Serial: The Adventures of the Sky Pirate, Comes the Watcher Watcher,, by Johne Cook
cally back toward Flynn. To my eye, it seemed he’d been waiting all day for this moment. The fishmonger’s joy was so contagious that the tentmaker tentmak er next to him also started waving, as did the netmender next to him. A flash of something went through the market square, and we all knew this was something special, a moment frozen in history for those who were lucky enough to be present at this odd event. Flynn looked gleefully at Baskins and slowly waved his left arm toward the square, revealing that the entire market was waving and chattering. Petty Officer Baskins’ knuckles were shaking, and I had a throwing knife in my right hand without thinking about it, ready to throw at the slightest opening, when Baskins suddenly removed his hand from the sheathe. He turned to Flynn and spoke in his sunniest voice of the day. “Oh, here it is. Welcome to the Academy...” Flynn beamed in victory victory.. Under his breath, Baskins murmured, “You’ll both wash out in the first week and I’ll still have a full years’ wages. That will be the end of that.” “You’re probably right,” said Flynn out of the side of his grinning mouth, quietly, waving cheerfully back to the fishmonger and friends, “but at least we can wash out on our own terms, and can say with a clear conscience that we tried our best at the Academy before returning home.” “Very well,” whispered Baskins. “But I will remember you.” “I’m counting on it,” whispered Flynn, and he winked in a very knowing way. Baskins cleared his throat. “Name?” he said loudly as he picked p icked up the scroll. “Cooper Flynn, Fly nn, two ‘n’s,” ‘n’s,” he said calmly, waving
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Mr.. Pitt forward. Mr As they passed, Baskins reached forward and grabbed Flynn’s arm, and almost got a blade in the throat, oblivious to my screaming reflexes demanding the removal of this threat. Flynn was mine to deal with, and I didn’t take kindly to amateurs. Baskins murmured, “What’s this big galoot to you, anyway?” Mr. Pitt brushed past, breaking the hold by simple incidental contact. “He’s my cousin,” rumbled the man mountain as he passed. Flynn shrugged his shoulders, grinned, and grabbed his rucksack from a bush around the corner. The Petty Officer bit the gold laurel as Flynn passed. “Welcome to the Academy,” he said out loud. Then, under his breath he said, “…for as long as you last.” I returned the knife to my sheath and melted into the darkness. I’d have to find another time to make my move. I was secretly exulting. He’d gained entrance. He was the one, and he was mine to dispense. # I found a place where the wall was only twenty feet and scaled it easily. I silently fell in behind them as they walked and talked. Rather, Flynn did the talking. “That was some fast thinking back there, ‘cousin,’ said Flynn. “I’m impressed.” Mr. Pitt looked at him out of the corner of his eye as if to suggest he thought that sentiment ought to be the other way around. “I’ve never met a sailor from the Reach before. This is a great honor for me.” Mr. Pitt’s eyebrow twitched.
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Serial: The Adventures of the Sky Pirate, Comes the Watcher Watcher,, by Johne Cook
Flynn babbled on. “If there’s ever anything I can do to thank you, let me know. I’m in your debt.” Mr. Pitt stopped and stared at him, his look inscrutable. Flynn bounded back to his side, took his arm, and steered him forward to the freshie barracks. As they approached the front, Flynn said, “Let me take this one–I insist.” He stepped forward and sketched a casual naval salute at the dorm keeper seated at a desk just inside the open half circle entrance. “Plebes Flynn and Pitt reporting for rooming assignments, we’re not on the list, Petty Officer Baskins will vouch for our commissions, no—don’t bother to get up. Mr. Pitt will take our belongings to the assigned place and I’ll be back as soon as I check in. Pleased to meet you, looking forward to knowing you better, it’s great to be bunking in the ole…”—he looked at the sign over the entrance— “…Captain Jake.” He danced back and nudged Mr. Pitt toward the entrance, handing him his rucksack. Then he leaned forward and stage-whispered “Oh, and watch out for this one—talked my ear off on the way here.” He winked and clapped cla pped Mr. Pitt on the back and pantomimed shooting a flint pistol at the dorm keeper. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and sauntered off into the night, whistling. The dorm keeper looked up at Mr. Pitt from his parchment. “Is he always like that?” Mr. Pitt looked wistfully after Flynn and then returned his hi s attention to the keeper. keeper. He shrugged and stooped to enter the barracks. The dorm keeper snickered once and returned to his paperwork. #
