RELICS OF THE ANCIENTS:
“I’m not letting him get away,” Elya insisted. But he heard the undertone of her criticism. You're not being a team player, she seemed to be saying. Your actions are selfish. And even if you do catch this drone, the rest of the squad will resent the way you flew. But it was too late now. A tenacious stubbornness wouldn’t let Elya give up the chase.
“It’s two-on-one. We’ve got it outnumbered.”
Presently, the drone veered away from the Mammoth fleet and accelerated toward Robichar. Seeing his opportunity, Elya opened his thrusters to full burn. Osprey tailed him, the two of them flying neck and neck like they had back at the academy. The next few minutes passed in tense silence. When they were a hundred klicks out from the fleet, the Kryl drone flipped around and shot backward at them without losing its momentum. It was even able to maneuver in reverse to avoid their shots when they returned fire, dipping and dodging. Impressive. That was the kind of flying Elya got criticized for. Osprey would have called it pretty but ineffective flying.
Kryl didn’t think like people. They were controlled by a remote Overmind that gave them abilities that human pilots could never hope to match. It was one of the reasons starfighters weren’t piloted remotely; starfighters needed every edge they could get.
Elya stayed close, keeping up the steady stream of attack and refusing to back down. Hedgebot scurried back and forth along the window over his head, keeping him on track with the Kryl’s erratic flight pattern. At some point, the starfighter’s internal AI determined that the G-forces were too much for Elya’s body to handle on its own, and a pinch at the back of his neck, followed by a relaxing of his muscles, told him he’d been injected with the dose of targeted chemicals that would sharpen his senses and make the G-forces easier to handle.
Hopped up on the cocktail of stimulants and stabilizers, Elya managed to close the distance between himself and the drone to within half a kilometer. At this point, the Kryl drone flipped back around and arced up overhead in a loop—the same maneuver that Osprey had cautioned him against earlier that day.
As it came around, Elya cut his thrust, repositioning himself and waiting for his weapons system to lock onto the drone. As he expected, the craft came down in front of him, and when it did he mashed on his trigger, only to watch his blaster bolts soar right through the craft.
“Impossible,” Elya whispered.
“Nevers, pull up! Pull up!”
The drone braked and though Hedgebot flashed a bright red warning, Elya was too slow and too close to do anything except brace himself. To his complete and utter astonishment, the Kryl drone phased through his ship. His starfighter should have cut that drone in half, killing them both; instead, it passed through him, unharmed.
For a frozen moment, Elya’s Sabre occupied the same physical space as the Kryl drone. The craft was twice as large as his Sabre… and though he had expected it to be unmanned, it wasn’t. A vicious and deformed-looking Kryl with a midnight-black carapace and six arms terminating in skeletal claws, veered past him clacking its mandibles.
Above the mandibles, Elya met a pair of eyes set deep into a face that seemed far too human. He blinked and it was gone, the pilot once again hidden behind the hull of the Kryl drone.
“Nevers!” Osprey shouted, forgetting to use his call sign in her concern for him. “Nevers, are you okay?”
His starfighter beeped a warning as the drone’s weapons system locked onto him from behind.
“Oh no.” A cold spark of fear shivered through him, and his skin burst out in tingling gooseflesh. Elya’s body rocked violently as the drone’s weapons landed a direct hit on the rear left wing of his Sabre, taking out one of his two main engines. Warning systems blared, his control panel lit up, the filaments along Hedgebot’s back flashed red. Another targeted salvo from the Kryl took out two of his maneuvering thrusters. Elya’s Sabre went into an uncontrollable tailspin, pulled in by the gravity of the moon.
The blinking white of an explosion behind him told him that Osprey had landed a hit on the drone and damaged it. Elya didn’t think it had been taken out of commission completely, though, as it veered away from them.
Captain Osprey wavered between pursuing the damaged drone and sticking with him, but eventually she stuck with him.
“Nevers!” Osprey called. “Hang on! I’m coming after you.”
Elya did his best. He fought to regain control of the starfighter, but it had been lost to him. Caught in the gravitational pull of Robichar, Elya spiraled down toward the colony moon. As his starfighter spun, the movement overwhelmed even the cocktail of stimulants in his system, and he lost consciousness.
THE GUNN FILES:
Chapter 1
I heard the rumble of the engine long before I saw it. You couldn’t mistake the sound of Alek’s 1971 Chevelle SS. Tipping my chair legs to the floor, I crossed the cramped office and peered through the window.
