But not this time.

Having landed near a warehouse in Drelliad she found it to be much like a Justicar prison on a Saturday night – it was easy to get stuck in one but once you are there it was difficult to get out.  Between Ord Mantell’s twin moons overhead and the explosions on the horizon, Tajqa found it easy to make her way to the edge of the Drelliad Spaceport.  There she saw the gun emplacements that Corso Riggs was talking about. Easily three stories high they looked more like missile launchers than anti-aircraft cannons.   They looked as if they could take down her light freighter from orbit, let alone upon takeoff.  The massive  cannons where indeed a marvel of modern engineering.  But as all good smugglers knew, the more advance and complex the technology, the easier it was for something to go wrong.  And unless Tajqa made sure something went wrong with the targeting computer, she was never going to get off this war torn rock.

As she neared the gun emplacement she could see sentries pacing on the far side of what appeared to be a haphazardly placed razor wire fence.  Using a monocular that Corso had given her she studied the guards through the intermittent flashes of light caused by the distant explosions.  They were carrying what appeared to be archaic slug throwing full-auto weapons, not dressed in any sort of a uniform.  It appeared that the separatist in this case where not well armed mercenaries but just some dock worker who had just about enough to pick up a gun and do something about it. Which, as far as Tajqa was concerned, made them all the more dangerous despite their lack of anything approaching professionalism.   A mercenary was only a paid thug.  It was like hiring the school yard bully when you were a kid – they would only fight as far as they felt their pay, or lack thereof, justified.  But a rebel with any sort of a cause? That was different and dangerous.  A rebel, especially one pissed off enough to pick up a gun, would fight to the death…yours, his, or both. It didn’t matter. What is more, poorly armed with archaic equipment or not, a bow and arrow that hit it’s mark could kill you just as easily as a sniper with a high powered blaster rifle.

After a vain attempt to time the explosions, Tajqa just waited for a lull and ran for the edge of the razor wire.  Reaching into her boot she found the vibroknife stiletto that was her last line of defense.  As she grasped the blade the ultrasonic generator began to hum, vibrating the knife. If the razor wire was electrified she would know in an instant. Despite the handle being insulated the blade was made of cortosis weave. Which meant that while it was made to resist light sabers and slip past personal shields, it also a superconductor – the practical upshot of which was that the electricity would connect with the blade’s energy cell resulting in an explosion that would take her arm off long before she could be electrocuted.  She hesitated for a moment. It wasn’t like she had much of an option; when she landed her freighter all she expected to have to do was drop off the guns and take off again.  She hadn’t exactly came equipped for breaking into military compounds.

The knife cut through the wire fence with ease.

Cutting through just enough of the fence to crawl under, she waited for the sentry to turn the corner of the building upon which the cannons where permanently mounted..  When her chance came, Tajqa tore across the courtyard and threw herself against the wall.  Edging along the wall, she reached the corner the guard had rounded a few minutes before. A quick glance told her that the doorway was located about 15 meters from the corner. She waited for the guard to round the next corner and edged toward the doorway.  Whether or not she came equipped for breaking in to gun emplacements, there was one thing that a Tajqa always came equipped for and that was picking a lock.  It took her about 30 seconds and she was inside.

The far wall was line with main frame computers and stations for two technicians.  The rest of the facility held living facilities for what she presumed must have been the Republic military technicians stationed here before they were forcibly retired.  The problem Taqa faced now was disabling the targeting computer and doing so without attracting attention.  What is more, she had to disable it in a way that was not going to be easy to fix.   Oh she had used guns before. Her ship had its own blaster cannons.  But being able to use something and knowing how it was constructed, and thus disable it, was something altogether different.   She could try just cutting wires, hoping she would cut the right one just by chance.  If she was wrong, when she tried to take off from the spaceport it would be a very short trip.

She stood there a moment considering what to do.

“Oh the hell with it,” she said aloud.  Crouching behind what appeared to be a gun locker she drew her blaster and open fire at the far wall.  A few well aimed shots had both the desired effect, and the expected result – the same blaster fire that had destroyed the targeting computer would bring the sentries running.  A moment later the door to the control room flew open and she found herself face to face with the same sentry she had managed to avoid earlier.  He with the side of his body toward the interior of the room.  Sweeping the room with the rifle, he saw Tajqa and instantly his personal shield snapped into existence, causing the guard to shimmer slightly.  It appeared that either the rebel or the Republic soldier he had retired where better equipped than Taj thought.  What is more, now she knew why the guards where equipped with old slug throwing weapons.  The personal shield would make blasters, the common weapon of choice, totally ineffective, but still enabling bullets to penetrate the shield…

…and vibroknives.

…It was the reason that cortosis metal was woven into vibroknives in the first place.  It allowed them to easily slice through personal shields.

An instant later the guard was dead on the floor of the control room and Tajqa was running for the gap she had cut in the razor wire.   It’s one thing to fire on someone in self defense; that same situation had presented itself in more than one backwater cantina. But this was different. This was the first time she had to fire on someone for just doing their job.  As she crawled under the wire and ran in the direction of her ship it occurred to her that more than once someone’s last words must have been “it’s just a job.”

He wasn’t sure who he would be meeting, as this whole arrangement was about as cryptic of a setup as most of his normal job requests had been but he had a gut feeling it was worthwhile and worth the risk.  Besides, if it turned out to be a legit job, the credits would come in handy and he and his team had hit a dry spell of work anyway.

Earlier, as he finished his watch on-board his ship, a holo call had come in with no indication of its origination.  Reluctantly, he recalled accepting the call and spoke with a mysterious individual who offered no name but only asked to meet in a cantina in Anchorhead, planet-side, in two standard hours.

“If you are buying, I will be there,” he had said to the mysterious figure on the holo projector.

“I look forward to meeting with you then,” the caller had replied.

The call had terminated and Doogan decided then that it wouldn’t hurt to hit the fresher and tidy up before his trip planet side.  Being in space for extended periods of time tended to let a person get their personal appearance down, not to mention their, well, let’s just say you sweat a lot more than you would think in space.  A freshening never hurt anyone.

He walked over to the ships intercom and proceeded to rouse his crew from their slumber.  A sleepy-eyed young woman had been the first to arrive.

“My watch is not for another four hours, what’s going on big guy?” she had asked, then let out a lengthy yawn.

“Assemble everyone; we got a job meeting in 2-hours,” he said as he slowly looked around at the shambling mass walking up the gangway.  “Be sure to wake them up,” he waved his arm towards the groggy and grumpy group now starting to assemble around the hatch,  “ and put on some Caf, this one is gonna be a little hinky I think, and I need you all on top of things.”

“Oh, my favorite kind of meeting then,” she said with a wink.   “How is this one going to be any different from the rest of them?”

The Bounty Hunter didn’t respond and only smiled.

As the crew assembled around the intercom station, the young woman took charge and Doogan had headed off to his berthing area to tidy up for his meeting.  As he arrived in his cabin, he hit the door switch and the cabin door slid shut with a mechanical hiss.  He reached down and removed his utility belt and removed his blaster from the holster.  He popped out the energy cell and replaced it with a fresh pack,  knowing that nothing is more reassuring as a fresh set of energy cells when going planet side — especially on Tatooine.  He found another charged cell pack and put it in the pouch on his belt.  Spares are nice too, he had thought to himself.

Now, as he sat in the dark recess in the cantina, the Bounty Hunter’s hand gently patted the bulk of his blaster laying across his hip, as he recalled the previous events of the morning leading up to this point.  He just couldn’t shake the odd sense about this meeting that weighed heavy on his mind.