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I found my opportunity not half an hour later outside the women’s barracks. There was a vinecovered lattice over the path leading behind the barracks and extending along the wall. A female plebe walked back toward the barracks, when a figure stepped out of the shadows. I felt my opportunity was close-at-hand, and loosened my weapons for quick access. I can be very quick when I need to be. “Well, Darden, what a coincidence. Welcome to the Academy. I wasn’t aware you’d be following me here,” here,” he said with a casual salute. Former First Mate Walenda Darden stopped dead in her tracks. We knew who she was, of course. Considering her mission, it would mean one thing if she recognized him, and another if she pretended that she didn’t. “Cooper Flynn?! What are you doing here?” she snapped, and that answered one question as far as I was concerned. I backed off and enjoyed the show. Flynn smiled expansively. “Why, the same as you,” he said. He sketched a jaunty salute and sauntered off, whistling off-key. Her eyes narrowed and she gritted her teeth. “I highly doubt that,” she muttered, and then scurried back to the barracks. I was torn on whom to follow, but she wasn’t my primary concern, so I followe followed d Flynn. As it happens, I made the right choice because the opportunity I’d been waiting for presented itself almost immediately. Flynn sidled up to the end of the path where the trail took a sharp leftl eft-hand hand turn back into the Academy proper. He stopped and started feeling the wall there as if he was looking for something, his back to the path. I kept to the shadows and was glad that I had
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Serial: The Adventures of the Sky Pirate, Comes the Watcher Watcher,, by Johne Cook
oiled my blades. I soundlessly removed a throwing knife and measured the distance, the windage, the force I would need for a clean strike. I cocked my arm and flipped the knife around so I was holding the blade. The figure detached itself from the shadows and stealthily followed. Flynn turned and stepped around the corner. The figure started to slide around the corner after him. I struck. The blade whirred through the air. The handle caught him in the temple, dropping him to the ground, stunned. I made it to his feet in three strides, sheathed the knife, and dragged him by the heels back into the shadows from where he had come, revealing a doorway hidden in the vines. I stepped outside and waited as Flynn retraced his steps, his head cocked. So he had heard something, but didn’t know what. Good. A little extra caution would stand him in good stead in this place. As for Petty Officer Baskins, I had delivered enough of a message for our first encounter. He would rue his decision if there was another. another.
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I was ready to go. Leaving my body in a concealed location, I took up my wings and flew west into the prevailing wind.
Look forward to Chapter 9 of The Adventures of the Sky Pirate coming up in Issue 18, March 15, 2007
Johne Cook Johne Cook is a Technical Writer and a long-me space opera fan. Johne is an Overlord (Co-founder and Editor) of Ray Gun Revival magazine.
# I was convinced that we had our man. I needed to return to the island and make the announcement, spread the word, start the planning in earnest. We had much to do and little time to do it. I scaled the wall again and started walking back to the grotto. I resisted the temptation to rush—the Academy didn’t need any more unexplained rumors at my expense from this watch. I took my time getting to the coast. Once there, I walked briskly down the stones to the secluded grotto.
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Memory Wipe Chapter 8: The Price Paid by Sean T. M. Stiennon The Story so Far: Three years ago, Takeda Croster woke up in the city of Greendome on the colony world of Belar with no memories, no connections, and no possessions aside from the clothes he was wearing and an Imperial citizenship card with his name on it. He worked at the Silver Sun casino, ignored by most, until one night when he began to manifest superhuman powers in a fight against two corrupt cops: enhanced senses, great strength, lightning-fast lightning-fast reactions. He seriously injured both cops. Strange dreams and a feeling of great exhaustion followed the encounter. Now, Takeda has left Belar, fleeing from the corrupt police official Captain Brian Vass. His only companion is a mysterious Lithrallian hunter named Zartsi who saved his life in the jungles. Together, the two of them hijacked a ship and landed on the planet Freedan, in a rainy industrial city called Freesail. In Freesail, Takeda acquired powerful new enemies: Nathan Clane, head of the city’s largest gang, and Lashiir, a mysterious assassin from a species virtually unknown in the Empire. He also learned that his powers seemingly arise ari se from a mysterious set of organs, vessels, glands, and bone structures apparently unique to his body. Now, barely escaping Lashiir, he sets off for the remote colony world Nihil aboard a ship piloted by the Rover Esheera Nii. He seeks a man called Cramer Orano ,who might know more about his mysterious body, who might even know what happened in the years before Takeda’s memory...
