Nephilim

a novel

By Dan Mumford

The screen flickered to life, showing blips and graphs. Six different sets of vital signs sprang into focus. Tom watched the soldiers they belonged to move about the small room through the feeds in their headset cams, preparing equipment and re-checking their gear. Sun shone in from a window onto a bare dirt floor. Little swirls of dust swished about the room as the team readied themselves for the upcoming operation.

Wilson crouched in the corner, laying out various weapons in a semi circle around him. Tom recognized a Baretta 9 mm, a compact assault rifle, and the over-the-top gleam of a chrome-plated Desert Eagle. But that was Wilson, all the way. Sylvia shifted stacks of simtex  and primacord around on the rickety table. Each pile had its own priming coil and remote detonator. These were synched in with the Sat phones each team member carried in their tactical vest.

The vests themselves were works of art. Deadly, deadly art. Unlike the common photographer-type vests other troops favored that displayed their contents openly, these pieces of battlefield “soft”ware were designed for one purpose. Concealment. Each soldier outfitted their own differently, but they all carried double shoulder holsters, another pistol in the small of the back right over two knives, and a submachine gun harness that held the weapon against their stomach with an integrated belly flap. Any passerby would only notice the rotund belly, not the assault weapon concealed beneath.

Through the various helmet feeds, Tom saw Deena slide a nasty looking tanto blade into her boot while Ahmed looked on with a smile playing on his face. Command chose this team for their tactical experience with running black ops, along with their ability to blend in with the locals. But this time they wouldn’t be popping up out of some swamp with guns drawn like in the recruiting commercials. Today, they would be hiding in plain sight. Their mission was one of those shady areas where the military and the United States government would deny any knowledge of, if they were caught. The general public didn’t view assassination in such a positive light. Especially if they were in a country that the United States military had no reason to be in.

Lebanon was getting to be a problem. Well not the country itself as much as Hezbollah. The ruling party had been more and more vocal recently in its threats towards Israel. The rocket attacks didn’t help the situation either.

So now Tom sat behind a bank of computer screens in the sub-sub-basement of a secret facility in New York City running tech for this black ops hit squad in Qouzah. Everything looked normal. Their core temperatures were all up, but with the heat outside, that was to be expected. Deena showed a bit more Beta wave activity than was necessary, but that too was normal. She always got closer to a dream state before a mission than the others. Compared to her simulation he was running simultaneously, she matched up just fine. Wilson’s testosterone levels were off the charts again. Typical of a recent contraband steroid injection. When they were out in the field, with no superior officer mammying over them, the boys could get a little wild. But Tom supposed that was part of the warrior culture.

Finally ready, the team assembled for a last minute briefing. Since Ahmed had the most real-world experience in Mosul, it fell to him to lead. Tom turned the volume up on his feeds so he could hear what was going on. Ahmed usually got into what Tom called Ninja Mode right before an Op. Lowered voice, lowered posture, sneaky eyes. It was pretty comical really. Except every time Tom wanted to tell Ahmed how funny he seemed, Ahmed was always holding some type of assault rifle, and it felt like a bad time to bring it up.

“Ok, let’s gather in. I know we’ve all been over the details hundreds of times over the last week, but they bear going over once more. Our primary mission objective is to kill Fayiz Harun, the main opposition to Asad Saif-Al-Din, the man Washington wants to keep in power. With the election only a few weeks away, this may be our best chance before he realizes the fragile political position he’s in and seeks better protection. We’ll split up on leaving our base and fade into the marketplace. Deena and Wilson, you two will move down Beggar’s way and take a side street to get to the embassy. Sylvia and I will make our way down through the weaving district. Mikta and Ben will walk through the back and circle around the market to meet us at the front on the embassy. We received intel this morning that Harun will be moving at noon. This means that we have to infiltrate the embassy before then.

“Our three teams will try and gain entry through the regular civilian channels until they figure out who we really are. By then it will be too late, and hopefully the market outside will be loud enough to mask the sound of our suppressors from the upper floors. Try and minimize casualties if you can, but in the end the whole building is going down, so it won’t make much difference. Harun should be on the top floor along with his support staff and guards. At last count, he has twelve bodyguards that are armed with Suyez submachine guns. We just have to get close enough to confirm it’s him before we really open up with the munitions. Wilson, that means you.” Wilson looked affronted, like he’d never think of throwing a few mangatite grenades down the hall without checking first. Although there was that one time in Mumbai. And Sarajevo. And San Salvador. Maybe he had a point. “Once we have a confirmed kill,” Ahmed continued, “We rig the building and scramble before Sylvia detonates the nitro. Of course, we all have a switch in case anything should happen.” The team glanced at Sylvia briefly, but they all knew the risks and had accepted them long ago. Besides, from the procedures they “elected” to go through back in New York, dying might just not be so permanent this time around. Much comfort that would give to the body they currently occupied. “Any questions?”

“Yeah,” said Deena. “What’s our egress? I mean, people are going to notice us leaving from the building immediately following a gunfight, right? We have silencers, but the guards won’t.”

“Just do your best and blend back into the crowd. Odds are good that the market will be so busy, no one will notice us. And if not, no one will notice a few more dead bodies once the blast rips through the area. Just use your blades so it’ll look like shrapnel wounds, understand? But you know that. Look, does anyone have any useful questions before we get on with it?”

Tom could tell by the looks on everyone’s faces that Ahmed had just crossed a line, but no one wanted to challenge him on it right before a major op. From the monitor, he saw the team in beeps and fractions. Blood pressure up, heart rate up, a quick spike in adrenaline, but nothing like he’d see once they went into action. Realizing his mistake, Ahmed retreated and regrouped.

“I…I’m sorry Deena, but you guys know how I get before a mission.” He looked her in the eyes, an odd experience when viewed from Deena’s cam. “Are we good?” Deena looked like she might punch him, but just nodded once slowly. “Ok. It’s almost 10:45 so let’s move out.”

One by one, Tom watched their bodies work to maintain level as the team moved out into the market. Core temperatures rose as they walked in the sun. Respiration quickened, along with heart rate, but not much. Any normal person’s heart might be beating out of their chest if you told them to go into a government building and fight their way to the top floor, but the black ops team was different. Like adventure-racers and pro cyclists, their resting heart rate was in the low thirties. An average American’s is in the eighties. This team was in such good shape, a fast walk through a crowded market deep undercover in enemy territory wasn’t even high enough to register as a light nap for everyone else. Tom sat in the sub-sub-basement amazed at what he had helped create.

They wove through the crowded streets like ghosts, or salesmen, or artisans. Someone looking for the telltale signs of a highly trained team of warriors on the move would notice nothing. No careful glances. No perfect balance or fighters posture. No flanking, or keeping sightlines clear. The crowd just grew by six people, all a little tubby in their midsection. Careful rigging betrayed no squeaks from the deadly cargo stowed about themselves.

An hour before noon, the marketplace was busting with activity. Some shopkeepers had come and gone, like the fishmongers whose wares were best sold in the cool of the morning, but others were just setting up for the lunch rush. Fires smoked and stoves blazed. A wonderful stench permeated the stalls wherever the soldiers went. An intriguing combination of spiced meat, fresh pitas, and goat poop. Well not just goats, but the were by far the largest in attendance so Ahmed supposed they could claim it as their own. Vibrant fabric hung from each vendor like flags celebrating life. Deep crimsons, blues, greens, and yellows all fluttered in the pungent breeze.

Deena and Wilson ambled down towards the Beggars way. Each careful to tailor their gait to mask their training, but also to advertise their contempt for the poor and how hopeless it would be to ask them for anything. The last thing they wanted was to get involved with a local gang leader in some turf war for a fetid street corner. Tom watched as they reached the embassy entrance and stalled for time, browsing the vendors on the opposite side of the street.

An old goat dealer stood in his stall, watching the daily mayhem of the market at noon. Something about him caught Deena’s eye. He stood tall. Very tall actually, with his muscular chest out and his chin held high. A remarkable posture for someone of his obvious age. In fact, were it not for the wrinkles and his white hair and beard, he might be forty years younger. For just a moment, their eyes locked, and she saw sadness, patience, and a haughtiness that said that he owned this city in a way that she never could. Then they were both swept away in the push of the crowd.

Ben and Mikta arrived next, spilling out into the little square from a packed concourse leading back towards the center of the market. Ahmed and Sylvia walked towards the front gates to join the line of people queuing up for their chance to petition one of the officials for a visa and a shot at a new life.

All together now, the team positioned themselves into a tight knot in the front of the line, ready to strike out and wreak their special brand of carnage onto the embassy. Then the screens went blank. Nothing but snow and noise.

The control room back in New York was silent for seven tenths of a second, then exploded into noise. Everyone was shouting orders. Breathing heavily, Tom ignored everyone and focused on the screens. He rewound all the feeds back five seconds, then played them in slow motion. It took him two minutes and twenty seven seconds, but he found it. He set it to loop and threw it up onto the big screen at the front. The room fell silent.

“What the hell is that Sipes?” Tom looked up at the three star General, took a deep breath, and carefully adjusted his vocal chords before answering.

“That is the suicide bomber that just murdered my wife…Sir.”

So I decided to do NaNoWriMo 2009. What is it, you may ask? National Novel Writing Month. All November long, I’ll be churning out content. Then I’ll have a rough first draft at the end of it. I have three potential novels I could write during that time. We’ll see how it turns out!

I have a weird mental checkbox that I feel must be filled for me to be a successful writer. I must own a tweed jacket with leather elbow pads. I know what you’re thinking, “Yup, that’s pretty weird.” and “Didn’t he already write a whole novel without this magical elbow padded jacket?”