The blinds were half drawn, as usual. You can never be too cautious in my line of work. I’d have ballistic glass installed if I could afford it, but the last time I was that flush with cash I spent it getting my truck paneling replaced after chasing a wanted felon into a tornado in Oklahoma. Glancing over my shoulder at the bills stacked on my desk, I shoved down the nearly suffocating wave of melancholy that washed over me.
Sliding my finger between the yellowing slats, my nail scraped the filthy glass. When was the last time my office had been cleaned? A year? Maybe two? I told myself the ingrained layer of grime gave the place a homely, “don’t bother breaking in” sort of feel, which was good for security. Truth was that lately, cleaning the windows had been the furthest thing from my mind.
The growl of the engine grew louder until the cranberry red hot rod finally rolled into view. The car really was a beaut. Shining chrome trim, glossy black wheels, and one of those 409 big blocks under the hood. It was the kind of car I’d always admired and never been able to buy. Hipsters and hood rats making their way to their favorite watering holes for the evening craned their necks to admire the machine as Alek coasted to a stop behind my beat-up black Ford pickup.
No matter how often I dreamed of one day owning a vehicle like that, my current preferences inclined toward function over form. You can’t haul much of anything in the trunk of a Chevelle, and I couldn’t risk drawing an entire block’s worth of eyes when conducting surveillance or tailing someone who might be in contact with my target.
Alek stepped onto the curb and pretended not to notice the people rubbernecking at his ride. With a casual glance, he looked both ways before crossing the street.
Alek Ludwig was a bondsman, one of the biggest in the city. He had a fancy downtown office within spitting distance of the Travis County Courthouse, and his business ran radio ads and late-night TV commercials. “Big wig Ludwig’s got your back,” they sang. Just like you’d imagine, with a catchy jingle and everything. I liked to give him a hard time about the ads. He was always a good sport about it, as long as I’d eventually admit that the jingle made one hell of an ear-worm, to which he’d reply that he didn’t mind being needled about the song as long as it bought him toys like that Chevelle.
The man was portly, which I think is a term that’s still considered politically correct. Skinny legs made him look like a beachball mounted on two twigs. Even in this heat, he wore cowboy boots, jeans, and a pale yellow button-up shirt with sweat stains blossoming beneath his arms. His head bore a graying fringe of hair, and his hairless pate reflected the hot Texas sun until he disappeared through my building's front door.
Turning, I reached across my small office to unlock the door, then resumed my seat at the desk. The door didn’t exactly hit the desk when it opened, but the fact that I managed to fit a desk and two chairs in the space was a minor miracle. The carpet, a brown floral print, was as thin and worn as it was drab. The only other furniture in the room was a dented mini-fridge in the corner, and a metal filing cabinet whose main purpose was to prop up the coffee maker.
While I waited for Alek to climb the stairs, I turned my attention back to the stack of bills, and then to the dated laptop I was supposed to be using to pay them. Moving my fingers across the sticky trackpad, I clicked a link on the banking website.
What happened next made my skin crawl. The click seemed to set the office lights to flickering. That was ridiculous, of course. I was far from an electro-tech genius, but I knew enough to know that clicking a link on a website couldn’t cause a power outage. But the single overhead bulb winked out and my laptop powered down of its own accord.
Muffled curses bled through the thin walls and told me that I wasn’t the only who had been affected. Small comfort.
A second later, the power returned, and with it my laptop. On the screen now was not an internet browser, but a bright blue screen.
Gooseflesh prickled along my arms. What on Earth? The battery should have kept the laptop alive even without the power. I muttered a few choice curse words. Three firm strikes of my palm against the keyboard did nothing to bring the machine back to life. Imagine that.
Sighing, I closed the laptop and dropped it into a drawer so that I wouldn’t be tempted to chuck it out the window like I wanted to. After all these years, I thought I might finally understand my father’s Luddite attitude toward computers.
There was a quick rap on the door.
“C’mon in!”
The door cracked and Alek poked his head through, taking in the office with a single sweep of his gray eyes. He held a folded piece of paper in one hand, and a cold stogie jutted from his mouth.
“Those things are going to kill you.”
Alek grinned around the cigar. His voice came out gravelly, like his lungs were coated with enough tar to fill a swimming pool. “We all die, Gunn. Might as well go out doing something I love.” He held out the folded paper. “Think this is for you.”
My blood went cold when I recognized the handwriting visible through the paper. I took the note from him and swallowed a groan as I unfolded the custom stationery.
Anderson,
Your rent is past due. Again.
You’ve always been a good tenant, and I really appreciate you helping me find Lottie when she ran away last week, but rescuing cats from rooftop bars doesn’t pay the mortgage or my property taxes on this building.
This is your final reminder.
