Green-Eyed Monster

GREEN-EYED MONSTER

MORE MONSTROUS EDITION OF SCIENCE FICTION, FANTASY, AND MORE

J. D. BRINK

Copyright © 2022, 2019 by J. D. Brink

All Rights Reserved

More Monstrous 2.1 Edition

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Published by Fugitive Fiction

Cover copyright © 2022 by Fugitive Fiction

Cover by J. D. Brink

Stock art by by grandfail/Adobe Stock and ggutulof/Dollar Photo Club

Many of the stories presented here have appeared elsewhere, including the J. D. Brink books Way of the Sword, Deus Ex Machina, Secret Origins, Kiss of the Maiden, Waking in the Dark, The Grit & Shadows Omnibus and The Scythe of Kronos. Those that have also appeared outside of Fugitive Fiction publications are as follows:

Green-Eyed Monster first appeared in Love Hurts anthology, 2015

Tuesday Afternoon Mayhem first appeared in Collateral Damage anthology, 2017

Moondance first appeared in Crimson Streets e-zine 2016, and their anthology Crimson Streets: A Story a Week, 2017

The Lion’s Share first appeared in Cirsova: Heroic Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine, 2016

Mime first appeared in Ascent Aspirations e-zine, 2009

Littermates first appeared in Cirsova: Heroic Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazinemagazine, 2018

The Proposal also appeared in Weirdbook #41, June 2019.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Under copyright law (and common courtesy), this book, or parts thereof, may not be copied or reproduced whatsoever without the author’s permission, except in the case of brief book reviews. All characters and events in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

CONTENTS

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Look into My Eyes

GREEN-EYED MONSTER

The Thorne Legacy

Green-Eyed Monster

Tuesday Afternoon Mayhem

Moondance

The Proposal

The Dragon’s Tongue

The Lion’s Share

Frozen Heart

Hunted

Medicine Man

The Siren of Songwind Wood

Mime

Littermates

Flint Trace

Kiss of the Maiden

Platypus

Snake Eyes

The Scythe Of Kronos

What’s Next?

Sneak Peek: One-Eyed Jacks

Double Vision

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The Many Worlds of J.D. Brink

About the Author

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The infamous Eight-Ball Gang has returned and they're blazing a path of mayhem across the Midwest. Silk Spider is the super-powered femme fatale assigned to bring them down.

Behind the Eight-Ball is a story of noir superhero action, dark humor, and wild entertainment set in the celebrated superhero realm of the Identity Crisis Universe.

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LOOK INTO MY EYES

A BRIEF INTRODUCTION

Welcome to the more monstrous 2.1 edition of Green-Eyed Monster.

I’m going to keep this very short. Here’s what you need to know:

There are literally decades worth of stories here. Eighteen of them. (That’s 18 stories, not decades. I’m not quite that old.) I decided to collect all my loose little orphans into one great volume. That way I could more easily keep track of them all and you could more easily find them!

Many of these stories can also be found elsewhere: previously published in magazines; contest finalists and honorable mentions; chapters from my other books that stand well all by themselves; and some that will eventually be the basis of grand epic series that have yet to be written.

Each of these tales has a history, too. If you’re like me, you enjoy reading those author tidbits. The behind-the-scenes outtakes, the original inspirations, the secret Easter eggs, the how-this-almost-never-happened controversies. That’s all here, too, though in a slightly more abridged version than in previous editions of this book. Those can be found in the Double Vision section at the rear. More on that in a second.

There were only 13 stories in the first edition of GEM, published in 2019 after I transitioned back to civilian life. Then, during the cosmic event known as The Great Consolidation (don’t worry if that doesn’t sound familiar—your memory was wiped to protect this timeline), five more stories were erased from elsewhere in the universe and added here.

So the more monstrous edition is bigger, meaner, and… uh, bigger. Did I say that already?