Well I have good news to report. I am now a successful writer. The other day, I filled in said mental checkbox by purchasing the perfect tweed jacket at the Thrifty Shopper. It was $6.99, but it had a purple tag, so it was 40% off. Not that this makes a difference, but my Mom saw that it was an Evan-Picone and speculated that it was quite pricey. So I got a $150 sports jacket for $4.19. Sweet.

But back to the main point. Why would I feel the need to own a tweed jacket with leather elbow pads in the first place; and, have it be connected with a successful writing career? The short answer is: I don’t know. The long answer is: Maybe at some point I associated some famous/ favorite author of mine with this style and it made an impression on me. The only one that jumps to mind is J.R.R. Tolkien, but I can’t be sure he owned one of these style monstrosities. I just have this vision in my head of a venerable novelist sitting in front of an audience to give a reading. Maybe he is sitting in a leather chair, maybe a pipe sits on a separate marble end-table with cherry flavored smoke idly twirling through the air. He finishes the reading and people are clapping wildly. The leather elbow pads squeak against the rich red leather of the armchair as he gets up to acknowledge their praise. I suppose this is my yardstick for writing success. If that’s true, I’ll be waiting a long time. Thoughts?

There are certain phrases that really irk me. Sometimes they really irk my wife, so If I am not also irked to the same degree…she becomes irked with me too. So, there are some phrases that irk me. One of the worst offenders is: Whole nother. As in: “We made it down the mountain in one piece, but what happened at the campsite is a whole nother story!” This is wrong. Period. Full stop.

“But it’s colloquial!” You’ll say. No. It’s colstupidal is what it is. Why not just say:  “We made it down the mountain in one piece, but what happened at the campsite is a another whole story!” Or just say, “another story” and forget the whole.

I can’t say why this gets to me so much, but it does. I’ll have more grammer/ phrase rants soon. What are some of yours?

So now I’m officially a writer. I’ve received my first rejection from an agent.

Thanks for your query, but I’m sorry to say I’m not the right agent for your book. I wish you the best of luck in your search for representation.

Chapter 7.

Hunter stepped out of the airlock and, after hastily embracing Treena, grabbed her shoulders and held her at arms length so he could see her face.

“Did we get it?” Treena looked up at him and just smiled. “How does it look? Come on woman; don’t make me beat it out of you!” Treena’s eyes gleamed.

“We’ll save the beatings for later, but yes. They all look great. We’ve already got a working 4D model of their lab. We mapped routines, habits, interactions, and methods. We even have passwords and filenames. Sam’s still going over it now, but it looks like we hit the mother lode. Mizuki’s a genius! It’s too bad the nano-pollen only gives us a visual feed for eight hours before being absorbed by the host body. Your little mark down there still has the plant on her desk though, so maybe we’ll get lucky and the feeds will regenerate. Even what we do have makes it all worthwhile. I know it’s not exactly like storming an enemy bunker under heavy fire, but you did great. Now let’s get you guys down to Command so we can do an official debriefing.”

“Well there’s good news and bad news.” Sam addressed the entire Eur-It council in the Glitter East conference room. Uggghhh, another Monday, another meeting. His heart sank at what he was about to tell them. “After many hours of work, resources expended, and favors called in, I can say that our latest intelligence is a big shiny pile of diddly squat.” Looks of dismay echoed across the room, filling the vast spaces between the luminescent windows. Even the sea creatures noticed the mood shift in the room. “Look, it’s nothing that we did. Except if you count making assumptions that all the Tag work would be at their main lab. Our team performed beyond expectations. I can tell you that their lead man always has ham and cheddar scrambled eggs with home fries and a side of wheat toast on Tuesdays. He even prefers hot sauce on the eggs and strawberry jam on the toast. But I can’t tell you details on their work. Only file names that lead nowhere. All of the workers only do a tiny amount of work on small sections at one time. It looks like someone designed a system so that no one would see the big picture. The only silver lining is that when we were monitoring feeds, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a tight beam signal towards Enceladus. That’s where we saw the anomaly in the first place. That is where we think their main research goes on. And that’s where we’re going next. Except this time, we won’t be delivering flowers.”

“So all that work was for nothing?” chimed Dr. Hook, “it seemed so promising when it first started coming in.”

“Yes it did.” replied Treena “That’s what we thought too. But after extensive analysis, I agree with Sam. Even the researchers on Titan don’t know exactly what they are working on. Their assignments change by the minute and get saved off-site, so no one knows too much. Our only course of action is to invade the lab on Enceladus.”

“Do you think that’s prudent?” prodded Dr. Hook. “At this point, we still hold all the cards, right? Tag doesn’t suspect that we just conducted an op in their living room. Can’t we just sneak into Enceladus the same way?”

“I believe it has to be the next step, and it has to be forceful. We could bluff our way down onto Titan because they are still fairly open there. It’s an active mine with an economy that has various services to support the workers. But Enceladus is a different story. Officially, nothing exists there. Not on any register we can see, and believe me, we’ve looked at them all. We can’t just show up at their secret base and say, ‘Maid service’ with a funny accent and expect to be let in. No; if we go in, we go in hard.” Everyone could see that there was no moving Treena Colure.

Sam looked up at these words, knowing that he would be on the invasion team. His stomach dropped a fraction of an inch and he took a deep breath. It had been years since he’d done any field work. He knew that he’d be rusty, but it couldn’t be as bad as the first time he was in a firefight.

Back during the Martian war for independence, he worked for the freedom fighters doing much the same job he did now: communications and tech management. Things went well for a while but the Terran forces eventually gained back enough ground to offer substantial resistance. After working far back from the front for a number of years, Sam deployed to storm an advance Terran base camp up in the mountains. He wondered why he’d been chosen since he was not a fighter (in fact, he was terrified of being shot at, or even holding a gun.) Then he did more research on the target and found out through various sources that the base was a major Terran communication hub that controlled troop movements all over that hemisphere. If he could take out their computer system, their enemies would be blind and deaf, stumbling around like his Great Aunt Bess. Or even better, take it over. Sam could create vast amounts of chaos by ordering his enemies to all the wrong places. Maybe he could even convince them to fight each other by setting one brigade in an ambush to wait for another, telling them the other force was actually Martians in stolen uniforms.

However, it did not turn out well. During the attack, Sam freaked out from all the incoming fire and just sort-of lost it. He ran as fast as he could and actually infiltrated the enemy line before he was taken down in a big sticky pile of foam. Apparently, even the enemy recognized that he wasn’t a fighter and decided to take him out with a non-lethal defense weapon. Soon, they realized just how lucky they were to capture such an important asset and moved him to a military prison deep behind the lines. Sam had never known true hardship until he sat alone in a cell for twenty two hours a day. Every week, the Terran interrogators paid him a visit. They used nearly everything at their disposal to probe his mind for secrets they could use to fight the rebellious Martian colonists. The only reason they didn’t totally destroy his mind was that they found that Sam possessed duel citizenship. If word ever got out that they had tortured a Terran, even if he was working for the other side, it would be a PR disaster. So he endured the weekly questioning with a stoicism that surprised even himself. He supposed it stemmed from all those times he was left alone on the Orbital as a child. To pass the time, he made mental lists of all his favorite animals, categorizing by family, genus, and species. The birds were always his favorite. They could move about on the ground, but they weren’t trapped there. Whenever they fancied, they could take to the wing and fly far away from whatever situation they were in. Sometimes for thousands of miles.

After three months, Sam questioned his ability to hang on. Hang on to hope, sanity, belief in an existence outside of his tiny four walls. Everything. Then she came.

He remembered waking up from a fitful slumber and wondering what woke him. The ever-present cold was nothing new. He’d become accustomed to its bite in the months following his capture. Then he noticed the sounds. Were people shouting? Gunshots? His heart suddenly lifted at the hope that he might finally be rescued from this fortress of lonely imprisonment. Then he brought himself back down to the gritty real world. Why would anyone rescue him? He wasn’t even a soldier. Only a comms tech. It was the same story his whole life. Surrounded by important people, but never one himself, Sam was used to being overlooked. It would probably happen here too. Some big-shot was being broken out while he stayed here to rot. Dejected, he slumped back down onto the concrete slab that paraded as his bed, hands on his chin and elbows on his knees.

The sounds were getting closer now, from the courtyard to his wing. Whoever staged this attempt must have balls of steel. Not only was this a prison, it was a fully functional military compound with a full compliment of troops just itching for something to shoot at. Shots were fired at the end of his own hallway. Sam started to stand up, just so he would be ready to go when whoever it was opened his door, but then sat back down again. No one wanted him. But…the steps were coming closer now. Suddenly his door blew open with concussive force, knocking him on his back. When he propped himself back up, he saw an angel standing there in his cell. The most beautiful woman Sam had ever seen could not come close to how perfect she was at that moment. Sunlight shown in behind her, outlining her frame in a halo of radiance. Her black hair, highlighted with dark blue was cropped at an angle up from her chin, back. She had a slim nose and grey eyes that broadcast her exuberance for…what… Life? Danger? Excitement? Bloodlust? He didn’t know yet, but he promised himself that he would find out what lit that fire. Then he would become whatever that was. She surprised him by speaking his name.

“Sam? Sam Auerbach?” Still standing in the doorway, she leaned outwards, half her attention still focused down the hall. His name. She said his name. Momentarily stunned, both by her beauty, and by the fact that he’d been blown back on his rear when she blasted his door down, he just nodded. “My name’s Treena. Are you all right?” Sam nodded again. “Good. Now get up and get moving. We have orders to egress ASAP to the LZ as soon as we acquire the target.” Sam got up as if he just realized he’d been sitting on a nest of red ants, brushing the dust off while trying to maintain eye contact with this amazing woman.

“How long until you acquire this target?” Sam asked, still not familiar with her military speak. Treena stared at him with a “You’ve got to be kidding.” look on her face.