Sincerely,
Cathy Burns,
Property Manager, Sunshine Real Estate
“You all right?” Alek asked.
“Must be a misunderstanding.” The words felt hollow as they left my mouth. “I put a check in her mailbox on the first of each month.”
At least, I thought I had. It must have slipped my mind this month. I shuffled through the pile of bills for a beat, then let them drop back down.
“You still write a check to pay your rent?” Alek asked. “Can’t they just debit the money from your account automatically?”
I scowled at him. “Same dollars. What’s the difference?”
Alek plucked the cigar from his lips and frowned at me. “I’m sorry I haven’t had many gigs for you lately. I thought you were keeping busy with other work. If I’d known, I—”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll get it taken care of. You didn’t come here to talk about my finances.” I shoved the note into my back pocket and sat on it.
The wrinkle between his eyebrows stayed, but Alek slowly began to nod. “Well, I’ve got a job for you. Pop out for a drink?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
A happy hour with Alek was one expense I never worried about covering. Still, I got to my feet slowly, trying not to reveal the eagerness I felt, and let Alek lead the way out. We'd become friends over the years, but pride is a funny thing; I didn’t want him to think I was desperate. Work had been scarce of late, and while a single job wouldn’t expunge my debts completely, the money would certainly help steer things in the right direction.
I closed and locked the door to my office. On this side, you could read Gunn Bounties in bold letters on the frosted glass. Beneath my business name, in a smaller print: Anderson Gunn, Fugitive Recovery Agent. The lock gave a satisfying click, and then the letters were only visible in afterimage as the hall went dark.
“That’s starting to get on my nerves,” Alek said.
“What gives?”
“Been brownouts all over the city today. Must be the heat. Or there are gremlins in the power lines.”
“It's Austin,” I said. “Weirder things have happened.”
“Like the lizard man? Or the Cathedral of Junk?”
“Or that one time the mayor sent queso to the moon?”
Alek snorted and slapped his leg. “Oh man, I almost forgot about that!” He sighed. “I love this city.”
We made it down the stairs in the darkness, using our hands to feel our way, and stepped out the front door. A wave of humid air washed over me and my skin broke out in a sheen of sweat. Even after seven thirty at night, it was triple-digit temperatures outside. The weather in Austin was pleasant for most of the year, but in the summer, it could become unbearable. I tried to ignore the way my jeans stuck to my skin as we walked.
My office wasn’t in the high rise, big money buildings near the Capitol where Alek worked, but in a grungy part of Sixth Street on the east side of the interstate. I liked it here. The place had a certain open-minded atmosphere of good vibes that some people said could be traced back to Austin’s roots as the musical heart of rock ’n roll. Divey bars, loud music, and good food were in abundance, especially on the fringes. The smell of charcoal and al pastor wafted past my nose. The trill of an electric guitar floated to my ears from a distance as someone warmed up their ax for the evening’s first set.
At the corner, a windowless door led to our establishment of choice. An octagonal wooden sign jutting out over the doorway depicted a pig with one arm resting on the rim of a large cauldron. His other hoof, though lacking fingers, somehow clutched a large mug of beer. The pig’s face held a tipsy yet mysterious expression, as if it knew the secret to one of life’s many mysteries and was on the verge of being drunk enough to spill the beans. The Poached Pig was etched in an arch above the drawing.
The chime of a small bell sounded behind me. I turned and looked down the street in time to see an old man wearing nothing but a bright green thong cycle past us on a ten-speed bicycle, waving like a supermodel and grinning like a cartoon character. It took me a a moment to realize the grin didn’t belong to him, but to the bright orange Garfield mask strapped to his face.
“Look,” I said, nudging my friend with an elbow.
“Keep Austin Weird!” Alek shouted in solidarity.
I caught his arm before he turned as I spotted another flock of bikers headed our way. “Oh, I see. Must be World Naked Bike Ride day.”
Odd little fact: Austin has no laws against public nudity. Which meant that the parade of beautiful women wearing their birthday suits and casually pedaling down the street in the same direction the old man with the Garfield mask had gone was perfectly okay in every sense of the word. Sure, they were a huge distraction to passing motorists, but this kind of thing wasn’t considered all that unusual. It was a point of pride for the city: Keep Austin Weird. The saying was plastered on brick walls, printed on t-shirts, and impressed upon the minds of a local population dedicated to their eccentricity.
This particular parade drew more observers from the bars, but not fast enough. In less than a minute, the group of naked cyclists was gone, nothing but a blur of tan flesh cutting toward the horizon.
“It is warm out,” Alek commented. “I hope they stay hydrated.”
