Sparks of War, Broken Power Trilogy Book 1

Sparks of War

Book One of the Broken Power Trilogy

By

T. Russell Benedict

Copyright 2016

Part one of the story.

To be continued in:

Book Two: Stones of Silence

And Book Three: Ripples of Consequence

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

http://www.TRussellBenedict.com

http://www.EvergreenMountainPublishing.com

http://www.BrokenPower.net

http://www.SparksOfWar.com

Cover art by T. Russell Benedict

Contains mature themes and situations…

Excerpt…

In the control tower, cameras panned over the many parked ships quietly roasting in the hot glare of the yellow Omega Crossing sun, and then quickly centered on one that had just landed. Flight controllers and surveillance operators alike focused in surprise on the two men and an attractive but deadly looking woman that all stepped from the shadows beneath the bow of an incredibly well armed, class-four star cruiser. All three figures sported fringed, tight-fitting, black leather outfits that had dangerous attitude written all over them.

In the heat waves that rippled off the dirty gray tarmac and fire-scorched ship, the air around the three distant figures shimmered, as their hair and bandanas streamed out behind them in the hot desert wind. Standing three abreast with their arms crossed, they paused as though to study the tower for weaknesses. Curses echoed throughout the tower.

Looks like somebody's about to get their ass kicked... someone muttered.

Ya think? somebody else snorted.

Excerpt from Sparks of War, Book One of the Broken Power Trilogy

Special thanks to Robert Bryne

In whose book 1,911 Best Things Anybody Ever Said

I found a number of the quotes that I use throughout this book.

Dedicated to Lois

Who always encouraged me to follow my dreams,

To Half-Pint

Who let me be myself even when others thought me crazy,

And whose friendship and cheerful shadow helped warm many dark days,

And to Kelly

Who has always been there, through both good and bad,

And whose friendship has withstood the bitter test of time.

I am truly blessed to have been able to call each of them my friend.

Star Ship Sizes and Classifications

Class - Approximate length - Typical usage (freighters, cruise ships & space stations come in all classes, lengths, and sizes)

1. < 30 ft - personal craft, light fighters, lancers, scouts

2. < 90 ft - pleasure craft, fighters, fast transport, scouts, the Trestika

3. < 150 ft - small freighter, armed escort, the Hawk

4. < 300 ft - typical midsize freighter, battle cruisers, armed escort, the Phoenix

5. < 500 ft - typical large freighter, large battle cruiser

6. < 800 ft - typical large freighter, space marine frigate, personal pleasure cruise ship

7. < 1200 ft - frigate, small commercial cruise ship

8. < 1700 ft - super frigate, cruise ship

9. < 2300 ft - destroyer, cruise ships

10. < 3000 ft - passenger/cruise liners, the UPC Centurion battleship, the Olympus cruise ship

11. < 3800 ft - miscellaneous battleships, cruise liners, super freighters

12. < 4700 ft - miscellaneous battleships, typical cruise liners, super freighters

13. < 5700 ft (1mi) - Starcrusher-class & Halonan Vampire-class battleships, cruise liners

14. < 6800 ft - miscellaneous battleships, cruise liners

15. < 8000 ft - Eliryan Mockingbird class battleship, cruise liners

16. < 9300 ft – D’haren wedge-shaped battleship, cruise liners

17. < 10,700 ft (2mi) - miscellaneous battleships, big cruise liners

18. < 12,200 ft - miscellaneous battleships, big cruise liners

19. < 13,800 ft - alien blunt-wedge battleship, big cruise liners

20. < 15,500 ft (3mi) - alien disc-shaped battleship, really big cruise liners, Fliri flute-shaped battleship

21. < 17,300 ft - dreadnaught

22. < 19,200 ft - super dreadnaught

23. < 21,200 ft (4mi) - starship carrier

24. < 26,000 ft (5mi) - super carrier

25. 5 mile-10miles - starbreaker

26. > 10 miles – small battlestar, colony ship

27. > 20 miles - BASS ship – Big Ass Ship, battlestars, colony ships, world ships, Dyson worlds, etc.

Table of Contents

Thanks & Dedications

Maps

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Other Books by This Author…

Excerpt from Stones of Silence, Broken Power Trilogy Book Two…

Prologue

Though very few people realized it at the time - and those that knew it generally denied it - there was an ongoing, and undeclared, war already raging in cyberspace. AI's and pirates, vigilantes and sysops, everyone had a score to settle or a buck to make. The battles occasionally boiled over into VR, and even into Actual Reality once in awhile. Fortunately though, the flare-ups usually died down pretty quickly, and business returned to normal, if you could call anything about a cyberwar normal. In an electronic reality where the rules of the game could change based on the permission levels of the users or hackers involved, nothing was as it seemed, and everything was suspect.

What follows is the story of when real war in Actual Reality burst out and merged with that undeclared, underground cyberwar, finally exploding full force out into the open everywhere, with galaxy shaking repercussions. The largest fires usually start with just a single spark, and this time was no different. The inferno erupted when at least three different critical timelines all converged around the solitary candle flame of just one man and the woman he protected, two spacer pilots just trying to make their way through life and leave a legacy of better lives behind them.

Let's listen in on the fateful conversation that set the ball in motion, between a minor pirate lieutenant and a friend of his, a no-name lackey for one of the big mafia clans that ran things. Morosely, they sat drinking whiskey in a quiet hole-in-the-wall bar and grill somewhere on the pirate and mafia, crime-syndicate dominated world of Scarough, shortly after the lieutenant had finished a slave trade run through a neighboring system.

