Unless someone decides to check, Carla thought, in which case we’ll wind up dead.

  The Solar Queen’s pilot was a man named Nevis Blackburn. He liked to talk about “sticking it to the man,” “screwing the system,” and “making them pay.” “Them” being the Madsen Mining managers who fired him for drinking on the job.

  Carla strapped herself into a seat. The team included five people, all disguised as legionnaires. The team included a brusque miner named Stacy Hardin, an explosives expert named Frank Pedy, and ex-security officer Jan Omata. Her job, as McCallum put it, “is to kill people.” And, judging from Omata’s expression, she was looking forward to it.

  “Okay, boys and girls,” Blackburn said over the intercom. “Hang onto your panties, we’re gonna light this thing off.”

  That was followed by some heavy gees as Blackburn took the Queen straight up. Carla closed her eyes and waited to die. She didn’t. There was a brief moment of nausea as the ship left the planet’s gravity well, followed by a sudden return of gravity as the freighter’s argrav generator came on. “They bought it,” Blackburn said over the intercom. “The Queen is cleared for an in-system shakedown cruise. We’re twenty minutes out.”

  McCallum released his safety harness and stood. He looked different now. The surgical scrubs had been replaced by a set of the Legion’s light-bending camos, body armor, and a combat harness.

  McCallum smiled. “Welcome to the Legion, Doc.”

  He turned to the others. “Okay, listen up. We’ve been through it before, and yes, we’re going to review it again. The orbital command authority is under the impression that this is an Imperial vessel which, after being repaired, is on a shakedown cruise.

  “So, when Blackburn declares a mechanical emergency, traffic control will approve his request to dock with the space station. That’s when we’ll enter, make our way to the compartment where the beacon is housed, and plant our explosives.

  “Then we’ll return to the Queen. If we’re lucky Blackburn will put the ship down in the western hemisphere. Then we’ll run like hell, because once the Legion figures out what happened, they will destroy the ship.

  “Do you have any questions? No? Good. Dr. Hanson? Would you join me please?”

  Carla stood, and followed McCallum back to where the post-landing expedition packs were stored. The cargo hold was mostly empty, utilitarian in appearance, and very worn. McCallum turned to face her. “Can I call you Carla?”

  “Yes, you can.”

  McCallum nodded. “Thank you. I need a favor Carla, one that only you can grant me.”

  “Okay,” Carla replied tentatively. “What is it?”

  “You have a pistol,” McCallum said. “If I start to hallucinate, I want you to shoot me. I know you aren’t trained to fire a pistol, but we’ll be close to each other, so I’ll be impossible to miss. Just pull the trigger and keep pulling until I go down. Save me Carla, save me from myself.”

  Carla felt a lump form in the back of her throat. “That won’t happen.”

  “I feel better than I did before,” McCallum said. “A lot better. But who knows? People are depending on me. So, promise.”

  Carla looked into his eyes. “I promise.”

  McCallum looked relieved. “Thanks. That takes the pressure off. And, if something happens to me, please accept my thanks. You’re a good shrink, not to mention a pretty one, and if things were different . . . Well, you know.”

  “Yes,” Carla said. “I know.”

  McCallum smiled. “Good.”

  “Strap in,” Blackburn said via the intercom. “It’s show time.”

  There weren’t any ports in the hold, or view screens, so all the boarding party could do was sit and sweat as Blackburn docked the ship. Time seemed to stretch, and Carla had to battle her right foot, which had a tendency to jerk up and down.

  But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Carla felt a gentle thump and knew the Queen was in contact with the space station. “We have a lock,” Blackburn announced. “You can leave your seats and board once air pressures are equalized. Have fun.”

  Fun was the one thing Carla knew she wouldn’t have as the team made last minute adjustments to their gear. They were wearing skintight bio-spacesuits in case fighting caused a catastrophic decompression on the space station. There was no need to bring anything other than their weapons, ammo, and two satchel charges.

  Once they were ready, McCallum led the way to the airlock. Omata was in the two slot, with Carla in three. Hardin and Pedy brought up the rear.

