Play It Casual

Walking the street, eyeing up the talent at corners, newspaper under the arm, gun at the hip: keep cool, shades hide the beady eyes, the smile keeps the lips from jittering, be cool. Be cool.

Voice leaps into my ear: Almost there buddy. Y'alright?

Bite my tongue, swallow my yelp; the earpiece is tiny, wormed right into my ear, out of sight. The voice should be welcome, should be calming: Kip, my partner, trusted friend, watching overhead, a sentinel in the clouds: ship cloaked, scanners on full. I know I'm a blue dot on his screens, my target's big and red, and the gap is shrinking real fast. Too fast.

My toes squirm; I push on. Pavement is bouncing the afternoon sun into my eyes: my shades bounce the light right back, but the heat is melting me, sweating me. Any minute now and I feel like my face'll melt off, and the word SPY!!! will blaze across my teeth.

Yup, I say, choking on panic. Round the corner, past the monitor-droids, he's sitting there on the steps, yo-yoing, laughing, spitting at passers-by.

Gunshot; left, I drop to one knee, blink, it's just an old-school car with a bust-up engine; I untie then tie my lace smoothly. Good hands, that's it, pretend, don't shake, good.

Up, my knees crack, up and walk. Streets are pretty empty. The odd laugh or shout or scream pops in the air. Everything mellows, fades. Everything but my target.

Hey YOU.

Second heart-stopper. My spine dances. My fingers tickle the bump of my holster. Behind my shades, my eyes are OO.

Turn; swivel. Keep it casual til sh!t gets actual. Always had a ring to it when I wrote it years ago. Now it stains my brain, makes me wince, as I rotate, smiling and look into the eye of a seven-foot tall killer. He's not subtle. He has a machine gun, and its dick is eye-level.

Whoa there. I'm a Brother. The smile cramps my cheeks. Gun, so close, grab it? Flip it up, flick off the safety toggle, then put a bullet through this bear's chin? Can be done. Maybe throw a shoulder in first; stagger him, then send him to hell.

But Enemy number One is behind. Probably watching, mildly interested. I'm one of many who faced down a gun on that bad bad man's street. Hence my mission. He makes this world a bad place. He's an infection. My gun is pumped full of cure.

A brother. All moustache and slick-back, frowns and grunts. Must top two-fifty pounds of dumb-ass. Gun in my face, though. Play it casual.

Yeah. Here, let me show you... I stretch a hand out, up, palm out, then guide it into the folds of my cloak of the Brothers of the One. His eyes flick down. My mirror-shades frown back. I pull out the Volume, show its gold-plated edge, and drive it straight into the bridge of his temple. Gentle crack: skulls are quite quiet when they split. Wetness: blood, brain matter.

He looks like a confounded cow as he stumbles back and falls ass first to the curb.

I, in a convenient flash of thinking-on-my-feet, snatched his weapon as he fell. Thirty bullets.

More than enough.

That was all thirty seconds, maximum. Enemy number one is gone, though. Probably into his fortress: a terraced home in a down-and-out street, the very street I'm on, surrounded by whores and slave-bots, straggler junkies and steroid junkies, heavies and heavy artillery.

I've got a submachine gun, a handgun, and the book that tells fairytales about an absentee father. I leave the book. No sense in lying. I remove the robes; they clung to tight to my armour. No spying, to waiting, no sweat.

Kill.

Faces blur by. Sirens wail. Ambu-levs scurry over to the dead sack of meat. I stroll on, confident now, metal exo-suit gleaming. I'm a knight of the round table. I'm justice incarnate. I'm The Man.

Steady, says Kip. Heart-rate's topping two-fifty.

Bio-meds, I insist, will hold me together. Scan the house.

A beat. Ten footsteps. Two gasps, one child looks at me and smiles. I smile back. It's a good day.

Thirty lives. Ten bots. A--Jesus, he has a trans-atomic bomb in there!

I freeze. Of course! QuanTech got wasted last week. Wasn't ever random. This laywaste's got a cunning plan.

Kip says nothing; I feel his worry, share it. Then: Pull out. Too dangerous, you know it.

It's one-way. Always was the plan. Besides, I've knocked on the door-

Get out! Now!