In disgust, the thin, forty-something year old pirate lieutenant took another swallow of bitter Falencian Three-Bears whiskey and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grimaced, then handed the sloshing bottle over to his friend. His friend took it, while watching him with glassy eyes from the other side of the table where they sat together. They were just two of many customers there that night, slouched in the crowded, dirty, dimly lit, smoke-filled, long, narrow bar and grill with its single row of busy tables along the wall across from the actual bar counter. An old country song played from speaker panels somewhere in the ceiling, and the unmistakable odor of urine from the single bathroom at the back blended with the smells of beer, smoke, sweat, and grilled and sizzling meat also heavy in the air. Between that, and the still slightly bitter air that Scarough was known for, everyone’s eyes had that slightly watery look to them.

So whaddya think? the friend asked. What's next? Looks like they're fixin to pass you over again in the next set of fleet postings. He studied his drinking companion.

Though everyone there knew the lieutenant had a cruel heart, and generally avoided him, the friend also knew the other man liked to pride himself in not being quite as crude as most pirates were stereotypically known to be. Men that were too crude didn’t rise through the ranks quite as fast as those who kept their mouths shut and under control. And the lieutenant had been gunning for promotion for a long time. Nevertheless, when a pirate was drinking, all bets were off, and with this one, cruel words were bound to come out sooner or later. The friend braced himself.

I know, dammit, I know. I already been passed over three times now, by more trigger-happy bastards. He paused to spit on the floor. Someone up there must think I'm already washed out, or some crap like that. But I'm tired of living on jack. I wanna be where there's some real money for once. And for devil’s sake, I’m tired of being everyone’s errand boy in VR. He paused a moment to take the bottle back from his friend before he continued down his list of gripes.

I’m tired of running slaves too. I’m tired of this hellhole and sorry excuse for a world, and he gestured around them, and wiped his watering eyes with his shirt sleeve. And I’m tired of androids in my bed, and little girls that break. I need a real bitch, one that actually bleeds when I hit her, but that comes back for more. His friend studied him, listening to his outburst without a word. Interrupting could be bad for his health. But the pirate wasn’t done yet.

I wanna retire with lots of real money, not just VR credit, he continued. I want some actual dirt someplace I can call my own. And sooner or later, I want some recognition for what I do already! he finally exclaimed.

You need to get off your ass then, and go make them notice you… the friend cautiously ventured after a moment’s silence while the pirate gazed morosely at the whiskey bottle in his hands in front of him on the table.

And do? He glanced over at his friend with a thin raised eyebrow, oblivious to the people constantly walking past their table that gave wide berth to his wrinkled black Scarough uniform, and heavy beam pistol slung at his side.

Maybe do something big. Make your smarts work in your favor. You been around the block a time or two. Find some way to use that.

Like? he asked again, his full focus now on his suddenly talkative and not-quite-drunk-yet friend.

So you want a sector posting or something? Or maybe run a drug cartel somewhere?

I got a score to settle with the Old Earth government. Yanked me around pretty good last time I was there.

So you wanna run drugs into Earth? Is that the fleet posting you wanted? In response, the lieutenant nodded slowly, his narrow, light-blue eyes staring intently out from a gaunt face topped by close-cut, graying hair.

Wouldn't mind it.

So go set up your own drug lab somewhere, then get to know the kingpin on Earth. Then cap him and take over! Just do it quietly and from behind the scenes. If they won't give you that pick, then just go take it! The lieutenant looked doubtful. You don’t need VR anymore. You ain’t the only one getting tired of all of the virtual crap that we put up with every day. Then he stopped for a moment before continuing.

Or you could always bounty hunt or assassinate someone big, or heck, do just about anything that would help out the big boys upstairs. Settle an old contract for them or something. They'd notice you then... The lieutenant set the bottle of strong bitter whiskey down on the table and leaned back in his chair, balancing on the chair’s rear two legs as he intertwined his fingers behind his head. His friend spoke again.

But really, you gotta quit taking Scarough's handouts. If you ever really wanna be somebody big, you gotta go build it yourself. No one is going to just hand it to you, except maybe to manage it for them. Quit thinking like a boot-licker.

Why not do all of it? the lieutenant mused aloud in response. Yeah, I could make that happen, play the best of both worlds... A crafty smile slowly tugged at the corners of his mouth. I wonder where I could score some quick cash to start the ball rolling though. Grand schemes take grand money...

Within moments, he was lost in thought, and unbidden, his thoughts turned to a young freighter pilot that had once bested him in a game of high stakes poker. The man had won, among other things, an expensive sex slave from him in the process, a real one, not an android. Word also had it that the punk had set her free shortly thereafter too, someplace out of reach. In his responding fury, the pirate had put a prostitute in the hospital ICU later that night.

His brow now furrowed, and his jaw clenched, as he thought about how he had sworn to ruin the man if he ever got the chance. The pilot had had money too, given what the dude had scored off him and some buddies that ill-fated day the loner had tempted them all into a quick round, and in short order cleaned every single one of them out. He burned at the memory, even now, all these years later. He searched his memories for a name, and before long, it came back to him.

