Front: Normally I would prostrate myself at the feet of such beauty…
Inside: But I’m honestly not in the mood for ten minutes of awkward loveless pity sex, and you’re really not all that attractive anyway.  Sorry.

Front: Hi!  Just wanted to let you know…
Inside: I’m thinking about… no, I’ve been dwelling on… sorry, I’m really bad at this sort of thing.  Maybe I’ll try to call you later and hang up when you pick up the phone, or if I work up the nerve I’ll stand in the hall outside your door and wrestle with myself about knocking and try to look like I’m just passing by if you happen to walk out.

Front: I hope this birthday is the best you’ve ever had!
Inside: But since I really have no idea what your previous best birthday was like, you’ll have to make do with whatever sub-par offerings we come up with.  I wish I knew you well enough to try to fulfill your expectations.

Front: In this age of fast-paced communication and thoughtless materialistic gifts, sometimes it’s nice to slow down and say something that truly matters:
I don’t actually like you.  Sorry for trapping you in the Friend Zone.

Front: Sorry to hear you’re not feeling well.
Inside: Honestly, though, I’m just doing this so that your posse of overprotective friends will stop breathing down my neck about how I should be more considerate to people.  Tell them to back off, and maybe I’ll send you flowers. Actually, we both know that I won’t send flowers, so let’s just forget this ever happened.

He looked out over the flat ground before him and sighed in a contented sort of way.  Aside from the soft rustling of the dry grass in the breeze, the crackling of the fire, and Motari’s occasional whinnying, all was quiet.  An almost perfect night.

Colby closed his eyes, trying to visualize the map of the area he had in his saddlebags without actually going over to find it.  If the distances were correct, and his estimates on his daily progress were close to the mark, he would see the famous steeple of Heaton’s watchtower within the week, and from there it was just a day’s ride to… to the chance to take a well-earned rest for a while.

He smiled, his eyes still closed.  Eventually he drifted off to sleep.

He dreamed of wall outlets and high-speed internet, and of a place where he wouldn’t have to worry about bandits killing him for what he carried in the satchel that he always wore on his back.

—

Since the moment he’d crawled out of bed this morning, Joseph Wainwright knew that it was going to be a bad day.  Part of it was the hangover lingering from last night’s trip to Porter’s Place.  Part of it was the lingering feeling that he’d forgotten to do something that was really important but he couldn’t remember what.  A good chunk of it was the simple truth that it was Thursday, and Wainwright hated Thursdays.

But most of it was the undeniable fact that he was going to have to kill a man, and even though that was a part of his duties as sheriff, it didn’t mean he had to like it.

He currently sat behind the desk in his tiny office, massaging his temples and wishing that he could just go back to bed and stay there forever, or at least until tomorrow.  But he had duties and obligations, and couldn’t very well leave the place unattended, not with his chief deputy still recovering from the beating he’d received at the hands of the Bull.

His lip curled at the memory.  If the sheriff could choose who he had to kill, if he could pick one member of this god-forsaken town who he would have to gun down in the middle of the street, he wouldn’t waste a single second before he emptied his gun into the hulking body of “Bull” Keller.  Drunkard, brawler, and accomplished troll, the Bull could talk anyone into taking a swing at them, and them generally destroyed them and claimed it was self-defense.  Unfortunately for the town, this was a valid legal defense, so they couldn’t do anything other than the occasional night in a cell… and if there was one thing Wainwright and his men hated more than the Bull, it was vigilante justice.  No, the Bull would have to stay out and about until he crossed the legal line – and when that happened, the sheriff would be ready.

A knocking sound startled Wainwright out of his thoughts and his hand was wrapped around the butt of his pistol before his tired brain processed the face of the man standing in the doorway.  The sheriff sighed, letting his hand fall back to his side.  “What’s the word, Collard?”

The middle-aged man in the doorway shook his head, a decidedly unhappy look on his unshaven face.  “No good.  He’s still demanding that you meet him alone, and he won’t let the kids go until then.”

“Ah, forget it then.”  Wainwright stood up and kicked his chair aside.  “I’m sick of this thing.”

“No, sheriff, you can’t just-”
“If he’s a faster draw than I am, he deserves to win.  Besides, if he gets me at least I’ll lose this damn headache.”  The sheriff patted his holster in a reassuring way, grabbed a shotgun from the rack by his desk, and gave a humorless grin.  “Long past time to take some kind of action.  Office is yours, unless I come back.”

The streets were relatively empty, as most of the residents of Heaton worked outside the town proper, but a few men and women were going about their business.  The general store had people in it, as usual, and Porter’s was as busy as ever.  When they saw that Wainwright was armed, or armed more than normal, they dematerialized as quickly as possible.

Past the watchtower, a relic of times thankfully long since past, he walked, heading for the outskirts of town, where a bitter old man had been holding his family hostage for three days and nights.

There was a woman leaning nonchalantly against the side of a house directly across from a two-story colonial-styled monstrosity of a building.  She nodded as the sheriff approached.  “Joseph.”

“April.  Any news for me?”

She shook her head, sending waves through her shoulder-length hair.  “Nope.  Collard came by earlier and tried to convince him to come out, but no luck, obviously.  He hasn’t moved, or else we’d’ve seen him; I’ve had a couple men around the back making sure he doesn’t slip out a window or something, but I think he’s in this for the duration.”

“Hell, I’d be fine if he wanted to stay in there and starve to death if he didn’t have his grandkids in there with him.”  Wainwright’s lip curled up as he looked at the two-story.  “I hate it when kids get involved in this sort of thing.”