He peered to his left, to a table closer to the door at his colleagues from the ship.  Three of them had joined him, while two stayed with the ship at the starport.  Sometimes, you had to leave in a hurry and having the engines running was never a bad idea.  However, having the three in the cantina with him was nice, since local backup is always handy, should a meeting go sideways – and there had been a few of them in the recent past.

The trio seemed to be enjoying themselves; swaying with the music and making it look like they were enjoying their assorted alien beverages on the table.  Of course, it was just an act as everyone knew it was wise to stay tactical and if this meeting got weird, everyone had their plan of action worked out already.  Being slowed by some alien brew was not on the plan and besides, most of it tasted pretty bad anyway.

While Doogan had a solid view of the door, his firing arc was a beauty to behold.  The dance floor was mostly clear and the person or persons that would be meeting with him shortly would have their back to the door.  They would also have their back to his backup, which provided a good sense of comfort to Doogan’s tactical sensibilities.

He sipped at his cup of Caf and grimaced at the bitter and oily taste.  The Rodian bartender looked in his direction and Doogan raised his cup, signaling that he needed a refill.  A young Twi’lek server appeared and as she poured, Doogan said, “Tell your boss to keep his dirty Rodian parts out of the Caf, this stuff is just short of disgusting.”

She smiled and said in Huttese something that Doogan didn’t catch but he was pretty sure it was something along the lines of “Go tell him yourself.”  Doogan winked as she finished pouring and the Twi’lek produced a smile.  As she started to move away from his table, the shadow of a man appeared in the door.  He was tall and slim, and hooded in plain dark robes.  Doogan had the feeling of a Force user about this person and the Bounty Hunter had an uncanny sense about those kinds of things.  He had his share of experience with Force users, from Jedi to Sith and pretty much nothing good ever came of his encounters with them.  Although, they sure were memorable and he had scars to prove it.

The weight of his blaster was now apparent on his hip and he sat back further in his chair, as the figure walked across the dance floor.  Doogan was pretty sure that this was the person he was having his meeting with and that was affirmed when the figure sat down in the chair across from him.

Doogan stared at the man’s face, his eyes producing a soft glow and as the figure reached up to lower his hood, the mysterious face seemed to be transformed into one of a middle-aged man, with graying but a thick head of hair and a tidy beard.  When the man spoke, he had an air of dignity and pride, and a neutral accent but there was a slight edge to his voice that told Doogan he wasn’t quite a Jedi.

“Are you Doogan Shiv?” the man asked as he started to recline back in his seat.

“That would be me,” the Bounty Hunter replied.  “To whom do I have the honor?”

“Manners?  Politeness?  I am impressed Bounty Hunter.”  The man turned a little in his chair to look back at the table with Doogan’s three crew mates.  To Doogan’s distress, every single one of them was staring at Doogan’s table and his new friend. The man looked back at Doogan, smiling, “I am sure they’re with you as well?”

“Yep,” Doogan replied.  “They’re not much on subterfuge but they come in handy when a fight breaks out.”

The man smiled at that, re-situated himself in his chair and then raised his hand to summon over the server.  When she arrived, he requested a cup of Caf.“

“This stuff is about as good as reactor oil mixed with swamp water and has the scent of Rodian about it,” Doogan warned.  “It kinda tastes like Balmorran mud without all of the rust.”

“I am sure I have had worse,” the man smiled and soon he received his cup of Caf. He took a quick sip and made no indication of his approval or revulsion.  Doogan realized that he was making faces for the man and stopped.

“I have been wondering how long it would be before I had a chance to speak with you, Doogan,” the man said as he sipped on his Caf and peered over the mug, not breaking eye contact.  “You have established a reputation for yourself, being the Great Hunt winner and bagging some pretty hefty marks for the Empire and even the Republic, I hear.”

Doogan absorbed the comment without reaction, “I have a feeling that I know you, but right now, that feeling is getting mixed up with you being a threat.”  Doogan added, “Should I be concerned?  I am pretty sure that I don’t owe you credits or anything”  Doogan sipped on his Caf and kept firm eye contact.

“I mean you no harm Bounty Hunter.  In fact, I am waiting on a few more to join us and they should be along soon.”  The man lowered his mug and as he leaned back on his chair, a glint of metal now showing from his side and attached to his belt.  Doogan observed and calculated the possibilities.  It was not in the shape of blaster, it was more of a cylinder, more of a Light Saber type of cylinder and Doogan had something new to talk about.

“So…,” Doogan started to ask as he lowered his mug and leaned forward.  The man did the same as if they intended to speak about something that others not need to overhear.  “You’re not a Jedi, so that probably makes you a Sith of some kind.”  Doogan nodded in the direction of the man side.  “Not that I have any problems with either, I just don’t have a lot of luck finding friendly things to talk about in such mixed company.”

The man replied,  “I am most certainly not a Jedi, but there will be one of them joining us soon, as well as a Sith and a friend from Imperial Intelligence.”

Doogan stiffened and leaned back.  “This is getting weird now, either you are a Sith force user or you’re running around with someone’s Light Saber hanging there, on your side.”  Doogan paused briefly as he looked around.  He stopped and fixed his gaze back on the man, “…and, seeing that you don’t seem to be missing any parts, I assume you know how to use that thing?”

The man chuckled.  “You are quite observant Bounty Hunter.”

“It serves me well,”  Doogan replied.

“I belong to a Sith order, yes.  I am sworn in allegiance to the Emperor’s Empire, yes.  Soon, however, you will be meeting a friend or two of mine and we’re going to have a long discussion.  I have a feeling that once this day is done, your horizons are going to broaden so much that that melon of a head of your might explode with what you’re going to be learning today.”

Doogan stiffened briefly at the jab but smiled.  “It’s been a boring couple of months, I am up for it.  You seem to be a fairly interesting fellow.”  He settled back into his seat, feeling somewhat at ease with this person now.  “You still have not told me your name and why are we expecting such mixed company.  I will say that this is really odd, even for me.”

“My apologies for the rudeness, of course.  My name is Lektrev, some people called me Lord Lektrev though I am Lord of nothing really, just a title bestowed on me by the Dark Council of the Sith Empire, of which I tend to have little to do with recently and not exactly in their good graces most of the time.”

With that remark, Doogan smiled and started to find a liking for this fellow.

The Bounty Hunting business tended to get a lot of work from the Dark Council and the Sith Empire in general and while they were steady clients that paid well, Doogan wasn’t well liked by them either and had on occasion been the targets of their fickleness.  At least they were a little more trustworthy than the corrupt idiots from the Republic.

“Well my Lord,”  Doogan said with a chuckle as he raised his mug.  “It’s damn interesting to make your acquaintance and I look forward to meeting the rest of your entourage, when they finally arrive.”

Lord Lektrev raised his mug in return, and nodded.  “Our additional guests will be here soon, I am sure.  I am also sure that you’re going to find a lot in common with all of us.”

“I am sure this is going to be an interesting day,”  Doogan said as he sipped on his now cold, Rodian tasting Caf.  He had the gut feeling that this day was just starting and that somewhere, deep in his past, he had some sort of history with this man but he just couldn’t get a handle on that feeling.

“What is going on out there” Tajqa shouted back.

Skavak, glanced at the younger smuggler and yelled back  at Tajqa “WHAT?”

Tajqa leaned over and spoke closer to Skavak’s ear.

“I said, what is going on out there? It sounds like a war zone.”

“That’s because it’s a war zone” answered Corso.