Pensively, he rocked slowly back and forth on his chair in silence, his eyes distant and unfocused, his face brooding and angry. His friend eventually left, and the pirate lieutenant continued to sit there, alone in the crowded night around him, for several more hours, scheming and planning his revenge and future rise to power, focusing in a way he hadn’t done in a long time.

Chapter 1

There is no gravity. The Earth sucks.

- Grafitto

Of course the service would probably stink, but then again, in this city sector, what did he really expect? In the chilly darkness, Tom, a slender but broad shouldered, six-foot tall human freighter pilot by trade, paused in the dark street in front of another run-down Calderan bar and shivered a moment. Everything felt so quiet and still out here, though he could hear the normal pleasant ruckus going on inside the establishment. He glanced around himself again, and up and down the darkly-lit, dirty street. Nothing. And his light leather jacket wasn't stopping the chill in the air either. After another quick shiver, he took a deep breath of gritty air and turned back to the door and pushed it open with a squeak. Warm barroom air hit him full in the face with a sudden whoosh.

Quickly, he glanced around the noisy pub as he stepped across its threshold and noted the No cell phones allowed sign on the wall just inside the door. He snorted lightly, then shrugged and looked around the room again. Through the smoky haze, he instantly assessed for danger the various races represented. A motley assortment they were. He slowly let his breath out and slipped the safety back on on the tiny needle gun he gripped tightly in his right jacket pocket. Chill, man, chill, he thought to himself, after wondering yet again who his contact might be. He didn’t normally carry one of his pistols with him, but had tonight for some reason.

Unconsciously, he took his other hand out of his left front, knee-ripped, blue jeans pocket and brushed his fine, dark brown bangs in need of a haircut out of his face. A shoulder length ponytail hung loosely against the back of his neck, and stubble graced his face. Dim antique lamps hung from the walls in the corners, and hooded fluorescent lights hung low over each of the scattered pool tables. They just barely lit the room.

A few faces looked up through the haze at his slender but athletic form and black jacket, but he ignored them, or tried to anyway. He took another measured breath, and began to relax a little. With amusement just touching the corners of his mouth, he wondered once again why each of the major races represented, all basically humanoid, had such a weakness for alcohol. Just another quirk of nature, he had always supposed.

He let his gaze continue to drift over the crowd as he finally made his way through the tables to the drinks bar along the back wall. Across the room, his striking, steel blue-eyed gaze rested briefly on several six and a half-foot tall Brakkens, a seven-foot tall Kobrak, and a stout, five-foot Falencian, all playing pool. Over the general murmur of conversation, he could even hear the Brakkens' and Kobrak's normally shiny snakelike skin rasping faintly beneath their black military armor, soft cadence to the click of their pool balls snapping against each other. Occasional laughter floated through the air. Low music came from somewhere. It was a soothing balm to his anxious thoughts. He approached the bar.

Letting out another long breath, Tom seated himself on one of several empty leather barstools there, and after studying the humanoid reptiles across the room a moment more, he turned to signal to the bartender on duty. Brakkens and Kobraks, close brothers in evolution, were pretty much distrusted and disliked the Federation over. Tom generally avoided them too, as matter of course, even though the honor of being knighted by their highest court was a high honor indeed. It was just something that Tom usually found wise not to reveal about himself to too many people. Ever since the frontier wars, nobody trusted the reptiles much. They were militaristic, from hunter-based societies, and many of them found lucrative professions as bounty hunters. Tom knew of no bounties currently out for him, but he avoided them anyway. Even a high-court knighting didn't stop some of the bounty hunters.

Gimme a strawberry daiquiri, a glass of water, and a hamburger, Tom curtly ordered in his low tenor voice as he reigned in his thoughts. He had to quit thinking about where to score his next run, how to find a woman friend of his that had gone missing, how to stay under the corrupt Calderan radar, and just about the future in general. It was bad for his morale. And he sure didn’t want to think any more either, about the near mishap in customs that had rattled him earlier in the day. He really just wanted to think about food and drink right at the moment.

Yeah, right, the greasy looking, short little Falencian man behind the bar muttered and turned to the glass cooler wall behind him. Generally speaking, spacers considered humans to be the best bartenders in the galaxy, but here, on Caldera, they probably took whatever they could get. Tom swiveled on his barstool and leaned back on one elbow, to survey the room again with somber eyes. He tried to force thoughts of his last run out of his mind. It almost didn't work.

A group of muscular Falencian men sat around a table in the corner, probably discussing some never-ending trade negotiation, or some sexual conquest. Basically human looking except for reddish skin and flat faces, the stereotypical Falencian male, at least according to New Hollywood, supposedly had a penchant for rough sex with anything with a skirt on, whenever they weren't trading goods. It made them pretty unwelcome on most human worlds. Ironically enough though, Tom had met one or two of them down through the years, rare exceptions to the supposed stereotype, that were solid and unshakeable allies, decent guys all the way around. The bartender interrupted his thoughts and plopped a nuked, dry-looking hamburger on a glass plate down on the bar in front of him, alongside two glasses.

That be five credits. The bartender deftly caught the silver five-credit coin that Tom flicked towards him. Then without even muttering thanks, the guy shuffled down the counter to wait on a hugely built, cobra-faced Kobrak and a lizard-faced Brakken that had also just approached.