All those behind-the-scenes Easter eggs can be found in the back appendix labelled Double Vision. This way you can enjoy the stories as they stand without distraction. Before, I had included them immediately ahead of each tale. Then I republished and moved them to immediately after. And now I’ve chucked them all together to the back of the book. Those pieces of historical record are important to me, but I think a story should stand on its own for the reading experience. Then you can get the insider scoop afterward.

It’s kind of like watching all the spoiler crap on the Internet before going to watch a movie. Don’t you hate that?

So if you’re interested in learning more about the mysterious origins of any one tale, feel free to leaf (or swipe) to the back and check that out. If you’re not, then don’t. No harm, no foul.

Okay, I said I was going to keep this brief and I’m already a liar so… Please go forth and play in my wicked garden. I hope you enjoy yourself.

J. D. Brink

At the Edge of 2022 (Post-Consolidation)

GREEN-EYED MONSTER

MORE MONSTROUS EDITION

THE THORNE LEGACY

The military police had not gone easy on Corporal Cranston Thorne. He rolled the beer can against his blackened right eye, searching for a spot that was still cold. Getting warm , he thought. He popped it open and chugged half of it, grimacing as the carbonation burned his throat, then fished a fresh one from the minifridge and slumped back into the couch. The new can’s cold metallic surface was shocking to his swollen eye, but it felt good.

I’ll remember that, Jarvis, he said aloud. He and that traitorous MP Jarvis had shared brews and a couple games of darts just a few weeks back. But last night’s incident just proved what Thorne had always said: you can’t trust a man on duty to back his friends.

The gladiators on the vid hovered in their gravboots, beating their chests and talking shit behind colorful masks. Thorne took another swig of warm beer and imagined himself as a primetime gladiator. He’d wear blue tights with a plunging waist line (to show off the tattoo on his stomach) and a shiny chrome helmet with a yellow Roman crest bristling down the middle. Weapon of choice... An oversized mallet, maybe. Hell, big-time cornball pit fighting might be the only career track left to him if he ended up with a dishonorable discharge from the Guard.

There were voices outside. Sharp and crisp, like obedient dogs yipping for their master’s approval. There had been a rotation of two privates—probably all fresh from boot camp with no qualifications yet to do anything else—posted on his door ever since the MPs had deposited him back home. Whatever pair of lapdogs were out there now, they were obviously kissing someone’s ass smartly.

Thorne sighed and his cold aluminum compress fell away from his face.

Not him, he thought. The old prick should still be out on patrol somewhere. He knew it would only be a matter of time before the Captain showed up, but he was hoping it would be after tomorrow’s court-martial. The base judicial system was moving fast on him this time, but maybe not fast enough. Corporal Thorne scratched his bristly chin and slouched even further down in his seat. His green uniform pants were unbuttoned at the top, the belt undone and hanging open, and he made no effort to close them; Thorne intended to show the Captain a deliberate lack of military discipline. He did, however, tug his white undershirt down over the naked woman tattooed on his belly.

The door of the barracks apartment opened. Two buck privates in immaculate green uniforms stood like statues outside while Captain Thanos Thorne entered between them.

The boys all get tall and stiff when you come around, Cranston deadpanned, turning his attention back to the colorful gladiators on the vidscreen. When did you get back?

The door slid shut behind Captain Thorne, who stormed forward and came to a stop at the younger man’s elbow. Thorne glanced up, saw the dark blue of the Spatial Corps uniform and the matching eyes that burned like cold stars, then looked away. The Captain said nothing.

The silent treatment hasn’t worked on me since the seventh grade, Pops.

Don’t ‘Pops’ me, the Captain growled. Get on your feet.

Cranston Thorne stubbornly laced his fingers behind his head. His arms bulged and the naked woman’s legs peeked out. This is my place.

The Captain’s speed defied his age. He stole the vid control, turned off and flung the controller at the screen in one swing, then stooped down face to face with his son, the deep ravines of his weathered face made deeper by his angry snarl. "And the only reason you’re in this rat hole and not the brig is because you’re my son. Now get on your feet!"

