiction articles, read & edit the work of others, even toil in fields completely unrelated to writing. But my first and foremost desire is to use my grasp of language and imagination to provide an escape for people looking for new worlds in the pages of a book. I’ve put some fiction up here before, but it can be hard to find them and they aren’t necessarily the best I have to offer.
Every couple of weeks, I’ll put a new story up there. Sometimes it will be exhumed from the early days of the blog, sometimes it’ll be completely new. But it will always be free.
This week, I’ve edited and am re-presenting The Jovian Flight. Enjoy.
Blizzard quietly announced the winners of their 2010 Fiction Contest mid-October. I wasn’t among them. So now, I can give you fine folks my entry, The Haunting of Pridewater. It wasn’t good enough for Blizzard, but maybe someone who passes this way will enjoy it.
You must awaken. Time is running out.
One of the sundered bulkheads on the battlecruiser’s command deck slid against the deck plates, causing a grating noise as it moved. The hand that pushed it aside flickered as if it struggled to remain in existence. The survivor pulled himself free of the wreckage, only to immediately collapse. A secondary explosion deep in the spacecraft’s drive section nearly drowned out his soft groan of pain. It was the only human sound being made throughout the ship.
Human.
“I heard you the first time. Shut up.”
He tapped the side of his helmet, trying to get some sort of response from his hostile encounter suit. After a few attempts, he yanked the goggles off and tossed them away. He had no idea how badly he was hurt, but as far as he could tell, he was the last living terran in the combat zone. Acrid smoke carried the stench of burning flesh and wiring through the battlecruiser’s wreckage. He shut off his personal cloak, trying to conserve his power. The suit would try to patch him up, but it was only a matter of time before the zerg were all over the crash site like freeloaders at a Mar Sara barbeque.
Indeed. As I said, time is…
“And I said shut up. Get out of my head, while you’re at it.”
My withdrawal would not help either of us. I am Melponia, advance scout of the protoss. I observed the approach of your task force and the defense mounted by the zerg. You did not stand a chance.
“Well, ain’t you just a big ol’ ray of sunshine.”
He rolled over onto his back and pushed himself up against the wall. He tried to get a better idea of his wounds, examining them in the light cast by the fires and guttering light fixtures of the command deck. His left leg lay at an unnatural angle with the rest of his body, a dead weight of seeping blood and pulverized bone. The suit was putting painkillers into his bloodstream, but being unable to use the leg would make escape difficult. He tasted blood in his mouth and felt nauseous. His insides felt like a bag of broken glass. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, tried to remember his training.
“I’m a ghost,” he said, “and I still have a job to do.”
You are in no condition to do battle.
“If I didn’t know better I’d think you were my mother haunting me from beyond the grave. Are all prote dames such nags?”
I don’t know. Are all human males stubborn, sarcastic and rude?
“Most of the ones I’ve met, yes.” The ghost sifted through the wreckage and found his C-10 rifle. The magazine had been smashed,and it only held a single canister in its chamber. It was an armor-piercing round. It would only deter one assailant. Two, if one stood directly behind the other and the one in front was smaller.
“What do you want, anyway? I’m assuming you didn’t come here just to chat with me.”
I did not. I am, as I said, an advance scout. We detected the warp rift that brought the zerg to this planet and observed the staggering rate at which their hive has grown. By the next rotation, they will overwhelm your colony.
“Fifty thousand people live on Pridewater. There’s no way we can evacuate all of them in time. They’ve got a few personal defense weapons, nothing to hold back a major zerg attack. It’ll be a massacre.”
They are not my concern. You are.
“Now, why am I such a concern to you?” The ghost struggled to stand, keeping his hand on a broken console to steady himself as he slung his rifle. “I ain’t prote, and I can’t be sure you are, either. This could be some zerg trick.”
The response was a harmonious burst of ancient music. Behind his eyes, he saw soaring spires, glowing pylons and sparkling cityscapes. Just as he was realizing just how awestruck he was, there was a flash, and it was all on fire, the music becoming a mournful requiem. The vision faded, and he touched his fingers to his eyes. The tears on his fingertips caught the light from the fires nearby.
Such things are part of my memory, and that of every protoss. Such things do not exist within the imagination of the zerg.
The ghost shook his head. The music stayed with him, faint background noise behind the crackling of fires and groans of fatigued metal.
The wreckage is unstable. You must make your way aft if you wish to survive.
“You still haven’t told me why you care so damn much.”