“You’re the target. We came to get you.” she said. “Now come on, we’ve got to get out of here before the whole base deploys against us.” He just could not believe it. They were here for him. She was here for him. Someone back at command must have a high estimation of his worth to spend these kind resources on only one man. Treena handed Sam a small Aquanos model h277 hydro phaser and sprinted back down the hall. Sam followed her as best he could, but three months of non-activity affected his performance. He cursed himself for allowing his body to fall into such a miserable state. They took the stairs and made it down two flights before they met resistance. Watching her work was both terrifying and enthralling, like watching a seasoned woodcarver create a masterpiece. Except that instead of carving wood, she was carving bodies. Her chisel, a mil-spec plasma coil set on maximum. And thus started Sam’s often unhealthy, studiously ignored infatuation with Treena Colure.

* * *

“What’s your status?” Merrick’s image came in splotchy over the screen. “I told you I want progress updates on the hour. I’m not paying you to slack off and watch golf all day.”

“Chill out, Van Dorn. We were just programming the approach vector. My men are all checking their gear as we speak. I don’t see how we’ll ever be able to use all the munitions you packed. I mean, we’re just working security for a tiny base right? How much action are you expecting here, a full out assault?” Neil Greyson hunched over the comm station aboard the official mining transport “Infinity to Nowhere.” The snub-nosed ship pushed its way through space like a tug boat, packed with power but lacking real performance where it counted, as far as Greyson was concerned. He detested its boxy appearance and utilitarian crew quarters. He remembered his rides on Merrick’s shuttle, now that was a ship! Streamlined, and racer-red shiny. Merrick had even paid big bucks to get it custom fitted so all the exterior weapons systems were stowed away under hidden hatches and panels. It had a full bar, a hot tub big enough for a lot of women, an even a mini casino. The last time he was aboard, he was on duty. But the time before that. Oh man, what a ride! Greyson’s team had shipped out from Titan that morning on Merrick’s orders. He had given them virtually no warning of the move, and no voice to object. Like nearly everyone else on Titan, they were in the pocket of Van Dorn. Greyson had heard about how bad he was. All the people he could just make disappear without a second thought. How he ran his settlements. His security on top of security. But, despite all of this, Greyson refused to cower for Merrick.

He paid him his respect, sure. But Neil remained his own man. As a mercenary after the Martian conflict, he saw varied success in the hired gun business. He had even done a small bit of piracy around the Asteroid belt before an offer came over the nets from Titan. The pay seemed reasonable and he didn’t expect too much action so he accepted. The job had been a pigeon shoot so far. He and his men had grown a little soft because it had been so easy. Just last week, there had been a brawl among the miners as the night shift came off duty and went about the serious business of drinking themselves stupid. Two guys became so hammered as the morning wore on, they had steadily lost articles of clothing until they were both stark naked. This upset the other patrons and they made their feelings known with their fists. Greyson’s men had been called in to quell the little tiff and one of his star sheriffs had been punched in the face. This upset Neil badly. Not because his man had gotten hurt, that wasn’t it. No. It was that he had been hit at all. He expected his men to have such a high degree of training, that simple unarmed combat should be no problem. The fact that some drunk yahoo actually got past someone’s guard and popped him in the face spoke very badly for his troops training regimen. He made a mental note to work them extra hard when they got to their new assignment down on Enceladus. They would lock that place down tighter than the rear seal on his orbital entry suit. Not even Merrick’s lap dogs would move without his team knowing about it. After recording a few notes to himself on that subject, he switched the PGA Tour back on. Screw Merrick, he had golf to watch.

He loved golf. It was so brutal. He never knew if his favorite pro would last the game, let alone the season. Many players only survived one tournament before either retiring with vast riches or “retiring,” their corpses possessing fewer limbs than they started with. Greyson had heard about some namby-pamby version people played a few hundred years ago but they didn’t use proximity balls; or xeno-mutant monsters! Proximity golf was action-packed sports at its best. All four players teed off at the same time using special balls that contained a force field generator. This field keyed in to a personalized receptor on their suit and kept the various monsters that roamed the golf course at bay. The trick was, the player had to use the fewest balls possible to make their way across the course to capture the flag on the green, sometimes engaging in hand to hand combat with the surviving players to get it. Most of the pros favored little to no armor so they could run faster and evade the massive jaws of whatever beastie patrolled that particular hole. They also used the chain strategy, linking their balls across the course. Their thinking was that yeah, they used five balls, but they still had their arms. Even the best players would scream like little girls when they were running for the safety of the balls’ proximity field, mutants snapping at their heels. Greyson always loved watching newbies. They hit the ball farthest, harking back to some prehistoric tradition of manliness: HIT BALL HARD. As soon as it was in the air, they would start running, keeping their eyes on the ball so they would be encircled by the ten meter safe zone when it landed. Predictably, keeping their eyes on the ball and not on the seven ravenous xeno-mutants slavering after their tender flesh was a bad move. The next hole provided just such an example. Greyson laughed as the blood started to fly. Golf was awesome!

Chapter 6.

Deshawn Lewis picked his way down a back alley towards the main street. Stained boxes lay in piles next to grungy garbage cans and empty beer bottles. He stepped in a puddle of sludge and sucked his teeth in disapproval like a kid who’s just been told that they can’t stay up any later. This was supposed to be the future, where everything was clean and white and shining with newness. Not old and nasty and crusty. Graffiti covered the walls like drunken spider webs, a chaotic mash of gang logos, shout outs, insults, and occasionally…a real art piece. He skirted the edge of another puddle that might or might not be urine, and came out onto the main street. Lewis St. to be precise. Another suck of the teeth. It was no accident that he shared a name with the busiest street on Titan. His dad was the first leader this colony ever had, before that sadistic thug Merrick and his skeevy lap-dog Klein took over. Now everything was ruined. Deshawn continued walking down the street, taking in the familiar sounds and smells of his hometown.

Like usual, people avoided Deshawn as if he carried flesh eating bacteria. A bubble of contempt surrounded him whenever he was in public. The stares were the worst. Or the epithets whispered under their breath. That’s why he usually stuck to back alleys and tunnels when he could. But today, he was on a mission. His baby sister needed meds and she needed them bad. For the last week, her methane shakes were getting worse. Two days ago, Tasha shook so hard she fell out of her highchair right onto the rough hewn bedrock floor. Because of their situation, all they could afford was a small “apartment” tucked away in the outskirts of the colony. More like a cell. It might as well have been, for the way people still treated them after what happened.

Deshawn silently cursed his father for the umpteenth time. Why did he ruin their life? Why was he such a greedy, power-hungry bastard! Why did he come up with that stupid under-handed scheme in the first place? Why did he get caught? Why did he take the cowards’ way out and kill himself when his little empire came tumbling down? Weak! Deshawn told himself that if it were him, he would have the courage to withstand all the public scrutiny and outcry. He already had, in a manner of speaking. Him and his mom and baby sister were still on Titan. And they were still blamed for what his father had done just over eight years ago. It was his father’s fault that the construction crews in charge of building the base used shoddy materials and took shortcuts whenever they could. All the money they skimmed went right into his father’s pocket. Anyone who caught him in his little ruse received nice fat bribes and free tickets to the methane boat races; just as pretty as you please. Who cares if hundreds of miners and their families get sick every year from the methane leaks? Who cares that the public housing is always cold no matter how many blankets mothers pile on the walls and on their babies? And that’s why everyone cursed his father, and by extension…his family. It didn’t matter that they lived in the same conditions and suffered from the same hardships that every other poor mining family did. They caused it. So they were spurned wherever they went. It was probably because they were suffering that someone didn’t just kill them outright. People wanted to see them pay, especially since his father took the easy way out, with a hydro phaser to the head.

Deshawn kept walking down the street, keeping his head down like usual so as to avoid eye contact with the angry masses. He used his peripheral vision to keep from bumping into things when he was out and about, rather than exposing his face to the predictable ridicule. Farther down the sidewalk, just at the limit of his vision about fifteen feet away, he noticed a man standing stock-still in the middle of the busy thoroughfare. Like he was waiting for someone. The man might even be waiting for…him. Deshawn kept walking, hoping he would move out of the way, but the man held his ground. It looked like it was going to be another one of those days. Some poor miner whose kids are sick and want to lash out at the one thing they can still get their hands on…him. Deshawn approached the man cautiously, ready to run if he had to, but the man held up his hand up, palm towards him in the “stop” sign. Not really sure why, Deshawn stopped and looked up at the stranger. The man’s yellow eyes stared out his from sunken sockets and sagging cheeks.

“Someone wants to invite you to lunch.” The man said. This took Deshawn off-guard more than if the man had slapped him right in the face.

“What? Who?”

“I can’t say, just follow me.” And without another word, the man turned on his heels and took off at a brisk walk. This was too much for Deshawn’s curiosity. There was a tingling sense of wrongness tugging at the back of his mind, but it wasn’t strong enough to overcome the prospect of a free meal.

The man turned into a small trendy café that Deshawn had walked past many times but never been in. Who pays that much for lunch? Following close behind now, they wound through the lunchtime crowd and out past two guards to a back terrace with a few tables set around the railing and plants hanging from the lattice work above. Birdsong filtered down from the branches like a soft blanket of calm. No one knew how the birds had been introduced to the colony. They just appeared one day, announcing their arrival with cheerful chirps and warbles. Stepping out into the green space, Deshawn felt a sudden pang of…regret?…jealousy? He couldn’t place it exactly, but he knew that if his father were still alive, this would be the type of place that his family would enjoy; still reaping the benefits of wealth and position. Deshawn barely noticed the man seated at the table until he reached into his pocket and took out a fifty dollar bill and handed it to the man who had led him to the café. Deshawn’s anger, never far from the surface, bubbled up at the sight of so much money being tossed aside for such a small errand.