The war with the Sith Empire had been over for five years, and much of the central Republic worlds were still dedicating what scarce resources they had to rebuilding their infrastructure.  This meant that much of the worlds on the outer rim where left to fend for themselves – and Ord Mantell was about as far out on the outer rim as it gets and  could still be called “civilization.”

When the Sith war machine made its way across the galaxy, leaving destitute worlds in its wake, joining the Republic alliance had seemed like a good idea to people of Ord Mantell.  But when the dust settled and the varied armies of the Republic limped back to their home systems things were different.  The promised reciprocity in return for military support never materialized.   What little aid was proffered was little more than symbolic, allowing politicians to claim they had  upheld their agreements at least in part.

In the end, what issues where important to politicians where meaningless to the average citizen.  As it was, when the populace doesn’t have enough to eat, it didn’t matter whether the owner of the local market was Sith or from the Republic; it only matter who could stock the shelves.  So when push came to shove to shove, you can only shove so much before someone starts to push back….

And the first people to get shoved off world were the citizens of the central system Republic worlds who had become wealthy off supplying arms, and not always to the same side.  The Republicans had come to Ord Mantell meddling in local politics, buying up property and business’ at desperately low post war prices.  It was about this time the people of Ord Mantell Republicans had dubbed “separatists” turned to the same underworld figures upon which they had once heaped disdain to supply the arms to do the shoving.  And people like Viidu, for whom Tajqa smuggled, were more than willing to supply the needed firepower.

As Viidu was wont to say, his mother only raised on stupid child, and it wasn’t him.  That was why he chose a small warehouse in  remote village on Ord Mantell to make the drop of arms that were smuggled past the Republican blockade.

“ I’m picking up those blasters in your cargo hold, said the man who identified himself Skavak. Excuse the rush but I need to get out of here quick.  This village used to be safe but the separatists are taking over.”

“Where’s Viidu,” said Tajqa, “he was supposed to meet me here to take delivery of the blasters.”

Skavak point out the large warehouse door, past Tajqa’s light freighter, toward explosions that where lighting up the darkening evening sky.

“He’s on the other side of that.”

Tajqa hefted “tchin” over her right shoulder and shifted her feet into a more comfortable position on the otherwise cluttered control panel of the Corellian light freighter.  “Tchin” was the name most Twil’ek gave to the right cone shaped “tail” that extended from the right side of the base of their skulls and hung down their back.  But then Tajqa’Secura wasn’t like most Twi’lek.  The twin tails, known collectively as “lekku” where at once the most prominent feature of her people and the one with which they held the most pride – where human men were wont to compare the size of more nether regions, Twi’lek men boasted about what hung down their backs.  Oh Tajqa had named them alright.  She called the left one Flopsy and the right one Mopsy.  If they weren’t attached to the base of her skull she would have considered them a pain in the ass.  In fact she would have lopped them off long ago if they didn’t contain part of her brain; and being prehensile (at least to a degree – a fact most humans didn’t realize) some words in her native language included their movement.  The downside of all this was that if you had injured one of your twin tails and not had it replaced with a cybernetic implant, to another Twi’lek, it was as if you spoke with a strong, if not unusual, accent when speaking your native language.

She took another long sip of Caf and starred at the stars blurring past the windows in the front of the space ship.  This was the boring part of being a smuggler. It was a trade which was often thought of as 70 percent boredom, 10 percent terror and 20 percent drunken stupor.  At the moment she was nearly at the end of the 70 percent part as the ship approached the blue expanse of the planet called Ord Mantell.

They hadn’t even hit the planet’s atmosphere when the ship lurched like a starving man diving or a plate of turkey; in the process spilling the dark brew imported from her home planet Ryloth all over favorite button down white shirt.

“For crying out loud,” Tajqa  yelped, “can’t you hold the ship steady?”

Beside her the ancient R-1 unit chirruped, emitting a sound that even those not acquainted with Robotics would understand as an apology.  The R-1 unit was military surplus, about six feet talk and cylindrical.  Sort of.   The body of the robot was actually the shell from a Mark II reactor drone.  It wasn’t something that the military did, nor something Tajqa did. The R-1 unit was just made that way.  As a result it was slow, could barely move, and even if the ship took a nose dive into a mountain, the droid was likely to be the only thing to survive.  As a result, Tajqa saw no reason not to permanently bolt it into the navigator’s position on the ship to relieve her of all such duties, allowing her to relax on the long voyage, while playing games of 5,920 questions with the little droid (a game the droid was incredibly good at).

As they hit Ord Mantells upper atmosphere, Tajqa chided the R-1 unit once again.

“Hold her steady old boy.  Land the ship just outside that that warehouse in Drelliad village.  Our contact will meet us there.”

The R-1 unit chirped an affirmative reply.

The fact of the matter was that the R-1 unit wasn’t actually “old” nor a “boy”.  It was simply that Tajqa had a very strong penchant for anthropomorphism, and the R-1 unit had become her constant companion. True, the astromech unit had been reprogrammed for multi-jump hyperdrive navigation. But it had also been programmed with games and even included a library of music that would make most nightclub owner’s on Ord Mantell green with envy (an easy thing to do as most natives of the planet where green cat-like people to start with).

The R1 unit was perfectly capable of landing the ship of course, but Tajq tended not to trust much of anyone to begin with.  “Trust your mother but cut the cards” was an expression she was wont to quote in many a space port cantina.  And it wasn’t like the shipment wasn’t illegal (a fact which tended to both rile Taj’ and cut into her profits).  The port authorities could have even inspect her bill of lading (a real one this time).

The only thing that was funny was the destination.  Rather than landing at the spaceport, she was landing at a warehouse, in small village, just nearby.  But credits were credits, even if they did come legally.

After a short an uneventful landing, Tajqa gave the R-1 unit the rest of the afternoon off to play chess with the maintenance droid.  As she clambered out of the cockpit she saw two nervous looking humans approaching her ship.  Tajqa considered this as she clomped through the hallways, her tall brown rycrit leather boots beating a cadence against the steel floors.

The two humans met her at the bottom of her ship’s boarding ramp.  The thing about humans, is that with all the infinite diversity that comprised sentient beings throughout the galaxy, humans seemed about as vanilla as they come.  She wouldn’t say they all looked alike to her; it’s just that they weren’t very interesting.  She thought it must be the lack of brain tails that made them  look somehow less intelligent.  The only thing she could tell about these humans for sure was that they were nervous and seemed to be in a hurry.

“I’m Corso and this is Skavak” shouted the younger of the two, and then added, “We work for Viidu.”

But it wasn’t the fact they looked nervous that alarmed Tajqa, nor was it the fact that Corso was shouting – it was what he was shouting over…

…gunfire.

So when his destroyer dropped out of warp just 1 astronomical unit, or “au” as he always termed it, from the jump gate it didn’t faze him.  Yes, 1 au was not that far when your sub light speed approached the speed of light.  But stuck in the midst of a warp disruption field it may as well have been on the other side of the galaxy.

Around the ship the universe seemed to ripple – an affected caused by the warp disruption field. It was like looking at an object through waves of heat rising off pavement planet side.  The controls that normally felt nimble under Charlie’s hands made the ship handle trying to push an  elephant through mud; or at least they would have if Charlie had tried to move the ship.  But he didn’t. He knew instantly.

They were caught.

There wasn’t much to be done at this point, and what little could be done Charlie did – calmly.  Reaching for a computer console on his left, he rerouted the power to boost the strength of the shields.  And then he waited.

