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  She grabbed his arm, spun him around as they approached the main passage to the cockpit. “We’re not going to Sympto. I won’t do it, Benji. I won’t.”

  Ben positioned himself to face her squarely, pinching his lips together, arranging his thoughts. “Sweetheart, your sense of resolve—if you will—has saved both our lives on many occasion. It’s what makes you so gods blasted lovable. But this time, it’s going to work against us.”

  “Benji…”

  “No. We’re facing Sympto. Four days is plenty of downtime.” With that he turned to carry on down the passage, but stopped and turned back. He gave her a look of concession. “Look, if you want to do the talking this time, go right ahead. Threaten him, call him names, scare him into another nightmare. That’s fine. I’m with you. Hells, it could be a good laugh. Maybe he’ll pee his pants. Whatever. But then, we get a contract from him. Period. We’re not burning any bridges with the Guild. Not while we’re in this shape.”

  Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t say anything, just followed him down the passage toward the flight deck.

  He entered whisking himself to a small maintenance hatch behind the pilot’s chair and yanked it open. Tawny came in behind, seething mad. There was a long moment of silence before he heard her say, “Bi-gods Benji, sometimes you make me so …” her words trailed off.

  He fished around the compartment feeling for a new knuckle fuse. He heard her words trail off and said, “What, Tawny. Say it. I want you to be honest with me.”

  “Uh, Benji,” she said.

  “I’m serious. If you want to say something, say it. I’m sitting right—”

  “Shut up. Look,” she said, catching his attention. He turned, looked at her. Her face had turned white as a ghost highlighting her Raylon freckles behind her ears, across her hairline. He fell curious and looked out the viewport. He heard himself make a small, terrified sound—whuh!

  A piece of Menuit-B made its way through the rest of the debris field shattering asteroids on its approach, turning them into tiny bursts of space dust upon collision. It was so huge it contained a section of the moon’s curvature, like an approaching horizon. Its shadow crept across the cockpit suffusing them in shade as it approached.

  “What is that?” Tawny gasped.

  “Oh, just the northern hemisphere,” Ben said, his voice straining under the terror of certain doom. “This is bad.”

  “How much time we got?” she asked.

  “Not much,” he said thrusting his arms back into the compartment. He found the part and pulled it out—a fuse the size of a fist. “Stay up here. We may have to fire up manually. You remember the sequencing?”

  “Yeah, hurry, go!” she cried.

  He hit the main passage drawing himself along recklessly, hand-over-hand. Coming to the passenger hold, he paused. There was no time to take the overhead handrail. He gaged the lift tube at the far end of the room and kicked himself powerfully out over negative space. Plunging through the room he came to the other side with a bang that nearly knocked him silly. He shook his head.

  “Benji!” she yelled from the cockpit.

  “I’m on my way!” He dove headfirst down through the lift tube, twenty feet to the lower platform banging elbows and knees in his dive. He crashed into the bottom, jarring the knuckle fuse from his grasp. It popped back up and started drifting up through the tube. He barked reaching out for it, grabbing it.

  “Benji, it’s getting real close!” she screamed, her voice carrying from across the ship’s upper level.

  “I hear you, I hear you,” he mumbled to himself as he threw his weight from the tube to the nearest bulkhead in the cargo bay and deflected his direction toward the hub control closet. He crashed headlong toward the bulkhead he’d cut away swimming through the congested crawl space. He hit the fuse panel already cramming the fuse into its slot. It wouldn’t go. Too much damage to the outer edge. The whole thing had been bent. He growled, rotating his position and coming in with his boot. He gave it a shot. It didn’t budge.

  “Benji, how we looking down there?” she called.

  No time to hesitate. No time to even respond. He thrust his booted foot at it again. It locked down, but not all the way.

  “Benji?”

  Uuuh!—he kicked again. It sank in with a satisfying click.

  “Go go go!” he yelled back up to her.

