Backyard Starship: Origins Read online

  “He’s just there,” Karl hissed, pointing with his knife. He loved the knife—a gift from his father that had made the impossible journey to the front lines a year earlier. The knife had been blooded long ago, but Karl would use it again, given the chance.

  “I see,” Heinz said, low. They were ten meters away from the body, then five, and then they were on him, Karl darting forward with his blade even as Horst raised his pistol. One could not be too careful with the dastardly French.

  Halvix sat up, fired his sidearm into Horst’s mouth, and was moving before the spray of gore had settled to the earth. Karl yipped and hesitated—a move that would cost him his life—and was rewarded with a punch so hard that it shattered the ocular orbit of both eyes. Falling, Karl lunged with the knife, but his hands would not work properly, and the blade fell in a tumble.

  “Locals,” Halvix grunted, feeling better from the ReLive surging through his veins.

  Heinz tried to fall back, but his inertia was too great. Greed pulled him forward, and it was greed that would end his young life.

  Greed in the shape of Halvix, that is.

  Halvix seized the barrel of Heinz’s Mauser, tore it away, and hurled it into the night. Then he placed the barrel of his own weapon in Heinz’s gut and fired twice, the explosions removing most of the German’s spine and lungs. Dead on his feet, Heinz Goettner, the best shot in town, was no more.

  “One left.” Halvix bent to his work, lips pulled back in a sneer of distaste. He could kill, of course, and was gifted at the job, but it wasn’t his preferred occupation. Karl whimpered as Halvix, who was far taller and stronger, lifted the wounded German to his feet and centered his weapon. A head shot would do quite nicely, and then he could begin searching the area for somewhere to hide. Peacemaker scanners were far too good to be on the surface for a minute longer than necessary.

  The German cut Halvix across the hand with a wicked slash and then ran behind the collapsed wall. Halvix fired at him, missed, fired again, and then fired a third time, shooting apart a small section of wall.

  Without taking his eyes off the enemy’s hiding place, Halvix tore open a bandage and wrapped his cut hand, swearing bitterly in every language he knew. After a moment, he again began to stalk the vicious little local from the other side of the debris. Halvix was used to being silent because it was a required skill for his chosen field, and, in the damp earth, he was nearly silent.

  But Karl had grown up in the forests, hunting and stalking game of his own. He heard Halvix and bolted away, a hare running for its life as the dogs were closing in. In seconds, Karl was fifty meters away from Halvix, the gap growing as Halvix drew his weapon down on the fleeing prey, preparing for the killshot that would take Karl’s head clean off.

  The shot never came.

  A falling shell did, instead, close enough to blind Halvix and make him turn away as shrapnel whistled past in a trill. Bits of wood and stone chipped off the rustic ruins, cutting the air in every direction.

  “Locals,” Halvix spat, feeling a rage build in his blood that no primitive should be able to cause. He stared into the gloom but saw nothing. His prey was gone.

  No matter. Fewer bodies meant fewer questions in the event that he had to stay close by while avoiding the badge. He began checking his weapons and gear again, scowling at what he found. Six rounds. No more meds. A knife, a comm unit that worked a light-year away but couldn’t pick up primitive signals, and his wits.

  And, of course, the Bell. His passage to a life of doing little and worrying less.

  Won’t that be nice.

  Mark edged forward and peeked over a ruined haystack, listening hard as the last German’s scream fell away on the breeze. Silence reigned, heavy and oppressive, split only by the whine of a rogue shell somewhere to the west. Then the chatter of a Vickers pushed the quiet back, only for the night to rush back in like an avenging tide.

  This time, in the quiet, he heard raspy breathing directly ahead.

  The man was tall, even while stooped over in the moonlight—taller than Mark by a half-head or more, and Mark was over six feet. The man was wounded, but there was a feral, dangerous quality to him, even in silhouette, and Mark’s instincts told him that silence was best.

  A light came toward him as a mere point, swelling with each passing second, and, for an instant, Mark thought he’d drawn his last card. The shell was arcing down, down, ever down, directly toward—

  The man. Not Mark.