I chuckled, yanked open the door to The Poached Pig, and went inside.
Chapter 2
The place smelled like beer and barbecue with a hint of fry grease. Although the air conditioner hummed, it wasn’t exactly cool inside, yet none of the regulars complained as long as the ceiling fans were spinning. A line of brass taps behind the bar poured just about every local brew you could imagine. Mirrors behind the shelves lined with liquor bottles made the bar look bigger than it was. There were no TVs—one of my favorite aspects of the place. Instead, an ancient jukebox leaned against the back wall.
As Alek and I slid onto the green vinyl bar stools, two fresh pints slid across the bar in our direction. The bartender and proprietor, Barry Morris, nodded a silent greeting, threw a towel over his shoulder, and took our order. Then he ducked through a half-door leading to the kitchen. The faint drone of a radio drifted out, mingling with Stevie Ray Vaughan’s voice belting Pride and Joy through the tinny jukebox speakers.
I took a sip of the ale—crisp, slightly bitter, and refreshingly cold. Glorious. Alek let out a satisfied sigh as he folded his hands around his sweating pint glass. The silence stretched between us as we enjoyed the music, grateful for the moment of peace. It was the first time I’d felt anything close to calm all day.
Alek finally pulled out a manila envelope and slapped it down on the bar. “Fresh skip here for ya, stud.”
My heart slammed against my ribcage. I took another sip of my beer while I pretended to study a row of bourbon bottles on the top shelf.
With the most casual gesture I could manage, I lifted the envelope and pinched the metal prongs, then slid a finger and thumb into the opening and pulled a stack of papers free.
I scanned the bio and background information Alek had compiled, then let out a low whistle. “Cameron Kovak. What did he do to get his bail set at a hundred grand? It was only his second DWI.”
“He somehow managed to plow his truck into a guy tending his neighbor’s garden. One minute he was pulling weeds, the next, bam. Poor bastard nearly died of internal bleeding in the hospital, but he pulled through, thank God.” Alek frowned. “The judge was pissed. She couldn’t charge Kovak with Intoxication Manslaughter, so she set the bond high enough to sting. Kovak’s wife called me to bail him out. I got the sense some kind of romantic spat precipitated the incident but, still, I thought I could count on her to get him to court on time. Guess I was wrong.”
“Not necessarily her fault. Maybe something spooked him.”
“Maybe. Either way, the wife can’t find him, so I’m hoping you can.”
Barry returned through swinging doors and slid a plate down in front of each of us. On mine, a Reuben on rye with chips. Alek got a club sandwich on sourdough with fries. Both toasted to perfection.
Alek dug in while I scanned through the rest of Kovak’s paperwork—current address, emergency contact, cell phone number, employer. Didn’t seem like he’d be too hard to find. With luck, the job would go quickly and I could pocket my usual ten percent fee in a few days. Ten large—my take on the hundred—would put me back ahead of the game and make sure I could pay Ms. Burns and keep the office. Dingy and dirty as that little place was, it was mine, dammit.
After what seemed like a well-considered amount of time had passed, I said, “I’ll take it.”
“Good.” Alek bobbed his head. “Knew I could count on you.”
I rubbed my hands on my jeans and stared at the untouched plate in front of me. Now that I had work to do, my appetite had all but disappeared. I licked my lips as I thought about my next words. Best to get straight to the point. “Got any other jobs lined up after this one?”
THE TRANSLOCATOR TRILOGY:
Reuben’s fingers twitched, and a series of glyphs lit the top of the screen, spelling out the parameters for the translocation. The great arch came to life. The keening noise amplified its pitch and intensity until it climbed above the audible range for the human ear and went silent. Blue-white sparks of energy flickered between nodes of the arch.
The sphere of concentric rings around the platform spun, collecting the energy from the outer arch and concentrating it inside the sphere. The sphere spun, blurred, and radiated a soft turquoise brightness.
Then the light was gone, the rings wound down, and a lunar rover appeared on the platform—its squat, wheeled form perfectly intact.
The crowd exploded with applause. Reuben inputted a few more commands on the console and the rover rolled to Amon’s side.
Amon tried to hide his smile. This was a parlor trick compared to what was coming next. The appearance of the rover had been meant to warm up the crowd and dispel their initial doubt. Carbon had merely been transported from the lab a few floors below ground. The surface of the moon, however, was hundreds of thousands of miles from Earth, and moving at an incredible velocity.
“Tonight, Carbon will be making the journey to the lunar surface. He’s made this journey many times in our years of testing, but tonight is the first time he will do so in public. A team is waiting for him in the research biodome of the Lunar Station.”