  The group paused in front of the lock and, when a light flashed green, the air-tight hatch hissed open.

  * * *

  McCallum entered the lock, waited for the rest to do likewise, and pushed a button. Air hissed, thirty seconds passed, and the inner hatch irised open. That allowed McCallum to enter the space station’s lock, where he had to shove his hand into a scanner or request an override from the platform’s duty officer. Something that would invite closer scrutiny.

  McCallum slid his hand into the scanner, felt a tingling sensation, and knew that the ship’s computer was communicating with his implant. He heard a click, followed by a computer-generated voice. “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant McCallum. Please proceed through the tubeway.”

  The inner hatch cycled open, and that was Hardin’s cue to place a steel pry bar across the opening, a precaution that would prevent the space station’s crew from closing their side of the lock. McCallum spotted a navy lieutenant entering the other end of the tubeway and knew that was to be expected. The navy was responsible for operating the platform and it was the Legion’s job to protect it. “Hello,” the navy officer said. “My name is . . .”

  McCallum brought the stun gun up and fired. The lieutenant jerked and fell. McCallum stepped over the body, followed by Omata. Their job was to take control of the station or, failing that, to protect Pedy and Hardin.

  A Legion sergeant appeared up ahead. He was armed and blocking the tubeway. “Hold on,” the legionnaire ordered. “I need to see . . .”

  McCallum shot him with the stun gun, but it was a waste of time. Unlike the navy officer, the noncom was wearing Class 1 “active” body armor, which protected him from a wide range of electronic weapons. He was bringing his weapon to bear when Omata shot him in the head. Twice.

  The second hole was half an inch from the first, and thanks to the suppressor mounted on Omata’s long-barreled pistol, the shots produced very little noise. The sergeant fell over backwards and landed with a thump.

  McCallum knew that he should have felt something. Regret? Sorrow? Something. But he didn’t. The Legion was the enemy now . . . and so was the sergeant.

  An alarm began to bleat. Cameras were mounted in the tubeway, and once the noncom’s vital signs stopped, the Legion’s onboard Command and Control computer warned its operator. That meant the shit was going to hit the fan—and the chances of a successful takeover plunged to zero. “Implement Plan B,” McCallum said. “Omata and I will hold the main corridor, while Pedy and Hardin plant the charges. Go.”

  Thanks to information gathered by Fenton and her spies, a diagram of the platform’s layout was projected on the inner surface of each team member’s visor. That’s how McCallum knew that the first responders were likely to follow the main corridor aft.

  The first wave appeared quickly. There were about eight of them, which represented roughly half the legionnaires on board. They opened fire immediately, or half of them did. Those in the rear couldn’t fire without hitting the soldiers in front of them. And, as low velocity bullets whipped past the opening to the tubeway, McCallum readied a flash grenade. Omata, who was on the other side of the passageway, did likewise.

  “Now!” McCallum said, the legionnaires continued to push forward. The grenades sailed up the corridor, landed, and went off. The flashes were calculated to momentarily disable the defenders’ HUDs. McCallum and Omata took advantage of the opportunity to step out and fire their weapons on full auto. They were using armor piercing ammo in spite of the fact that they were on a pressurized space station because, thanks to their emergency space suits, the team knew they would survive a sudden decompression.

  As the gun smoke cleared, a horrible scene was revealed. The bulkheads were red with splattered blood. All of the legionnaires were down. Most were dead. But, judging from the moans, at least two were still alive. “Let me help them,” Carla said. “Then I’ll come back.”

  “No can do,” McCallum replied. “They’re legionnaires. They’re down, but they aren’t out. One will grab you, put a gun to your head, and attempt to negotiate.”

  Carla was about to argue with McCallum when a hatch opened and a legionnaire fired from the crawlspace below. The blast from his short-barreled energy weapon struck Omata and killed her. She fell. McCallum barely knew her, but felt a stab of sorrow.

  McCallum was about to respond when a second defender dropped from a hatch above. McCallum’s first impulse was to bring his submachinegun to bear, but strong hands reached out to grab his harness and pull him close.