  In the cockpit, Tawny flew through the initial startup processes throwing switches. Lights blinked on. Her face lit up. Then they died.

  “No!” she bellowed looking up. That gargantuan piece of gray lunar mass swallowed the viewport. She toggled the drive system switch up and down frantically. The lights came on. There was a low hum.

  Power. We have power.

  Now for thruster control. She shot a look over. The thruster panel lit up, showed nominal readings.

  She heard REX’s voice emit. It was unrecognizable, shifting through the full range of automated A.I. vocal frequencies—going from female to male, and back again.

  “Hello. HELLO. Hello. Hel-l-l-l-o.”

  “C’mon, REXY!”

  The drive system booted up. Everything stabilized. She could feel the engines sputter on.

  REX said, “Boss, that you?”

  “REX, get us out of here!” she cried, the darkness of that shadow thickening around her.

  “Holy balls!” he yelled noticing the approaching planetoid with his proximity sensors. The ship’s mag spires rotated opposite each other, both wheeling upward on their turnstiles and releasing their hold on the rock. Next, the tow cables jerked up from the rock’s surface and sprang up toward REX’s underbelly. The ship floated free.

  Pieces of tiny debris from shattering asteroids pelted over the cockpit canopy. Tawny yelped. They were not going to make it!

  Boosters ignited. She felt the ship rise up. Reverse thrusters banged and coughed pushing them away. The moon-thing was upon them, began crunching their little rock into splinters of icy stone. More rock pebbles sprang across the viewport. A storm of scattering detritus rained across the hull as they pulled away, jerking and stammering.

  Too slow. Too slow!

  Ben had made his way up from the cargo bay headed for the flight deck. A sudden thruster boost jerked the vessel away as the churning tonnage began eating their parking spot. Ben got thrust into the cockpit, out of control. He anchored himself to the co-pilot’s chair and swung his legs down and in. He grabbed the secondary control lever and yelled, “REX, control!”

  “Yours, Cap!”

  He spun the gear. REX pivoted around as the mag spires reached their upward position.

  “Prime the drive!”

  The propulsion boosters choked on, sputtering between hot blue and cold black.

  “Let’s go!”

  The ship slid away as the giant piece of sky smashed their rock into a sea of space born pebbles.

  “Let’s see what we got, REX!” Ben shouted. He hit the booster drive, hard, and—HACK SPUME GUH—they kind of zoomed away, sort of fast, but a little slow.

  Chapter Four

  Controlled Space

  The Planet Omicron Prime

  Moon Lana

  United Confederation Front (Underworld Cabal)

  Security Force Commander Havilok was on his feet. He never liked sitting down, especially when he knew his arse was getting kicked. He’d been called to the senate review consulate on Lana, the Prime moon of Omicron—and that is to say the Prime moon of the entire Confederation Front—the Underworld Cabal. He was a military man. He didn’t belong here. This place was for the political bureaucracy and their endless squabbling. But his latest failure at Menuit-B had him bouncing from one oversight committee to the next, half of them wanting his head on a stick. This committee was no different.

  His failure was on full display in vibrant 3-D space and larger than life by holo-projection. It took up the entire committee hall for everyone to see, thanks to Senator Torian. It showed security images collected over Menuit-B as the an
nihilation took place. They were the final death throws of Commander Havilok’s charge. The moon was getting its arse kicked, just like him. Everyone gasped and moaned. Havilok was getting used to shame.

  Below on the consulate floor, Senator Torian was dressed in a long coat with double folds down the breast and a mandarin-style collar. His Minister of War pin lay flush to his chest with its red and black pips shimmering brightly from a silvery field. His inflated strutting around the projector cube appeared almost like goose-stepping. It made Havilok groan and adjust the collar on his military formal jacket.

  Senator Torian said, “This is the view from the Mammon’s control bridge, captured on its close-range surveillance.” The moon shook visibly. Its surface features were vibrating apart. Cracks were forming across its lunar face. Light from the sun-core showed through.