Thorne got up, deliberately slow, matching glares with his father. They were almost mirror images, both built thick and stocky, both with stone jaws and blue eyes. The elder’s were dark and intense, the younger’s bloodshot and ringed with bruises. The father’s hair was slate grey, the son’s sandy brown.

Don’t look at me, Captain Thorne spat. You’re addressing a superior officer, stand at attention!

The corporal became rigid, arms at his sides, staring straight through his father and the wall beyond.

What the hell is wrong with you? The Captain sidestepped, his glare focused on the blackening of his son’s right eye. You’ll be out this time, I’ll see to it.

The corporal was like a statue, showing no sign that being a civilian again would bother him in the least.

Captain Thorne looked him up and down, then kicked aside a lump of laundry on the floor. "Humpf. It’s appropriate that you’re wearing only half a uniform, since you’ve only ever been half a soldier. We’ll see how you like wearing brig orange. That will be more appropriate. He snatched a green uniform jacket from the floor. Pinned to the chest were only three service ribbons, not very impressive for five years of service, and on the lapels were corporals’ paired chevrons. Do you even know what kind of an embarrassment you are? he continued. My son, the corporal. When someone asks how my son, the sergeant, is liking the Planetary Corps, I have to explain that you lost a rank. I have to tell the whole damned story again, and how you drag the Thorne family name through the mud every time you decide to play in it."

Sergeant Cranston Thorne had been busted down not so long ago for conduct unbecoming. Now he’d likely be reduced to a private first class. The Captain was having a harder time with it than he was.

Six generations of spacefaring military officers...

Not the Odysseus lecture again, Thorne thought. The first two ancestors in that proud line were supposedly of the Odysseus subspecies, engineered for space exploration. Even though the characteristic Thorne build hinted at the robust nature of Oddies, Cranston had always assumed that particular claim was dreamed up by his father for pure boasting rights.

The Captain tossed the green jacket to the floor. And not only are you not an officer, but you’re not even in the System Guard Spatial Corps. Six generations of tradition and family honor, and with you the chain’s been broken. The Thorne legacy, ruined.

Corporal Thorne maintained his military bearing, posture rigid, eyes locked on some distant horizon. Lucky number seven, he muttered.

The Captain closed again, his breath hot on his son’s face. "You’re not funny.

And now you’re in trouble again. It was all over my ship within an hour of docking. But I told myself that the rumor mills are vicious and exaggerated. Or are they?

Dereliction of duty, Thorne replied, and theft of a System Guard vehicle.

The Captain shook his head. A common criminal. Have you no pride?

What can I say, Pops? A bottle of rum and a nice pair of tits play hell with your moral compass.

You’re a disgrace.

So you’ve said. Corporal Thorne licked his lips. Six generations of spacefarers, huh? Did Commander Cranston Thorne the First tell your father that he was a disgrace when he broke the Naval tradition and decided to join System Guard instead? When he chose to stay on Giger with his wife and son, to raise you instead of being off-planet for years at a time? Was my grandfather a disgrace, too?

"Shut your mouth. You don’t have family as an excuse. You don’t have an excuse. The Captain moved into his son’s thousand meter stare. I’ve already spoken with Colonel Ymir, who will be holding your court-martial tomorrow. I’ve told him my feelings on the matter, that you should be busted down in rank and thrown out on your ear, after spending your last few months of service in the brig."

Thorne’s bearing broke. Their blue eyes met. Thanks for standing up for me, Pops.

The Captain blinked. His face crinkled slightly and turned away, hands clasping behind his back.

And there was silence. Captain Thorne walked over to an open closet and aimlessly inspected a few hanging uniforms. He meandered to the bathroom threshold and flicked the light on and off. He stared at a painting on the wall, pretending to be interested in the image of an old time matador shaking a red cape at a naked woman on all fours with horns on her head.

Well, how do you like that? Cranston thought. The ice in Hell does thaw once in while. He’s speechless, maybe even ashamed. For a minute.

Sensing this rare vulnerability, he pressed the attack: Will you be in court tomorrow, Daddy, to personally strip me of my uniform? I’m sure your big brass buddies will be cheering you on and slapping you on the ass.