  Both men knew how to fight hand-to-hand, and both meant to penetrate their opponent’s armor. McCallum was wielding a vibro blade, which could cut through durasteel, and the other legionnaire had a hand laser. The air sizzled as the weapons swept from left to right. Arms blurred as a series of lightning-fast blows were thrown and blocked.

  Meanwhile Omata’s killer was climbing up out of the crawlspace. Carla’s pistol was in its holster. As Carla drew the weapon, she was surprised by how heavy it was. What had McCallum told her? “Pull the trigger, and keep pulling it.” She did.

  The recoil came as a surprise. Her hands wobbled, and bullets flew wide, but two struck the target. The first flattened itself on the legionnaire’s armor. The second punched a hole through the legionnaire’s visor. He fell like a puppet without strings.

  Pedy’s voice came over the radio. “Pull back to the ship! Hardin and I are inside the compartment where the beacon is located and we’re surrounded.

  “The timers have been set. You have five minutes to board and haul ass. One more thing . . . Hardin wants someone to adopt his dog. Pedy out.” The message was followed by a click.

  Carla was still absorbing the news when McCallum grabbed her arm. His opponent was laying on the deck with both hands wrapped around the vibro knife’s hilt. He was trying to remove it from his chest. “No,” Carla exclaimed, “don’t do that!”

  But it was too late. The knife came out, followed by a spurt of blood. The legionnaire’s helmet hit the deck and his hands fell free.

  McCallum pulled Carla into the tubeway. “Come on!” They ran side by side.

  The lock was open, thanks to the steel bar, and McCallum jerked it loose. Steel clanged on steel as it hit the deck. Carla saw the glowing green button and slapped it. There was a whining sound as the hatch started to close. McCallum slipped through the gap.

  “I’m breaking contact,” Blackburn announced, as the second hatch opened and closed behind them. “Hold on . . . It’s gonna be a rough ride.”

  Carla and McCallum were thrown into a steel bulkhead as Blackburn hit the throttles and the Queen took off. “Three Imperial fighters are headed our way,” Blackburn said. “We have a two or three-minute lead. I’m going to put the ship into a steep dive, re-enter the atmosphere, and look for a place to pancake in.

  “Once we hit, grab your packs and bail out. I’ll be right behind you. Oh, and one more thing, the space station blew. The beacon was destroyed.”

  Any happiness that Carla might have felt was washed away by the knowledge that Hardin, Pedy, and Omata were dead. She’d barely known them, but would never forget the sacrifice they’d made, or the cause they’d died for.

  McCallum and Carla lurched back and forth between makeshift handholds as they made their way back to the seats and the packs that were strapped to the deck beyond. They held hands once their harnesses were fastened. That was a first, but it felt natural.

  The ship shook violently as it entered the atmosphere. A loose bolt rattled across the deck on its way forward, and Carla closed her eyes. “One of the bastards is on our tail,” Blackburn said tightly. “A missile is locked onto us . . .”

  The explosion shook the ship. The Queen rolled 360 degrees and hit. Unsecured items flew every which way. The ship topped a dozen trees before finally coming to rest in the treetops. McCallum threw the harness off and jumped to his feet. “I’ll check on Blackburn. Drag our packs to the belly hatch and drop them to the ground.” Then he was gone.

  The plan made sense. Carla freed herself and made her way to the hatch, where she flipped a protective cover out of the way. A red button was waiting. Carla pressed it. There was a bang and a puff of smoke as the hatch blew off and crashed through the foliage below.

  The first pack was falling as McCallum reappeared. He held a coil of rope. “I’ll tie this off. Slide down, grab your pack, and get ready to run. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “What about Blackburn?”

  McCallum shook his head. “The ship hit a tree. The cockpit collapsed.”

  Carla felt numb as she slid to the ground. Both packs were waiting and, by the time McCallum arrived, Carla was ready.

  The jungle exploded around them. Trees came crashing down, a chunk of metal whirred past Carla’s head, and McCallum waved her forward. “That was a cluster bomb. Come on!”