  Still, the shell would land no more than thirty yards away, close enough to kill the man. Mark eased down as the sound grew—a high keening, like a distant kettle left too long to boil. Mark stole a glance over the haystack, and the light was closer, much closer, and growing painfully bright in the way of a roaming angel—as his mother would have said. Then, the light split, a smaller piece continuing toward Mark. And the stranger.

  A mechanical voice boomed out from above. “Halvix!”

  Mark twitched in surprise. “Okay, so not an angel.” Rising to his knees, he watched in stunned silence as the light began to fade, revealing . . . a woman—tall, thin, pale, and wearing the armor of a goddess. “Or maybe she is.”

  Then she fired a weapon at the man, Halvix, the searing round tearing a plate of thin, dark armor from his shoulder and spinning him like a top. In response, Halvix rolled with feline grace, aimed his own weapon, and fired twice.

  He missed. Twice. The woman—or angel—slewed right, threw something bright at Halvix’s feet, and landed just ahead, her long legs bending to absorb the fall from somewhere high above. In a blink, they were on each other, weapons discharging even as they punched with their free hands in a violent blur that left Mark stunned.

  “Definitely not Germans. Or Austrians. Or”—Mark paused, clearly seeing the two figures for the first time as the woman’s armor emitted a soft glow—“or not even human.” Mark understood science and believed in the majesty of a world far bigger than Iowa, but he leaned against the haystack, eyes trying to keep up with the savage fight unfolding before him. As he leaned, he felt something hard against his side and pulled the stashed Mauser—placed there for unknown reasons, but most welcome—free from the piled hay. Without taking his eyes off the fight, Mark ran his hands over the bolt-action rifle. The push sights were pressed flat to the barrel, and the rifle was loaded. Mark kept watching the fight with a febrile intensity.

  A pattern emerged.

  Mark could not understand the two combatants, but he heard the words Halvix and Valint uttered as slurs. Valint was avoiding the bag around Halvix’s midsection, which meant it was valuable. To Mark that explained why, when Valint cut the strap with a wicked slash of her gleaming blade, Halvix grabbed with animal desperation as the bag was thrown into the air.

  To land at Mark’s feet.

  The fight, like evening artillery, rolled on.

  Halvix drew a weapon and pulled the trigger. The unseen round connected with his opponent in a movement that was short and violent. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger again to click on empty, then danced away as Valint lurched to one side, bleeding freely from her shoulder. Halvix shook his hand, hissing in pain from a missing finger.

  This was the combat of the gods, and now Mark held their contested prize. He tried in vain to open the bag, then waved a hand in frustration—and the bag opened, soundless and of its own volition.

  We are not in Iowa, Mark Tudor. We might not be in France.

  Inside the bag was treasure, and Mark knew from the markings that it had been taken from a holy place. He couldn’t read the language, but he knew. Halvix was a thief. Valint was . . . the law.

  And, as Mark looked up, she was about to lose her life.

  Halvix took Valint’s knees out, whirled, and dipped his head as she fired her weapon while falling. And then he was on her, his eyes filled with the gleam of hate as he crossed the bridge from thief to killer, his hand whistling down with a dark knife, the likes of which Mark had never seen before.

  Mark put his shot high on Halvix’s chest, the round passing directly through alien lungs that functioned much like his—and needed to be in one piece.

  Halvix looked up in horror, his eyes meeting Mark’s with unerring aim. He tried to speak, failed, tried again—

  And then Valint shot him through the eye, and his days of stealing were over.

  Again, the silence fell, but this time it didn’t seem like the enemy because the enemy was dead. Mark stood, walked forward, and dropped the bag at Valint’s feet with a confidence he’d never known before.

  “Thank you for drawing him away from me. Thought he would find me for sure,” Mark said with a nervous laugh. He stood, uncertain of what to say next, his entire world turned on its side at the sight of the woman from—the sky?

  Smiling in pain, Valint tapped her ear, then held out a hand to Mark. She wanted up. He pulled, and she rose, swaying slightly before gaining her balance.