“What the heck was that for?! Bringing me here? That much money could feed my family for a month yo! Who do you think you are just tossing…” and it suddenly occurred to Deshawn that he did know who the man was. His eyes narrowed to little slits as he exhaled one word with all the venom and malevolence he could muster. “Klein.” Fury burned bright in Deshawn’s soul, but now another emotion slithered up from the pit of his stomach…fear. Why would Klein have him brought here, to an out of the way location, secluded from the normal bustle of colony life? Did someone want him dead? To finally put him out of his misery? Before he could speak again, Klein held up his hand in much the same way the man in the street had earlier.

“Before you dump all of your pent up hatred on me, I want you to listen to a job offer I have for you.”

“Why would I ever want to help you? You and your Dutchman master have ruined this colony even more than my father, which is really saying something!”

“No.”

“No? No what?”

“Your father never ruined this colony; and if you’re smart, you’ll listen to me because I have something that you haven’t had for years.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Deshawn asked, still challenging, but with a hint of real curiosity in his voice. No, not curiosity. Hope.

“The truth. Your father was innocent. And he was murdered.” Klein said matter-of-factly. Deshawn was dumbfounded. That last sentence took all the wind out of his sails. Heck, forget the sails, it smashed the last eight years of his life up onto sharp jagged rocks and dragged sailors screaming from the wreckage down into the inky depths to be ripped to shreds by sharks the size of interstellar cruisers. Somehow, in the bottom of his heart, he knew that what Klein said was true. It seemed like he always wanted to believe his father didn’t do all those terrible things people said he did, but ever since he was ten years old, grownups had told him his dad was a bad man, and he believed them because…well, because they were grownups. Deshawn just stood there with his mouth open so Klein interceded before he started drooling.

“Sit down before your brain explodes. Let’s order some food and we can talk about the real reason you’re here today.” Without a word, Deshawn sat down and picked up a menu, still lost in thought. “Listen Mr. Lewis, I’ll answer all your questions in time, but right now I want to ask you a few.”

“OK.” Deshawn said, emotions still reeling.

“Good. Do you want to bring your family back up out of poverty? Do you want to avenge your father’s unjust murder? Do you want to clear your family name and reclaim your rightful position back in society? Oh, and how about $500,000?”

“Yeah man! Of course. Just tell me what I gotta do yo. I don’t care.”

“You have to kill Merrick Van Dorn.”

Chapter 5.

Cutter glanced up surreptitiously and squirted a quick message through his Mesh towards Hunter, who was on his way down the boarding ramp of the freighter. “Good luck buddy. I’ll be here when you get back.”

“I hope not.” replied Hunter. If anyone else was listening in, this exchange might seem callous. In fact, it radiated a deep respect and adherence to the warrior code that they both ascribed to. Their little inside joke started over forty years ago on another planet. Hunter was leaving for a patrol on the outskirts of the Argyre Planitia crater. Cutter wished him luck and said he would be there when Hunter got back. As soon as he made himself comfortable and was just about to pull out an old Mujuryoko–jutsu manual for a little self study, he noticed movement at the far end of the crater wall. From behind a rock outcropping, he watched as an entire platoon of Terran shock troops funneled into the area… his area.

Cutter took it upon himself to hold the entire quadrant until Hunter returned. At first, he tried to be sneaky and pick them off from a distance but it quickly devolved into a firefight. Cutter found himself pinned down and had to shed his outer suit to act as his decoy. He had programmed its exoskeleton to hold position and keep firing while he snuck off in a different direction with the only weapon he had left, the one that didn’t run out of ammo; his trusty vibe-knife. Its wickedly curved edges gleamed dully through the dark outer coating. The blade was perfectly balanced but contained so many vents, channels, and edges that it looked like it had already been fractally expanded inside some unfortunate victim’s torso. He flicked on the power cell and felt it whine to life. Micro-vibrations jittered down the length of the blade as it sought flesh to bite into.

With a ragged yell of, “Penetrate! Dominate! Destroy!” Cutter jumped over that last piece of cover right into the middle of the remaining force. They were so stunned that someone would actually see this maneuver as a viable option that Cutter took down ten men before they realized that they were in serious trouble. They stowed their plasma rifles so they wouldn’t injure their own men in such a close group, and drew their equivalent of a last resort weapon. Cutter chuckled as he saw what they were using. The titanium/ carbon alloy would do no more than scratch his power suit’s outer shell. That was when he remembered he had left it 200 meters behind him. With a renewed determination, he adjusted his stance and parried an incoming thrust with a kotegaeshi wrist lock and throw, bringing his knife down and across the neck of the hapless soldier who clearly had less of an education in Aikido than his opponent. The massive arterial spurt masked the soldier’s look of surprise that this was where he was going to die; out here in the Martian desert, covered in his own blood.

Another Terran threw himself in towards Cutter furiously, but also succumbed to the hungry vibe-knife: The victim of over-balance and a nasty gash that ran along his spine from mid shoulder to coccyx, splitting his body in two like a fish recently filleted. The next guy came in with his knife raised like an angry housewife whose husband has just come in drunk with lipstick on his collar. Cutter couldn’t believe his luck! Whoever taught these sorry excuses for soldiers how to knife fight must have just watched old sims of Beta Squad Seven. A quick upper block into a wrist grab with a twist and tug brought the man’s face right into Cutter outstretched hand. Except it wasn’t just his hand. The vibe-knife chewed through the man’s face and exited the back of his skull with a sickeningly wet, crunching sound. Stopping to shake the sticky bits of gore and brain matter from his hand, he felt a sharp pain at the back of his knee. One of the little cowards had come up and sliced him from behind! He looked around for the culprit and immediately saw the dripping knife in the hands of a smirking lieutenant. That was it! No more playing nice. Only eleven left, he could take them with only one leg. Heck, he could do it with one arm tied behind his back too; or hacked off as the case may be. That was when they all rushed him at once.

Hunter returned to find the spot littered with bodies. He searched through three or four piles before he finally found Cutter underneath the largest one; barely breathing, covered in lacerations, and lying in a massive pool of dark red blood. It effortlessly advanced in streams and rivulets to stain the surface of Mars a deeper hue of crimson, spreading over the arid landscape and running away through mini-crevices in the hard packed dirt. Hunter sent out an immediate med-evac signal, but he knew that the closest team was already over the horizon.

“I said I’d be here when you got back, didn’t I?” Cutter gurgled up at Hunter from lips that were as pale as the clouds that now hung in the Martian sky above them.

Hunter choked back tears to see the devotion in the tattered remains of his friend that he held close to him. “Yeah you did, you stubborn old bastard. Now try and relax, the medics will be here soon.” He stayed with his fallen comrade until he had brought him safely to a field hospital bed, back at their advance base camp. It took two weeks of extensive micro-surgery before he was out, regaling them with the tale of his solo mission, reenacting the various techniques he had used to lay waste to hundreds of enemy soldiers. Each time he repeated his story, the numbers grew larger and more ridiculous, but it was Cutter, so what could they do?

All this passed between them in an instant of reminiscence, as Hunter left the freighter and prepared to start the next phase of operations.

Hunter shuffled down the hallway, pushing the control box. He had to consciously try to mask his stature and poise. Any fighting man can recognize when another has been trained to perfection. His balance and the way he’s always centered gives him away. So he slouched and stumbled every third step to remind himself. He also opened and closed his mouth a few times, unconsciously massaging his cheeks with his tongue as the temporary facial reconstruction still felt tight. Mizuki was good, but she could be a bit gentler. Hunter checked that everything was in place and was about to throw the switch when a shout came from down the hall.

“Hey, you! What are you doing?”

“Aw crap.” He whispered as he silently readied himself to engage, adjusting his stance should he need to throw a strike or five. The man in coveralls came closer.

“Johnson, isn’t it? What are you doing, man? You left all of your cleaning drones still charging back at the depot. What are you gonna do? Get down on your knees and scrub with your own hands? Pffah ha ha.” Hunter let his muscles relax and back slouch, in mock defeat. “Oh come on then, I’ll show ya.” His co-worker led him back down the hall past the R&D wing hall.

Twenty minutes later, he was back in the same hallway. Now he was ready. He flipped the switch and watched as a wave of silver bugs spread out from the base of his machine. Everywhere they passed over instantly sprang to a shine. Spots disappeared and tarnish vanished. Before they got out of range, he flicked another switch and they began to return. Ah, the glamorous life of a custodial technician. He timed his shifts so that he could be in the hall when the lab techs get out for lunch. Before everyone crowded out into the hall, he made sure to do some pushups and leave his coveralls half unfastened so his massive sweaty chest could be seen heaving up and down with each breath. As he predicted, the doors opened and a group of scientists started coming down the hall towards him. He spied a group of five women clustered together, speaking intently about something. Suddenly, one of them caught sight of him and he saw their mood change. What started as a professional discussion about quarks and boson interaction quickly morphed into a group of eighth graders gossiping about the newest hunk on the football team. He smiled politely as they passed close by him and he could swear he heard one of them giggle. A few more days of this and he would have the job in the bag.

The next day proved similar to the first; but on the third day, one of the women from the group approached him. She walked purposefully up to him as she returned from lunch. A little too thin for his taste, but at least she was brunette, so that was something. She introduced herself as Katie and cordially invited him to come out with them later that evening. He said he would be glad to. And that was that. They had no idea. After changing into something form-fitting but not tight, he ambled into the bar and glanced around. It was stuffed with a clash of off-duty miners and office workers, both tired from a week of drudgery. Thumping music blared from all corners of the room while people clustered around a bar that floated in the middle of the cramped space, trying to get the attention of the harried bartenders to place drink orders. Cheap beer advertisements glared from all over the kitsch-covered walls, a jumble of photoluminescence, and a confusing nostalgia for the past. As Hunter made his way around the pub, the smell of stale beer and unwashed bodies assaulted his nostrils.