It wasn’t that he was a battle hardened veteran (which he was) or particularly ruthless.  No, it was just that he, Charlie Cardano , didn’t much care who died and when. Truth be told, he did spend a great deal of time training to make sure the odds were heavily weighted toward the other guy dying for his particular cause first.  After all, he knew just how difficult it was to defeat an enemy who believed in a cause.  But Charlie didn’t have a cause. Instead he substituted anger and a total respect for life; even if that life was his own.

Beside Charlie, Rip Montenegro, ex-Concord police officer and big gun aficionado did what all rookies do in their first close-up fight.  He fumbled with the controls, ready to fire at anything that moves, whether the result was friendly fire or not; which was fine with Charlie.  It would keep Rip busy and keep his mind off the reality of the situation….

The only other course of action Charlie had at this point was to trust to the craftsman ship of the ship wrights who built his destroyer. What he was holding out for was the odd chance that whoever planned the ambush would run out of ammunition long before the destroyer’s shields gave out.  Under similar situations many people often developed a close and sudden relationship with divine being of one sort or another.  However, considering the relationship Charlie had with any being able to put a descriptor like “Eternal” or “Almighty” the chance of anything remotely resembling a miracle was out of the question. The only thing left was the requisite curse which he barely had time to utter.

“Sonofa….”

Predictably the first cruise missile took out their warp drive, effectively preventing escape on anything other than sub-light engines.  To his right, Charlie’s co-pilot uttered a stead mantra of “oh crap, oh crap, oh crap” as his shot fell wide of whatever was rapidly approaching on their side facing radar.

But the next few moments didn’t go quite as Charlie had expected.

What he expected was the next cruise missile to strike amidships and turn the now not-so-nimble cruiser into little more than debris floating through the hard vacuum of space. Whether as the result of a grudge, a plan or a particularly nasty disposition, what often followed was the destruction of any pilot pod or escape craft.  At this point any salvageable ship’s systems or cargo would be picked up by a rapid industrial ship waiting just out of firing range.  Instead, the next missile salvo took out their port maneuvering thrusters, leaving the only possible route of escape being a very slow circular path to nowhere.

150 kilometers off the port bow a craft came into view.  Charlie adjusted the magnification on the forward view screens and the blurred image of what appeared at first glance to be a battleship came into view. Centering the image, he adjusted the magnification.  The insignia on the side of the battleship snapped into view, identifying it’s owner.  One thought filled the mind of Charlie Cardano, ex-priest, soldier of misfortune, pirate, and battle hardened veteran who cared nothing for life, nor feared his own death.

He wished the last missile salvo had struck his destroyer amidships and blown him to tiny bits of dust.

“I don’t want to be a puny Human,” my little cousin Alfred would say. I want to hit people with sticks and not play with fake Phasers this time. He would emphasize the latter point by stamping his feet, creating little poofs of dust on the dusty creek bank where we would always sort out the teams and then start our games.

It was a fun little game but always a little lopsided in the end, since there would always be more Klingons and not enough Humans to make things very fair. We would end up taking turns being the Humans and taking our whipping with the sticks that the other Klingon kids carried around. Of course, the stick emulated the mighty Bat’Leth that Klingon Warriors loves to wield for melee engagements. Klingons never carried ranged weapons, at least in our games.

I never liked playing the Klingons myself. I preferred to be a Phaser wielding Human and when I decided one day that my one-man army would start using a Phaser Rifle instead of a Phaser Pistol, I had unknowingly leveled the playing field. I introduced my own stick that I could whoop-up on Klingons with – and there were plenty of them around.

One day, one of the uppity cousins named Clement objected. He stated, as if he was reading from some official rules of the game, that the Phaser weapons were ranged weapons and that melee was not allowed. Therefore, I could not hit anyone with stick. Of course, I responded to him with a quick rifle blow to his belly, followed by an uppercut that landed him in the creek and his backside. I then looked down into the muddy water at a very wet Clement. “My energy store is depleted and it’s now a melee weapons. A pretty good one at that,” I replied looking at the stout piece of Hickory branch in my hands. I then made a tactical withdrawal as I ran back to the house before Clement could crawl out of the mud.

After that day, we had just as many Humans as we did Klingons every afternoon and the game got more entertaining. Much to the distress of our parents, the number of received bumps and bruises increased as well.

Of course, this has nothing to do with this story, …much.

After the Starfleet away team moved away from us, I then watched Seeya, Mel and Betty start working their way up the path with their weapons at the ready, in an attempt to follow the withdrawing Starfleet officers. Mel made a quick stop on the edge of the path and looked back in my direction. He motioned with that big melon head of his that I was to follow them. So, I did, stepping quickly out of cover on to the path. I started moving to my shipmate’s location.

As I moved though, I could still hear the female crewmen talking to each other, but they were now out of sight around a bend in the path. Something just felt odd about this whole situation though and I started to scan behind us as I stopped behind Seeya. Yep, this didn’t feel right to me.

Seeya grunted, as he was not the patient type, and I sensed the group moving forward. As we moved slowly up the path, the Captain motioned across the path and both Mel and Bettie crossed over and took position opposite of me and Seeya. Now, as a group, we kept moving forward by twos along the path . We continued moving in the direction that the Starfleet away team headed off in.

I could still hear those two Starfleet female officers talking just ahead of us but something was wrong. The feeling was overpowering and I reached out and tapped Seeya on his back, causing him to stop. Mel and Bettie had already stopped when I looked over, and Mel was staring across the path at me and Seeya.

I looked up at Seeya as I pointed two fingers at my face, then moved my flattened hand up and down in front of my eyes. I then pointed to the curve in the path, and then at myself. Seeya understood that I was volunteering to go have a look around and looked across the path at the pair of Klingons. He then slowly moved one of his hands downward, with his reptilian paw flattened and extended. Mel and Bettie followed the command and both knelt and remained stationary. The Captain then patted me on the head, hissed something in Gorn as he motioned his head in the direction of the turn in the path. Either he was happy with my sudden production of tactical initiative or he was daring me to stick my head around the corner. You never really know what those Gorn are thinking but it’s seldom good and never funny.

I smiled back at him, well it was more of a leer but that’s just like smiling in Gorn. I then started moving forward. As I did, he reached out and lightly grabbed me by the arm. I stopped, and gave him a puzzled look. He smiled as he handed me a very mean looking blade, which I took from him. He then put a single lizard finger up to his mouth, in the universal “be very, very quiet” hand signal. I leered at him again, nodded and turned back towards the path.

This is where the story gets fuzzy.

You see, I don’t recall exactly what happened next as I doubt that I remained conscience very long afterward. So, I am gonna pick up the story right here. Yes, I know it’s an odd way to tell a story but that’s how I am gonna do it. Trust me, I am just as confused.

What I can tell you is that I woke up with a pretty hefty headache and a very solid sore spot on my belly – most likely where I was hit with a stun beam from a Phaser.

One thing that I can tell you for sure though, I wasn’t on that stinking marsh planet anymore. The air here is 100% ship air, it’s cool, clean, fresh and smells like, well…. smells like Starfleet medical.

The sound of a automated door sliding open causes me to look over in its direction. The room lights go to full bright as a couple of figure walk into the room. As I adjust my eyes to the sudden violation and the volume of the screaming banshees in my head – I try to sit up but it’s not going to work, I seem to be strapped down to a table.

I notice a tall man walks towards me while another stands near the door. As the tall man moves closer, instinctively, I look at the collar on his blue shirt and see his rank device. Commander. I then look at his face.

He’s about my age and has a strong jaw and clean shaven. I can see sandy brown hair and his face seems somewhat familiar. Though, I have been away from Starfleet for a few years and certainly the Academy for even longer, I think I know this man. Though, not many Starfleet doctors come to mind as I browse through my fuzzy databanks.