His father turned back to him, face softened. No. The Captain adjusted the matador painting on the wall, then his hands went behind him again. We only came back into dock for supplies and to gather the rest of the squadron. We’ll be leaving orbit in a few hours.

The atmosphere changed. Suddenly there was more going on here than their little family crisis. The whole squadron? Thorne asked.

The Captain nodded. I can’t tell you much about it. Some of it is classified.

I can’t leave this room, and, from what you say, I’ll be in the brig past next spring. Cranston allowed himself a sneer. Who am I going to tell?

Captain Thorne cleared his throat. "We’ve lost contact with John Henry Station in the Bradley Belt. The patrol boat Orion’s Hound was sent to investigate and now they’re missing."

That’s way out on the edge of the system... You think it was an attack?

The Captain said nothing.

But we’re no where near any border space. Of course, that didn’t really matter. A truly dedicated assault fleet could just remain in Slip Space for a longer period of time and pop back out well beyond the stellar borders. An extended jump like that, though, had a lot of risks.

Thorne’s deteriorating posture relaxed completely now. You’re going to take the entire squadron out there and leave the planet defenseless? You’re the commanding officer of the damn flagship, shouldn’t you know better than that?

His father’s finger hovered in front of his nose, a very unmilitary gesture and another sign that the ice was melting, despite the Captain’s words: "You are in no position to tell me how to conduct military business. When I want advice on how to get my ass in a sling, I’ll come to you. Understand?"

Thorne couldn’t help but grin. Yes, sir.

The smile was too much. It completely dissolved the disciplinary atmosphere. Captain Thorne turned away and was halfway to the door when he said, I’ll come see you in the brig when I get back. The door slid open, the guards posted outside snapped to attention, the door closed.

Corporal Cranston Thorne collapsed back onto his couch. He took a long drink from his beer and looked at the digital display on the wall. The time was 1134. He’d be getting ready for court in twenty hours.

At least he knew a couple of the guys that worked the brig. Maybe they’d sneak him some beer during his stay.

It would take approximately twenty hours of real time to reach John Henry Station. What would only be a couple hours in the Slip would translate to almost a day of lost time. His son’s fate would be decided by the time they hit the system’s edge, and he’d still be at least another day from knowing how it turned out.

Captain Thanos Thorne steeled himself. He would deal with that shame when this mission was completed.

The bridge crew of the CSGS Viper were at work preparing for departure. A dozen men and women moved like shadows, quickly gliding to and fro, their uniforms nearly black under the blue lighting. The room was filled with the murmur of voices, illuminated panels of various colors, and the shifting images of holoscreens. The main screen hung in the air in front of the captain’s dais, depicting a computer rendering of System Guard Squadron 37. Four patrol boats took up a diamond pattern around the light frigate Viper. Only two patrol craft were missing from the formation: the Isaac Newton, which was now staying behind in case needed here, and the lost Orion’s Hound. The Newton and Giger’s Eye Space Station should be enough to defend the planet against anything that might slip past the squadron, short of a full attack fleet. But long-range scans detected nothing like that, just the tumbling of the Bradley asteroids thirty-odd light-hours away. This was likely a wild goose chase, just failed antenna arrays or some kind of EM interference unearthed on a rock out there. Or so the Captain hoped.

The navigation officer appeared at the Captain Thorne’s elbow. "Sir, the squadron has all reported ready to jump. Courses have been coordinated and we should reenter real space one-hundred clicks from the edge of the asteroid field, in relative formation."

Time debt?

Nineteen hours, fifty-two minutes, the ensign replied. Subjective time will be two hours, seven minutes.

So we’ll only have two hours to prepare.

The navigator nodded cautiously, obviously unsure of what the Captain had in mind. That would be the first order of business when they were underway: briefing the crew. Once in the Slip, where sensors and communication were blind and mute, he would tell them about the possibility of void monsters that only children believed in. Captain Thorne had already advised the other commanding officers of his squadron and shared a portion of the classified information he was privy to, though just enough to prepare them. They were of lower ranks, after all, the skippers of mere patrol boats. They didn’t have the need to know on matters beyond planet Giger and its star system.