Reuben motioned, and a new set of parameters appeared. Amon waited for him to nod then said, “My wife, Eliana, will help me christen this maiden voyage. Sweetheart, if you’ll do me the honor?” He held out his hand.
Eliana walked across the stage and took Amon’s hand.
“Traditionally, you’d break a champagne bottle across the hull,” Amon said to the audience. “But I don’t know if that’s recommended when we’re working with electronics.” When Eliana laughed, the crowd laughed along with her.
Amon and Eliana met Reuben at the control unit. As rehearsed, Eliana stood between her husband and Reuben in front of the screen.
Reuben keyed in a few commands, and a series of calculations scrolled up. Amon double checked Reuben’s work as he did it, verifying energy levels coming in from the particle accelerator and calculating the moon’s position, rotation, and velocity in real time. They didn’t have to speak. Amon knew everything was going according to plan on Reuben’s end by his grunts of approval.
When they were ready, Reuben verified radio communication with the lunar team then cleared the display and brought up a green Initiate button. The button was strictly for show and big enough for the cameras to make out.
Reuben nudged the button’s digital image across the display so it was in front of Eliana. She reached out her left hand—her new ring glittered. When her fingers came into contact with the screen, she pulled her hand back sharply, as if she had been zapped by an electric shock. She rubbed her fingers and frowned.
“Are you okay?” Amon whispered into her ear, careful to hold the microphone away from his mouth.
“I’m fine,” she said, quick to put a smile back on her face for the cameras. She moved a few steps from the display—not part of the stage directions they had rehearsed, but Amon was too distracted by what happened next to give it much thought.
The machine screamed as it came to life. The keening noise didn’t go subaudible, but escalated into a banshee’s screech. Electricity popped loudly across the arch, and great tree-like shapes of blue-white lightning shot into the air in every direction.
“Reuben, what’s happening?” Amon shouted, turning back to the display. A graph that measured the energy output from the particle accelerator careened into the danger zone. Reuben gestured wildly, trying to regain control of the apparatus, but the holo controls were no longer responding to his increasingly frantic motions.
“It’s unresponsive. Initiate emergency shutdown!”
Amon dropped the mic with a clunk that was swallowed in the chaos. He leaped over to the display, yanked out a tactile keyboard from the base of the screen, and began rapidly typing in override commands designed to short-circuit the translocation.
It didn’t respond to those either.
“Cut the power!” Amon yelled. Reuben was already tearing at the floorboards to reach the power cables beneath them. Electricity saturated the air, causing Reuben’s hair to stand on end and wave wildly.
Reuben held up the control unit’s plug. Amon glanced up and saw the display was dead. The arch continued to thrum with energy.
“Shit!” Amon said, already knowing it was too late. The redundant power cables connecting the arch and the translocation platform to the particle accelerator meant that they would have to cut all the power cables to shut it down. And there wasn’t enough time for that.
“Eliana!” Amon yelled, twisting frantically as he searched for her. The light radiating from the sphere of rings this time was blinding, a bright-white sun that outshone the spotlights fixed on the stage.
He shielded his eyes with one hand and squinted into the light. The chairs where Lucas and Wes had been seated were empty—they must have retreated from the stage when the Hopper malfunctioned. Did they take Eliana with them?
But then he spotted her, silhouetted against the great ball of light that emanated from the sphere.
He sprinted toward her only to stumble into something hard that tripped him and sent him sprawling to the deck. He felt the bar of the microphone stand beneath him as he pushed himself back up.
He juked around Carbon, the lunar rover. She was ten feet from him now. Eliana stretched her arm toward the sphere of light, reaching. She gasped, her mouth widening, as the expanding radiance engulfed her wrist.
Five feet away. He lifted his knees, pumped his arms, reached out to grab her. The light swallowed her elbow, her shoulder, half her body. A terrible dread lined Amon’s stomach with steel wool.
Two feet. He jumped, reaching out. Instead of coming into contact with Eliana, he felt the light as a physical resistance pushing back at him like a viscous liquid.
The feeling of resistance retreated suddenly. He slammed into the unforgiving hardness of alloy rings, knocking the breath from his lungs.
Eliana. He gasped and writhed on the ground, shocked from the impact. Where did she go? Gritting his teeth against the pain, he pushed himself to his feet.
Red spots crowded his vision. When they cleared, he saw that the stage was only illuminated by the spotlights now, and bulbs flashed from the media pit. The horrible screeching noise had ceased, but shouts from the audience filled his hearing. He stood on the translocation platform inside the alloy rings.
Alone.
Sale