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akeda sank back into the embroidered cushions of a chair shaped like an inverted turtle’s shell. The thing sagged underneath his weight, and he thought he could hear its legs creaking, but Esheera hadn’t commented on his sitting in it. The rest of the room’s room’s furniture didn’t look much sturdier. He lifted the plastic bowl to his lips and tilted it gently, gently, letting a gulp of thick soup flow into his mouth. The spices bit his tongue and gums, but once their heat had faded a little, the liquid just tasted bitter and somewhat sour. He gulped it down and took another sip. At least it was hot and filling—and fresh. No more of Zartsi’s canned fish. The Ixlu Seer ’s ’s living space consisted primarily of this one room, a lounge about twenty by fifteen feet. Brightly colored carpets covered the floor and walls—Takeda hadn’t yet seen a glimpse of bulkhead anywhere in the ship. The designs on them could have interested him for hours: beasts with sweeping wings and bulbous gas pouches, soaring through surreal cloudscapes and perching on mountains as thin as needles. He saw smaller figures, too, and could only guess that they were Vitai. Some of them rode the beasts. Even the fluorescent bulb on the ceiling was covered with a globe of painted glass, tinting its light red, pale blue, and warm yellow. yellow. Zartsi sat cross-legged on the floor and slurped his soup, eying the room with suspicion. “Is starship or redweed den?” he hissed. Takeda shrugged. “It’s better than bare strome.” Zartsi drained his bowl and ladled out another helping from the heated pot sitting in front of
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Serial: Memory Wipe, The Price Paid, by Sean T. M. Sennon him. “Perhaps, but bu t is excessive. I would prefer few hides, horns above door, good painting maybe.” Takeda smiled. “She’s a Rover, not a hunter.” “I know.” He returned to his soup, and Takeda watched him guzzle it for a moment before returning to his own bowl. The Lithrallian had a massive appetite, but he had been quiet for past two hours, saying very little and only then when Takeda prompted him. He hadn’t bothered to thank Esheera after she bandaged the slash below his eye. Takeda shuddered. If Esheera had come only a few seconds later they might both be dead. She swung down the ladder from the cockpit now, her bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and beaded hair jangling. A tight smile showed on her puckered mouth, overshadowed by a pig-nose Takeda could have wedged his fist into. “We’re on our way out of the system—no trouble from Orbital Security.” She loped over to the pot and peered in. “Ah, left me some gyssi. Just enough to wet my stomach, but better than nothing.” She picked up a bowl and ladled what was left of the soup into it. She emptied it again in half Zartsi’s time, smacked her lips, and switched the pot off. “You boys set for a while?” “Yeah,” “Yeah, ” Takeda Takeda said. s aid. “Th “Thanks.” anks.” “Good, because Esh isn’t cooking again until we’re between stars. The Seer doesn’t fly itself, particularly not in solar space.” “Do you need...help with anything?” She fluttered her wings flaps. “I’ll have my servants do everything. There’s five or six of ‘em below, every one a strapping male who worships the ground I spit on.” It took Takeda a few seconds to notice her smile, hidden in the creased red flesh of her face. “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’” “Smart boy,” she said. “Actually, you can take this pot over to the galley and wash it for me. Put it wherever there’s space.” Takeda nodded and picked the pot up. Flakes of red and yellow spice clung to splashes of dried
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soup on the device’ device’ss metal sides. Esheera set her bowl in it, then clambered back up the ladder, humming a gentle tune. As he left the room for the Seer ’s ’s tiny cramped galley, he realized that not once during their exchange had Zartsi even looked at Esheera. He had just stared into his bowl, claws latched tightly around its sides. Takeda could only wonder if the Lithrallian feud with the Drava somehow included Vitai. #
The Despair had only been on three voyages since its construction and consecration: first, to carry Lashiir out of the Dark Sphere and onto the Drava world of Calarodi; second, to carry him to one of the world’s moons, a notorious hive of crime with a substantial human population where he had further refined his knowledge of Imperial culture and also acquired most of his servants, including twin hit men named John and Thomas. Its third voyage had ended on the windswept flats outside Freesail, in a tomb sliced out of a rocky escarpment, concealed from prying eyes by a heavy camouflage net, and defended by an advanced Intelligence with full control of the ’s weaponry. Despair ’s Lashiir stepped through the opening in the netting and into the darkness surrounding his ship. The cut stone was cold beneath his talons. Just enough sunlight slipped into the cavern to show him the Despair ’s sleek lines, lin es, sculpted from metal stained deepest black. It had waited here for years, like a scorpion in its burrow. “Thomas,” he called. “Stay back until I call.” As Lashiir advanced towards his ship, he noticed something white on the deep gray stones of the cave—bones, he realized, splayed out upon the floor. Only the lower jaw remained of the skull—the rest was scorched fragments and ash. Some homeless being, Lashiir guessed, had entered the wrong cave. Lashiirr paused a meter away from the skeleton. Lashii skeleton. He still had at least sixty centimeters before