Bye Kip. I flick the earpiece away like an errant snot. Door opens; darkness and dampness waft through. I don't look at the face. I close my eyes, curl my finger, raise the gun, and pull. There's a loud chain of cracks; the gun jumps so hard my elbow hurts; BANG and there's two feet keeping the door open, soles up, soul gone.

In I go; subtlety unrequired. A string of screams and shouts. Epithets and hasty instructions: Run, damn you, kill him, aaaaggghhhh! Heard it all from these punks' victims. In I go. In I go...

All shiny inside, but dark. Floors clean but something smells. Light is far away in here. Cramped but retro-fitted with the top tech. Stairs at the end, screens inbetween; faces beaming from both. I shoot the tellies, then point my gun at the unshot faces hovering on the stairwell; legs frozen, I'm the headlights and they're the deer. I sniff their fear; good enough for them.

Kage, I say calmly. Where.

They point up, up up up and I realise why it's so damned dark: the ceiling's low: this building has an extra floor squeezed in real nastily. Bet Kage and the bomb are in there.

I run. Along the hall, up the stairs, the face---a hot girl gone nasty with drugs and drunk---screams and sees me shooting her five times in the belly but it's just her drug-addles brains going haywire. Pity attempts to invade my brain. Then I remember the junkie that raped my little brother all those years ago, and I shove past, almost making her nightmare a reality.

Past that wench and smack bang into the belly of the beast: Kage. Smiling, like me ten minutes ago, smile hiding a grimace. I gleam. I grin. I aim. I fire. Bullets hit the wall behind him. He keeps on smiling, while his holo-image flickers and ripples, dances and writhes, then returns to its original visual perfection.

Damn.

Kage's eyebrows raise, as does the hand with the glass of wine. Indeed. Bomb's long gone. Give you ten seconds....?

Nine seconds flat I'm out the door, running. The ground bounces under my feet. I'm spun by the shockwave, hurtling to land on my head, while the mouth of that awful house vomits fire and smoke and brick and bones.

***

Booby-trapped or remote-detonated: either way , he saw me coming. And... I dab at the cut on my forehead, accept a cup of tea from Kip, take a sip, ...he killed all those hookers. They were his bread and butter.

Kip sits slowly into his pilot's chair of the Aerion---his sky-ship, his pride and joy, and now our "getaway car". I was maybe wrong. Maybe those life-signs were faked. Maybe no-one died.

I nod. I think about the veined-up hollowed-out face of the girl I didn't save. I wanted to kill her on the stairs. Now I wish I had. I could still hear the screams, as she was pulled from the rubble, a limbless mess. Kip had not reached me, did not see her, it, that thing that banshee-screamed for her mamma, while I wept...

Maybe, I'm saying, voice echoey, like when your ears pop while you hurtle towards the earth in a jet-engine coffin. We know that Kage knows our movements. We thought we had him. He had us. And now we've lost him.

I ponder the trans-atomic bomb. I push the girl with the craters at her sockets away. Drown out the screams with thought of what that time-bomb could do. Mushroom clouds of anti-time ripping through the world. Unimaginable.

Kip's looking at me like he might slap me awake from a drunken stupor. Any ideas?

I smile. For the first time in a long time, it's genuine. Oh yes.

Star Trek

They came from nowhere and unleashed hell: five cruisers, long and sleek, built for war. They opened fire on the civilian spaceport. She cracked open like an egg, spilling her inhabitants. They screamed and choked and died in silence. The ships detected escape pods, picked them off one by one. One escaped their sensors, whisked its way through a nearby nebula, and got caught up in a sun’s gravity well. Its sole inhabitant sent a distress signal, wept and roared, slept, and in her sleep, she died, as the pod sunk into the heart of the sun.

Her cries reached out through the ebb and flow of subspace: a message in a bottle buffered by cosmic waves. It bounced off old satellites, wound up in the ear of a frowning half-human named Spock.

“We were attacked,” cried the dead woman, “and they killed...all of us. Couldn’t ID...” Static intruded, the effects of long-distance signals. She said another word, an alien word, and then her voice died off. Spock replayed it, then left his science station and stood staring out his starship’s viewport.

“Captain to the bridge.”

He watched Earth roll in blissful silence while his captain and friend stepped onto the bridge. “Problem, Spock?”

Nod. “I picked up a distress call.”