The man reached down and releases my restraints. He then tells me to sit up and hands me a container of clear liquid. “Here, have some water,” he says to me.

“Thank you Doc,” I respond as I raise myself on an elbow. I then drink the water before I can even consider that it might not be water but I really don’t care. I have a powerful thirst and there’s something trusting in the gesture. I drain the container in a few gulps.

As I had back the container to the man, his familiarity seemed overwhelming. “Do I know you Commander? You seem familiar to me, “ I ask.

The man just smiles as he accepts the empty container. He looks me over and shakes his head while doing so. “Has it been that long cousin?” He chuckles. “Raymond Bocheaux, I bet your mama would be proud to see you right now.”

Who’s playing Klingon now? I wonder to myself.

Tajqa, a former pod pilot, and Brighde serve together on a Charon freighter – the two having met by simple reason that Brighde snored like a backhoe and was the only person who would bunk with Tajqa. Not that Taj’ was universally disliked (she was) but simply by virtue  of what Brighde has come to know as “the 2:00” scream a regular side affect of nightmares that have become so regular those unfortunate to hear it could set their watch by it.

Their freighter is attacked by Blood Raiders, led by Antoni “Charlie” Cardano an ex-Amarrian priest, and his co-pilot, Rip “Ripper” Montenego an ex-Concord police officer who brings new meaning to the term “brute force”.  Brighde saves herself and Tajqa by using an old Minmatar shuttle as a “drop ship” and managing to land on a nearby planet – which she soon discovers counts her uncle among its residents.

The heat of the mid-day sun reflecting off the large shale slab was like a blast furnace.  The sun had set and risen again, Brighde’s uncle, Harold Blackwolf having provided the pair with clean clothes and the means by which to rid themselves to the delicate aroma of the effluvium of the day before.  Harold stoked the fire, that was already so hot it risked splitting the shale on which it lay.

“It’s hot,” said Tajqa stating the painfully obvious.

“It’s a desert” replied Brighde’s uncle after a short pause.

“No, I mean it’s really hot – like a snakes belly in a wagon rut in the middle of the desert hot” said Taj, wiping the sweat off her with the sleeve of the tan blouse that now replaced her flight jacket.

“Don’t stand so close to the fire, replied Harold Blacokwolf. Then pausing he added, you know what they say…’if you can’t take the heat get out of the desert.’

He smiled at her and returned to the fire, adding rocks to the fire.  The rocks weren’t like the sharp edged shale that covered the arid landscape in three of the four directions.  These were reddish brown, and looked as if they had been smoothed by many years spent in the flowing waters of a river bed.  At some 20 feet further from them, on the other side of the ever growing fire, stood what appeared at first glance to be the skeleton of some animal.  Earlier, when Brighde and her uncle had lead her out into the desert with barely a word, she had discovered that it was the frame for what appeared to be a small dome, all of the supports consisting of old rebar.  The rebar itself was covered with rust and old bits of concrete where it had been chiseled out of broken bits of concrete.  The first thought that came to Tajqa when she saw it was to realize that few structures would contain much wood in an area that seemed to contain so little of it.

The chopping of an ax rang out in the distance, falling with a thud on the stump of a trunk of a dead tree. In the distance Tajqa could see Brighde wielding an axe at a fevered pace, dead tree limbs sent flying with each blow. Tajqa spoke to the elder Blackwolf without taking her eyes off his niece, Brighde.

“That’s the point, she said, trying unsuccessfully to keep perturbed tone out of her voice.  Mr. Blackwolf, Why are we out here in the heat of the noon day sun, frying ourselves to a crackly crunch, preparing what appears to be a lunch consisting mostly of baked river rock?’

“Harry, please” came the reply has Harold Blackwolf gathered the river rocks near the central part of the fire.  Turning to Tajqa he added, “Harry,  Harold if you want, and even “uncle” if you don’t mind the term of endearment, but not “Mr. Blackwolf”…“Mr. Blackwolf was my father. Come and help me with the tarps, won’t you?”

With that the two walked over to a pile of old tarps that lay on the ground near the skeletal shaped dome of rebar.  Like Harry Blackwolf, they where old, crackled with age, but looked as sturdy as ever.  They were a mottled shade of grey, looking as if they had protected their owner from paint, weather and had even been used to carry dead bodies.  Also like Harry Blackwolf, the tarps were stronger and heavier than they looked.  As she struggled to pull the tarps over the rebar structure it occurred to Taj that it was somewhat like trying to stuff 50 pounds of squirming pig into a 45 pound sack; yet Harry managed the task with practiced ease.

“Brighde tells me you are part Minmatar yourself,” said the elder Blackwolf as he tossed another tarp across the top of the dome.

“Part,” started Tajqa hesitantly, “a small part.”

“You know what they say, Harry replied, a drop of Minmatar blood washes away a sea of all the rest.  She also tells me you have been bunk-mates for some time.  Doesn’t she ever talk about her heritage?”

“It either doesn’t come up in conversation or it just doesn’t matter, but no” said Tajqa pulling her half of the next tarp over the rebar dome.”

Harry Blackwolf pulled the last tarp over the top of the rebar structure and stood staring at Tajqa for a moment.

“With my niece, I suspect it just never comes up; she is always busy ‘kicking ass and not bothering with names’ as she puts it.  But with you I think it is different.  To you I think it just doesn’t matter.”

Tajqa sat down on the edge of a large slab of shale on the edge of the small clearing. A strand of her strawberry blonde hair blew across her cheek, its color a strong contrast to her dark skin. The color of her hair was, in itself, telling of her French heritage on her mother’s side – going all the way back to the human settlement on Tau Ceti, before they became known as the Gallante. Her dark skin on the other hand, told her of her father’s Minmatar heritage every time she looked in the mirror. It was a heritage that traced itself across the centuries, long before the human ever came to the place everyone called “New Eden”.  Some Eden, she thought to herself. It was just a place all of humanity was stuck after the collapse of the worm hole that brought them here. Centuries of war and blight flew across the galaxy; racing the progress of the remnants of humanity to what seemed would be their ultimate extinction.

Harry walked across the clearing and sat down next to Tajqa.

Once again, the crevices of his dark skin, reminded her of the cracks in the dry tarps they had just used to form a small domed structure on the dry plain covered with broken shale. Harry’s white hair told of an age that brought wisdom but belied his strength and robust health. The elder Blackwolf was the keeper of the oral traditions and history of his people, carrying with him with him the history of thousands of years, stretching all the way back to the Oglala Sioux of the original Earth.

A long moment of silence passed between the two, filled only with the sound of Brighde chopping scrub brush and dead trees in the distance. Finally Tajqa spoke.

“I have piloted some of the fastest star craft in all the systems.  I have sent hundreds of other pilots to their deaths in combat.  I have died and been cloned so many times that death doesn’t hold much meaning any more.  Family and heritage all seemed a thing of the flesh – and in my case this flesh is the product of artificial biogenesis.  Omne vivum ex vivo…”

“…all life is from life, finished Harry Blackwolf, Louis Pasteur’s Law of Biogensis. La génération spontanée est une chimère…”

“…’Spontaneous generation is a dream’, Tajqa finished.  But not anymore.  Science has finally proven Pasteur’s Law as dead as he is.  Dream achieved. Bodies by the dozens.  Who needs God when you can have eternal life as long as you have the cash or can take it at the point of a gun?”

Behind Harry Blackwolf his niece dropped an armload of dead wood and long dead bracken to the ground with a crash.  Rising, Harry walked toward the small domed structure of rebar and old tarps.   With a smile he opened the entrance flap and motioned for Tajqa to follow.