  “I guess we’re even,” Valint said, her accent soft but present. “I am Peacemaker Valint, and you are not supposed to be looking at me, which leaves me in an awkward position.”

  “I, ah . . . you speak English?”

  “I do now.”

  “Now?” Mark asked.

  “Yes, now. My translator—this thing in my ear—just recognized your speech. So, yes. Now, I speak English.”

  Mark looked to the stars, feeling faint as the fizz of combat in his blood began to drain away. Reality was much more disquieting, as he began to suspect—no, to know—that this woman was no ordinary woman.

  Or, he suspected, of Earth.

  “Now who’s being awkward?” Valint said slyly into the long pause.

  “I, well, yes this is . . . may I ask a, ah, question?”

  “Certainly. As long as we can move past this awkwardness. It’s trying, and I’m sore. Halvix was tough.”

  Mark flicked his eyes toward the corpse, nodding. “Is seeing me more awkward than being in the middle of the Great War?”

  A nod, and another smile. “Much.”

  “I’m guessing you’re not from Iowa. Or Germany.” Mark rubbed a hand over his face, blinking. “Or any other nation in this godforsaken war.” He felt a wave of exhaustion begin to crash over him, and for a moment, he felt old.

  “You have no idea how right you are, young soldier. I have a critical question for you,” Valint said in a guarded tone. Mark looked down at her hand, still holding a weapon that looked like a pistol but was clearly not a pistol.

  Without breaking eye contact, he asked, “And what might that be, lady?”

  “How good are you at keeping secrets?”

  Mark exploded with laughter, looked her up and down, and then looked at the corpse of Halvix. “Ma’am, some secrets keep themselves because no one would ever believe me.”

  Valint tilted her head as she considered him and her next words. “You seem to be taking this”—she gave a vague wave—“well. All of it.”

  “I read a lot of Jules Verne. Never thought I’d live it, ma’am.”

  Valint made a noise in her throat. “I do not know her.”

  “He’s a him. I also read H.G. Wells, who would die of joy if he were here to see, ah”—now it was Mark’s turn to wave—“all this.”

  Valint looked up, past Mark, out into the deepness of the sky. “I do not know what they write, but it can’t be more wondrous—or dangerous—than the truth.”

  Mark’s blood roared in his ears as he measured her words. The universe was far, far more than Iowa. Or France.

  Or Earth.

  And now, a part of it stood here, in front of him on the shattered remains of a war that would never end.

  “You said Peacemaker?” Mark asked.

  “I did. It is what I do.”

  Mark steeled himself, held out his hand, and felt her long, warm alien fingers. She clasped his hand firmly, respect curling her lips.

  He pointed to the sky, black and endless and filled with stars, his own smile gleaming in the dark as his youthful courage began to return. “Show me?”

  PEACEMAKER: ORBITAL

  “Should you feel the need to . . . evacuate your gut, please do so in that bag. I’m not fond of cleanup in freefall,” Valint said, her caramel eyes flashing with humor.

  “I’ll do my best, lady,” Mark Tudor answered. In truth, he was on the verge of sickness, but not from the dizzying lack of gravity, a concept that had been unthinkable for him until moments earlier.

  Mark Tudor, of Iowa, was on a starship.

  And that might make him lose the paltry contents of his soldier’s stomach.

  “Peacemaker, or Valint, if you please. I won’t stand on ceremony while you’re still, ah . . . processing what just happened downworld.” She looked askance at the blue and green globe falling away and then added, “Although that horrific war is reason enough to be sickened. I’ve never been happier to be back aboard the Stormshadow. Earth is primitive, but it’s never dull.”

  Mark, awestruck and struggling for words, watched as the earth got smaller. Slowly, he turned to Valint. Wearing an expression of wonder and fear, his voice was soft, almost muted. “Is this real?”

  “I assure you, it is,” Valint told him, then settled back into her contouring chair as the enormity of her actions sank in. She’d just stolen a proto-technical being from a world that was currently shredding itself in a war so savage, it made galactic business look tame. When these humans truly come out to play, they’re going to be a problem. For us, and for everyone.