Katie waved him over to the corner, where she was gathered with the rest of her female colleagues. He noticed that they had increased from five to seven. Nice! More chance for him. As they exchanged pleasantries, he carefully sized up the competition and arrayed them in descending order of attractiveness. He was not one to be this shallow, but he was on a mission, and it made tactical sense to make his most concerted effort towards the one who was 4^th prettiest. It made her feel like she had something special that her prettier friends didn’t possess. She’d also be more likely to give up secrets, having won out over her rivals in the man-catching department. So Margaret it was. He spent the rest of the evening trying to get closer to her and ignoring Katie and the other top three. This way, they would be jealous the next day and would only fuel Margaret’s desire to continue her good fortune and see Hunter again.

The next night, he took Margaret out to the most expensive restaurant on the base, though that wasn’t saying much. He listened to her small talk about the office and ordered good wine. Hunter went on to enthrall her by describing Mars and his life as a terraformer there. She was thoroughly caught up by this mystery man and was ecstatic when he kissed her goodnight at the door of her apartment. He didn’t even ask to come in. What a gentleman. He sent the flowers to the lab the following morning.

Katie and the others were livid to see the elaborate bouquet perched on Margaret’s desk like a neon sign, advertising that she was their superior. They couldn’t figure out what he saw in her that they didn’t have. She had nice hips, they had shapelier hips. She had a sweet smile, they had devastatingly beautiful smiles. She even had a small chest. What was the deal with that? What man doesn’t want a woman with big boobs? Apparently him, they thought. Even though they were teeming inside, they each admired her flowers and took a nice big sniff of the saccharine blooms, their pistils dripping with sexy flower juice. The pollen on the stamens looked shinier than usual, but they assumed that it was the lights in the labs. With each sniff, a new visual feed popped online in front of Mizuki. At lunchtime, the group, now more disjointed and rivalrous than before, walked through their usual ritual of passing close by the hunky building services tech in the hall. Margaret stayed behind the group to talk with Hunter as they returned from lunch.

“Thanks for the beautiful flowers!” Margaret inquired. “Where did you get them?”

“I brought the designs with me and had them special made in one of the fabricators overnight. I had to pull a few strings but I don’t think anyone will notice.” he winked. This was only partly true. He made them as soon as he got to his room the first day and the nano-pollen had been maturing ever since; past the watchful sensors of the customs agents. There had been one close call. Just that morning, one of his co-workers barged into his room to invite him out with the rest of the guys after they got off shift. They had seen him at one of the bars a few nights ago surrounded by ladies and Ron wanted to ask him some questions. Like: How? The unfortunate tech immediately noticed the flowers in the corner of the room and was about to ask Hunter what the deal was, and (being a manly miner) if he was gay, and maybe that’s why all the women felt comfortable around him, and if he was, that was fine with him, but stay away fro…and that was when Hunter pulled a quick cross-body shuto to his carotid artery, rendering him instantly unconscious. Hunter stashed him on his bed and made sure to lock the door. Before he exited the room, he left a flower sitting on Ron’s chest, partly to confuse him, and partly so they could keep track of him when he did finally wake up. If Ron woke up, found a flower on his chest, and couldn’t remember exactly what happened, he would never tell anyone what he saw. Thinking about the flowers brought him back to the conversation. Margaret was standing there with one hand on her hip and the other hand twirling her hair. “So we should do something tonight. What do you think?”

“I have something in mind.” She said, a mischievous smile playing at the edges of her plum-tinted lips. She actually was fairly attractive. Too bad he’d be leaving the moon as soon as she walked around the corner and out of sight.

Hunter looked directly into her eyes as he said, “Well, this is coming along very nicely. I’ll see you tonight.” She beamed a smile at him and turned away, never realizing that he wasn’t really talking to her. Roughly 500 million miles away, Treena looked up from the monitor and smiled. She would see him tonight, and she guessed that she had the same thing in mind as Margaret.

Hunter breathed a sigh of relief only after they cleared the gravity well of Titan. He had done his part, now it was up to Mizuki and Sam to sort the intelligence he had risked so much to get.

Chapter 4 . (Six and a half years later.)

They had been hearing little bits and pieces for a few years, but the previous week they found the proof. Titan was working on a totally new kind of propulsion system. For six years Eur-It had been keeping Titan under constant surveillance, but Sam never caught it. It happened that one of the lab techs noticed the strange flare.

“Whoa. What was that?” exclaimed Jeremy Hardy; a veteran Comms specialist working on deep space emissions and wave theory. With a habit for reading old mystery novels and not doing much else, Jeremy’s scrawny body disappeared under Sam’s muscular frame.

“What was what?” Sam asked.

“That flare of bosons, quarks, and nidans over near quadrant seven. Here, lemme see that.” Jeremy grabbed the controls and side-scooted Sam out of the way; knocking over old coffee cups and a stack of Popular Science issues from the last century. It was only because of Sam’s intense curiosity that Jeremy did not receive a quick ridgehand to the temple for this blatant takeover of his workspace. “It looks like it’s coming from the dark side of Enceladus, another one of Saturn’s small moons. Yeah, see? Right here.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means that either Enceladus is about to turn into a black hole, or someone is doing some seriously twisted things to the physics of reality over there. Like, seriously dude. Do you see how the light from the stars behind the moon is bending towards blueshift?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, the only way that we should be seeing that is if we are approaching C.”

“Whadda ya mean sea? Like the ocean? We’re already under an ocean.”

“No, you miserable excuse for a tech geek. C like E=mc². Like the speed of light. Ever heard of it?”

“Oh crap.” said Sam.

“That’s an understatement. We need to get Dr. Hook up here now!”

The following day, Dr. Hook had assembled his team for a briefing with Treena and the rest of Eur-It to discuss future action plans in light of recent events. They were in the main conference room of the hotel in Glitter East. Huge windows encircled the upper two thirds of the walls and massive shapes loomed past among the clouds of luminescent jellies and phytoplankton. It really was a spectacular location. Treena could see why this moon had become the retreat center and tourist destination for the outer colonies. Helium 3 tycoons and hydrocarbon oil men lived it up kilometers below the ice in this kingdom of deep sea magic and resurrected leviathans. She had actually been on a few hunts for them on her down time. It was pretty exciting climbing on to the back of a beast the size of a 747 airbus just after dodging teeth like swords before activating your plasma coil to slit its meters-long throat. After that, the plesiosaurs didn’t bother her again. Now they peeked in the windows and were afraid she’d come back out for them. She was still smiling as Dr. Hook started the meeting.

“OK people, let’s get started. Here’s the situation. Yesterday around 3:00 AM we noticed an unnatural occurrence on the far side of Enceladus. The composition of this plume of particles leads us to believe that the Titans are developing a totally new type of deep space propulsion system. From what we can guess, this will be 85- 97% faster than anything we have now. As it is, we are scrambling for the last few resources this solar system has to offer. But with this, they can leave the Sol system and be anywhere we would want to go, decades or even centuries earlier. I don’t have to tell you what that would mean. So what can we do about it?”

“Steal it.” True to his name, Cutter jumped in without a moment’s hesitation. “I mean, that’s why we’re here right? I didn’t spend the last six plus years here just so I could work on my ping-pong game, which is amazing by the way. I’m so good it makes even me sick. I’m tired of sitting on my hands doing nothing, while we watch Van Dorn grab every available piece of rock he can get his grubby hands on. It’s time we do something about it.”

“Is that even possible?” asked Jeff Tailor incredulously.

“Maybe.” answered Treena. “It depends on the time frame we’re talking about. If you want us to just drop by tomorrow and pick up the secret plans along with some cheese and a gallon of milk, I’d say you’re crazy. Give us six months on the other hand, and we have a reasonable shot.”

“Just reasonable?” sneered Jeff.

“I’ll put it this way, if we don’t deliver in the next six months, we’ll work for the next six years without pay.”This led to a small outburst from the Eur-It side of the room, but Treena silenced them with a steely glare.

“Before we go making promises we can’t fulfill, why don’t we discuss this a little more. Now, what do you have in mind?” asked Dr. Hook.

“It would be a simple map and slap. A spy and fly if you will.” The scientists just looked at Treena like she was babbling in Gaelic. “We would conduct surveillance and once we know where the relevant files are, go and get them.”

“Now why couldn’t you have just said that in the first place?” complained Jeff. “It’s all slang and secret codes with you guys.”

“Hey! You watch your tone or you’ll watch your tongue writhing on the floor in a pool of blood!” Always the diplomat, Cutter’s eyes gleamed as he stared at Jeff while Jeff suddenly found a spot on the floor a much more interesting subject for his gaze. He looked as if he might chum all over his new favorite spot.

“Cutter, that’s enough. Control yourself. We have enough enemies to deal with without including our support team on that list. I’m sorry for my teammate’s actions but I think he had the right idea. We need to do something. We can’t just sit here anymore letting the fight come to us. You all need to be ready so that when we give you those files, you can whip up some new ships before they can. My team and I will worry about getting them. As far as that goes, I think we have a few tricks up our sleeves.”

* * *

Merrick Van Dorn gazed down imperiously from his office above the mines’ main installation. Sumptuously appointed in polished wood furniture with supple leather and rich crimson fabrics, the room exuded luxury from ages past. Ancient dead-media, paper books lined formidable shelves encircling two walls. The third wall was plain, with no art to adorn its perfect surface. This held the gigantic screen that Merrick used to keep an eye on everything. He calmly wiped the Plasma Coils’ sleek handle on his grimy suit. “Too bad.” he thought, “This suit cost me a lot of money.” Watching as drones cleaned up the several pieces of his former Head of Propulsion Research from the floor, he thought about how his morning could have gotten off to such a bad start. He had his usual coffee analog at Gino’s before strolling through his mining town. People cringed away, backing into alleys at his approach but he had become used to this. Then, after his visit to Madame Meh’s, he headed down to the R&D wing to meet his number two, and see how his latest pet project was coming.