Tom took a sip of the alcoholic concoction and thought it good. It hit him with surprising force really, but then again, he really hadn’t eaten a good square meal in a while, and his empty stomach was letting him know about it. He continued to watch the large and crowded room out the corner of his eye, while listening to the beat of low music coming from that sonic box in a corner somewhere nearby. The warm effects of the alcohol washed slowly over him. He shivered for a moment in his jacket, then relaxed, but didn’t touch the hamburger yet...

The last run had actually gone well, all things considered, in spite of the customs issue that had delayed his Calderan landfall, and a little mishap with a Brakken cruiser on Opal Six. The collision with the Brakken really hadn’t been too serious, thankfully. A slightly dented hull plate near the aft flux nodes of his freighter was all Tom had walked away with, even though it had done a good deal more damage to the furious Brakken's own unshielded, class-two, saucer-cruiser. Oh well. Brakkens and Kobraks were mechanical wizards, as were the Eliryans to a degree - their first star drives had used chemical and mechanical, inertial-based thrust drives. Many pilots still used them for in-system transport, including the one who had bumped into him. He suspected that the Brakken's own version of the human Cowlishaw GIT drive would need recalibration pretty badly. And Tom would have to get his own ship's flux nodes re-tuned later too. In any case, that particular Brakken had deserved it. But there was more...

It was the customs issue that really had him concerned. Coming though Calderan customs this time, an agent had thought he recognized Tom from an old wanted bulletin or something, and had interrogated him for nearly two hours. He finally let Tom go when his DNA scan had come back negative when cross-referenced with the central GBI databases. Unfortunately, Tom also knew that as soon as his name had been queried, it had thrown up a blazing beacon in VR and cyberspace both, letting anyone scanning for him know that he was indeed on Caldera.

But Tom didn’t want anyone to know he was here. In a bad way, he didn’t want the whole big wide galaxy to know it, and a few people in particular. It meant that he should keep his visit here relatively short this time, a couple weeks max, before bounty hunters or old enemies with scores to settle could get here through the stargates.

He involuntarily sighed, suddenly weary.

It had been, overall, a good run, but nerve wracking nonetheless. It had just left him tired. Tired and worn out. He was out of debt now too, but just barely so. And with no real prospects for another run, that could easily change.

So tired…

He laid his head down on his folded arms on the bar countertop for just a brief moment, and suddenly, his mind was far away.

A twisted refinery. Mournful wind. A tower top. Cool temperatures, and sweaty palms. A sniper rifle. Bullets and beam bolts ricocheting in the metal around him. Echoes. Fire. Fierce, ragged gasps for air. A little girl’s face… As the memory washed over him, his heart rate went up…

Suddenly, a piercing violet light on the wall near the front entrance of the bar blinked twice. For just a split second, the bar fell silent. Then mayhem. Tom started suddenly, blinked a couple of times and lifted his head up, then swore aloud in disgust when he finally realized what was going on. Calming his suddenly racing heart, he purposefully let his mind drift back instead to a relatively calm and peaceful vacation he had taken on Diamous Four, two years previously.

There was no way someone could have tracked him down from his last shipment of smuggled goods already. There was just no way... And he still had one more client to drop something off for, still aboard his ship too; that also had him edgy. He willed the other memories away, the violent ones.

The door burst open. He turned his head. Silence reigned supreme for a quick breath. A Calderan guard trooper, human, paused in the doorway, eerily silhouetted by police car spotlights shining in from outside. A powerful bluelase rifle rested at ready in his hands. Tom instinctively sucked in his breath, suddenly feeling cold.

A tall elf-like Eliryan was still scurrying down a side aisle, and the trooper whipped up his rifle and fired a warning shot. His bright laser bolt flashed harmlessly over the Eliryan's left shoulder and reflected off the mirrored wall behind the bar and left a long black burn streak across the ceiling. The Eliryan skidded to a halt, spilling a lap full of metal credit chips across the floor. Charred flakes of paint from where the shot had scored the ceiling floated down through the smoky air. The sonic box in the corner abruptly shut off.

Everyone freeze! someone bellowed in a deep voice, and more combat-suited troopers suddenly swarmed in through the door in a quick rush. Then just as quickly, the double doors swung shut behind them, again blocking out the penetrating spotlights now lighting up the dark street outside. The troopers were instantly lost in the shadows in their dull black, reinforced light leather armor. While getting his pulse back under control, Tom noted that, though completely encased in light-duty battle armor, all the troopers looked like humans, or maybe Falencian, but he doubted it. Caldera had originally been a human colony, now several hundred years old. Each trooper that he could see had nasty looking beam and laser weapons ready in their grip. The metallic clink of their weapons chilled the air.

Everyone froze.

A new voice cut through the haze.

Nobody moves. After scanning, you leave. You can return when we finish. The owner of the gruff voice strode to the center of the room between the tables, pushing chairs out of the way of his hulking frame.

Tom froze too, before clamping down on his emotions again with an iron grip, and letting his lips curl back in bitter sarcasm. It was just a normal bar raid, obviously a fishing expedition, but he sure wasn't going to ask too many questions. At least it didn’t seem to be focused on finding him this time; if it had been, he would already have been stunned and left lying on the floor in a pool of vomit, ready for easy incarceration.

He fingered a little packet of alter-flake in his pocket, bribe material really, hardly enough to get him more than a stern warning. His needle gun stayed untouched in his other pocket. It’s just a fishing expedition, he told himself again.