The last time one of your potential fell into the clutches of the zerg, the Queen of Blades was born. Another catastrophe of that magnitude I will not allow.
“Then nuke the site and be done with it!” The ghost pulled himself along the console towards the hatch leading aft. He had to push the hand of a corpse out of his way. The body of the technician fell to the deck with a wet thump, impaled on a shards of her viewscreen, open eyes staring at nothing. “What’s with the ‘distant guiding voice’ routine? I’d think you were a field commander if I didn’t know better, safe and secure up there with your overhead perspective while the real men do the dyin’.”
I have not yet ascended to such a rank. And Pridewater will indeed be purified when the main force arrives.
The ghost stopped. “Define ‘purified.’”
Half a dozen protoss carriers will use concentrated weapons fire from orbit to eliminate the zerg threat.
“Takin’ the terran colony out with it.”
A small price to pay for preventing the spread of the swarm.
“I came here to save these people, not have tea with a protes while their homes are reduced to slag, their fields turned to glass.”
You will die with them if you do not accept my aid.
“Give me one good reason why I don’t limp into the zerg hive just to spite you.”
Very well. Give me your name first.
“I’m Ghost #24815, attached to the Nobunaga task force out of Waystation Bravo.”
No. Not the designation given by your masters. What is your name?
The ghost blinked. He’d made it as far as the ventral corridor, which sloped away from him due to how the battlecruiser had come to rest on the rocky terrain. He kept his grip on the safety rail, struggling to remember the name his parents had chosen. Or his parents, for that matter.
You can’t, can you.
“Shut up. Gimme a second.”
Let me help you.
“Wait-”
Before he could say or even think another word, she was fully in his mind. She pulled his consciousness away from the brokenness and pain of his body. He was adrift on unseen eddies, floating above a sea of shadow. A lithe form appeared nearby, peering into the darkness.
She turned her eyes to him and the feeling that washed over him defied description. He’d seen holograms of protoss before, clad in their eldritch armor and piloting war machines with designs terran analysts called “ill-suited for the battlefield.” Here, before him, he appreciated their esoteric beauty for the first time. Melponia held out her hand to him.
Your name awaits. Take my hand and I will help you find it.
He obeyed. In the next split second, darkness and noise enveloped him. He felt Melponia’s grip on him, but his sense were otherwise overwhelmed by the chaos. Through the maelstrom, he heard Melponia singing.
He recognized some of the images. Voices in the storm became familiar. Some of the memories were recent recollections of conversations with Bravo’s commandant or the Nobunaga’s captain. In addition to the familiar faces and words, however, were those that chilled the ghost to the bone.
They weren’t frightening in and of themselves. In fact, the face of the young woman smiling at him as they sat in a field under the stars was so beautiful to him he wanted to cry. The frightening thing was that, despite being unable to place the faces and voices in proper order or match them with names right away, he felt he knew them.
Searing pain. A sense of nauseating vertigo. Being forced to let go of something precious. These sensations came next, along with the memory of a cold metal table and a needle in his arm. Waking the day after the procedure, his head had ached horribly despite being void of all but his training and his duty to the Dominion.
The Dominion had done this to him. They’d stripped him of who he’d been. The final memory was of standing in the barracks bathroom at the Academy on Ursa, the morning before they’d wiped his mind. He remembered emerging from the shower and looking into the mirror, telling himself he was doing his duty, doing the right thing. He did not, however, the slender alien standing directly behind him.
Your mind is strong, terran.
“Lawrence.”
He blinked, and he was back in the darkened corridor of the Nobunaga.
“My name is Lawrence Crockett.”
It is a pleasure to meet you, Lawrence Crockett. I owe you ‘one good reason’ for taking you away from Pridewater, if memory serves.
“You’ve got at least one, considering all the stuff the Dominion made me forget.”
Crockett pushed himself to his feet and continued his painful journey towards the aft section of the wreck. The suit had run out of painkillers to dispense while he’d been out.
Indeed. The fear of another Kerrigan emerging from your ranks prompted your betters to geld your mind. Their work was sloppy and ineffective.
“Sarah Kerrigan was corrupted by the zerg. It wasn’t her fault.”
Yet it was her mind the swarm wished to possess. Bodies they have in multitudes. It is logical to assume minds with similar training would also appeal to their goals.
Crockett shook his head. “Logical or not, it’s stupid to let ‘em do this to us. It’s my mind. It doesn’t belong to anybody else.”
I can help you repair the damage, Lawrence. Reclaim all you have lost and show you how to become so much more.