Lieutenant Commander Li. The Captain raised his voice above the din of the bridge. His executive officer turned away from tasking screens. Her dark eyes seemed too big for her small face and her presence greater than her petite body. Signal the jump into Slip Space, he commanded. Li turned back to her screens to obey.

All voices fell silent, save two or three relaying the order.

The Viper sailed forward on ion thrusters. Its slip fins extended and locked, sending a shutter throughout the ship. The noise of D-drive engines spun up from a low hum to a high pitched whine. In a flash the void of space collapsed in upon itself and the light frigate vanished from the universe.

Most of the holoscreens went dead at that moment, their feeds from outside the ship dropping to zero. The large primary screen blinked to display dimensional-drive engine data, a green schematic of the ship, and the red countdown to reemergence.

As soon as the bridge engineer gave him the thumbs-up indicating a perfect Slip sail, Captain Thorne checked his earpiece and clicked on the all-ship channel. "This is the Captain. We haven’t much time. The commanders of each ship are giving the same brief, and they’ll run the same drill, each to their own part.

"As some of you may already know, John Henry Station went silent five days ago. Orion’s Hound was on patrol and dispatched to investigate. It hasn’t been heard from in two days. Another day will pass by the time we arrive.

While there could be multiple explanations for this, we must assume the worst and a defensive posture. And the worst may be more than just an attack by Drifter pirates or Myrmidon or Seraph warships. What I am about to tell you is classified information and everyone from the operations officer to the mess cooks are obligated to keep it within the hull of this ship.

He paused to allow that to sink in. Only the white noise of the coasting D-drives could be heard anywhere onboard; the crew made no sound.

Captain Thorne reviewed in his mind what he was permitted to say. At least a handful of these sailors would talk, it was inevitable. He had to keep the details to a minimum.

"Several months ago, a new colony on the planet Chaucer was sacked. There were no survivors. The attack was determined to be of alien origin, as in not human. This was not the work of foreign nations, rebel fanatics, or deep space hysteria. The colony was destroyed by an alien force whose ships were undetected by Chaucer’s satellites. I tell you this because John Henry and the Hound would seem to have been taken unawares. It is possible that we face an unknowable, probably advanced, and perhaps invisible adversary. And we have only two hours to ready ourselves."

He surveyed the faces of his bridge crew. Some stared blankly at their empty holoscreens. Some stared at him, or watched an indefinable point on the floor. He could feel the air thickening with fear. This was not simply the nervousness that comes before a potential combat situation, this was fear of the unknown. Training was the Captain’s only weapon against that. Training, and Lieutenant Commander Li.

He cleared his throat audibly into the mike, almost as a transition to her. XO, prepare the crew.

She gave him an acknowledging grin. All right, vipers... Li’s voice bathed the ship, a reassuring warm blanket against the cold dread introduced by her captain. On most ships the roles were reversed: the CO was the good guy, the XO the bad guy. But the personalities of the Viper’s command team worked better this way. Captain Thorne could tear a man down with a glance, while Commander Li could bolster the entire crew with a casual word. He counted on that now, and could see the sailors on his bridge responding to her already. Switch your stations to the training net, she ordered. I have a little scenario for you I call ‘Mongoose Down’ and I need everyone to give me their best.

Giger’s Eye burned. Corporal Cranston Thorne could see the light of the plasma fire like a rogue star, even through the haze that filled the sky. The space station was burning in orbit.

He was inside a toppled armored personnel carrier, standing on the passenger side door—which in this position was the floor—and leaning against the steering wheel. He could see the hazy sky through the armored shutters of the driver’s side window above him. The sun was still low, not yet noon, and its light was discolored a moody red. Thorne would probably have been on his way to the brig by now, beginning a sentence of months, maybe even years. Instead, Hell itself had broken loose across Ithaca Island. Now he wondered if he’d still be alive in a few hours.

Are the screens working up there? a young voice asked.

