“A waste of a few damn fine pubs,” Briony Winn had quipped just before she followed the rest of the team into the escape shuttle.
That was another thing he loved about her. She always had a quip, some little sotto voce remark.
“I’m sure you and my crew will take it as a personal challenge to find replacements,” he’d shouted to her as he’d jogged backwards towards the airlock. He was headed down to the next deck to appropriate an X-7 fighter, and blow a few more holes into the station for good measure as he left.
She had the audacity to stick her tongue out at him just as the hatch was closing. “They’re my crew, too, Mac!”
They were all hers now. In the event of the death of the captain, the executive officer automatically took command.
A Duvri suicide squad had greeted him at the fighter bays. They had an ion lance and shrapnel guns. He was trapped, and wasn’t about to recall the shuttle and risk the lives of eight team members – and one irreplaceable Commander Briony Winn – to save his ass.
The station shuddered violently again. He heard the agonizing groan of metal stressed to its limits; the harsh snap of plasticrete as it twisted and shattered. The jagged ledge under his legs vibrated.
He had minutes. No, probably only seconds. The lights blinked out. A rush of wind drove gritty particles of insulation into his skin. He knew what it was. The station’s hull had ruptured. The air was being sucked out into the vacuum of deep space.
“I love you, Winnie.” It was the first time he had ever said those words out loud.
It was the last thing he remembered.
Until he coughed.
He was face down in a pile of insulation dust. It coated his lips, stuck in his throat. He coughed again, planted his hands on the ground and pushed his shoulders up.
And heard piano music. Light, tinkling, jaunty piano music.
I’m dead. And someone in hell plays the piano.
He rolled over on one hip, sat up.
Hell is a desert. Legends said the afterworld had seven hells. He didn’t know which one this was. But he did know deserts. He had spent three months on Nas Ramo teaching a dirtside survival course for the Alliance. It was just before the Alliance gave him his captain’s stars. Winnie was part of his team, but she was only a lieutenant.
Only a lieutenant. As if Briony Winn could be “only” anything.
He looked around. This desert in hell was less mountainous than Nas Ramo’s. The scrub cacti were taller, the sand almost pure white.
And someone was playing the damn piano!
He wrenched his head to the right. A two-story wooden building stood ten feet behind him. The architecture was unfamiliar. It was painted red – fitting, he thought – and had a wide porch with a criss-
cross-style railing. Three slatted chairs waited, empty, on the porch.
Perhaps hell has a check-in point?
He pushed himself to his feet, then wiped gritty hands on his pants. He felt a gust of hot wind ruffle through his hair. The sign hanging over the porch entry swayed slightly.
Second Chance Saloon.
The boards creaked under his boots as he climbed the three steps to the porch. His mouth was dry. He could remember the thick insulation dust filling his lungs, the shuddering of the star-base in its death throes.
He coughed again, his fist coming up to cover his mouth as he stepped through the open doorway. And for a moment he saw nothing. The white sands and the bright sun had bleached his vision.
His eyes adjusted. The piano music reached a crescendo and halted. A metallic-skinned ’droid pushed back the piano bench and stood.
Light applause rippled through the saloon.
“Your kindness is appreciated.” The ’droid snatched a tall, wide-brimmed hat from the top of the piano and shoved it onto its bald head. Then it ambled with a swinging gait over to the bar and leaned against the counter.
A dusky-skinned woman stood behind it, polishing a widemouthed drinking glass. Mac could see her face in the mirror behind the bar. Her eyes were dark, slightly almond-shaped. Her hair was a deep magenta color, like rich Trelgarian wine. It was braided and wrapped with strips of patterned cloth that matched the flowing tunic covering her tall form.
“Two fingers of premium-grade synth-lube, Jezebel,” the ’droid said.
The woman turned. “Sure thing, Tex. And how about you, Captain Macawley? Need something to wet your whistle?”
“You know me?”
She chuckled. “Know you? Why, child, we’ve been expecting you.” Her voice was a rich warm contralto, as thick as the lubricant she poured into the short crystal glass. She slid it towards the ’droid, then looked at Mac, folding her arms across her chest. Rows of metallic bracelets in a rainbow of silvers and golds jangled. It was a pleasant sound.
“Double shot of Pagan Gold?” she asked.
He didn’t realize hell kept track of his drinking habits. He nodded, stepped up to the bar and leaned his elbows on it.
Both elbows. Somehow the one he’d donated to the Duvri was back.
He glanced at his leg. Same gray uniform pants he always wore. But the material – and his thigh – was intact. No shredding. No blood.
Hell evidently liked its occupants in one piece. He sipped his drink, watched Jezebel pour another one.
But it wasn’t a double shot of Pagan Gold.
It was a pale-green liqueur in a tall, slender glass. Starfrost.
Jezebel thumbed open a small container, took a pinch of dark granules and sprinkled them on top.
Nightspice. Starfrost with a touch of nightspice.
Winnie’s drink.
He whirled around. If she was here . . . then she was dead. Which he didn’t want, Gods, no, he didn’t want her to be dead. He’d died so that she could live, damn it!
But if she was here, if she was . . .
He scanned the tables. The saloon was full. There was a trio of pretty women, all humanoid, at the table closest to him. A voluptuous brunette with shoulder-length hair popped open a sof-screen ’puter on the table. The other two leaned closer. Petite, both of them, one platinum blonde, one a deep auburn. They seemed unaware, or uninterested, in his scrutiny.
At another table, a man and a woman, more felinoid than human, sipped something frothy from squat mugs. They wore commercial freighter uniforms, though neither bore any insignia he recognized.
Then there was movement at the back stairs. A round-faced young woman sauntered down, her curls bouncing with each step. The light from the candles in the wall sconces caught the mix of colors in her hair: honey blonde, amber red, russet brown. She held a handful of her long, lace-trimmed dress in one hand as she descended, careful, it seemed, not to catch her heels. She smiled, but Mac knew she wasn’t smiling at him. She wiggled her fingers towards a young man sitting alone in the corner.
Mac turned, caught the man’s answering nod.
He didn’t know any of them. He didn’t see Winnie anywhere.
He heard Jezebel slide the tall glass in his direction.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Now, that’s a strange question.” Jezebel leaned over the counter towards him. “Most folks first ask, ‘Where am I?’”
“I know where I am. One of the seven hells.” He never had any illusions about going to heaven.
“Wrong. You’re in the Second Chance.”
“Semantics. I’m in a bar in hell. I’m still—”
“You’re not.”
The intensity of her tone startled him into silence.
“You’re in the Second Chance,” she repeated. “Which is exactly as its name implies: a second chance.”
“A second chance at . . .” Okay. I’m not dead. I’m dying. Hallucinating as I die. Still, he had to say the word. “ . . . at life?”