“Oh, uh, hello sir. How are you sir? I wasn’t expecting you so early this morning.” Klein was a small man who looked like he may have been a rat in his former life. His yellow eyes darted furtively around as he tried to avoid his boss’ gaze.

“Yes well, there was a new girl down at Meh’s, but she wasn’t up to snuff. They tell me she’ll come out of it in a few days. Ha! Anyway, I’m here now, so what have you got for me?”

“We experienced a small containment leak at the new facility but we have it locked down now.”

“How small is small, Mr. Klein?”

“Only two grams of material escaped through our extensive shielding. There were a few people injured, but no one died.”

“Well there’s still time for that. Is there any sign that someone noticed?

“No sir. We think that the Rings shielded most of the blast out towards the direction of Neptune.”

“You think?”

“Yes sir.” Klein said, cowering away from Merrick.

“Oh dear.”

“Sir?”

“Have Dr. Hoff see me in my office immediately. And then send in his number two. What’s his name…Mendoza? And make sure Hoff backs up all of his work before he sees me. That will be all.”

“Yes Mr. Van Dorn.”

Merrick’s main mining settlement perched on the edge of a vast plateau overlooking a great lake of ethane, methane, and dissolved nitrogen. The mines’ main function wasn’t so much drilling, as pumping the valuable hydrocarbons from the lake. In fact, most of the workers here were constantly occupied with keeping the equipment working in the freezing cold atmosphere. Around the equator, it was a consistent -290 ˚F, which was nice for the Xanadu base, but most of the methane lakes were closer to the North Pole where the majority of the population was located. Leave it to Van Dorn to pick economic viability over creature comforts like living.

After “voicing” his discontent to Dr. Hoff, he was sure that there would be no more slips once word got around. And it always did. If Klein didn’t spread the news, sometimes Van Dorn would do it himself. An anonymous tip to the colony’s news network Titan Times, or seeding conversation on the transport tubes. He enjoyed watching the ripples of fear spread through the populace after each of his little management sessions became known. With Klein in the corner looking like he always did after something like this, Merrick decided to give him a subtle hint.

“It’s good for people to know what happens if you displease Merrick Van Dorn. Right, Klein? I’m not running some luxury outfit like that Council of Scientific pansies over on Europa. Who do they think they are? With their fancy hotels and tourism supporting “valuable research” for the “good of humanity.” Please; just wait until they see what kind of research my pet brainiacs are coming up with. And besides that, Old Dr. Hook will get a surprise when another one of Tag’s projects comes online. They can say goodbye to their precious oceans when they get a face full of what I’ve got cooking on the back burner. Oh yes. They will be in for quite a shock. Ha! Shock, get it?”

Klein looked up at Merrick with a face that said, “I’m still ready to blow chunks and you are making jokes? I’d better get outta here before I end up like another anatomy lesson gone wrong, spread out all over the carpet. ” It was at that moment that Klein made an important decision: He must get rid of Merrick Van Dorn. Merrick’s yelling distracted Klein from planning his demise.

“Never mind. You wouldn’t laugh even if you knew what I was talking about. Now go get me the figures from yesterday. I want to see how rich I am.”

“Yes Sir.” said Klein. After he completed his duty, he thought about all the ways he could kill Van Dorn…and all the ways Van Dorn would kill him, if he got so much as a whiff that he planned to assassinate him. Who could he trust? Should he trust anyone? Klein would have to be extremely careful about who he talked to about this little venture. He had an idea of where he could start.

Over the decades, Merrick had worked his way up from a ships’ lieutenant on a Martian freighter, making no friends with all the dirty tricks he used on his rise to the top as head of the mining colonies on Titan. Klein had met Merrick on the same freighter and been with him ever since. From the moment he met Merrick, Klein sensed that if he just stuck with him, he would gain power and position as Merrick did all the hard work. But he didn’t realize what he’d have to give up along the way, and what he’d have to do. First it was just little things, like lying to the Captain, or cooking the books for him when he went through his gambling phase. Then the jobs started getting more serious. And Merrick asked Klein to cover up all sorts of his misdeeds. That’s when Klein realized that he was in too deep, but he’d made too many enemies to step away. He knew that as soon as he was out from under the protection of Merrick, he was a dead man; unless he could take control. So he kept lying, and cheating, and covering up. At least he hadn’t had to kill anyone… yet. Merrick had other people for that job. The same people that would kill Klein if they found out what he was planning.

Klein knew that if he only searched hard enough, he would find someone not only willing, but desperate enough to risk it all for a chance to kill Van Dorn. And he knew just the place to start. Klein hit the books.

* * *

“So is everybody set with their role? Let’s go around the table one more time just to be sure we could do it in our sleep.” Treena and the rest of the tactical side of Eur-It were gathered in the middle of the large spherical room in their living quarters having dinner. This is when living under a luxury hotel definitely had its benefits. Almost every meal was cooked to perfection; and everyone got whatever they desired. Treena was enjoying a heaping bowl of Gai Pad Prig Pow, the coconut milk and basil offset the roasted chili peppers nicely while the rice kept the yellowy-orange sauce at bay. To her left, Sam scarfed down a plate of Chicken Makhani. Every few bites, he reached for his glass of water to counteract the cayenne pepper that saturated the butter and tomato sauce. His forehead beaded with sweat and he had a runny nose, but that’s how he liked it. Mizuki was finishing her bowl of eda mame beans before moving on to her Nabeyaki Udon. Steam still rose from the noodles and broth where shrimp tempura floated with veggies and a lonely egg on top of everything. Sam watched as she wielded her chopsticks as deftly as the gene-splicer in her lab, picking up individual pieces of slippery noodle that no one else could ever seem to get. Next to her, Cutter was slicing up his Lamb Chawarma. The spicy meat gave off a pungent odor that vied for dominance with the Thai and Indian spices already wafting above the table. A plate of dolmades lay to his left, half eaten; the stuffed grape leaves forgotten as he turned his attention to his main dish. Completing the circle, Hunter tucked into a big square of lasagna. Its only defining characteristic was a miniature Italian flag sticking out of the middle on a wooden skewer. His relatively “normal” dish drew glances from his teammates and he responded like he always did, “What…I like Italian.” he said. “I can’t have all those spices all the time. It’s not healthy for my…undercarriage.” he finished lamely, his voice trailing off. Cutter and Sam both burst out laughing, imagining Hunter furiously swabbing cold water on his “undercarriage” as he perched over the head with a burning rectum. The spices attacking his delicate flesh as harshly on the way out, as on the way in. Hunter glared at both of them for a few tense second but then relented, and finally chuckled as well. The women just looked at each other and shared a “These are supposed to be grown men?” look.

Someone thought it was funny to program the walls of the great room to show scenes from desolate battlefields of the past. If you looked North, you saw some beach in France littered with the bodies of dead soldiers. Iron beams stuck up among beached landing craft as thousands of soldiers floated amidst the red-tinged shallows. West was a window out into a jungle that was still burning from napalm. The South wall showed the last defense by the Terran forces on Olympus Mons. Every once in a while, a laser beam streaked across the frozen red rocks of the massive volcano. A field of heather covered the Eastern wall with a bridge that spanned out across a brackish river. Bodies weighed down in metal armor clogged the waterway and got snagged against the abutment. There were bloody swords and pikes sticking up from the field along with banners showing Lions Rampant on some, and scraps of tartan on others. Cutter decided privately that he liked this one best. The swords were what clinched it for him. He didn’t know why, but he always preferred blades to bullets. There was something visceral about feeling the life exit your opponent’s body, rather than looking through a scope and just pressing a button. It was in that moment that you were truly a soldier. And now here he was, stuck in tin can, sneaking around and listening at doors like a child trying to figure out if Mommy and Daddy really are going to get a divorce. At the sound of his name, he turned his attention back to the meeting.

“Cutter and I will make the insertion through regular civilian channels. My cover will be a spot on the maintenance services team that cleans the labs. I will ascertain the most likely female researcher and begin to seduce her. This will allow me to send her flowers.” Hunter glanced up from the memo he was reading from with a puzzled look on his face. “Can’t we just send some flowers into the lab without making contact?”

“No.” answered Mizuki. “The plant needs enough time to be able to manufacture the nano-pollen once it’s in place. It has to be dormant because of the entry scans. If they got flowers out of nowhere, they would just throw them out; or even worse, analyze them and be alerted to our presence. There needs to be a context and an excuse to keep them at some lucky lady’s desk for more than a day. Hunter here will be the talk of the office for at least two or three days, and that will be enough time for the nano-pollen to implant themselves in the eyes of the lab staff. Then we just sit back and watch. I’ve programmed the pollen to hack into the subjects’ visual stream and transmit everything they see, right to us. We will get an accurate picture of the lab, its defenses, even the habits of the staff, so we can decide on the best method to extract the information we need. We’ll be able to see what they have for breakfast and where they sleep at night.”

“I love you, Mizuki.” gasped Sam.

“Oh cut it out Sam.” Mizuki rebuffed. Even though she tried to put on a stern face, everyone noticed the slight blush that crept into her porcelain cheeks.

“Treena, as Captain of this ship, can you can marry us right now?” Sam pleaded with a jaunty grin and a twinkle in his eye.

“Sam, I am not a captain; and we are not on a ship. I know how talking about technology gets you all hot and bothered, which is why I specifically refrain from mentioning any when we have our weekly check-ins. Now can we get our minds back on the job and focus for just a few minutes? Cutter, what are you going to be doing?”

“Uh, what?” He was struggling to rid his mind of the image of Mizuki, surrounded by thick, luxuriant covers and nothing else. “Oh, uh yeah, I will accompany Hunter to Titan by working on the crew of the star freighter he will be arriving on. I will then perform surveillance and provide support from orbit… Which is a crock of monkey crap, ‘cause we all know I’m better down on the ground, right up in their face.”

