“Now!” he yelled.
Above the bodyguards, the shuttle erupted through the outer skin of the arboretum, shattering the airlock seal and showering the people below with fragments of glass and steel. The craft skewed wildly as the pilot fought to regain control. The three surviving bodyguards turned their heads to evaluate this new threat, their weapons no longer pointed at Desh. Holding his breath as the atmosphere vented out of the structure, Desh lobbed his fragmentation grenade at the security personnel. The detonation knocked the knot of bodyguards over, and Desh saw the target go down as well.
Probably dead, but no sense in cutting corners now.
He caught a glimpse of a team of armed security personnel pulling on oxygen masks back at the entrance to the factory, but ignored them and ran up to Lloyds, stopping to fire four rounds into the man’s inert body. Then he dashed over to the hovering shuttle.
His lungs burned from lack of oxygen and his vision began to blur by the time he reached the craft, but Desh managed to grab one of the shuttle’s support struts and pull himself into the cabin. The pilot sealed the door behind him, and Desh gasped in a gulp of fresh air.
“Get back to the transfer station!” Desh coughed.
The pilot veered out of the arboretum, deftly exiting through the hole his craft had made, and accelerated to gain altitude, heading for high orbit and the freedom of an interstellar transport. On impulse, Desh checked his counter bracelet, tapping the button. A golden ‘50’ appeared above his wrist, spinning slowly. Desh closed his eyes and smiled, letting out a long sigh. An insistent beeping interrupted his reverie.
He opened his eyes and noted several red lights blinking on the shuttle’s dashboard.
“Equipment malfunction,” the pilot reported. “I think the boosters were damaged by the crash.”
Desh saw the numbers on the altimeter slow to a stop, and then reverse with growing rapidity. The pilot struggled wordlessly with the controls and then swore. Outside the window, the rocky landscape blurred as the craft went into a shallow spin. The pilot continued to fight with the controls, but Desh just let his head rest against the window, watching as the planet’s surface hurtled up toward them.
God, I’m tired.
But at least I’m free.
Q&A with Piers Platt
Wait, that’s it? What happened to Desh?!?
Please have a seat. This might be hard for you to hear, but Desh... well, he didn’t make it. I’m terribly sorry. BUT! This short story inspired a much longer story, so if you liked the concept of the Guild and their “Fifty for Fifty” assassins, you can jump back into this world in the Janus Group series, which starts with Rath’s Deception. I like to describe it as “Bourne meets Bladerunner”—a fast-paced conspiracy thriller in a sci-fi setting.
So what’s your deal?
Aside from writing? I’m kind of tricky to pigeonhole. I was a boy chorister growing up – the red robes, daily church services, the whole thing. But I’m also a combat veteran, who led tank and scout platoons in Iraq. I love to scuba dive with my wife, and spend time with our daughter. She’s working on her reading and writing, which lately means making long lists of things like her favorite foods: MACRONEE! PEETSA! It’s awesome.
Why do you write sci-fi?
The limitless possibilities—it’s a blank canvas. I know creativity sometimes gets fueled by working within constraints, but I love that sci-fi has so much potential variety. It’s truly speculative fiction, bounded only by the author’s imagination.
Where do you come up with this stuff?
I get a lot of ideas in the shower! I have no idea why. I’ll get out and run downstairs dripping wet and make some notes on the next chapter. Maybe I should try writing in the shower. Are waterproof laptops a thing yet?
Train A leaves Westford at 70 mph heading toward Eastford, 260 miles away. At the same time Train B, traveling 60 mph, leaves Eastford heading toward Westford. When do the two trains meet?
Oh man, I hate these questions. Okay, distance = rate x time... carry the four... solve for X... square root of pi...and the answer is: 2 hours later.
Show your work.
No.
Where can I find your other stuff?
You can find links to Rath’s Deception and all of my other books on my website at www.piersplatt.com, where you can also get a free copy of Combat and Other Shenanigans, my New York Times bestselling Iraq War memoir. Thanks for reading!
Relic Hunter
by Chris Fox
“DO YOU HAVE any idea who I am?” Wes asked, resting his hand casually on the grip of his Welks. The heavy pistol felt massive strapped at his side, and he prayed he wouldn’t have to draw it. The last time he’d fired the weapon his wrist had hurt for three days.
“Yeah,” the armored, much larger, figure on the barstool next to him said, looming a bit closer. “You’re the guy whose arms I’m about to pull off.”
Wes considered his options, which seemed markedly limited. The man, if it was a man, wore a full suit of iron grey power armor. He wasn’t familiar with the model, though the fact that it had four arms suggested Ikadian design. If that was the case then only a shot to the faceplate had any chance of penetrating. Unfortunately he wasn’t a very good shot, and given how badly he was shaking his aim would be even worse.
“Listen, friend,” Wesley drawled, playing for time. He drew on all the frontier holos he’d grown up with, trying to channel the hero. “I don’t know what your quarrel is, but I’ve had a tough day. I just want to have a brandy and get some sleep. What’s say we just pretend we never met, and then we don’t have to make a mess all over the bartender’s nice furniture?”
“Don’t hold back on account of me,” the bartender chittered, a tall skinny Rhoidian with mottled green skin. His antennae quivered in amusement, the only readable expression on an insectoid face.
Great. Wes darted a glance at the door. He might be able to keep tables between himself and the four armed bully long enough to escape out the door, but if he ran he’d never be able to set foot here again. That would make it impossible to hire a ship, which would make the entire trip a waste of time. He’d have to return to Corentia a failure. There had to be another option.
The armored figure moved with incredible speed, making his decision for him. The two bottom arms lunged, metallic claws reaching for his waist. At the same time the upper right claw sailed toward his face, and Wes knew that if it connected his jaw would be liquefied by the impact. He scrambled backward, his right foot catching on the bottom of the stool. The motion spilled both him and the stool to the pitted metal floor, and he landed heavily on his back as the robotic limbs swung through the space he’d just occupied. Wes snapped up the strap on the holster, wrenching the Welks out and aiming for the faceplate. He squeezed the trigger, elated as the weapon gave a deep boom. He’d remembered to take the safety off this time.
The armored figure staggered back as his faceplate shattered. Unfortunately, Wes wasn’t in any position to appreciate it. The recoil from the shot snapped the pistol back, and there was a thunderous crack as it crushed his nose. He tasted blood and snot, blinking away tears as he scrambled backwards. Through the shattered faceplate he saw his assailant’s face, and he nearly wet himself as he realized what he was facing. That face was a marbled grey and white, with the angular features of a Marbok. The thing inside the armor had a carapace made of stone, and was probably tougher out of the armor than it was in it. His shot to the faceplate hadn’t done more than upset it.