“My mother called my Lawrence. My friends call me Larry.”
Am I your friend, then?
“I ain’t settled on that yet. You helped me kick down the doors in my head, and I’m thankful for that. But I still don’t know for sure what your endgame is here.”
I do not have an endgame short of taking you away from this planet prior to purification… Larry.
“Next thing you’re gonna tell me is that I won the lottery on Mar Sara.”
That world has already been purified.
“Yeah, I heard the reports. That’s what makes it a joke.” He shook his head. “We’re gonna keep talkin’, I’m gonna have to learn you a thing or two about humor.”
I am afraid we may not have the time.
“Spoilsport.”
At last, Crockett had arrived at his destination. The armory was a darkened cavern, some lights flickering in the vast compartment where the Nobunaga’s ammunition and that of any passengers was stored. He didn’t know if the zerg had any interest in non-biological equipment aboard, but letting them get the claws on terran nukes was a chilling thought.
“How close are the zerg to the crash site?”
A mere handful of kilometers. By terran reckoning, you have ten minutes before they arrive.
“That’s plenty.”
Groping for handholds as much as he could, the rifle slung across his back heavier with every move he made, Crockett made his way through the spilled racks of anti-air missiles and loose capacitors for energy weapons to the locked cage where the warheads awaited him.
My sublight engines do indeed have enough thrust to bring me close enough to-
“That ain’t what’s on my mind right now, Mel.”
A single light remained on steadily in the cage. He took hold of the door and pulled. Somehow, the lock had survived the crash. The door wouldn’t budge. The yellow and black labels warning of the weapons’ radioactivity seemed to mock him from behind the cage.
Crockett stepped back, brought his rifle down from his shoulder and steadied himself against the broken rack behind him. He knew that once he pulled the trigger, he’d be defenseless save for the knife in his boot and the brain in his skull.
What are you doing, Larry? Melponia’s voice was calm, unassuming.
“I’m afraid, ma’am, that I’m gonna have to respectfully decline your offer.”
The rifle kicked like a mule when he fired. The recoil almost dislocated his shoulder and he dropped the weapon immediately. He slid to the deck and came close to passing out, but he felt Melponia’s presence, her song washing away the pain if just for a few moments.
Remain conscious. If you fall into darkness you may not emerge again.
“You just might be the sweetest protoss in the cosmos, carin’ as much as you do.”
I bet you say that to all the ‘prote’s.
He smiled in spite of the pain. “See? That was sarcasm. You’re learnin’.”
Larry, you owe those brain-butchers nothing.
Crockett blinked, regaining his senses. His shot had torn the door almost completely off of the cage, leaving one hinge intact and obliterating the lock. Reaching up with his good arm, he pulled the door open and crawled inside.
“Nope, I don’t. But those kids, here on Pridewater, ain’t the brain-butchers. And I’m not gonna leave ‘em to die just to satisfy a grudge. The pencil-pushin’ bastards on Ursa will get what’s comin’ to ‘em, I’m sure. But I have to deal with what’s in front of me, namely fifty thousand of my kind who’ll end up a zergling’s lunch, or vaporized by protoss lasers, if I hop on your spaceship with you for a romantic getaway.”
Melponia scoffed. You presume much, if you think I find you attractive, human.
“Feeling’s mutual, sweetheart.” Looking at the warheads, a plan began to form in his mind. “Look, squishy lovely feelings or no, I do need your help. I need to know if this is going to work.”
It will fail unless I assist you. You cannot brute force your way through those defenses.
“Well, then.” Crockett drew the knife from his boot and began prying off one of the warhead’s access plates. “Guess I’m gonna need your delicate, feminine touch, then.”
It was five minutes later when the sound of rending metal washed through the battlecruiser. A dark, misshapen creature slid into the wreckage, mandibles clicking softly as it scented out its prey. The hydralisk slithered through the twisted hallways of the wreckage. The cerebrate compelled it to find the psychic signature glowing in the middle of the ruined battlecruiser like a newborn star. Moving over corpses and fallen bulkheads, the zerg warrior slid into the arsenal. Within the cage at the aft end of the room, Lawrence Crockett sat near some conical devices marked in yellow and black, not moving.
The hydralisk hissed triumphantly. It moved towards the inert form of Crockett. The terran didn’t respond to its approach. The cerebrate, exhibiting a sudden surge of urgency, ordered the hydralisk to prod the dark-clad human with one of its arms. The hydralisk moved to obey.
Now!