No, Thorne replied.

What is that crap in the sky? he wondered. He’d still been passed out on the couch this morning when the first sonic boom shook him into consciousness. By the time he’d gone to the window there’d been second one, and two filthy brown clouds were growing across the early morning blue. Now they were no longer two separate clouds but one continuous blanket of particles that floated between the surface and the sky. He wondered if it’d smother them.

One of the boys coughed. Private Knightlinger stuck his head into the APC’s cab, his freckled face redder than it was only ten minutes ago. What do you think, sir?

I told you not to call me ‘sir,’ Thorne said, easing back onto his haunches. And I think we can’t stay here too long. I don’t like being in the middle of the street like this, even if it is quiet out there.

Well then help me get this photon battery unhooked, Kip. Private Malcolm was out of sight in the troop compartment. Private Knightlinger went back to help him.

The pair had been on duty guarding the corporal’s door when it all started, charged with making sure he stayed put before his trial. Then the space station exploded and the sky was seeded with filth. When the spider craft landed and gave birth to a horde of monsters everything mundane was forgotten, along with two green privates and one insubordinate corporal. Thorne had taken command of the fresh young soldiers, who had rightly been too afraid to shit their pants without direct orders, and Thorne quickly came to think of them as the little angel and devil that sat on his shoulders. Knightlinger was the voice of the angel, wanting to rush out and help the first unit of troops they came across. Malcolm was the devil sitting opposite, arguing against any heroics. And Thorne had always listened to his own little devil’s advice.

They’d gone to the roof to assess the situation and from there had watched the enormous spider-like dropship knocking aircraft from the sky and setting most of the base to blazing before touching down. The huge mother arachnid then opened her belly and gave birth to a swarm of monsters. The trio had watched from the safety of the roof as giant crab-like invaders tore the Guard to pieces; they had watched and done nothing.

Thorne ducked through the port back into the troop hold. The privates were struggling with the bolts that held the laser turret to the top of the APC. Forget it, he told them. It’d take both of you to carry it and you’d get killed before you could steady it enough to fire.

The boys stopped and stared at him. You’d get killed... The fear of death was plain on their faces. They were both only eighteen, probably never left the comfort of their mother’s tit before heading off to boot camp. They were just kids.

Thorne cleared his throat. We’re not going to die, he told them. Knightlinger’s red face relaxed just a little. Malcolm looked unconvinced.

Let’s get what we came for. The battle in this area of the base had ended thirty or forty minutes ago. The trio had snuck from the barracks tower to this vehicle to arm themselves. Fortunately there were no dead soldiers inside to demoralize them further; the bodies were all out in the street. What have we got? Thorne asked.

The pair had a pile of salvage assembled on what was now the floor of the overturned vehicle. Malcolm pointed as he spoke: There were four magrifles still inside, plus there’s more outside we can pick up. Nine autopistols, lots of ammo. Looks like they didn’t bother with pistols, he said, referring to the squad of dead System Guard soldiers. Thirty 35mm grenades of various payloads, two hellstorm grenade launchers, plus six of the smaller rifle-mounted ones. And there’s more stuff outside. With the dead was omitted from the end of that sentence.

The corporal shook his head. There’s no point in trying to take more than we can carry. He thought about how the battles they’d seen from the roof had gone: these weapons were all but useless against the monsters. The magnetically-hurled projectiles that might normally punch through human-worn body armor deflected harmlessly off of the giant crabs’ shiny black shells. Soldiers were either struck down or torn in half by the huge claws of the beasts. Thorne had no intention of getting that close. We’ll each take a magrifle and a pistol, and fit our rifles with mini-launchers. Knightlinger and myself will take the hellstorms. You strike me as being the trigger-happy sort, Malcolm. I don’t want you popping off all our grenades at the first sign of trouble.

Once armed, they peered through the view slits along the hold. All seemed clear, though they couldn’t see through the overturned undercarriage, which faced west. They listened to the call of weapons and screams in the distance, and their own pounding hearts. Convinced of their relative safety, Corporal Thorne led his men into the open street.

