But then suddenly, they came to a complete stop. Once again, Erx and Berx were slammed hard against the back of the pilot’s seat. Their arms and legs became bent in almost impossible positions. Neither man could breathe.
All became quiet for a moment. Then the canopy popped open and a rush of atmosphere flooded in.
They could hear their rescuer climb out, his boots landing with a thud on solid ground. He mumbled something about load distribution and shifting the center of gravity. Berx was somehow able to untangle his arms and legs by now. He lifted himself out of the cockpit and dropped to the ground below.
Painfully, Erx did the same thing.
He landed in a heap on top of Berx, and again they fought to get disentangled. Finally they got to their feet. They found themselves atop a high plateau. Below them, many miles away, their spaceship was exploding in the last of its death throes. A thick column of black smoke was rising high into the pinkish sky. The electrical storm they had created was still raging above the wreck as well.
Their rescuer was standing in front of them, surprised that they had made it out of his craft on their own.
Unlike Erx and Berx, who were both squat and rugged, this man was tall, lean, muscular. He was wearing a uniform that vaguely resembled those issued to Space Navy fighter pilots, except it was jet black and very worn around the edges. The man took off his crash helmet to reveal a handsome face bearing several days’ growth of beard and a mop of shaggy hair.
“Are you two all right?” he asked them.
Both men checked their vital organs. Everything still seemed in place.
“If we can stand and talk and breathe, then we are all right,” Berx said, taking the man’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “We owe our lives to you, good sir!”
Their rescuer shrugged. “I couldn’t just let you die out there,” he said. “I mean, I knew it would be close, but my aircraft here is pretty responsive and…”
But suddenly Erx and Berx weren’t listening to him. Instead, they were getting their first good look at the aircraft they’d been rescued in.
“What… what is this thing?” Erx spit out.
The two spacemen were stunned. Nearly every spacecraft in the Galaxy was built along the same triangular design. This vehicle was not. It was very different. It had a cylindrical fuselage about fifty feet long and it bore a wing, a design element not seen in the Galaxy for thousands of years. It also had a tail, a bubble-top glass canopy — and wheels, something else not seen in the Galaxy for several millennia.
“How did you ever come upon this machine?” Erx asked his rescuer.
The man just shrugged again. “I built it,” he said simply.
“But the design? It’s so alien… Where did it come from?”
The man shifted a bit uncomfortably. “I made it up,” he said. “I guess…”
That seemed like such a strange reply, Erx and Berx turned their attention back to him. This man looked different to them, though they weren’t sure why. Erx did the quick introductions, then asked him: “And you, sir? Your name is…?”
The man shifted uncomfortably again. Miles away, the Xavius IV exploded once more.
“My name is Hawk Hunter,” he finally said, adding: “Or at least I think it is…”
2
The dwelling was built into the side of a mountain.
It looked like a castle. Two high towers. A rampart. Stone walls forming one barrier about five hundred feet out, a deep, dry moat providing a second ring of protection closer in. The drawbridge was made from the cargo hatch of a long-ago crashed spaceship. It lowered automatically now as Hunter’s sleek aircraft approached.
Inside the walls was a courtyard, a small house at its center. Plain and square, it was made from pieces of skillfully melded debris. The house had many windows of different shapes and sizes, all of them filled with bits of superglass. There was a hole in the roof through which to see the heavens. A place to park the aircraft was close by.
The view from the dwelling was spectacular, if desolate. A vast desert stretched for many miles to the south. Towering mountains dominated the horizons east and west. Only a few trees dotted the barren landscape; they were stunted and windswept. There was very little water in evidence here. No vegetation. No animal life. Two suns hung in the sky, a large dull red ball and a smaller yellow disk. They were the only stars for three hundred light-years around, and indeed this was their only planet.
Hopelessly isolated, this place was known as Fools 6 because so many hapless space travelers had met their end here.
Even for a Fringe planet, it was way, way out.
The interior of Hunter’s dwelling was not spacious. Three floors with a main room, it was built mostly of stone and superwood, much of which was salvaged as well.
A huge fireplace had been cut into the east wall. A large fire was blazing away inside it. Suspended above the flames, a pot of synthetic stew was bubbling away. Erx and Berx collapsed into two chairs placed near the fireplace. They painfully pulled off their space helmets.
“I can’t believe that just happened to us,” Erx said, accepting a cloth from Hunter to wipe the blood from his face and hands. “One hundred and thirteen years flying the Galaxy, I can’t recall having so much as a panel light go out…”
“Nor can I,” Berx agreed. “The closest we’ve come was near Anteaus, when we lost the inertia booster.
That was forty-five years ago.”
Erx moaned loudly: “I believe my heart is beating itself right out of my chest.”
Hunter passed them both an enormous bowl of stew.
“This will fix you up,” he said. “Or at least I think it will. The truth is, you are the first dinner guests I’ve ever had, so I’m not so sure if it’s any good or not…”
Both Erx and Berx gave their bowls a sniff. Erx grimaced.
“I believe we were thinking more of a liquid solution to the problem,” he said.
Hunter pondered this a moment. “Do you mean like wine?” he asked.
Erx and Berx both smiled. They looked good for their ages, 146 and 151 respectively. Both were low to the ground, stout but unquestionably powerful. Both had shiny bald heads and were sporting huge, drooping mustaches. Battles scars on their hands and faces marked them as onetime frontline soldiers.
Their uniforms — what was left of them — were dark blue with gold collar badges shaped like a double-X.
These men were senior military officers and well-known throughout the Galaxy. They possessed friendly dispositions, though. And neither was opposed to drinking on duty.
“You have some spirits?” Erx asked, his features brightening, instantly perking up. “Way out here?”
Hunter disappeared into a storage room, returning with three mugs and a flask.
“I salvaged it from a wreck on the other side of the mountain,” he explained. “I think they call this ‘slow-ship wine.’ ”
Erx and Berx smacked their lips in unison. They were no strangers to slow-ship wine. A sweet liquor of dubious ingredients, it was known for its calming, opiate quality.
Hunter poured each man a healthy dose. The visitors began to drink — but then stopped in midgulp. They had forgotten their manners.
“Our apologies,” Erx said as he made a quick toast in Hunter’s direction. “To you, sir — and to your bravery. We owe you our souls!”