A Calderan guard trooper carried an attaché’ case sized scanner into the room and moved to the first table. There, he opened it and typed at the keyboard of the small computer inside for a moment. Then looking up, he initialized its program and pointed the handheld scanner wand attached to it at the hand of the nearest Falencian sitting there. Evidentially, the man didn't have too many outstanding warrants against him. The trooper motioned him out. You pretty much expected that everyone on Caldera had a warrant somewhere or other, especially anyone that lived on the ground in the crater here, and not up in the floating city above. Tom nervously and gently rubbed the ID chip embedded under the skin on the back of his right hand to auto-increment it to a fake ID he had recently programmed into it, something he had finally figured out how to do after long months of trial, error and research. He just had to make sure it was on his real ID whenever a true DNA identity scan was run on him too. A scanner this small couldn’t be a true DNA scanner. He felt safe in one of his alter identities.

The Brakkens and Kobraks at the next table weren't so lucky.

What do we have here? the swarthy commander growled, bending over to glare into a seated Brakken's sunken eyes. The lizard-faced Brakken's nose slits flared wide, and his soft hands wrung slowly together on the table before him. Then he spread his palms face up and silently got to his feet, his eyes flicking about the room. I says you know something. The typically high-strung Brakken trembled. Take him outside. A seven-foot tall Kobrak at the next table also slowly stood up, his neck fully flared like a cobra, his enormous fists clenched. Two troopers instantly moved forward. We’ll talk later... the commander sneered arrogantly, leering into the Brakken's dilated opal eyes, ignoring the Kobrak - something that most people didn’t do. He turned away, and the Brakken was led from the room. Now, who's next? He obviously enjoyed his job. That figured. The Kobrak strode after the Brakken, barely even pausing for identity scan; troopers hastily moved out of his way.

And so it went. Tom's turn soon came up too, and he held his breath for a split second. Reluctantly, he put out his right fist for scanning of the tiny credit/ID chip implanted in the back of his hand beneath the skin. The commander looked about to say something. Then a fistfight suddenly broke out between a trooper and a Falencian across the room near the door. Falencians could be so ill-tempered. All I've got is a little alter-flake, Tom muttered as he fished in his jacket pocket for the packet with his other hand. It was a calculated risk he was taking. He retrieved the drug and held it out to the commander. The fake ID in the chip flashed a nonsense name on the scanner in the man’s hand.

Taking the tiny packet of white powder from him, the burly man studied it a moment after glancing at the meaningless name in the scanner readout. Then after a cold glance into Tom's face, he threw the packet down and ground it into the dirty, wood slat floor with the steel heel of his muddy combat boot. Tom warily studied the bare-headed man's face, the stubble on his jutting jaw, and his narrowed, wide set eyes.

Not anymore you don't. Next time we bust your ass. Then the man turned away from him, drew a magnum pistol, and shot the Falencian making all the ruckus across the room, while Tom hastily grabbed his still uneaten hamburger and headed for the door, his ears ringing from the gun’s report. What a way to keep a low profile. There was a cold knot in the pit of his stomach though. As he passed near the dying Falencian twitching on the floor, he almost gasped aloud.

Next? the man bellowed behind him as Tom squeezed his athletic frame out between two guards at the door. Hastily, he stepped out onto the wooden steps, into the chilly midnight air. Shivering with more than just the chill in the air, he zipped his light leather jacket back up, thankful that the spotlights had finally been shut off.

It was just a fishing expedition, he told himself yet again, otherwise known as a ‘drug raid’ in media lingo. It was always the official excuse. Drugs. And the new drugs did indeed do bad things to people. Flake especially.

From the steps, Tom surveyed the dark area quickly. Police hovercars, their purple and white lights revolving and their antigravs humming quietly, rested all around the bar front, their lights eerily lighting the otherwise dark street. Sullen patrons mulled about in little groups, a few of them texting or talking on their comm-cell smart phones. Like statues, troopers stood guard over them all. Sirens echoed faintly through the night air across the city and from the floating city metroplex that silently hovered high above a distant part of the dirty metropolis below.

Now that he was outside, his heart really began to beat again, and he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His nerves were going to hell. After a moment more, he let a knowing smile just barely lift the corners of his mouth. He was still safe. He started down the steps. Then he remembered the dead Falencian. He had recognized the fellow.

Now too angry to eat, he walked casually down the street a bit, without trying to appear he was escaping the troopers intentionally, looking for someone he had noticed earlier. After a moment more, he stopped next to a poorly dressed and shivering Eliryan wino lying on a sheet of cardboard on the sidewalk up against the ramshackle warehouse next to the bar. He nudged the figure with his toe. When the guy looked up grumbling, Tom knelt down next to him and handed him the burger.

Eat up, friend, he murmured to the man and grasped his shoulders a moment, looking into his eyes.

Thanks, bro, the frail looking being answered, and gratefully shook Tom’s hand before getting himself to a sitting position so he could eat.

Then feeling the eyes of a Calderan trooper boring into the back of his head, Tom stood up and headed back towards the bar. Trying to escape would be pointless; it would just paint a literal bull’s eye on his back and raise all sorts of suspicion at him.

Angrily jamming his fists back deep into his pockets, he ambled over to one of the groups and just stood there listening to the muttered curses around him. His fine pony-tailed hair brushed back and forth around his broad shoulders in the chilly night breeze springing up. Little dust devils of dirt and trash skipped along the crumbling concrete curbs, all along the bar-lined street. Between many of the bars, abandoned two and three story warehouses sat silent, their shattered windows gaping. A few more winos could be seen here and there in front of the empty warehouses.