“And…that’s why you’re in orbit for this one. We need to be silent, not violent. That comes later, only if we need it. Which I’m hoping we won’t. I heard Merrick recruited Greyson’s old squad to Tag a few years ago. I don’t need to remind all of you what happened in the canyons of Valles Marineris seventy years ago, especially you, Cutter. Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty and leave it at that.” A defeated look crossed Treena’s face before she continued. “Mizuki, you will be available back here to upload the data, right?”

Mizuki glared at Sam before answering. “Yes, but I will be at least two workstations away from this gaijin here. We don’t need drool shorting out all our previous work.”

“Oh come on, I was kidding.” Sam smiled with his hands in the air, palms up; but Treena could tell he was worried at the thought of hurting Mizuki’s feelings. Good, it would get him off her back for a few days.

Sam looked up from his seat at the table and kicked himself mentally. Why did he have to be so stupid… and surrounded by women who couldn’t take a joke. He wondered why he felt compelled to taunt a coworker so he could get the attention of another. Mizuki was pretty enough in her own way; if you liked chiseled, ice-cold beauty. But Sam had always preferred women who were more like Treena. Aww who was he kidding, he preferred Treena period, full stop. Ever since she had rescued him back on Mars, he had been infatuated with her. Just like the Celtic Warrior-Queen Boadicea, with fire in her eyes and blood on her hands; she busted down his cell door and stormed his heart. From that moment on, he was stricken. The only reason he started training in those martial arts she loved so much was so that he could get close to her. To have her hands on him. He reflected that it was too bad those moments took place in two tenths of a second in the form of a tiger’s palm to the chest, but he took what he could get. The nights they studied grappling were always the best. He always volunteered to be the uke so she could throw him to the ground and force him into submission while she straddled his waist. He was surprised she hadn’t caught on by now; it had been over fifty years. Unfortunately for Sam, Treena had spent most of those years in the arms of another man. Sam could only wait for his time to come. His opportunity to swoop in and comfort her, should she choose to end it with Hunter. Although that didn’t seem likely anytime soon. He sighed again and looked back at Treena. She gave everyone a good look around the table to make sure they were all done eating before ending the meeting.

“Alright, let’s gear up and go to it.” She said. And they did.

I just finished this short story today and would love feedback. Please let me know what you think. Enjoy!

Pirate Beach

by: Dan Mumford

“Avast thar ye scurvy landlubber!” the heroic pirate said. “Swab the poop deck and belay the mainstays or you’ll walk the plank!” A bolt of lightening lit the handsome pirate from behind as waves crashed up over the sides of the fearsome frigate. His beard flowed in the wind that threatened to pluck him from his perch among the rigging that he held onto gallantly with one hand, his other, clutching a rusty cutlass. “Titan’s Teeth! You’d best shift yourself, you yellowbellied son of a seacow or I’ll hang you by your thumbs from the yardarm and use you for musket practice!”

“How come I always have to be a landlubber?” Timmy said. “You always get to be the pirate captain! Why can’t I be the one who shoots the cannons or something?”

“Shut up Timmy! Pirates have to have someone to order around. How else can I be a mean pirate? Now go swab the deck before I keelhaul you, ya bifurcated bilge rat!”

“No! I’m sick of this game! I’m going back to the cottage to tell Mom you won’t let me be a real pirate.” Timmy yelled. He jumped down from the rocks on the sea wall that made up their pirate ship and landed in the soft, hot sand, then ran up the path, away from the beach. They had only been there three days and already Kyle was being a jerk. Who thought of playing pirates in the first place? Not Kyle. He even brought his video games with him. He said they were only for the car, but when Timmy wanted to go exploring down the beach, Kyle was too busy playing Blaster Master to care. It was Timmy who found the big wall of rocks that was a perfect pirate ship. It was Timmy who pulled two slats out of the weathered beach fence so they could swordfight. Kyle only agreed to play when Timmy said he could borrow his skull and crossbones handkerchief and use it on his head. Then all of a sudden he was the Pirate Captain who could order the lowly deckhand Timmy around.

Timmy stormed into the cottage and went straight to his room. He shut the door with a bang and flopped onto the bed. After a few seconds, he reached up behind him, picked up his book off the shelf, and started to read. We’ll see how much fun Kyle has playing pirates all by himself he thought as he immersed himself in and adventure on the Spanish Main. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to be Jim Hawkins or Squire Trelawney, but he always ended up imagining himself as Long John Silver. Except in his version, he had both his legs. Having a wooden peg for a leg made him shiver.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Kyle came breezing in, asking for a popsicle, even though he’d already had one that morning. Of course Mom said yes. Figures. Oh well. He’ll get bored playing his PsP in an hour and then when he wants to explore again, Timmy will say, “No.” That’ll teach him.

That afternoon, a storm blew in from the ocean the likes of which they hadn’t seen before. Both boys wanted to go down to the beach to see the ocean and how big the waves must be, but Dad said it would be too dangerous. A tree next to the small cottage fell over right outside Kyle’s window just before bedtime. It took him an extra hour to fall asleep that night. Timmy used his spyglass out the window and tried to see anything down at the beach amidst all the swirling chaos. He could still make out the horizon faintly, and was just about to collapse his telescope when he saw something illuminated by a flash of lightning. Far out in the bay, he thought he saw a ship. This would have been nothing unusual because ships crossed the bay all day long. Except this ship had sails. And not just sails like one of those tiny sailboats that rich people have. Huge square sails, hung from three masts taller than the biggest telephone pole Timmy had ever seen. It looked exactly like a frigate might look straight out of the 1700’s. His eyes locked onto the spot as he fought his nerves to keep the scope steady, waiting for another flash of lightning. BANG! There was another one! But no ship. He panned the horizon from edge to edge but the ship seemed to have disappeared. Beneath the waves, or maybe…back to its own time.

Timmy flew off the chair he’d been leaning on and ran into Kyle’s room.

“Guess what?”

“I don’t care Timmy, just leave me alone.” Kyle said from under the covers.

“No. It’s really cool! I swear.”

“You’re not just gonna call me a scaredy-cat for hiding from the storm?”

“No.”

“OK. What?”

“I just saw a pirate ship!”

“Shut up. No you didn’t. You’ve just been reading Treasure Island too much.”

“No really! I was looking through my spyglass just like Billy Bones does, and when the lightening flashed, I saw a huge ship out in the bay. With big masts and everything. Then it disappeared. For real. We have to go down to the beach tomorrow and see what happened. Maybe they landed and built a huge pirate fort with cannons right next to ours and we can have fights with them. This is gonna be awesome!”

“Fine, if it gets you to shut up about it, I’ll go exploring with you tomorrow. But right now, I want to sleep.”

“YES! Ok, I’ll wake you up early so we can go.” Timmy said. He bounded out of the room and across the small living room to the window for one last look before getting ready for bed himself.

The next morning broke softly in the bay after the big storm. Small whippoorwills and bobwhites twittered out in the trees while the sun struggled to burn off the early morning mist and dew that hung on the scrub pine trees surrounding their vacation retreat. Timmy scarfed down a bowl of Honeynut Cheerios and tiptoed across the creaky floorboards in the old cottage to his brother Kyle’s room. Much to Timmy’s surprise, Kyle was not only up, but had a bag packed, stuffed to the brim with assorted pirate stuff. The wooden dagger he had made on the lathe down in his uncle’s woodshop last year, the ragged eyepatch that never fit quite right, his replica map of the Caribbean from the 1700’s he bought in the gift shop the last time they went to Provincetown, even his old stuffed monkey with the missing leg that he had cut off so it would be a real pirate-monkey.

“Ready?” Timmy asked, although clearly, he was.

“Yeah. How about you?”

“I just need to grab my sword. I left it out on the porch last night. Did you have breakfast yet?”

“Nah, we’ll only be gone like an hour. I wanna wait for Mom to get up, then instead of cold cereal, I can have eggs and sausage and stuff.”

“Ok. Let’s go!”

The two boys went out through the side door so as not to wake their parents. Bare feet slid through damp sand on the way around the little cottage so they could pick up their homemade weaponry. They hop-skipped down the path to the road to avoid the prickly pine needles that always stabbed their feet. Kyle still got one on his left foot and hopped the rest of the way down to the hard packed sand of the private road that led to their beach like an injured heron. On their right, another cottage lay hidden among the trees. House seemed like a better term though, it was twice the size of the cottage they stayed in. Sure it was closer to the beach by 200 feet, but it didn’t have the clear view of the water that the boys insisted on.

Down the road and up to the top of the little wooden ramp that led down to the beach. A few years ago, there had been no ramp, just sand. Timmy and Kyle used to have contests to see who could jump farthest down the small sand-filled gully. Inevitably, one of them always hit one of the big rocks that were buried a few inches below the surface. Today, they scampered down the ramp without a second thought of past contests. Today, they were going to find a real live pirate ghost ship!

The tide was almost all the way in this morning. The swimming raft lay beached on the flat sand that made up the sandbar that lined the beach for almost 2 miles out in some places, but would soon be floating again as the incoming water continued its unstoppable march towards land. First stop, the tide pools. No pirates there, but there were always fun things to find. Hermit crab wrestling matches and oddly shaped seaweed clumps that looked just like the hair of some sea witch when you put it on your head. Kyle chased Timmy around for several minutes, trying to turn him into a barnacle with his new powers from the witch’s green scraggley hair.

“Cut it out!” Timmy whined. “I’m tired of this. Let’s go find the pirate ship now.”

“Fine. Where do you want to look first?” Kyle asked.

“Well…it was pointing left…I mean port, so we should head to port.”

“But Mom said we can’t go farther than the end of the sea wall.”

“Do you wanna see real pirates or not?” Timmy asked. “Come on, let’s go.”