“There is a difference,” he said with a slight grin, “between living the dream and living an illusion.”

There was a long pause while Tajqa stared at Harry Blackwolf incredulously.

“You want me to crawl in there?” she said.

“Indeed I do.”

“You’re nuts, Tajqa shot back at Harry. Say I crawl into your rebar igloo in the middle of the noon day sun – then what?”

“Then, Harry replied matter-of-factly, I am going to crawl in after you.  After which Brighde will pass in hot rocks and a bucket of water and I will pour cold water over the hot rocks.”

Harry paused a beat then added…

“It’s called a sweat lodge.”

“It’s called heat prostration,” Tajqa snapped back, “We’ll all be dead in five minutes.”

“If it gets too hot,” said Harry, “just call out Wanlue  lueshun chablay  wakhehay.”

“What’s that,” said Tajqa, “some sort of ancient spell?”

“Well…it is Minmatar, said Harry, roughly translated it means ‘holy crap it’s hot.’  The Phrase is sort of a tradition you see; but for you we will just stick with ‘holy crap.”

Laughter worked its way around the three people gathered in front of the lodge.

“And the point of all this is?” Tajqa asked.

“Commune with nature, replied Harry.  Well…what little of it is left on this planet.  Talk to your Creator.”

“My Creator?” said Tajqa quizzically looking askance at Harry.

“Yes, returned Harry, your Creator – by whatever name. Pick one.  That is, and here he paused, presuming you consider your  Creator to be something else other than a cloning vat somewhere in the Tau Ceti system. Perhaps you will even find answers.”

“To what?” Tajqa shot back.

“Your life, and your place in the Universe, replied Harry.  Perhaps what everything amounts to….”

“Which,” Tajqa replied with a grin, “I hope amounts to more than ‘42’”

Tajqa found she could only enter the lodge on her hands and knees. She crawled inside and immediately felt claustrophobic; being enclosed in absolute darkness drew her instantly back to her days as a pod pilot. She crawled in and took  a seat on the hard packed ground around a central pit, where the rocks would be placed.

Light entering from the door cast a small hard of light across the pit. Harry Blackwolf followed after her, taking a seat on the far side of the pit. When he was seated, Brighde handed in a bucket of water and a dipper. They sat together in silence for a few moments, only the sound of the fire reaching their ears. Then Brighde thrust a shovel into the tent on which rested a river rock, which was now glowing a bright orange.

Harry Blackwolf  reached out with two antlers he had brought in with him. Taking the first of the rocks, he greeted it and placed the rock gently into the central pit. This he repeated several times until the pit held a small pile of rocks. He closed entrance to the small enclosure The canvas doorway closed with a slap against the tarp and a dim red light from the rocks filled the small space inside the lodge. Tajqa could barely make out Harry Blackwolf’s face on the other side of the circular lodge. From one of this pockets the elder Blackwolf produced a small stick of bundled grass of some sort.  He rubbed it across each rock which sparked when he did it. A strong sweet smell filled the air.

He asked his Tajqa to greet the Creator and the spirits, introducing herself. When he finished, he took a dipper of water and splashed it on the rocks. Each time he did this a sound like several snakes hissing and plumes of warm steam filled the air. Each time the temperature rose, but not to an uncomfortable level.

Harry began praying, and invited his Tajqa to pray with him. As he did this he splashed water against the rocks. The light grew dimmer and the temperature grew hotter.

“Speak what is in your heart,” said Harry.

Tajqa felt like she was in an Amarr confessional. At first she hesitated. Then she spoke to the air. To no one. To the universe around her. She spoke was in her heart. When she was done, Harry prayed in Minmatar, but began singing in a language she didn’t understand. To her surprise, Tajqa understood some of the words. She didn’t know why. She let herself be carried away  by the words of the song. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sounds…

…of the water hissing every time it hit the glowing rocks

…to elder Blackwolf’s soft singing in an ancient language she somehow understood.

…and her mind seemed to drift away, as images began to flash in front of her eyes.  As she collapsed, but not from the heat, she could hear Harry Blackwolf calling for his niece to help pull Tajqa out of the lodge.  She also heard one word before she faded from consciousness altogether…

Lagrange.

The hill that Brighde spoke about actually turned out to be the southernmost rim of a small valley surrounded by large mounds of loose shale on three sides and  an enormous body of water  to the west.  Climbing the hill was no small task.   Loose rock of varying sizes made for tenuous footholds at best.  By the time the pair managed to struggle to the top their hands bore the marks of dozens of cuts from the sharp edged rocks.

“Oh my sainted Aunt Tilley”  exclaimed Taj as she crested the summit.  “I will just bet your estimate of ‘2 hours’ was not based on a topographical map.”

“Well,” said Brighde as she busied herself about entering numbers into a small table computer, “not as such no – the map IS a bit old.”

“HOW old?,” shot back Tajqa.

“According to the map we are in the middle of Sai Chen road and the Rancid Rooster Inn is a half a block down the street” came Brighde’s answer.

Tajqa looked around her at the seemingly endless and nearly identical barren mounds of shale, many even larger, stretching to the edge of her vision.  It was like they were in the middle of some massive slag heap, that had been long abandoned.   Every now and then she could see bits of what appeared to be the remains of concrete foundations and rebar poking up through the shards of rock. At rare intervals weeds of varying kinds struggled to keep their grasp on what little soil remained exposed to air. Off to the East, South East, at a nearly perpendicular angle to the water, a small dark rectangle rose above the horizon.  It was the only object of any size that appeared to be man-made that had not come out of the back of a garbage dump or blast furnace.

“So pretty old.”

“yup…pretty old.”

Tajqa ripped out part of the lining of her flight jacket and wrapped it around her hands, Brighde doing the same.   The sun climbed in the sky as the pair scrambled over the loose rocks.  The shale that absorbed the heat of the sun  would do a splendid job  of keeping them warm once  it set  on what must otherwise have been scrub country, Now, however, it managed to turn what would have been  an easy hike across level ground, into a treacherous climb over what was fast becoming a natural oven.

***

The daylight and the sole emergency ration Brighde had in her backpack  both began to run out at about the same time that the hills of shale began to dwindle to nothing.  The sun was westering with a few hours of sunlight left when Brighde and Tajqa noticed a dirt path through the scrublands in the direction of the darkened object that now appeared to be a massive structure of some sort.   As the pair trudged on, their feet kicking up small clouds of dust and soot a figure came into view some hundred yards in the distance; it appeared to be a person leaning against a very large rock that rose out of the middle of the broad plane.  As they approached the wizened old man rose on spindly legs that had seen far too few meals, beaming a grin on a face that appeared as if it had seen far too few days of sanity. The clothes he wore seemed to be little more than dirty grey rags hand stitched into something that managed to barely cover enough for a modicum of modesty.   The most noticeable of his features was his hair that belied of a culture that had yet to invent any means of personal grooming – that or the old man had just been caught in a sudden wind storm.

“Howdie-do ladieees,” said the old man with a bit of a dance demonstrating that he was at once a bit more spry than his years told, a bit less sane than one first thought,  and had perhaps spent far too much time letting his brain bake in the sun looking for nonexistent treasures buried somewhere deep in the desert.

Brighde simply stared at the old man with a perplexed look.

The old man produced a filthy satchel that seemed to appear from nowhere.  Brighde squinted in the light of the sun.   The bag, which appeared to be made from the same dirty rags as the old man’s clothes, had obviously come from somewhere, perhaps from behind the rock.