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Serial: Memory Wipe, The Price Paid, by Sean T. M. Sennon entering the danger zone, but it was better to be cautious. He almost thought he could hear the ship breathing in the slow rhythms of hibernation, waiting for the one who could wake her. The assassin gathered a slow breath into his lungs. He released it with equal languor, letting the air curl through the passages of his beak and emerge as a long, low flute. The tone didn’t have to be precise, but it did have to fall within a certain narrow range. Success. An answering noise—equally low—drifted from the Despair , and a blue light snapped on in the darkness. Lashiir advanced, stepping over the skeleton, and grasped the knob illuminated in blue. He turned, machinery rolled, and the Despair ’s ’s ramped hissed open. The ship remained dark. He fluted again, there was another whirr of machinery, and then a second light turned on. “Thomas,” Lashiir called back, “Come.” “Come.” The human entered the cavern as Lashiir ascended the ramp. It was good to feel the cool metal of the Despair ’s ’s decks resonating beneath his talons once again. There was a gentle, almost inaudible music every time he touched the ship. From the ramp three passages ran through the ship: one into the hold below, another forward to the piloting station, and a third back to cabins, a meditation chamber, and a head and galley designed for Clordite use. Lashiir turned towar towards ds the cabin. Pale blue lights illuminated his way way,, but deep shadows lingered in the corners. It made a ship stronger to have only a minimum of light. The pilot throne was among the reasons Lashiir would have chosen this thi s craft over the best, fastest, most powerful human vessel. Its metal seat and arms, harsh from a distance, melted around his limbs, sliding over the geography geography of his carapace. A special cushion waited for his head. He lowered his hood and pressed his skull back into the cool metal, which flowed around it. Screens and controls flared into life around him, showing the familiar script of Low Clordash. He didn’t need to glance at them to know every
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aspect of the Despair ’s ’s status. Information flowed into his head, and all at once he had a complete picture of the ship. The experience was one Lashiir couldn’t describe to anyone without every verbal intricacy of Deep Clordash—there were no numbers, lines, screen data. There was only knowledge , immediate and complete. He felt the ship’s full fuel nodes, felt its cold propulsion systems and laser batteries. He even had an inventory of the hold’s contents: a few scattered cases of possessions and weaponry he had never unloaded to his new home. Outside, Despair ’s ’s sensors gave him the dry chill of the cavern, the darkness, the sigh of the wind outside, the bones of whatev whatever er unfortunate human had found his way into the ship’s hole. Despair remembered the chill, remembered the heat of energy in its weaponry, weaponry, and the stench of the man’s flesh. Lashiir fluted gently. His eyes remained open, and he saw Thomas as a smudged reflection in the cockpit’s smooth metal. “Yes?” he asked, and realized he had forgotten to speak through his translator. translator. “Thomas?” “ Thomas?” “Is...is there anything I can do, lord?” “Stow your gear in the second cabin. You will share it with John—I trust you’ll be able to minister to him?” “Yes, lord. lo rd.” ” Lashiir had spent some time deciding what to do with John—his injuries were severe, and it would be weeks before he could be trusted in combat. Even Even then, he would never be as capable a warrior. Lashiir had considered killing him or simply cutting off his tongue and fingers, then leaving him on the streets. But he had been a loyal servant for years, since Lashiir had found him and his twin on Calrodi’s moon. His loyalty would only increase if his life was spared, and it might even inspire him to compensate for his mutilations. “Good. Heziah and Tsuke will occupy a second cabin. The others will remain undisturbed. undisturbed.” ” “Yes, lord. lo rd.” ”
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Serial: Memory Wipe, The Price Paid, by Sean T. M. Sennon “I require no assistance in piloting. Be silent and disembark when I give the order.” He saw the reflection bow low and barely heard Thomas’ footsteps going away down the passage. From here, it would be a brief voyage to the abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Freesail where John, Heziah, and Tsuke were waiting, along with everything Lashiir had decided to bring with him on his journey—weapons, food, necessities, the cushion from his shrine, locked within three strome boxes which only he could unlock, and whatever items from his home in the Dark Sphere he could fit into Despair ’s ’s hold. Lashiir started the ship’s engines on their warm-up cycle. By this time, the explosives he had planted in his shrine should have detonated, shattering the old concrete, those things he had left behind, and probably a substantial bite of the surrounding buildings and the street. His shrine had to be destroyed along with everything else. For a moment, he wondered if some of Nathan Clane’s men had died in the explosion. Roger’s head should have reached Clane’s hands by now, and Lashiir knew he would have acted quickly. But perhaps not—it had only been five hours since Takeda Croster and the Lithrallian had left Freedan’s atmosphere, bound for for Nihil. Lashiir felt a great sense of liberation as the warm-up cycle continued. He had become stagnant here, in this waste heap of the galaxy, working for petty criminals and taking prey which rarely presented any challenge or excitement. Now he had a pair of beings worth pursuing. He felt the stars spreading themselves before his talons. Lashiir didn’t take trophies, but he did write the name of those victims he considered worthy in a book bound with nightstone with pages stretched from fanglurker tongues. He would scribe Takeda and the Lithrallian with his finest ink. Then he would consider where to take himself next. Perhaps Imperia, where Tsiika might drink the blood of the most powerful humans in the