From the communications centre, halfway across the wide bridge, the comms officer Uhura shared his frown. “I’m not detecting any-“

“The signal is analogue,” Spock added, which only vexed Uhura more.

“Radio signals in space, Spock?” Kirk smiled warmly. “I told you we’re in Spacedock for five days, take some leave...” He walked over to Uhura. “Analogue signals, Nyota?”

She drummed her board, tweaked the booster, then grimaced and nodded. “Yes, Captain, picking it up now. I’m sorry, I-“

Kirk shook his head while Spock said, “It was pure chance that I found it, Lt Uhura. Radio signals are centuries old. I could not get the full message, but I know that you are more than capable.”

Uhura nodded her thanks. “Straightaway.” Their eyes locked, lingered, then she went back to business, while Spock returned his gaze to Earth.

Kirk hovered, stepped up close. “For a Vulcan,” he said gently, “you look pretty bothered.”

“The woman on the message said something.” He turned to his captain, and his eyes burned. “‘Rihannsu’.”

Uhura’s bright eyes flashed up at them.

Rihannsu. Kirk grunted, “Romulans.”

***

Scotty took a sip of whiskey, put his feet up on the bar and grinned. Five days shore leave. Three, really. The last two would be spent priming the Old Girl up for another five-year stint.

Sure I might as well enjoy the calm before the storm.

The barkeep leaned on the counter, said, “What has you in such a humour?” His smile matched the Scotsman’s; they were friends for too long, saw each other not enough.

“I love my job, Joey,” he said, “I love my ship, and my crew...but sometimes, you need a little distance to make the heart grow fonder.”

Joe nodded. “Wish I could say the same. Stuck here, no choice. Gotta feed the kids y’know?”

“All for a good cause,” he said, raising a glass. “To family.”

Joe grabbed a high-baller, poured a drop in, raised it to the roof. “To family and friends.”

Both knocked their drinks back—Scotty’s considerably larger---slammed the glasses to the bar, and grimaced.

Joe coughed and spluttered, somewhere inbetween he got the word “Liver” out, walked away to rub his eyes.

Scotty’s hip buzzed; he snatched up his communicator, flipped the lid, coughed, “Scotty here, go ahead.”

It was Kirk: “Mr Scott, gonna have to finish shore leave a little early.”

“Aye, Captain. Be right with ya.”

“Thank you, Scotty. Kirk out.”

“Kirk cracking the whip again?” Joe smiled, his cheeks still red from the whiskey burning inside him.

“Och, he’s a good man, our captain. Must have a decent reason to spoil my fun!” He leapt to his feet, surprisingly sprightly considering his girth, and threw on his overcoat.

Joe offered, “One for the road?”

“No roads where I’m off to, Joey. See you in five years.”

Joe saluted, and watched Scotty disappear in a transport beam. “Godspeed buddy.”

***


The young ensign strummed his board, checked all systems, then turned and said to his captain, “All departments check out, Captain. We’re ready to depart.”

Kirk slid into his chair. “Very good, Chekov. Sulu, departure protocols.”

Sulu, seated beside Chekov to the front of the bridge, nodded. “All systems are go. Cutting all moorings. Warp engines primed.”

On the front viewport, Spacedock gleamed—a gigantic ring of enclosures, into which Starfleet’s greatest ships harboured. Spacedock fell away, as did the blue Earth, and then all that remained was black space, white stars, and that repeating voice of the dead woman.

“All stations, this is the captain. I’m sorry your leave was cut short. You’re the best crew in the Fleet, and our mission is urgent. Our destination is Alpha Kitana system. A lot of good people died out there, and we’re going to get some answers.”

Rihannsu.

“Remember your training, trust your shipmates, and we’ll be home before you know it.”

Romulan ships, cloaking devices, the unknown...they didn’t scare Kirk, but he worried how many of his men were going to die. He always did. For good reason.

“ETA two hours, crewmen. Be ready. Kirk out.”

Sulu and Chekov looked to him. Spock gave a quiet nod. Uhura scanned the boards, always focused.

Kirk said, “Best speed to Kitana.”

The stars became swirling columns of fire, as Enterprise rushed off towards her fate.