Crockett sprang to life, grabbing the extended zerg arm with his bad hand while his other stabbed the hydralisk in the chest with his knife.
The hydralisk screamed, Crockett too close to stab with its scythes. It tried to launch a volley of spines, but something was keeping the mental command from reaching the muscles. There was a presence in its brain, something other than the cerebrate. The hydralisk glared down at Larry, who was gritting its white teeth. A blood-covered circuit board lay nearby. Several wires connected the board to one of the nukes, while others disappeared into Crockett’s helmet.
I have it distracted, Larry. The cerebrate is in direct contact. Address it directly.
“I know you can hear me.”
The cerebrate recoiled in shock.
“Yeah. You. The cerebrate of Pridewater. I feel you here. I know you’re looking through this thing’s eyeballs at me. Well, I hope you enjoy the show. It’ll be the very last thing you see.”
Panicking, the cerebrate screamed at the hydralisk to slay the human. It struggled to obey, trying to back away from Crockett. But the human maintained a grip on his knife, staying close to the hydralisk.
It is trying to cut the hydralisk off, Larry. I will maintain the link as long as I can, but zerg minds are slippery…
“I’m wired into this nuke stockpile behind me. You know what that means? It means if my brainwaves stop, this whole place goes up in a white-hot flash. I figure I’m close enough to your hive that it’ll fry a good few of your little zerg friends. But then I thought, that ain’t near good enough.”
Crockett struggled to stand, unsteady on his shattered legs. He continued to stare into the hydralisk’s eyes, close enough for the hydralisk to smell the blood on he breath. The hydralisk knew its victim wasn’t going to live long even if it didn’t slay him as the cerebrate was now begging it to do.
“I figure, you’re hooked into the brain of every zerg on this planet. If I get hold of your mind, get nice and cozy with you, I’ll take your mind with mine when I die. Not only will I blast your hive to kingdom come, every single zerg on Pridewater will suffer such a psychic shock it’ll either drop dead on the spot or be left a drooling, quivering mess that any farmer’s son can finish off with an antique rifle. All I gotta do is find my way through this hydralisk’s excuse for a mind and ride its connection right to your consciousness. Are you scared yet? Do you zerg bastards even get scared?”
Larry, there is no more time. It will…
“I know it, woman. Get out of our heads while you can. I’m in too deep for it to stop me now!”
Larry…
“Melponia! Go!”
The hydralisk was overwhelmed with the orders, the urge, the need to kill the human. It roared, yanking itself back off of the knife and raising one of its scythes. Crockett, in spite of the fearsome sight that had caused battle-hardened marines to soil their power armor, grinned, his eyes lit with an intense mental fire.
“Ah-HA! Here you are, you invertebrate stinking alien son of a…!”
The hydralisk brought its scythe down into Crockett’s skull. The bone weapon sank through muscle and brain as the cerebrate suddenly changed its mind. Its last command had been for the hydralisk to stop. It’d been a cry of desperation, an unexpected and frightening turn of events. But now there was only silence.
The silence was filled with white light for a split-second, and then there was nothing.
Some time later, the task force appeared in the void on the outskirts of Pridewater’s star system. The half-dozen protoss carriers were loaded for bear, ready to cleanse the planet of its infestation, primed for purification.
Scout Melponia. Task Force Command awaits your report.
Melponia respected the fact that her commanders did not probe her thoughts. She was still processing all that had occured, the residual scans of Pridewater and the odd sensation her mind experienced when it turned to that planet.
“The planet is free of infestation, Command. Long-range radiological scans detected a nuclear detonation consistent with the stockpile of a terran battlecruiser. It is logical to assume that a survivor of the Dominion task force set off the stockpile to protect the colony. No zerg life signs remain on the planet. Preliminary data suggests some form of attack on the psychic level, possibly a sympathetic echo from so many dying at once in nuclear fire.”
This is an astonishing turn of events. How did this come to pass?
“The data suggests…”
We are no longer interested in the data. What do you think happened down there?
Melponia turned to look out the canopy of her scout vessel towards Pridewater. The sense was definitely still there, the impression left by a mind she had touched. It lingered there, quietly contemplative, a silent guardian.
“A ghost inhabits the planet of Pridewater.”
We do not understand.
“Pridewater is haunted, Command.” Her gaze didn’t break from the planet. “Haunted.”
As part of VACATION HELL over at Terribleminds, I submitted a little horror story called “Three Stars”. Now that it’s posted there, I can post it here as well. Enjoy!