There were several bodies there in front of the barracks. The boys tried not to look at them, their heads swiveling in every direction but down. Thorne looked westward first, into their previous blind spot. Destruction stretched out against the broken skyline. The wreckage of a downed Night Hawk fighter craft burned a few blocks away, giving off thick smoke. Another barracks tower smoldered from blackened windows. The collective smoke of all fires rose to mingle with the artificial haze that shrouded them from the sun. Bodies littered the street. Had there been any warning at all? he wondered. He thought of his father, probably still en route and leading nearly all of Giger’s ships to the far side of the system. This had been a set-up. These creatures may look like overgrown beach crabs but they were cunning, strong, and malicious. Thorne felt a cold gripping his heart. Hopelessness was right there, so easy to accept.

He turned back to his men. Knightlinger’s lips were quivering. He scratched at his reddening face. Malcolm was rubbing his eyes, itching or pushing back tears, Thorne couldn’t tell.

We go for the headquarters building and join whoever’s there, Thorne commanded. That’ll be the last bastion. Knightlinger, he knew, wanted to help his fellow soldiers. Malcolm wanted safety. The corporal wanted both. This was the right course for all.

They moved quickly along the side of the barracks tower and then down an alley. Thorne had a history of getting around base out of sight. He knew all the back alleys, where all the proverbial slack chains and crinkled fences were. Of course, he also depended heavily on having the right friends on duty at the right times. All of his drinking buddies would be fighting now, and with his privileges suspended his own electronic access would be very limited. He started mentally mapping a course with minimum obstacles.

Distracted by his thinking, Thorne was slow to react when the shadows came alive at the alley intersection. Darkness lunged at him from the corner of his eye. He turned in slow motion, hearing Malcolm’s panicked cry before choking down his own. The thing was as big as a street car, dancing forward on spiny, exoskeletal legs of blue carapace. Thorne saw two glossy orbs retract inside the protection of the ebony shell and a dozen blue feelers and mouth parts twitching and clicking together. The massive claw came from outside his field of vision and knocked him to the ground without effort. Thorne slammed to the pavement, shocking the nerves from his right elbow to his fingertips—his magrifle slid away. The monster loomed above him.

Iron thorns from Malcolm’s rifle ripped through air and carapace, disappearing inside the creature’s blue claw and right legs. Some projectiles ricocheted off the black shell, chipping the walls around them. There was no sign of blood, but the thing retreated a few scrambling steps. Malcolm was still screaming when his magrifle went into the quiet whir of an empty magazine.

The crab shambled forward again, its left claw raised high.

From where he lay, Thorne could see the underside of the creature, where its many rigid limbs met at a softer plate, lighter in color and armor. He pulled his autopistol, rolled over so that he was almost under the crab’s next step, and fired. Heavy metal slugs punched through the monster’s undercarriage, and thick, translucent goo spattering from the points of penetration. A painful, alien song like that of a thousand crickets issued from the puzzle of moving mouth parts. The creature staggered and fell, then stood up again on unsteady legs.

Knightlinger finally found his senses and unslung his hellstorm launcher, but his shot was high. The grenade hit the wall just above its target and burst into a thousand fragments of white-hot shrapnel. Burning needles ripped into Thorne’s left leg. He grit his teeth, both in pain and in bracing for the monster’s next attack... But that attack never came. The crab fell against the wall and slumped to the ground. The explosion had torn up its already damaged right legs and sheared off its right eye. Some of the grenade fragments must have entered its eye socket, too; clear goo bubbled from the opening in its shell.

The monster lay still now, like a giant toy, unreal. Its blue shades and shining black would almost be beautiful, if the creature weren’t so terrible.

Blood darkened the green cloth of the corporal’s pant leg. He was too surprised and grateful to thrash Knightlinger now. The private was still huffing and staring with wild eyes at the huge beast that lay against the wall. Malcolm took his finger off the trigger of his whirring magrifle and traded out the magazine for a fresh one.