  Senator Torian continued, “And this is the view from the Halidon.”

  The view changed several degrees to the objective west. A new perspective. A new angle. Same image.

  “And the Typhos.”

  Another look. All the same. More collapsing surface area. More rubble burping into space.

  “And finally, the Psyon Four.”

  KABOOM—the entire lunar body pulled apart showering the small audience with digital moon chunks. Everyone gasped and flinched. Faces were disgusted, showing a universal expression of disappointment, infuriation. Torian froze the holo-image at the moment of greatest dynamic release. Everything stopped. It was an enormous starburst of moon pieces blossoming into space from a central, glowing core. He wanted the sight of their lunar cannon project to sit on their minds as it ripped itself apart, stilled in time.

  Torian continued, “That was Phase one of what we had planned to be our final offensive against the outer Imperium planets. It was to be the cornerstone of Phases two and three which would have brought an end to the Imperium in a matter of years.” His eyes drifted up toward Havilok and he said, “Perhaps months.” He let the words burn into his audience, let them all feel the sting of lost potential. He continued, “An entire sub-economy was arranged for its cost. An entire industry was opened for its construction. Entire volumes of military and security protocol established for its existence. And in one fell maneuver, our enemy quashed our plans for total domination.” He took a large breath, collecting himself. “We have not tasted a failure in our war effort of this magnitude, ever.” His gaze drifted back up to Havilok. “Who will pay?”

  Havilok growled. He was a soldier of the Confederation, a warrior and killer. Who was this pampered senator with his trifling badges and fine clothing, always hidden behind the walls of politics and soothsaying? “Just as a senator would!” he barked. “Always demanding blood on top of blood from a position of security.”

  “So says the man responsible!” Torian yelled thrusting a finger at him.

  “Watch your mouth, Torian!”

  “I am a senator, Commander, and you are in the halls of diplomacy,” he barked before submerging the place in a terse silence. He turned to the audience of congressional leaders, senators and constituent parties. “But look closely.”

  The moon image reversed, pulling its thousand pieces back together. The moon stabilized, hanging in the moments before the chain reaction triggered within its neutron core. Havilok frowned. Must he see this again, the peak of his failure?

  He closed his eyes. He couldn’t watch. It made him nauseous.

  Torian continued with his fateful presentation. “This shows that the Menuit-B military security contingent led by Commander Havilok had a target vessel in their sights. All protraction systems were armed. Tracking. Tractor beam. Even fire control. Yet no barrage?”

  “With a neutron core directly in line of fire? No, of course not!” Havilok bemoaned.

  “Our roust-about did not share your opinion, Commander,” Torian rebutted.

  “Our roust-about was fleeing,” he insisted hotly.

  “It seems he didn’t share that opinion, either.” Torian continued with his presentation. A quick zoom-up plunged the onlookers quickly down toward the moon making the scene more visible. The cannon’s barrel yawned into space, and directly before it, dwarfed by the cannon’s towering size, was a privateer vessel. It had an armored fuselage with a forward cockpit, lower cargo bay, a gun perched at top, bubble turret below, and two enormously long ailerons attached. Mag-spires. They were folded into their downward position giving the vessel a vertical configuration.

  An RX-111 cargo vessel.

  The ship spun around and began its plummet toward the cannon’s cavern-like opening at tremendous speed, the main thrusters pounding a white hot blue. It wheeled suddenly, bottom over top, released one of its cargo tanks and veered away at break-neck velocity. The cargo tank soared into the cannon like a projectile bomb crashing and banging deeper and deeper toward the core emulsifier. It disappeared, but its impact became visible moments later. A bright explosion shuddered the entire image and triggered the chain reaction that spelled Menuit-B’s doom. The holo-display broke apart and disappeared, leaving Senator Torian standing in a sea of dispersing pixels.

  Havilok gave him a dangerous look, but it didn’t have the desired affect.