The boys came back up the beach to the dry sand above the high tide mark and started walking down the strand. Each one kept a weather eye out for interesting bits of driftwood, ray egg cases, or horseshoe crab shells to bring back home. It seemed to their mother that each year, they were determined to collect the smelliest flotsam they could find, just to stink up the van on the long ride back home. After walking for ten minutes, Kyle started to complain.

“I think we should turn back now Timmy. Mom’s gonna be mad. We’ve never been this far down from our beach before. Besides, there aren’t any real pirates out here. I was just playing along. But it’s not fun anymore. Let’s go.”

“Aww come on! We haven’t even seen anything yet. They could be right around this bend. You can go back if you want, but if I find a big ol heap of pirate treasure, I’m not sharing any of it with you. And I’ll buy a hundred Ps2s and X-boxes, and a new BMX bike, and a remote control car with an awesome jump, and a real bow and arrow, and fireworks, and a pet tiger, and a thousand LEGO sets and I won’t let you play with any of it. Unless…you keep going.” Kyle stopped and considered for a moment, then resignedly kept walking. “That’s what I thought.”

Timmy and Kyle came up to a big curve in the beach that hid the rest of the coast from view. Neither boy noticed the imperceptible shift in the breeze, or the sudden absence of traffic noise from the road that ran parallel to the beach. They kept walking until they rounded the corner. Kyle walked right into Timmy’s back and fell down.

“Oww! Idiot! Why’d you do that fo…” Kyle’s complaints petered out as he took in the same scene that stopped Timmy in his tracks. They couldn’t believe their eyes. Timmy was right! A group of pirates looked up from their work on the beach. Behind them, a huge ship hove to off the shore with a giant hawser leading down to the biggest anchor they had ever seen, stuck halfway out of the ripple marked sand. A pirate with a huge tricorn hat, and a red coat with gold trim stepped towards them with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Ahoy there lads! Come to give us a hand, have ye?”

It was only then that the brothers noticed the two chests brimming with gold, diamonds, rubies, silver, sapphires, pearls, and other assorted fineries. Timmy even saw a few crowns in amongst all the bullion. They just stood there gaping for what seemed like hours until the Captain addressed them again.

“Look lively there boyos. Them chests are full o’ blood money. I can see ye be powerful confused. Tell us why now, afore I unship me cutlass.”

Kyle looked at Timmy until Timmy finally spoke. “We saw your ship last night so we came down to the beach and searched for you. Are you real pirates?” he asked with a mix of admiration and fear in his young voice.

“Aye laddie. That we be. The most feared pirates that ever set sail. I’m Cap’n Bartholomew, but you can call me Black Bart. This here is me gunner Long Jim, my bosun Crazy Uncle Pete, and my luitenant Crook Eye Davy. The rest o’ these lubbers is deckhands. And who might you be, eh?”

“Oh! Well I’m Timmy, But you can call me Karl the Killer, And this is my brother Kyle. He goes by Kyle the Crustacean.” Timmy said smiling.

“I do not! Stupid!” Kyle protested. “I’m Bender the Brutal. And he’s my deckhand!” The boys started squabbling, but then realized they were in front of a real pirate Captain and had better mind their manners, at least for now.

“Well Karl and Bender, mighty pleased to meetcha. I can see you’re smart as paint. Just so happens, we’re in need of a new cabin boy. The last one had an accident with a brace o pistols after a poker game. Shame really, him being only 10 an’ that. Ah well, the troubles we face at sea, right?” the Captain beamed. “So what say you? Mind, I only have room fer one o’ you. T’other’ll have to stay behind. Maybe even keep watch o’er the treasure for us.”

The brothers looked at each other dumbstuck. Real pirates wanted one of them to go with them as crew. Their future life paths spun out before them in an instant, each boy imagining what it must be like as part of a real pirate crew. Kyle thought about the adventures they would have and cannon fights played out over swirling maelstroms of doom, threatening to suck the entire ship down to Davy Jones’ locker. But reality kicked shut the door opening onto his dreams. Being on a ship at sea would mean no more video games. No more computers, or online chats with his schoolmates about which band they liked. The only bands where he was headed were acoustic, and included hornpipes and jigs as their most requested tunes. No more microwavable mac n’ cheese or ice cream sandwiches, only hard tack, salt pork and plum duff if he was lucky. Kyle thought about all these things and found his answer deep in Timmy’s eyes.

Timmy was far more suited to this strange new life. Kyle had only watched a few pirate movies in his spare time, unrealistic poorly researched Hollywood affairs at that. Timmy on the other hand, in addition to seeing the over-the-top movies, had read all the classic sea tales and knew them by heart. Treasure Island, Captains Courageous, Two Years before the Mast, Robinson Crusoe, Mutiny on the Bounty, and many others. He knew what he would be getting into. He knew how to load and fire a cannon (theoretically), how many feet were in a fathom, and how to tie a sheepshank, whereas Kyle only had a vague idea how to do these things. He could even name all the sails, from the flying jib to the mizen topgallant staysail. Besides, Timmy never really liked video games all that much, preferring to play outside, every tree his ship, every sharp stick his sword. Without a word spoken between them, the choice was clear.

“I’m your man Cap’n” said Timmy bravely. “Only… can I go back and say goodbye to my mother?”

“Fraid not lad, as soon as we’re done buryin’ this loot, we sail with the tide. Young Marcy spied a colonial schooner nosing about these parts before the storm hit and we can’t afford a scuffle right now. We need to re-provision at the nearest friendly port o’ call afore we can snatch any more booty.”

Just then, Timmy had an idea.

“What year is it Cap’n?” he asked, already guessing the answer.

“Why, it be the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and sixteen. Just last month, that scurvy dog Sam Bellamy took a beautiful sloop right out from under our noses on his cursed ship Wydah. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, Cap’n. Let me just have a word with my brother here and I’ll be ready to go.” Timmy took Kyle by the elbow and led him off a short distance away from the group of seamen. “Kyle, do you realize what this means?” he said in excited whispers. “Somehow, we passed through some sort of time bubble or something. Like a door in time. Look around you. Do you see any of those expensive beach condos that Mom is always going on about? No? That’s because they don’t exist yet. If I really can’t go back and say goodbye, I have a plan. I’ll write a note to Mom telling her where I am, and that I’m OK. Then I’ll put it in the treasure chest. You can walk back down the beach and I think you’ll come out of the time bubble and be back in our time. Then you can tell them what happened. Get Dad to come help you dig up the treasure. Odds are, it will still be here in the present, just remember where to dig. Make sure and get some press there when you uncover the case with my note in it. This will be the greatest thing ever! I win ‘cause I get to go and live with Pirates. And you win because you and Mom and Dad will be rich from all that treasure. And we’ll all be famous because my note will prove that we traveled back in time. I’ll just have to put in something about i-pods and President Obama. Scientists will think it’s a hoax of course, until they test the paper and ink and find out it really is authentic from the 1700’s. This is awesome!”

“There’s just one thing.” said Kyle. “I won’t have a little brother anymore.”

“Aww come on. You know we never really got along. And besides, after you get all that money, you can buy the best video game system in the world and you’ll forget all about me.”

“No, that’s not true. I’ll always remember.”

“Thanks Kyle. Now let’s go. We don’t want to miss the tide, now do we?”

Kyle and Timmy walked back over to the Captain.

“Excuse me sir?” asked Timmy. “Can you spare some paper and a pen. I’d like to leave my own mark with this treasure, on behalf of my new crew.”

“Buckets o’ Blood! You can write?” the Captain exclaimed. Timmy nodded “And I expect you can read as well. What about poker? Can you play poker?” Timmy shook his head no. “Excellent! You’ll be the best cabin boy we’ve ever had!” Captain Bart reached into his voluminous coat and brought out a worn leather map case. He reached inside and handed Timmy a piece of parchment. From another pocket, he withdrew a feather. For a moment, the boys were confused, until they realized that it was a fountain pen, the tip carefully cut to dispense ink in fine flowing curves. “Only one problem, lad.” the Captain said. “We got no ink. You’ll have to do it the old fashioned way. Hold out your non-writin’ hand.” Timmy did as he was told and held up his left hand. Without warning, the Captain drew a small dagger and pricked Timmy in the meat of his thumb before he could react. Timmy flinched too late, and expected to see blood gushing out from his hand like a river, but when he inspected his palm, only a small drop of crimson betrayed the wounds’ existence. Not wasting any time, Timmy dipped the feather into his blood and began to write. As he wrote, he thought about how the scientists might even test the blood for his DNA. Further proof that they really did time travel. When he was finished, he let the blood dry, carefully folded the letter, and placed it onto the pile of gold in the last unburied chest. The pirates closed it up and lowered it into the waiting hole with grunts and snarls of exertion, then piled sandy dirt into the hole until there was no trace it ever existed. Then it was time for goodbyes. Timmy walked up to his brother and gave him a big hug.

“Goodbye brother. Enjoy the treasure, and try not to let Mom freak out too much when she finds out I ran away with pirates.”

“Goodbye Timmy. I’ll think of you whenever I look out to sea. May you have safe voyages and the wind always at your back.” Then Kyle turned to the Captain. “Goodbye sir. Please take care of my brother. May your hold swell with booty and your grog store never run dry.”

“Fare thee well Bender the Brutal. Now we must set sail.” And with that, the Captain turned around and marshaled his crew back to the bumboat they came ashore on, Timmy among them. He waved goodbye one last time as the boat battled its way out through the incoming surf. Then Kyle turned around and walked back towards his beach. As he rounded the corner, he felt a strange tickly sensation. He looked around and suddenly noticed the luxury condominiums butted right up to the edge of the beach. He noticed something else too. Yelling. His mother’s voice carried over the ocean breeze and the crashing waves like they didn’t even exist. She sounded mad. Oh boy, he thought. I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do.