Thorne climbed carefully to his feet. Knightlinger blinked back to his senses and looked down at the corporal’s leg. Was that—

You, Thorne said. Don’t you know better than fire a grenade at close range? But I’m alive and he’s not, so—

Corporal! Malcolm raised his rifle and stared down its sights. Something dark was moving in the shadows between buildings. It was more than a block away now, but getting closer.

Thorne looked around, searching for cover, help, or inspiration. Under his feet, at the center of the concrete intersection, was a circular metal hatch.

Save your ammo! he yelled to Malcolm, stepping off the manhole cover. Get down here, both of you.

Knightlinger moved to comply. Malcolm stood questioning.

Move it! he ordered, swinging the hellstorm launcher from his back and thumbing off the safety. The cylinder rolled an automated check: all chambers loaded. The rangefinder of its electronic sight was rapidly counting backwards. He saw the numbers with his right eye, the monster with his left. The alley’s darkness had a polished sheen to it. Something blue rose in front of it, opened and snapped closed.

Thorne fired.

Three minutes to real space.

The navigator’s voice barely registered in Captain Thorne’s ear.

The main holoscreen again showed the count down clock and the green schematic of the Viper, but the Captain was focused on the results of Lieutenant Commander Li’s training exercise. In the simulation, they’d targeted the invisible enemy ships by triangulating weapon sources and determining flight patterns, though two patrol boats had been lost and his own ship heavily damaged.

But, of course, they’d won. It wouldn’t do to crush the crew’s spirit right before a battle.

If they fell out into real space before some advanced, unimaginable enemy, would they fare so well?

He did the math in his head: each Solaris-class patrol boat had a crew of forty-three, and the Viper, a Predator-class light frigate, had one-hundred fifteen. That would be two-hundred eighty-seven lives lost, should all five ships be destroyed.

Two minutes.

The Captain switched his mike to the all-channel. You’ve done well, vipers. Trained reflexes and calm minds are the key to victory. Now let’s do the same for real. Keep your heads and be ready for anything.

The main screen blinked to an empty expanse with an image of the Viper at center. In their sliver of Slip Space it was all that existed.

One minute.

Battle stations, the Captain ordered. The klaxon sounded briefly throughout the ship, then went silent; everyone was already in their combat positions.

The navigation officer counted down the last ten seconds, the ship bucked, the artificial gravity slackened for a moment, and Viper reentered the universe.

Asteroids and patrol boats appeared as sensor arrays surveyed the area and holoscreens came back to life. The four smaller ships of the squadron were already back in real space and taking up the diamond formation. Their flagship slid into place at center and Captain Thorne gave the miasma order. A cloud of red and yellow radiation surrounded each ship on screen, all five mingling together to form one large distortion field. The miasma defense made them highly visible to sensors, but nearly impossible to lock onto by any known fire control system.

Reentry to full miasma took only six seconds.

Not bad, the Captain thought.

Pool the survey, was his next order.

Each ship in the squadron had been given a sector to concentrate on once they’d reached this destination. The vessels on the holoscreen shrank, making way for the broader sensor readings. The asteroid field took shape, scores of rocks in a slow dance choreographed by their gravity on each other. Nothing else was visible.

Overlay radiation signatures.

Streaks of color appeared here and there, their sources yet unidentified.

Comms here, piped up one communications operator. Link to Giger comm-sats complete, time loss calculated. Downloading message traffic.

The ship’s clock adjusted. It was now 1146 of the next day on Ithaca Island. Cranston Thorne’s court-martial had ended by now.

Captain. He heard Lieutenant Commander Li’s voice both through his headset and from his left, straining to remain calm. "The Joan of Ark has identified one of the radiation sources."

A square window opened on screen, magnifying one tiny yellow blip. The lifeless partial hull of a Solaris-class ship drifted among the asteroids.

Comms?

Nothing, sir, replied another comms-op. "I’ve tried to raise both the Hound and John Henry Station. The air is dead."

I’ve got something, sir! It was the first comms-op, a tone of panic in her voice. "This was in the message