The city's upkeep was going to pot too, but it didn't really surprise him much. Most of the city's inhabitants, minus the rejects like the one he had just fed, spent so much time in cyberspace, VR, or the web, living virtual lives in a million assorted virtual worlds, that they really didn't care what the actual physical state of the city was. So long as the galaxy wide computer nets kept functioning, nobody said much of anything. It effectively divided the citizenry into those that lived their lives in reasonably well-maintained and orderly VR, those that stayed behind in Actual Reality, and the others who just cruised raw, no-holds-barred, cyberspace. The people that preferred cyberspace and Actual Reality over VR tended to be more, well... excitable, than their counterparts in VR. Then again, you could get really killed in AR and even cyberspace.

Each group generally viewed the others with heartfelt contempt and disdain.

Tom, though quite familiar with both VR and cyberspace - he conducted much of his business there - nevertheless preferred AR. He preferred genuine sensations. He felt more alive. More in control. Even though the thrill of cruising the web in a good VR setup was next to impossible to match, he still spent most of his time off the net. He liked to smell real air. He liked to taste real food. And he didn't like the thought of electrons buzzing around him carrying away personal information about him onto the galaxy wide galnet... That was also why he didn’t have or use a comm-cell smart phone of his own. But now... Two troopers dragged the now dead Falencian the commander had shot down the steps and over to one of the patrol cars. Tom caught his breath again. There was no mistaking it. He had known the guy.

Looking back up into the blackness above, he tried to pick out any familiar stars, just to keep his mind occupied. Failing at that, he just enjoyed the inviting blackness. Already, the wanderlust that cursed him grew with renewed strength. He tried to push that away too, but couldn't help but look over beyond the skycity anyway. There, ships of all kinds and classes had pulled into vast hovering formations low in the sky in a flat projected null gravity zone to wait for lift clearance out of the system. They rose and fell like a blanket of lights in the city-lit darkness.

Then too, there were the people that simply couldn’t afford VR access or even a cyberspace uplink. The lower city was full of them, immigrants, refugees, and just plain poor people, many of whom found menial jobs in the city above during the day serving the rich, the corporations, and the famous, only to return each night to the dingy, dead-end life of the streets below. Tom hung out down there because it was cheaper, and it was easier to hide among the low-tech crowds than in the glitzy, electronically connected world above.

Two more troopers stumped down the wooden steps, easily controlling a struggling, six and a half foot tall Eliryan. The alien being's shrill curses echoed around them, and Tom watched out the corner of his eye, shivering at the high-pitched voice of the truly elf-like being. With a start, he thought he also recognized this fellow's pointed ears, cat eyes, and sinewy form too, but no, that wasn't possible... They threw the elf into another enclosed car, and his indignant cries faded when the heavy doors slammed shut. Tom turned a poker face back up to the sky.

He looked over to where the planet's single, massive red moon would soon arise from behind jagged mountain peaks in the distance, beyond the huge crater wherein the city rested. From where he stood in the center of the street, it was easy to look up over the bar's one story plastiform structure and see the crater's distant edge above, and beyond that, the looming mountains, shrouded in mists, back-lit by the full red moon soon to rise.

The scarred moon did finally begin to show, and the police finished their search. The commander eventually thudded his way out the door too, the wood sounding too hollow beneath his feet. The rest of his guard troopers followed him a moment later. Judging by the twisted snarl on his face, lit by the flickering neon Bud beer sign hanging crookedly over the door, Tom guessed that the man had not found what he looked for, a bad sign. Tom just almost grinned in spite of himself. After a moment's pause to glare at the small groups of quiet forms clustered away from the patrol cars, the commander raised his fist and circled it once in the air.

Without a word, his troopers all hurried to their respective vehicles, the metallic clink of their weapons again echoing around them.

And they left, rising slowly into the air, their antigrav engines humming faintly. Sounds like low C, thought Tom distractedly, as around him, figures headed back inside to get in out of the decidedly cool air. He followed them quietly.

*

On the planet Halona over in the second quadrant, mortar shells whistled through the afternoon sky over the planet's main spaceport, and massive concussions rocked the surrounding countryside and jungle. The main landing field was small, well equipped, but regretfully, almost defenseless. From the distance, a squadron of old fighter ramjets thundered in on a strafing run and laid down withering fire across the bunkers at the near end of the field. It looked almost rehearsed, and a small descending shuttle ship's passengers watched nervously, not knowing what to think. Blithely, the shuttle's computer landed them in its preprogrammed landing zone, near a battered and smoking terminal building.

Before them, as they began to disembark, a small, rubber-wheeled, open-sided lorry screeched to halt, jarring them all from their surprise. Get in! Get in! the driver all but screamed at them through his open window. One more look at the fighter squadron banking for another run, and everyone suddenly scrambled away from the shuttle. All twenty of them threw most of their bags on the top rack of the bus and squished into the open sided lorry with their smaller bags. Then squealing rubber, they ripped across the tarmac. The shuttle they had just exited rose back up into the air a minute later.

The first fighter streaked by again about then, almost directly overhead, deafening them. The shock of its jet wash hit them and physically knocked the bus sideways a good five feet, nearly tipping them over. Everyone covered their ears against the roar. Searing heat swept over them and was gone again in an instant.