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Empire. Someday, perhaps, he might even return to the Dark Sphere in triumph. When his book was complete and when he was strong enough to face the warrior who awaited him there. #
Five hours after leaving Freesail’s atmosphere, Takeda looked up from his reader to see Esheera clambering down the ladder from the cockpit. She waved to him and smiled, then sat down on a brocaded cushion ten feet away. She produced another reader from her sweater, turned it on, and started flipping through something. Takeda returned to his own device—borrowed devic e—borrowed from Esheera, of course. Her books were eclectic, most of them written in Vitai, but he had found an article on Drava traffic regulations which had been interesting enough to pass the time. Zartsi was elsewhere—probably in one of the Seer ’s cramped hammocks, sleeping or just brooding. “Are we out of the system?” “Mostly,” Esheera said. “I’m going to have to do some course corrections in another hour, make sure I calculated about a hundred different things right. Let me tell you one thing, Takeda: if you don’t like math, don’t get within a siistri’s snout of any cockpits. They drilled me on the stuff since I was old enough to focus my eyes and it still confuses me.” She read for another handful of minutes, then looked up again, cocking her head. “Mind if I call you Tak or something? Takeda’s a little awkward— three syllables. Not that I should complain.” Tak. Only one person in his three-year life had ever called him that: Sherri, the serving girl at the Silver Sun. His only friend, in i n some ways, until he had met Zartsi. Now that she was called to mind, he realized that nearly all his memories of her were happy ones. “Uh...sure. If you want to.” “Not if it bugs you or anything,” she said, smiling. “No. No, it doesn’t.”
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Serial: Memory Wipe, The Price Paid, by Sean T. M. Sennon He didn’t remember liking it when Sherri had used it, but now he felt...as if he would almost prefer to hear it from Esheera. Like a reminder of what little past he had. “All right, Tak. Do you like music?” She had turned off her reader and hidden it somewhere in the cushions surrounding her seat. He stared for a moment, and said, “I...don’t really know anything about it. Can’t play any, if that’s what you mean.” “But do you enjoy it?” “What I’ve heard, sure.” She reached underneath another cushion and pulled out an oblong case carved from some dark wood. Small, flashy gems studded it in an erratic pattern, colored everything from deep purple to pale red. He also saw carvings mirroring the patterns on the rugs around him. Esheera deftly undid twin locks, and opened the case to reveal an instrument that looked like equal parts yellowish wood and gleaming silver. She picked it up from its woven lining, her fingers slipping easily around a central shaft. A row of metal wires, the longest one near the shaft, ran away from it along two jutting sweeps of silver. “I like to play when I’m leaving on a journey. This is a wingwire—a sheedaalo in the Rover tongue, but no one’s going to test you. This,” she said, tapping the instrument’s core, “is hollow, and advanced play involves snapping the wires against it. I’m not quite that good yet.” She placed the instrument’s silver-shod heel between her crossed legs and folded her leathery wing-flaps around the rest of it, so that one hand held the strings close and another far out. She placed the instrument’s top beneath her chin. “You “Y ou don’t mind? ” “No. I’m curious.” “Good, because if you did mind, I’d just tell you to shut up.” She smiled as her knobbly fingers swept across the gleaming wires. A low note swept through the lounge, with an odd metallic jangle different
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from any of the canned music Takeda had heard while patrolling the Silver Sun Casino. Other notes followed, some fast, others slow. Occasionally she would rap her knuckles against the instrument’s core, making a loud clanging sound. She incorporated it into the string melody at what sounded like l ike odd moments to Takeda, Takeda, but he had admitted he didn’t know anything about music. After maybe a minute of playing, Esheera began to sing in a voice that was surprisingly high and clear, given the gruffness of her speaking voice. It took Takeda several seconds to notice that the words were Imperish. The song was about darkness and stars, about birds singing in trees beneath the moonlight. Takeda stopped paying attention to the lyrics and lay back, simply enjoying the music. Esheera’s voice faltered sometimes, or she fumbled her playing, but she was good enough to make the experience pleasant. She sang another song without pausing, this one in what must have been a Vitai language. It incorporated unusual snorts and grunts along with high-pitched vowels, gentle hums, and harsh consonants. It was difficult to tell where one word ended and another began. Esheera stopped at last, rapping on the wirewing’s core three times. She put it back in the case without ceremony, ceremony, spun the locks, and slid it back under its cushion. “That was good,” Takeda said, smiling. She shrugged. “Thanks. I’m just hoping it roused your Lithrallian friend—I’ve got a few words for him.” “Success, Rover,” Zartsi hissed. Takeda spun to the see the Lithrallian crouched to one side of the ladder leading below. He could see white bandages through the rent in the breastplate of his leather armor. They looked fresh. “Good sleep, dear?” she said. “Until howling woke me.”