  Torian continued, “I and my team drafted the project deployment documents for the Menuit-B project. I acquired the necessary backing in the senate. I pushed the project through all houses of parliament.” His voice sounded both inflated and petulant as it grew in volume, like a self-loathing child. He roared, “We, the United Confederation rested our hopes on Menuit-B!” Casting a knife’s glare up at Havilok’s position, he said, “And with a single act of incompetence, our effort, our mission and our future was wiped from the system!”

  Havilok stared back down at him with his fists tightening over the railing, squeezing like death traps.

  Torian’s lips curled into an angry grin, and he addressed the audience sitting around the holo-projector. He said sharply, “Who will pay? Who—will pay?”

  Havilok left the viewing room in a rush. He strode angrily down the passageway, thundering his feet on the floor of the hallway. He’d never been more angry. He could feel it in his blood, infecting his mind.

  That pompous jughead!

  He turned the corner from the oversight hall entering the senate building’s passenger hub. He’d faced foes in combat and had killed many of them. But never had his disdain been so thoroughly tested.

  That Torian! He’s too incompetent on the senate floor so must turn his war against a new arena—ha!

  He opted against the lift tube. It was too crowded with benign faces. Besides, he’d rather thunder down the stairwell with his thoughts banging around in private. Politicians were a useless lot, damning others to war while they jabbed their fingers and cast blame endlessly to avoid a second’s responsibility.

  He makes a fool of mighty foes and storms away as if to remain unscathed.

  He blasted through the sliding doors to the visitor’s corridor, down the hall and to his suite. He’d grown tired of them pacifying their grinning constituents at the cost of real men, real women of the Confederation who die to serve their flatulent system.

  But not me, I assure you. I will have that man’s career on a pike!

  He entered his stateroom and stopped frozen. He stared forward with a sour face and demanded, “Who are you?”

  The figure lounging on his sofa said with a regal air, “An interested party.” His legs were crossed at the knees and a band of soft light cut across his torso leaving his face in shadow.

  Havilok stepped in. The door shut behind him. “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  The man said, hardly moving, “You and I have a common issue, don’t we, Commander?”

  Havilok rolled his head back and forth feeling the tension in his neck tighten. He snarled the name, “Senator Torian.”

  “Indeed.”

  He estimated this person in his suite, and said, “You’re a traditionalist.”

  “I am.”
/>   “Torian’s a reformist.”

  “He’s a radical.”

  “Some would say you’re obsolete.”

  The man gestured with his hands. “Either way, we’re talking about turning moons into weapons. One either does that the right way, or they do it the wrong way.”

  Havilok’s eyes went like razors. If his estimation was true, this man represented leadership in the traditionalist party, a direct rival to Torian’s more progressive viewpoint. “I know who you are. You’re Senator Quarlidious of Lana.”

  He sensed the man smile and say, “I am.”

  “You’re a rival party member in the war senate.”

  “Yes.”

  The tension broke and Havilok started pacing. He had no political skew one way or the other. He said, “You have your own motives in this, and they are not mine.”

  “Our motives are different, perhaps, but our cause is the same.”

  Havilok made a sound like—heh! He said, “What’s your point?”

  “Torian did it wrong. We can do it right.”

  Interest growing, he said still pacing, “Go on.”

  Quarlidious sighed and began, “There’s a document in a private file. It shows breaches in due process to the likes the Lana senate has never seen. The Menuit-B project had its share of opposition. Torian and his cabinet did not take kindly. Laws were broken. Protocol ignored. Lives were taken, Commander. It’s how Torian pushed the bill through the senate, and ultimately the house. It was the key to his ascension through the political ranks of his party. Nevertheless, he is a political criminal. But it doesn’t stop there.”

  “This document, does it name names?”

  “It does. Many names.”

  Havilok stopped pacing, just stared at him in the dark. “Was it fabricated?”

  The dark head tilted. He said, “You mustn’t insult, Commander.”

  “How high does it go?”

  “All the way to Omicron.”