Then the rest of the squadron flashed by overhead, and an incandescent ball of fire leapt from the ground directly ahead of the lorry, just as a concussion hit them too. Their windshield shattered in the blast's shock wave. As the flash flame died, the bus sailed out over a new crater, dropping and smashing into the new crater's far side with a wrenching and screeching thud. Intensely burning napalm fell from the sky, blazing all around them, blistering the tarmac. After a shocked moment of dazed silence, somebody finally screamed, as dirt, gravel, and chunks of concrete rained down around them. Smells of burnt asphalt, searing phosphorous, and sizzling napalm filled the air.

Their Falencian driver was quite dead, his head smashed against the metal steering wheel, with blood trickling from open lips and eyes. Across the aisle near the front, a young brunette with fair skin, dressed in blue jeans, sneakers, and t-shirt, Kyra Sloan by name, quickly looked away from his unseeing gaze. Ugly bruising swelled up on her model-perfect left cheek where she had crashed into the back of the seat ahead of her. Her ears rang, and her brown eyes were watering in the smoke. Around her, dazed passengers slowly climbed off the vehicle and began to climb up out of the new six-foot deep crater.

Byron, her stocky, muscular chaperone/bodyguard, jumped from the bus and yanked her after him. As he quickly retrieved their two small suitcases from the seat beside them, his almost black eyes looked for the nearest cover, probably the terminal.

After then climbing up out of the crater, he, Kyra, and most of the other passengers all ran for the terminal building. In slow motion it seemed, they weaved between huge splotches of burning napalm that covered the ground and bus. Several people were still fighting with their bags at the bus.

Fire licked at the bus's leaking gasoline fuel tank, its heat singing the paint on the side of the vehicle. After dodging new craters and patches of burning napalm, most of the newcomers reached cover of unburned end of the terminal building. Then the bus exploded, sending up a huge plume of black smoke into the clear blue sky, scant minutes since the crash. Several unlucky burning corpses staggered from the fireball to fall motionless on the scorched and blistered tarmac.

All around Kyra and Byron, soldiers carrying both beam and inertial weapons began to fire again at the returning fighters, one of which finally fell slowly from the sky almost in front of them and plowed into the ground with an earth shaking roar and concussion. The others peeled off. Kyra covered her ears against the explosion and the jarring chatter of old inertial machine guns that rattled her bones, as she and Byron made their way into the expansive terminal building now littered with debris, bullet casings, and broken glass. One last fighter roared by overhead and rapidly disappeared into the distance.

Smoke wafted through the air as the hot sun beat down, and everything grew quiet except for the crackling flames out on the tarmac, and the shouts of the firemen trying to put out the last of the sputtering flames at the far end of the terminal building. A few more scorched passengers made cover, and soldiers dashed to put out fires on the more unlucky ones sprawled on the ground outside. Medics began ferrying some of them inside. In silence, they all listened to artillery blasts somewhere off across the fields. Someone was trying to isolate Halona by taking out her space fields, that much was obvious.

Put bluntly, it struck Kyra as all oddly out of place. Her father had sent her here to check on affairs with his brother's estate, her uncle, since they hadn't heard from him in several months. Halona wasn't on the galnet yet, so communication was slow, but even so, they should have heard something. But they hadn't, so here she was. She could handle anything. Her welcome didn't impress her any. She narrowed her vivid brown eyes. At least now she knew why communications were down. There was a war going on that the media wasn’t talking about. She pulled out her comm-cell smart phone and tried to access the local internet to find out more, but even that was down. Nothing worked.

Byron, himself a swarthy heavy-worlder who preferred wearing black leather motorcycle chaps and a tie-dyed doo-rag, knew better. And it was his job to keep the stubborn, sometimes impetuous, and classically headstrong Sloan girl out of trouble. Not that she was a teenager or anything. She was nearly twenty-five, and a formidable foe in VR where she had quite the reputation as a gamer chic. But anyone that had spent most of their entire life living in sanitized VR needed to be protected, and was thus still a child, in his mind. Slender, well-endowed, long-haired brunette Kyra, bullheaded, wild and free, didn't know what she was in for. Byron knew he didn't talk much, but not much escaped his notice either. And this situation bothered him just a wee bit.

But Kyra thought she had a job to do. So after being warned off by a local commander who told them that her uncle and his family were probably dead already, whose eyes roved up and down her slender figure, she went ahead and hired a taxi to take them out to the estate anyway. Before taking off though, she bought two pistols from a soldier there and stowed their bags and her useless smart phone in a safe box at the terminal. Then in their rented taxi, they headed out over the forests that still covered much of Halona’s biggest landmass.

At Byron's direction, they finally landed beneath the shaded canopy of the towering jungle forest, just below the edge of a plateau whereupon the Sloan family estate rested, several hundred miles distant from the space terminal. There, they climbed out, and with a hasty wave, their driver sped off, skillfully dodging between the trees back in the general direction they had come from. Kyra and Byron exchanged glances, and after Kyra quickly braided her long, wavy brown hair down her back, they started forward.

Following Byron's compass and map, they tread silently through the still jungle, with laser pistols drawn. To Kyra, it felt no different than any number of online VR games that she had fought in, stalking enemies through VR jungles that had felt every bit as real as the one she now crept through. She had to remind herself several times that she would bleed real blood here though, if something went wrong… There was no second life or respawn option in AR.