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Serial: Memory Wipe, The Price Paid, by Sean T. M. Sennon She smiled. “Sleep always make you grumpy?” Zartsi growled wordlessly. Takeda suddenly felt like it would be a miracle if these two got to Nihil without attacking each other. “Or,” Esheera said, expression reverting to serious, “is it the Rover’s price I demanded from you?” Zartsi’s head snapped up. His eyes were burning as they locked with Esheera’s tiny black ones, and Takeda saw his right hand caressing one of his ivory daggers. Esheera tensed. “What will do if no pay?” he hissed. Anger seemed to be garbling his Imperish. “I’ll spend the rest of the trip cursing at you, doctoring your food, waking you up at strange times, and put you out the airlock if you complain.” Takeda saw a ghost of a smile on her lips, but the expression had no warmth. Zartsi’s Zartsi’s shoulders tensed further. “All right, Lithrallian,” she said. “I know you don’t like it. But the Rover’s price needs to be paid by anyone who gets aboard my boat, especially ones who pay as little you did. did.” ” She held up her hands and shook her head, as if clearing her thoughts. “Here: I want my price paid now. I like to know who my passengers are before we spend the trip together, not after. But I don’t expect anything I’m not willing to give myself, so I’m going to tell you my story—right now. You’re going to sit through it, then you’re going to tell me yours, then Tak’ll take his turn, and then you two can eat something and sleep. Deal?” Zartsi bowed his head again. When he spoke, his voice was so soft Takeda could barely hear the words. “I do as promise.” “Good,” Esheera said. “Then let’s get started.” She cleared her throat, a sound like a car starting up, crossed her arms over her chest, and started, “I was born to Eshmauk and Raidi of the Nii thirty-six Imperial years ago—no, I don’t mind
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telling you my age. Human women are weird with that.” Her bracelets jangled as she spread her arms. “My brothers were Hiirtan and Gazako, my sister Miluura. I was youngest. Gazako died of wretchpox when I had five years, and Miluura when I was seven, leaving only a son and daughter to my parents. “I grew up aboard the Long Walker , an old barge that spent most its time orbiting a moon that the Empire has never bothered to give more than a survey tag. We had some hidden hydroponics farms on its surface, and grew more food aboard the ship itself. The elders taught me the songs and history of my people, our script and language, how to run a ship and navigate among the stars, and how to fight with everything from knives to the hotchoker I used on your Clordite friend.” So she knew what Lashiir was. The fact surprised Takeda, but Esheera continued without pausing: “I learned the woman’s arts from my mother: cooking, sewing, weaving, nursing. I also worked in the farms and harvested water from the moon’s ice caps. When I was fourteen, my father apprenticed me aboard the Shaanis , a Rover merchant ship captained by Triisto Laan. I worked as an engine monkey, took the burns and grease for the older Vitai, and ate whatever was at the bottom of the pot. I spent five years aboard the Shaanis , and Star Watchers know it toughened me up. Any muscles I’ve got today I earned then. “I also met a male—Jaggo Laan—and when my apprenticeship was over, my father gave him permission to marry me. I went with him to the Laan homeship, bigger and newer than the Long Walker , and lived with him for three years. I’ll spare you the details about what a man he was.” A fond smile crept across her face. It faded as she continued. “Anyway, one day he decided he was going to go into business for himself— become a merchant and buy a ship where we
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Serial: Memory Wipe, The Price Paid, by Sean T. M. Sennon could raise our family. He had been saving money, and with my dowry and a gift from his parents he had just enough. He left the Laan ship to visit the nearest shipyard, buy a craft, and come back for me. I was...I had a little one in my belly, then, so he didn’t want me coming.” She crossed her arms again, hard enough to crease the fabric of her sweater. “Three weeks later, the ship came back without Jaggo. Pirates had overtaken it—humans, I think, maybe a Drava or two. They hadn’t been planning to kill anyone—just take cargo, money, whatever they could—but Jaggo...he didn’t want to come back with his pockets empty. So he tried to kill ‘em. Knifed one of them through his hamstring, then pulled his hotchoker and torched another one before the captain blew his chest open.” Takeda didn’t think the Vitai had tear glands, but he could see that her wing-flaps had darkened somewhat, and there was a slight tremor in her voice as she spoke. “The pirates put his body out the airlock—not actually too much different than a Rover burial, but they cut him up first. The damned pirate captain kept his ears.” She paused for a moment, took her breath in, and said, “The child was born prematurely two weeks later. It died in my womb a few days after the news came.” Her eyes went to the floor, staring at the carpets’ weaves. She seemed to gather strength from the images of the lost Vitai homeworld. Another deep breath, and she turned her head so that the bead-knotted strands strands of hair were visible. “A gray bead in every strand—for mourning. Back then every one was gray, and all my bracelets and earrings earrin gs were plain iron. I stayed like that for three years, with my family. I almost tore my father’s eyes out when he suggested I find another mate. “Anyway, I shipped out eventually aboard a merchant ship from another clan. Five years. I ate the worst food and saved every Silver I could out of my pay. Eventually, between that, money from the Nii clan, and some more money from