She walked through the halls with his picture in her hand. She stopped the hotel’s staff and other guests alike. She struggled to keep her tone of voice even, despite the desperation of the last 24 hours that had pushed her to this point. Every person she stopped was asked the same question.
“Excuse me, have you seen my husband?”
They’d look at her, then at his picture, then shake their heads. Some of them uttered apologies and others just shrugged and told her “no hablo inglés”. She was getting that a lot. It didn’t surprise her, given they’d chosen to honeymoon in Mexico, but it was making her search more frustrating.
They didn’t find a lot of options. Despite both having jobs, being young and in entry-level positions meant that there wasn’t a lot of money to spare after bills and debt payments were satisfied. Still, both of them craved not only a honeymoon but one abroad. The meager savings they had put airfares and decent hotels both out of reach, leaving them with anything within driving distance. Adding in their truncated timetable due to a lack of vacation days, and that left Tiajuana.
“Excuse me, have you seen my husband?”
“No hablo inglés, señora.”
A cockroach chased its mate into a crack in the baseboard. The wallpaper was stained with water damage to varying degrees all around her. How this hotel had managed a 3-star rating in its reviews on Google, she’d never know. Maybe some of the employees here were savvy enough to bump up the hotel’s ratings and draw in more lodgers, but surely tourists like herself had been smart enough to point out things like the large rat in the emergency stairwell.
She thought she saw another rodent as she entered the lobby. The dark shape scurried behind an endtable, a solid wooden set piece that was slammed against the wall by the bellboy. She jumped at the sudden movement, and the bellboy looked up at her. There was no sympathy in his eyes, only a cold dispassion for his menial task. She backed away from him and forced herself to turn to the front desk.
“Have the police called?”
“No, Mrs. Frazier, they have not.” The desk clerk leaned on his meaty hand, sweat glistening on his skin. “I suspect the spring breakers and the soccer hooligans are keeping them busy.”
“Please, my husband’s been missing for an entire day. Surely someone out there’s seen him.”
“If they had I would have been called, and I would have called you right away. Just like I told you two hours ago, señora.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to keep bothering you. I’m just worried about him.”
“I know. I understand. So do all the guests who’ve come to me asking if you’re feeling okay. Nobody’s really complained yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Please, go back to your room.”
She nodded, thanking the desk clerk and tipping him. She walked back to her room feeling defeated. Then again, what had she hoped to accomplish? Was she really so certain someone would just recognize him out of the blue? She shook her head. She needed rest.
She found the door to her room already ajar. The housekeeping cart was outside. She pushed the door open to find the maid going through her husband’s wallet.
“Hey!”
As she moved into the room, she registered that the young Hispanic woman was holding onto a very specific card as she dropped the wallet.
“Mrs. Frazier!”
“What right do you have to go through my husbands things?” Frazier grabbed the woman by the wrist and glared at her, and then glanced at the card. It was his blood donor card, which had his blood type listed in bold letters. Frazier looked back at the frightened housekeeper.
She was about to demand an explanation when she felt something sharp jab her in the neck. She struggled to turn behind her to look, only catching a glimpse of cold, dispassionate eyes before everything went dark.
When she woke up, she was aware of being cold and of her side hurting like crazy. She moved her arm towards the pain and felt tiny round objects sliding around under her skin. Her fingertips touched her side, but instead of smooth flesh they found rough stitches. She moved her head to try and look down, and whimpered in disbelief.
She was naked, face-down, in a bathtub full of ice. The stitching was over a long incision on her side towards her back. Three knots stood out among the stitches, like tiny black stars against her white skin. Numbly, she tried to climb out of the bathtub only to collapse. She struggled to get a grip on the counter and hauled herself over the sink, where she promptly threw up. Gasping for air afterward, phlegm and spittle dripping from her face, she turned her eyes to the white piece of paper on the counter.
“Your kidney has been removed. Seek medical attention.”
She reached for the paper, but instead of picking it up it slid away from her towards the floor. It turned over in the air and she found her husband smiling back at her.
Sobbing, she picked it up. After a moment, she grabbed a towel from the rack. Wrapping it around herself she stumbled out of the bathroom and into the hallway. There was a water fountain by the door to the back stairs. She took a drink then shambled into the emergency stairway. The rat watched her with beady red eyes.
She came out on the first floor. She held the towel tight to her body as she stopped the first man she saw. His back was to her.
“Excuse me…”
He turned. Her eyes went wide. The picture fell from her numb fingers. The clerk at the desk heard her scream.