  “That’s what I thought. I hoped I was . . . momentarily crazed. Or wounded and in some state of delirium.” He flexed a hand, staring at his fingers. Each was healthy, if dirty. That was what war came down to. Being scared and dirty.

  And tired.

  He yawned hugely despite his excitement, lids drooping as the weight of combat crashed down on him, swift and unyielding. Then his stomach growled.

  “You must eat,” Valint announced, then cast a critical eye over his uniform and hygiene. “And then, you’ll cleanse—no, it’s not a negotiation. You can’t go back to that—is that normal? That kind of war?”

  “No, la—Valint. Nothing of the entire war is normal, and I’m scared that our—ah, my world, will never be the same again. The kings and queens went to war, selling the lie that everyone would be home by Christmas. Then the armies broke, reformed, and dug in. And now, four years later—”

  “Four years?”

  “Four. And no end in sight, at least not what the Huns showed me. Still had plenty of fight in them, as you witnessed with your own eyes.” Mark sighed, the sound of a much older man. “The war may never end because we will never quit fighting.”

  Valint was silent, and then she straightened in her pilot’s chair. “Striker, food for the guest if you would be so kind.”

  A voice answered from somewhere aft. “For you?”

  “I’m fine. No, wait, bring me—”

  “The stavosia, I assume. Hot or cold?” Presumably, Striker was a manservant of some kind, though out of Mark’s vision.

  “Hot. With cheese, of course,” Valint added.

  “You have cheese?” Mark asked, his brows lifting enough that the dirt on his forehead creased.

  “Cheese is universal, or at least it’s a part of every culture I care to visit. As to the stavosia, it’s a baked grain loaf. Different than bread but better. Sweet and filling.”

  “And here we are,” Striker announced.

  Mark leapt up out of his seat and banged his head against the bulkhead hard enough to stagger. “We are under attack!”

  Striker, the combat AI, stood holding a plate with cheese-covered slices of cake, or something remarkably cake-like. Striker stood on two of his six limbs, the other four posed akimbo. “Guess I should have made friends first.”

  “We are not under attack, Mark. Please, sit down before you make me nervous. Striker isn’t a human, but he’s not an enemy. He’s my assistant, and he happens to be made of material other than meat.”

  Striker gave a metallic sniff of Gallic derision. “I would certainly hope not.”

  Mark stared warily, rubbing the crown of his head as he sank back into the chair. “You’re a . . . you’re friendly?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m second in command of this ship and the Artificial Intelligence assigned to Valint. I’m also an expert in combat, law, medicine, and, in a pinch, engineering, although I find fixing things to be rather pedestrian and, thus, beneath me,” Striker finished, passing the food to Valint.

  Mark managed not to flinch and then took a piece of the proffered stavosia without looking at it. The smell was incredible, and he bit down and smiled, despite his situation. Striker settled back on his legs like a chrome-colored ostrich with extra arms and a canine head.

  Mark chewed, swallowed, and continued examining the ship’s details with febrile interest.

  “Contact,” a new voice said.

  “Who is that—” Mark began to ask, but Valint shook her head.

  “The ship is another AI. Her name is Bunn.”

  “Hello, Mark. Bunn here. I’m all around you, so feel free to simply speak. Vallie, we have a Class Six burning hard from a small moon at the ringed planet. Their transponder is off, and they’ve got some stealth, but their exhaust might as well announce them to the entire system.”

  “Intercept?”

  “Not directly. They’re going to slingshot Saturn, as it’s called, and poach us near the ecliptic if we continue this course. Commands?” Bunn asked.

  “Did you understand any of that?” Valint asked Mark.

  “About four words. Perhaps five.”

  Valint grinned. “It’s a start. Before I order a course, Mark, I need your permission to continue.”

  “You do?”

  “You’re a non-combatant on a Peacemaker vessel. Your planetary culture is about a century away from sniffing space, and your presence here makes for some prickly legal work on my part. But, above all, I need your permission to take you with me into a potentially fatal encounter.”