  They ran, and ran some more. Ducking, dodging, and sometimes crawling as they sought to put distance between the ship and themselves. They had just topped a rise when an explosion shook the earth under their feet and a pillar of fire pushed a mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke up into the sky. The Solar Queen was no more.

  Aerospace fighters continued to circle overhead, but the ground attacks stopped as the fugitives went into hiding. “Their scanners can detect both movement and heat,” McCallum explained. “But, so long as we remain still, our heat signatures won’t seem to be significant.”

  The strategy worked, and the fighters peeled away ten minutes later.

  After emerging from their hiding place, the couple made their way to a clearing and the edge of a cliff.

  “I lost four people,” McCallum said miserably. “You were supposed to shoot me.”

  “Not unless you began to hallucinate,” Carla replied gently. “And you didn’t. Plus, each did what he or she wanted to do. Had to do.”

  McCallum nodded. “It isn’t that simple, but thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Carla said, as she kissed him on the cheek. Then, as McCallum placed an arm around her shoulders, a gentle rain began to fall. Carla felt the cool droplets touch her skin. “Look!” she said. “A rainbow!”

  McCallum looked out over the jungle and there it was. The multicolored arch was reaching westward to a point where it lost definition. Rainbow’s end.

  Snakeskin

  A Mutant Files Story

  BOUNTY HUNTER MELODY RAINES LOOKED from her outside mirror to the gas gauge as the rat rod raced across the bone-dry desert. The needle was wobbling above the “E” as the men on dirt bikes tried to catch up with her. Their images grew larger with each passing second. All three of the vehicles produced dusty rooster tails and caught air from time-to-time.

  Raines swore as the truck slammed down. She’d spent the three weeks, and the better part of 2,000 nu bucks, following a bank robber named Kathy Striker. A search that culminated in a long-range rifle duel with Raines the winner.

  She was loading Striker’s body onto the roof of her truck when the Mackie brothers appeared. They’d been hunting for Striker too, and weren’t above stealing her body to collect the bounty.

  Fortunately, Raines had been able to kill one of the triplets and escape. Now his siblings were after revenge and the bank robber’s body. Raines wanted to consider her options but couldn’t come up with any. A sawed-off shotgun lay on the seat next to Raines—and a Glock 32 was ready in the door cubby. Windows were expensive, so Raines pressed a button, and felt a sudden blast of hot air as they disappeared.

  The Mackie brothers were firing at the rat rod’s tires by then, but to no effect, because they could run flat. The one with the mouthful of stainless steel teeth pulled up along the right side of the truck, smiled, and fired a pistol.

  Illustration by OKSANA DMITRIENKO

  Raines heard a snap as the bullet whipped past her nose. She aimed the shotgun at the man on the motorcycle and pulled both triggers. There was a loud boom as the load of double ought buck blew most of his face away. Raines stood on the brake and the dead man disappeared. Dust billowed as the rat rod skidded to a halt.

  The last Mackie flashed past. Raines stomped on the gas. Gravel flew as the off-road tires fought for a purchase. Now their roles were reversed. Raines drew the Glock, stuck it out through the window, and fired left handed. The bullets went wide.

  The surviving brother heard the shots, looked back over his shoulder, and tried to turn. His motorcycle’s front tire hit a rock and popped it up off the ground, which caused the bike to flip.

  Raines braked to avoid the wreckage, stopped, and got out. The full weight of the motorcycle was resting on Mackie’s legs. “Please!” he begged. “Help me!”

  Raines pointed the Glock at him. Brother three had a dog-like snout and a bloody cut on his cheek. She could see one hand, but the other was hidden. “That sounds like a bad idea,” Raines observed. “Because later, after you recover, you’ll come looking for me. It makes sense to settle this now.”

  Mackie attempted to bring a pistol up from behind the motorcycle but Raines fired first. A third eye appeared in between the others. The bounty hunter’s head jerked and his body went limp.

  Raines scanned the horizon. It would be just her luck to discover that more bounty hunters were closing in. But no, the only scavenger in sight was a turkey vulture riding the thermals above. Dinner was served.