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my husband’s family, I had enough to buy an old scow which I spent months fixing up. The Ixlu Seer . The name is another long story—I’ll tell it sometime if you like, dears, but I’d prefer not to waste more breath on it now. To wrap things up, I’ve had the Seer for ten years now. She’s been through a lot of repairs—I had to tear the engine apart and build it back up with mostly new parts a couple years ago—but she’s still dragging me around. I even installed some weapons, although they’re nothing too special.” She let out whatever air remained in her lungs in a long sigh. “T “ To finish off, I’ll tell you that there hasn’t been a single blackstar day when I haven’t thought about Jaggo. I just recently wondered what he’d he’d think about me going to Nihil. Probably be joking about getting sand in his hi s nose.” nose.” She smiled again, more broadly than before, so that Takeda could see a flash of the tiny, sharp teeth buried deep behind her lips. He couldn’t help but smile in return. He also felt a twinge in his gut—if she expected that kind of narrative from him, she would be disappointed. He didn’t have anything interesting to tell her before that night at the Silver Sun when his powers had first manifested manifest ed themselves. “Anyway,” Esheera said, “that’s pretty much it. I could give you a few stories about my time with the Seer , and they might be interesting enough to just barely keep you awake, but I’m not going to bother. I’ll just tell you that...ever since the news came back, I’ve wanted to kill pirates. The best way to do that would be by joining the Imperial Hunter Force, but they don’t let Vitai in there— never have, never will—so...well, I’ll probably fly the Seer until she breaks down, and then find another ship.” She shrugged. “It’s not too remarkable. It’s a big galaxy, galaxy, and I’m not the only widow in it. I just try to do what I can with my life as it is, and I hope I’ll have to chance to smoke a few pirates for Jaggo someday. Thanks for listening.” She smiled at Takeda, and turned an equally
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Serial: Memory Wipe, The Price Paid, by Sean T. M. Sennon warm expression to Zartsi. The Lithrallian had barely moved during Esheera’s narration, narration, and his hi s expression still looked as if it was carved from stone. His eyelids were half-hooded, but Takeda couldn’t read the Lithrallian’s expression well enough to tell whether he was angry or simply bored. “Did you...” Takeda started, then decided against what he had been going to say and continued with, wit h, “You’ll have to tell tell me more about Jaggo sometime. He sounds like a great man.” “Thanks, Tak. I appreciate that.” Zartsi’s Zartsi ’s gaze gaze had dropped to the carpeted carp eted floor. floor. “How about it, Zartsi?” she asked. “You going to give Esh what you promised her?” His hands clenched and unclenched, slowly, as if he were stretching them for combat. When he jerked his head up his eyes burned with fierce energy. “Yes,” he hissed. “But I promised to you—not Takeda. He not hear.” Esheera’s smile faded to a frown. “How long have you two been traveling together?” Takeda answered, quietly. “Just a few weeks.” “And he hasn’t told you anything?” Zartsi’s eyes gleamed menacingly, but Takeda said, “Just that he used to live in the City of Golden Ascension on Lithrall. That’s about it.” Esheera nodded and said, “As you wish, Lithrallian. If we go up to the bridge and you go below, Tak, our friend shouldn’t be in any danger.” Zartsi stood, mutely, mutely, his head nearly brushing against the room’s ceiling. His hands reflexively hovered near his daggers. Esheera turned away, rattling her beaded hair, and clambered up the ladder to the cockpit. Zartsi followe followed, d, slowly. He gripped the rungs and pulled his feet off the ground. At that moment, his expression softened slightly, and he made eye contact with Takeda. “Please,” he said, “go below. You...cannot hear.” Then he vanished vanis hed after Esheera. Eshe era. Takeda Takeda started to say something, but silenced himself. He sat for
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a long moment, wondering if they would notice his listening underneath the ladder. Maybe he could summon his enhanced hearing and listen to every word from down in the hold. He shook his head, disgusted with himself. Eavesdropping would be a bad way to repay the being who had saved his life more than once. He moved over to the hatch leading downwards. He heard the mutter of Esheera’s voice above him for a moment, and heard it fade as his shoes hit the hold’s floor. If anything, the hold was more spacious than the living area above—three hammocks were strung along one wall, one sagging from Zartsi’s recent use of it. Further back he saw crates and boxes, some sealed, others open and full of what looked like junk to him. Even here, Esheera hadn’t let the bulkheads remain bare, although the hangings were