“Shamus is the name,” said the old man as he squinted back at Brighde, “…Shamus McGee.”

The old man extended his hand, obviously waiting for either of the two women to shake it.  A few awkward moments passed as the pair stared at the old man, trying their best to ignore the proffered hand.

“Taint a dead fish, exclaimed the old man glancing at his hand, it be polite to at least shake hands, wave – do somethin’.  Say, can ya’ talk at all? May be that the problem, maybe ya’ cain’t talk. I’m sorry.”

With the old man ran through a series of gestures that looked like a small salute, followed by some eating something and what appeared to be a rude gesture telling Brighde to put an object in a bodily orifice only meant as exit port.

Brighde and Tajqa exchanged a look that the casual observer could have easily confused for the tell-tale signs of having been constipated for upwards of a decade.  Brighde shot the old man a sideways glance at the old man who put her face inches from hers.

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” said the old man loudly, in an obvious attempt to overcome the shortcomings of what he assumed must be a faulty hearing aid, with a smattering of hope that the person in front of him read lips.

“I can speak just fine” said Brighde in a tone that barely managed to conceal her contempt at the breath that assaulted her nose – breath that said the old man  must have spent a good deal of time eating offal of some type.

“Well, well, said the old man with a bit of a frown, so you aren’t hard of hearing yer just rude.  That being the case, continued the old man, I should just keep me wares to meself. But being the generous sole that I am, I will not only still offer ya’ a chance to purchase these fine examples of the leather workers craft, but I will give ya’ a discount.”

With that the old man pulled what appeared to be a large square of thin leather, sporting a hole in the middle big enough or a head. And waved it around at Brighde.  What the two women assumed must be a garment of some type had obviously seen better days.  It looked as if it had been driven over by a tank a few times and then left to dry in the sun.  What is more, it smelled as if it had been buried at the bottom of a pile of manure for about a year.  The old man shoved the garment toward Brighde.

“Take it, take it,” he screeched.

Brighde obliged, if reluctantly, holding the rectangle of leather at arm’s length between forefinger and thumb.

“What, said Brighde looking at the garment in clear disgust, is this?”

“It’s a poncho, said the old man gleefully.  Kinda’ thin so not much fer keepin’ ya’ warm at night, but it is waterproof and that is what ya’ need right?  And it’s sturdy too!”

With that the old man jerked the poncho out of Brighde’s hands and made mock attempt to rip the garment in half.  Brighde looked around the empty plane.  It was obvious that it rarely, if ever, rained here.  She toed the dirt road and a cloud of dust filled the air.

“When was the last time it rained here?” Brighde asked the old man suspiciously.

“Oh, said Shamus McGee, a thoughtful look crossing his face as he glanced up at the sky.  I cain’t say is I remember rightly.  A year, two…maybe more.”

“But all the same you are trying to sell us a rain poncho?” said Tajqa, speaking at last.

“Sure am!” said the old man as a smile gleamed on his face, “sure am, and fer a fair price.”

“Well…” started Brighde hesitantly, “I really don’t think we’ll be needing it.”

“Sure ya’ will, take my word for it!” Shamus shot back at the women.”

“Brighde, said Tajqa wearily, I am tired, my hands are bleeding, and we are lucky to be alive at all.  Can we please find a way off this hole and back to civilization?”

“Weeell, said the old man interrupting, the closest civilization be the city over there. With that he pointed at the large rectangular object in the distance toward which Brighde and Tajqa had been making their way all day.  But take my word fer it, buy a poncho, ye’ll thank me fer it later.”

“And just what is the name does the city go by?” asked Brighde.

“Depends a lot on who ya’ ask,” replied the old man squinting at the city.  It never had an official-like name.  Never seemed a need ta’ need one.”

Without another word Tajqa tramped off in the direction of the city.  Brighde waited behind a few moments, then shrugged at Shamus McGee, and walked in the same direction.

As the pair made their way down the road once more, Shamus shouted after them, “My best ta’ yer family and enjoy yer’ drenching.”  Brighde heard the old man cackling gleefully but when she turned around one last time he was nowhere to be seen.

***

Afternoon dragged on to evening as Brighde and Tajqa finally got within shouting distance of what had seemed like  a large structure from the distance , perhaps a walled city.  What it was, in fact, was something altogether more remarkable.   It was as large as a city to be sure, but the walls weren’t walls at all.  What had seemed a single structure at first was, upon closer inspection,  a series of what appeared to be rectangular houses stacked tightly one upon another, reaching some 12 stories high at its highest point.  The whole thing seemed to be cobbled together with walkways and towers at erratic intervals, giving the entire place the appearance of a giant rectangular hive.

The women where about 30 feet from the wall, busying themselves in an attempt to find a way into the city when a voice called down from above.

“GO AWAY!”

Brighde looked up, scanning the railings of buildings and intervening walkways, half expecting to find an outsized anthropomorphic bee poking its head out.  Eventually she spotted the source of the voice.  It belonged to a middle aged man whose dark olive features,  indistinct at such a great distance, where concealed beneath a light grey hooded robe.

“ARE YOU AS STUPID AS YOU LOOK? I SAID GO AWAY,” he said. Switching a large cylindrical tube he held under his right arm to his left hand, adding “LAST WARNING.”

Brighde shouted up at the man, “Our ship crashed a day from here we’re looking for…”

“Don’t give a damn what you are looking for,” the man interrupted, “get lost.”

“Look can you at least tell where…” began Tajqa.

Once again the man interrupted, “Look, what about ‘go away’ was unclear?”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” Brighde snapped back.

“Don’t care about that either. You should have had the foresight not to crash land here” came the response.

Brighde and Tajqa looked at each other.  Then Tajqa called back to the man, “And just how are we supposed to ‘plan’ a crash landing?”

“That’s it,” the man said, talking to someone over his left shoulder. “Let ‘er rip Fred.”

With that the man on the roof thrust the cylinder under his arm out in front of him, holding by a handle with his left, he pulled a large lever on the side of the tube with his right.  This action enabled Brighde to see that the object was actually a corrugated metal tube that was suspended by a cable from a large overhead boom.  A dark viscous fluid flowed rapidly out of the pipe.  Images of hot oil hurled over the walls of old castles rapidly made their way through Brighde’s mind and in that moment she half expected to meet her end scalded to death.  An instant later Brighde and Tajqa both wished they had listened to the crazy old man who, upon retrospection, perhaps wasn’t as crazy as he seemed.

Moments later both women were covered from head to foot with brown goo.  It got everywhere, drenching their clothes, leaving their hair matted to their skulls.  It stung their eyes and assaulted their nostrils with a smell that brought the word disgusting  to entirely new levels.

“Oh my God”  exclaimed Tajqa, “what is this?”

“It’s the from our methane plant and there’s a lot more where that came from” the man called down from the roof.”

“On the whole, said Brighde as she made an effort to scrape the goo offer her face, I would rather be covered in warm crap.”

“Oil? said the owner of the voice, we’ve stopped using fossil fuel burning filth spewers  generations ago.  Not much choice really since we ran out – good thing too I suppose.  So when you need a deterrent you make use of whatever you have at hand…or ass as the case may be.”

“I must say it’s very effective, Brighde called up to the man on the roof.  Alright we’ll go.

As she turned to go Brighde spat back at the man on the roof, shouting up at him.

“WAUGH-CHEE”

“What?” said the voice from the roof.

Brighde turned back to the man, “I said Waugh-chee. it’s Minmatar, it means…”

The man on the roof called down to Brighde.

“I know what it means. I speak Minmatar. And what is more I am NOT a ‘waugh-chee’ I am Minmatar.”