Sunlight filtered eerily down through the thick foliage overhead. The thick leafy carpet on the forest floor upon which they walked muffled their footsteps, and the deathly silence quickly got on their nerves. And when, with a crash, a dead branch fell through the trees somewhere back behind them, they both froze. They could feel the sticky, humid air heavy with dread anticipation. Even the birds were silent. It slowly began to dawn on Kyra that this did indeed feel more real somehow, than VR did. It unsettled her.

They moved on after a minute. Kyra's gaze traveled up and down the trunks of the trees around them, noting different vines that clung to the bark and listlessly hung in huge draping loops from the branches high above. She dropped her gaze. Around her, huge elephant ear plants reached four feet into the air, their two-foot broad leaves throwing twisted shadows on the spongy, moss covered ground below them. Here and there, little beams of hot sunlight filtered down through the trees above, and everything seemed so still. She even saw a single wild Halonan rose as they crept along, and wondered if Byron had seen it. He wasn't much of a talker, true, but his hand-tended rose gardens grew some of the finest roses back home on Barrow.

At a hiss from Byron a minute later, she froze in place. After a moment, he backed up a couple feet and motioned her to come to him. She silently obeyed, noting his alert face. There, he pointed out a knee high, Infra-Red laser perimeter security system. He pointed out the crude emitter on a tree next to him, and off down through the trees, a receiver inexpertly camouflaged against the side of another time worn tree trunk. They examined the brown colored metal box, with lenses protruding from each side, careful not to break the invisible beam, before crawling under it and continuing on, much more slowly.

All in all, before they finally broke through, they avoided two more laser perimeters, several land mines, and not a few trip wires. At the edge of the fields of the family estate finally, they let out their breaths. Byron's eyes narrowed to mere slits in a hard-set face as he surveyed the grain fields before them.

But then a clap of thunder made them both fairly jump, and they looked up in dismay at the rapidly clouding over sky. Byron hated rain, but they could use it to their advantage. So, boldly, Byron left the edge of the trees and struck out across the wheat field, reaching a nearby path about the time the sun disappeared behind thunderheads that were rapidly filling the sky. Kyra shivered a second and hurried after him.

They could soon see, and hear, the rain advancing toward them in a solid curtain of water across the rolling fields of young green wheat, so they started running. Other farm workers throughout the fields also dashed for shelter under scattered makeshift frame structures. But the warm rain caught them all anyway, well before most of them made cover, drenching them.

Out of breath, and soaked, the two reached the nearest single-walled structure, just after another group of workers arrived. Kyra quickly grabbed one of the crudely cut, black plastic ponchos laying there and slipped it down over her head. Wet t-shirts were not a good thing in unknown male company.

Cheerful gutter Halonan banter passed among the arriving workers, mostly human and Falencian, mostly male. An Eliryan or two even joined in the laughter. The two newcomers leaned against the structure's only wooden wall and waited to catch their breaths. Many of the field people gave her and Byron curious glances.

Watching each worker in turn, Kyra studied them all, ignoring their now openly curious glances, finally picking out the most trustable and intelligent looking being there, a tall Eliryan. In VR, you had to be good to pick up the few body language clues that came through in a person's avatar. Here in AR, it was actually easier to read people. She elbowed her way to him and touched his bony shoulder. In surprise, the elf-like being turned to her. She motioned him away from the group; he followed inquisitively, his wet, drab gray, loose fitting jerkins and shirt clinging to his thin frame. The rest of the workers didn't pay them too much attention; they just kept bantering cheerfully among themselves, letting their laughter rise above the sound of the rain pounding on the sheet metal roof over their heads. They all seemed so happy...

How long have you worked here? she asked quietly with her clear soprano voice in standard galactic. This place. It seemed so much like a dreamscape. The rain around them was lulling her senses into deceptive peacefulness. She shook her head violently a moment, startling the Eliryan whom she had just addressed. He answered her after a moment.

I've worked at the Sloan estate for nigh unto ten years, miss. He paused. Why? he asked in Halonan, a highly degenerated form of old galactic that Kyra just barely understood. His quiet but high voice reflected his curiosity.

Do you know where the Sloan family is?

The Eliryan's pointed ears twitched and tilted forward.

Why? Who are you?

I'm Kyra Sloan, a relative of the family. I've come to set things right. The Eliryan's cat eyes widened considerably, much farther than possible for a human. He studied her a long moment before finally switching also to pretty decent galactic.

I see. Yes, I know where they are. Then apparently, he made up his mind about something and smiled wearily before continuing again. We have an underground organization of workers already set up, ready to strike. We've just not had the right opportunity yet. He shrugged. The family is confined to the wine cellar, under heavy guard. I don't know their condition though. Across the fields, a mournful siren went off. Nobody moved, especially not towards the house just visible through the rain across the fields. But they all did get quiet all of a sudden.

Work has been called off for the day, due to the rain, the Eliryan explained. A transport will come by soon to take us back to our quarters. If you care to join us, I would enjoy the company, but you must blend in and keep still. Many walls have ears. Kyra nodded. Byron edged closer and listened attentively. You came alone? the Eliryan asked, and Kyra motioned behind him. He turned abruptly, startling Byron, who stood out like a sore thumb in his leather getup.

Hello and welcome to Halona. My name is Anlyth. He turned back to Kyra, now ignoring Byron, who hadn’t even had a chance to return the greeting. "You can stay with me and my