Evac

I remember it well: me, my mom and dad all bundled into a shuttle and flown across town. I was six and small for my age, on my mom’s lap, peering through the shuttle’s slits for windows, watching bombs rain down on the homes. There was so much fire and noise. I worried my friend Tommy was dead. I wondered if he made it out, was on a shuttle like mine. I later realised, no one had a shuttle like mine. We were special. My parents were special. We were the only ones to make it out alive.

        The noise. Booms of bombs. The gush of twin ion engines blasting us towards Hub City. I’d never been, only heard of it.

        Mom had said One day when you’re grown up you can enlist, go to the Hub. See what we saw.

        She kept me up late at night telling me stories, so many stories of the wars, of how she patched up the soldiers, send them back out to keep the planet safe. Of giant Sentinel Ships, the size of cities, coming in for shore leave. Beaming men and women in bright white, grins gleaming, eyes bright with heroic pride. I’d be them. I’d be a Protectorate soldier.

        I looked past my parents, past the pilots’ seats, to the front window. The Hub was mushroom shaped and colossal. Black ants darted to-and-from: escape pods, defence droids, countless other ships and drones. It was hell but I didn’t know it yet. We flew in fast, scraped to a stop in a landing bay, and were dragged up stairs, into lifts, til we reached the central station, the Bridge. Me, mom, my dad, and two armed escorts. I couldn’t see their faces; they wore insect-like helmets. Later I would realise they were biobots.

        A man came up to us, turning away from the dozen or so chattering officers. He smiled widely, I remember how blue his eyes were. “You must be Ben.” He ignored my parents, looked right at me, through me. He offered a hand; I frowned at it. “Mom?”

        I turned and she was gone. So was dad. I looked to the tall smiling man, and said—nothing, because there was a terrible shudder, and the deck tipped sideways, and everything turned dark for a moment. I remember screams, and sparks, and a terrible burst of smoke from one of the walls. A man rolled to the deck, and when he pulled his hands away from his head, half his face came off. The tall man was not smiling. He was crouched by him, injecting something into the screaming man’s neck, and the injured soldier went still, his scream fading, while the rest of his face slid to the floor.

        I stood, frozen still, legs and arms numb. My heart kicked my little chest. Where were my parents. “Mom.” Where were they. “MOM!” What was going on?! “MOOOOM!”

        Fire and screams and death. Shuffled off, this time by the man who no longer smiled; the man with the silver hair, and crystal blue eyes. He looked ten foot tall, and he carried me the rest of the way, and he told me, “Don’t worry, son, you’ll be OK.” Lights flashed by as he hurtled down corridors, shoving past running soldiers, barking, “Out of the way.” Someone froze in front of us, his face a mask of blood; the silver-haired man stopped, took one arm out from under me, and shoved the bleeding soldier to one side; then off we went. I cried for my mom, while everything around us—the corridors, the deck, and the people---burst into flame.

        Dark now; though not completely. Cold air rushed around me, and I curled into the warmth of this strange protector. Protectorate soldier. I was tired suddenly, and my face was covered in sticky tears. He hushed me gently and brought me into the waiting arms of a giant and monstrous looking ship. I saw guns on its nose, huge engines, long wings; it looked like a pterodactyl, and it smelled like burnt metal. He lay me on a bed, and behind us five soldiers rushed on, carrying huge rifles, eyes wide. One shook violently. I watched him bit his lower lip until it bled. The deck heaved. Another cried, “Come on, come on!”

        My strange friend turned from his seat; I saw him through tears as I lay on the bunk; he roared, “Mouth shut, private, before I shut it for you.” He turned back and shoved his nav-sticks forward.

        The deck bounced, and daylight flooded the pterodactyl; we were sky-bound, free of the Hub. I watched the front window like I did from the shuttle; the Hub was trembling, blackened, spilling fire and men. Screams filled the air. The empty blue sky was filling up with hundreds of pillars of smoke rising from the ground. As the pterodactyl tipped its nose up, I saw the Hub topple and heard and felt a terrible boom. The Hub was destroyed, and even through the fear and panic, I remembered my mom saying it housed a thousand warriors at times of peace; ten times that during war. This was war, and most certainly, ten thousand were dead.

        But I just wanted my family back.

        Blue sky became flames; then black replaced it all. We launched into space,and as the stars became smears, exhaustion took hold, and as the ship leapt into hyper, I fell into nothingness, the screams following me.