“I am too, said Brighde. Then hesitating she added, well half Minmatar on my mother’s side – my uncle Blackwolf was even a shaman.”

“Brig can we just get out of here, said Tajqa.  There had got to be someplace else within walking distance.”

“There isn’t, said the voice on the roof, least wise not fer the likes of you two who just crawled out of the slag heaps. You’ll be dead before you get half way there. Say the man on the roof added, what did you call your friend there.”

“Brig – Tajqa shouted up at the man on the roof.  It’s short for Brighde you crazy bastard.”

“Wait there” said the man on the roof.

Some five minutes passed.   Then a large metal panel they had mistaken for part of the lower wall of a structure opened; it was a door with a handle on the inside, but no handle on the outside.

Brighde looked back at the man in the doorway, shocked. A few moments passed before she found her voice again.  Staring, she spoke to the man who was now smiling at her.

“Uncle Blackwolf?”said Brighde.

The pain was blinding.

Well at least it was blinding in a certain sense of the word as she still hadn’t opened her eyes. After all, it’s not like her life had been a shining example of moral behavior. Still, she didn’t think she had done anything that bad. But maybe…

No.

Could it be?

Maybe she was in hell, or reincarnated as a bureaucrat, which was pretty much the same thing anyway.  If that was the case, she thought, how long could she lay there with her eyes shut before the tormentors – which always seem to constitute any depiction of hell – would notice? A hour? A day?

Then Tajqa remembered what happened.

She had been in a frigate that was plunging through the upper atmosphere of a planet. Orange light filled the windows of the cockpit before she lost consciousness.  What if she had survived the impact? Maybe she would open her eyes only to discover she was trapped beneath a very small space surrounded by tons of wreckage?  If she had survived the crash she could be stuck at the bottom of the wreck, left to slowly starve to death, or die of dehydration and exposure long before that.  Slowly she began to reach forward – something cold and wet smacked her in the side.

“There’s lunch” said a familiar voice.

She lay still for a moment.

“Well get your narrow butt up and cook for yourself if you want to eat, said the voice that turned out belong to Brighde.  No need to thank me, the fish were laying on top of the water dead from explosion anyway, I just scooped up a few before the bears got the rest.”

“BEARS? Shouted Tajqa as she jumped to her feet. Plural? Bears and you just left me laying there?”

“Well, just kidding about the bears – I’ve been trying to get you to wake up for the last half hour. I just wanted to get your blood pumping.”

“I’m lucky it’s pumping at all, Tajqa shot back as she looked around taking in her surroundings.  We’re just lucky that we were near the ocean. You could have killed us!”

“and pigs could grow wings and fly but neither is likely to happen. Well, short of encountering a wandering eugenicist who knows about gene splicing. And luck had nothing to do with it.”

“Big deal” said Tajqa, you’ve landed us safely, stranding us on an uninhabited planet.”

“Where did you learn to read a star chart, retorted Brighde, the planet isn’t uninhabited.”

“O.K. in the middle of nowhere then.”

“We’re not in the middle of  nowhere, “ answered Brighde, “ there’s a city just a two hour walk over that hill to the south.”

“Well knowing you,” said Tajqa with a growl, “we’ve probably come down in the middle of some civil war.”

Tajqa looked over at Brighde who suddenly at a worried look on her face.

“O.K.”, Brighde said after a slight pause, “you have me there.”

“I do?”

“You do.”

“Damn” said Tajqa.

Going down of course is not a problem.  When you are attempting unpowered descent from orbit, going down is incredibly easy. The problem, of course, is just how long you are able to descend before becoming an unexpected addition of fireworks to some celebration or other.  The real clincher is that even if you do manage to make it all the way though the thermosphere, the mesosphere, the stratosphere and all the way through the troposphere, it is still possible to achieve the ambition of many Zen Buddhist sects by becoming one with the universe (or at least some small part of it) in a very real way.

Despite apparent attitudes that seemed apathetic to the point of boarding on suicidal, Tajqa did indeed have ambitions beyond the roughly 8 minutes the descent took.   The fact that she was a clone and had experienced death before didn’t make getting away from it all in a rather permanent way any easier. And, as her friend Brighde had pointed out some while earlier, this time it would be for keeps.

And so the descent eventually began.

Having been an experienced combat pilot enabled her to deal with the stress at least a little bit better than the screaming banshee sitting next to her.  The screaming had lasted about 4 minutes, beyond which Taj was no longer able to take the screaming and hit her friend with the nearest heavy blunt instrument…her fist.

The planet below appeared to be about 60 percent water, which meant a soft landing was little more than a crap shoot.  Soft being a relative term given the circumstances, as given enough force, hurricane winds can drive a straw through 10 inches of solid oak.  Ultimately even if they were able to bring the tiny frigate down over a large body of water it would still be like trying to land on a very large bowl of Jello with an even larger mountain to bring their small craft to a very sudden stop; a process which still could have left Brighde and Tajqa both as little more than a thin film on covering the auxiliary control panel.  Their chances of survival where so dismal, and so infinitesimally small that they were more likely to win the Big Lottery of New Caldari on a daily basis for a hundred years running.  There was so much that could go wrong….

But it didn’t.

The assumption most people make from the holoreels they see is that any planetary re-entry is  more akin to throwing a flaming marble into a blender while someone beats on an oil drum with large steel mallets next to your ear.  The simple fact of the matter is that is that the ride (at least a properly controlled ride) through most planetary atmospheres is more like eight minutes on one of those poorly maintained antiquated fossil fuel powered filth spewing machines called automobiles – a tradition to which many on old Earth clung to beyond anything dictated by technological necessity or modicum of sanity.  Granted, like a poorly maintained antiquated filth spewing machine moving at mach 4 but still, it is not as bone jarring as commonly assumed.  The view is also about as spectacular as staring at newly painted white wash; all that one can see out the view screens is a mottled orange – at least for most of the trip.

Suddenly the mottled orange color that had filled the view screens for the last eight minutes had dropped away only to be replaced by sun glinting off waves – waves that were running up on the small frigate at an alarming speed.  The waves where not of the lapping on the seashore type that said “hello, I’m happy to see you.”  They were more like the waiter in a dingy restaurant at the end of a dead end alley that said “Hi, I’m your waiter and I will be serving you your last meal…eat quickly, the end is nigh.”

Despite her lifetimes of experience (something which could be taken quite literally in the case of a combat clone) Tajqa was sure she was a dead woman.  Perhaps it was because of her experience she knew she was about to meet that permanent end to all things that Brighde had told her about earlier.  Now that her imminent demise was actually imminent she wasn’t too sure she could remain as all that lackadaisical about the whole thing. Their angle of descent was too steep.  Despite her best efforts the likely outcome of the next few moments instant death upon impact upon the bottom of a shallow body of water. Another possibilities was being crushed inside the frigate as the hull collapsed from every increasing water pressure as the Minmatar space ship designed proved just how well it was not designed to float.  Should Tajqa and Brighde manage to escape the rapidly sinking craft, chances are they would drown before they could reach the surface anyway – and that was just some of the more pleasant outcomes.

What happened instead was something that would have made even someone who did manage to hit the big lotto at New Caldari for one hundred years running  say “wow what are the odds of that.”

As they neared the surface of the water a non-tornadic waterspout formed at just the right place, in just the right time, to change their angle of descent in just the right amount to turn what would have been a rapidly descending but overly large frigate shaped coffin to a small space craft coming to rest in no more than 33 feet of water.  All Tajqa could think of as she unstrapped herself was that if this wasn’t a miracle, whatever it was, it was damn close.