plainer and less common. Between them the metal was painted a dull blue color that had cracked in places. Takeda hadn’t realized how tired he was until he lay down in the hammock farthest from the hatch and felt his head sink into the pad at one end of it. The cloth was soft and firm, supporting his weight surprisingly well. Even his curiosity about what Zartsi was saying, what he was so ashamed of that he couldn’t even reveal it to Takeda, didn’t keep him from falling asleep within a minute. # The nightmares came, as they always did after his powers rose to the surface. They were more chaotic than ever, now—a kaleidoscope of shadow, blood, flame, and a fierce yellow color that flashed across his mind in i n streaks. It ended with an image of a spinning saw, hovering just between his eyes. He didn’t know whether that was what woke him, but he rolled out of the hammock screaming, sweat coating his skin, and landed on all fours on the deck. “You all right, Tak?” Esheera asked. He glanced
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Serial: Memory Wipe, The Price Paid, by Sean T. M. Sennon up to see her standing a couple feet away, arms crossed. He panted for breath and sat down. Sweat dripped into his eyes. “Yeah. Just nightmares.” She nodded. “Anything “Anything I can do to help?” help? ” “I...I don’t think so. How long have I been asleep?” “A little over an hour—just while I’ve been talking to your friend. I wanted to hear your story, but if you’re not up for it, I doubt another night will make it go stale.” Takeda scratched his beard and tried to blink the drowsiness out of his eyes. “Sure. I’d prefer not to...not to sleep again for a little while.” Esheera jerked her head upwards. “You want to sit up above?” “No,” Takeda said. “Here is fine. Can I...can I just ask you a question?” “Sure. Ask me two, if you like. Three if they’re short ones,” ones,” she said, smiling. “Can you tell me what Zartsi told you?” She scrunched up her nostrils slightly and shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, but he might kill me if I did, and he might even have some justification for doing so.” Takeda nodded and dropped his eyes to the deck. “I just don’t understand why he couldn’t tell me. I mean, I haven’t known him for that long, but we’ve been through a lot. He’s saved my life.” She scratched her nostrils with one hand and said, “Tak, I can’t tell you what he told me, but I just want you to know that Zartsi respects you a great deal. I think that’s part of why he doesn’t want you to know.” Takeda opened his mouth, but Esheera shushed him. “No—I’m not going to answer questions about that. But I think you can be sure he’s your friend.” “That’s good to know,” Takeda said. “Now I’ll... tell you what I can, about myself.” He crossed his legs, took a deep breath, and began his story.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Next month...
Pg. Chapter 9: Orbit over Nothing
Sean T. M. Stiennon Sean is an author of fantasy and science con novels and short stories with many publicapublica ons under his belt. His rst short story colleccollec on, Six with Flinteye , was recently released from Silver Lake Publishing, and he won 2nd place in both the 2004 SFReader.com Short Story Contest and the Storn Cook Razor-Edged Ficon Contest with his stories “ Asp Asp” and “ The The ,” respecvely. “ The Sultan’s Well ,” The Sultan’ Sult an’ss Well” has been published in the anthology Sages and Swords. Sean’s short story “ Flinteye’s Flinteye’s Duel” was published in Ray Gun Revival , , Issue 01. Sean’s work tends to contain lots of acon and adventure, but he oen includes elements of tragedy and loss alongside roaring bales. A lot of his work centers around connuing char acters, the most prominent of whom is Jalazar Flinteye ( Six Six with Flinteye ). He also writes tales of Shabak of Talon Point (“ Death Death Marks ,” in issue #9 of Amazing Journeys Magazine ), Blademaster (“ Asp Asp ,” 2nd place winner in the 200 SFReader.com Contest ), and others who have yet to see publicaon. Sean loves to read fantasy and science cc on alongside some history, mysteries, and historical novels. His favorites include Declare by Tim Powers, the Memory , Sorrow , and Thorn trilogy by Tad Williams, Stephen Lawhead’s Song of Albion trilogy, and King Solomon’s Mines by H. Rider Haggard. He has reviewed books for Deep Magic: The E-zine of High Fantasy and Science Ficon , and currently reviews books at SFReader.com.
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The Jolly RGR Up next for Ray Gun Gun Revival, Issue 17
Flinteye and the Crystal Spear by Sean T. M. Sennon Jalazar Flinteye and his ‘bot partner, Axten, are hired to protect an ancient spear that serves as both a source of power and a bone of contenon among feuding warlords.
The View From the Shotglass Floor by Michael Ehart Everyone has at one me or another wanted a “do over”. But what if your second chance makes things worse than they were already? Would you have enough sense to leave bad enough alone?
Carbonville, Part Two by John M. Whalen Jack Brand struggles to survive among his allies, much less his enemies, in Carbonville.
Serial: Deuces Wild, Chapter 9, “In the Lap of the Gods, Part Three” by L. S. King When the roof caves in, who will survive?
Featured Artist Serial: Jasper Squad by Paul Chrisan Glenn You won’t believe what happens next.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Issue 16, Feburary 15, 2007