April gestured toward the second-floor windows.  “Odds are he’s up there so he has a better view of the area.  I take it you’re going in by yourself or something stupid like that?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“And I suppose you don’t want us to have anyone around to save your backside because he said he wants to see you alone, right?”

“Yup.”

She shook her head.  “It’s all yours, sheriff.  Don’t get yourself killed.”  Pursing her lips, April whistled shrilly, and a moment later two men, clad in nondescript clothing to match her own, appeared from either side of the two-story.  They followed her back up Main Street.

As he watched them go, Wainwright allowed himself a small smile before turning back to the house.  “Hey Benny!” he shouted.  There was no response.  He hadn’t really expected one.  “Benny, come on out of there.  We’ll talk this over, we’ll get you some help.  Doc Langley can probably find something to fix you up.”

A voice, cracking slightly from what the sheriff assumed was exhaustion, drifted down from above.  “Good to see you, Joe.  Just stay there.  I’ll be down in a minute.”

It was closer to two minutes by the time the old man appeared in the doorway, clutching an old Army revolver in one hand and holding a boy, probably no older than five or six, in front of him with the other.  The boy looked terrified beyond the point of tears, and made no effort to escape.

The two men stared at each other for a minute.  “So,” the sheriff said, keeping the shotgun relaxed at his side, “now what?  I’m here, alone, like you wanted.  Talk to me.”

Benny’s gaze wandered up and down the empty, dusty street, and then snapped back to Wainwright.  “You know I don’t like the direction things have gone in the past couple of years, Joe.  You know I spoke up against the new policies on… sharing, and things like that.”

“Yeah, Benny, I remember.  And I can’t say I blame you.  But it’s not my place or your place to stand in the way of progress.”

“Progress.”  The elderly man’s eyes were unfocused.  “Progress is moving forward, and I feel like I’m standing still.”  He looked down at the boy whose shoulder he was still holding in a viselike grip.  “Maybe you’re right, Joe.  Maybe I’m just getting old.  Maybe I’m not cut out for life like this.  Either way, I’m sorry.”

He released his grip on the boy and shoved him, hard, towards the sheriff and brought his gun around, finger squeezing the trigger wildly as he did.

Two shots rang out, and two bullets hit the side of the house on the other side of the street.  Then Wainwright, who had flung himself to the side as soon as Benny had let go of the boy, fired both barrels of his shotgun, and that was it.  In the relative quiet after the gunshots, the sheriff could hear two things: the sound of sobbing coming from where they boy lay sprawled in the dust, and walking hoof beats from off to his side.

He turned his head to look and saw a mottled grey horse bearing a rider walking into the town.  The man, for it was a man, had a rough look to him, enhanced by the rifle case slung over his shoulder and several weeks’ worth of stubble on his face, but he wasn’t holding a firearm, and that was always a good thing.

Wainwright pushed himself up with the shotgun and dusted himself off before turning to face the newcomer.  “Sorry you had to see that, stranger,” he said, jerking his head towards the body and crying boy behind him.  “We’ve been trying to reason with him for days, but now it’s over.  Where’re you inbound from?”

“I left Creekside, down south, a month or so ago, but got held up along the way.”  His voice was low, calm, but confident.  The sheriff noticed that his saddlebags looked very light, and the man had a gaunt look to him that told of long days without stopping to rest… or eat, for that matter.  “Heading for my cousin’s house in Weedfield, and that’s only a day or so from here.  Was hoping to find a good meal and a room for the night.”

“Well,” Wainwright said, reloading the shotgun as he spoke, “you can certainly get a meal, but as far as a good meal goes, it’ll be a matter of opinion.  Head on up the street, and once you pass the big tower on the left you’ll see a big blocky building.  That’s Porter’s, and he’s probably got the best food in town, plus good rates for a connection if you need one.  There’s no inn, we’re not too much of a traveler spot, but I’ll ask around and see if anyone can put you up.  Just the one night?”

“Yes, and I’d appreciate that very much.”  The stranger glanced over at Benny’s body.  “Do you need a hand with this, or…”

“No, it’s fine.  I’ll get the undertaker to take care of it.”

“Well.  Again, thank you.”

“You have a name, stranger?” the sheriff called.  “It’ll help, in this town, if people know what to call you.”

“Colby Graham.  And I take it you’re the sheriff.”

“Yes indeed, Mr. Graham.  Have a pleasant day, and keep out of trouble.”  Wainwright watched him go, then shook his head and turned back to the body and the crying boy.  “Come on, son.  Let’s go get your sister and ma.  No need to worry about that old man anymore.”

That’s what it had been.  He had been supposed to go see the clergyman and talk about morale and faith and that sort of stuff.

The sheriff shook his head, took the boy’s hand, and went inside the house, stepping over the body in the doorway.

The tallest figure, whose armor was covered in scorch marks and who had three horizontal gold bars painted on each shoulder, looked the metal craft up and down.  “Gunship.  I’d say at least a score of them inside, probably more.  Smokey, get this thing open and head on in.”

Smokey laughed.  It sounded hollow and utterly humorless.  “Sure thing, captain.  Nothing I love more than being first through the door.”

“Cut the back-talk and get in there, private.”

Smokey extricated a small tool from his hip holster and knelt at the base of the flattened panel in the side of the craft.  He flipped a switch, and a bright blue light shone from one end.  A fountain of sparks shot up where it touched the metal surface.  “Just the locks, or should I just cut the whole-”

There was a soft whooshing sound, almost drowned out by the crackling of the cutting torch, and the door slid abruptly upward.  In the doorway stood something tall, something bulky, covered with irregularly shaped spiked plates, with far too many eyes.

“Shit!”  Smokey threw himself back, his hand scrabbling for his sidearm, but the captain was faster.  His laser shot hit the creature roughly where its throat should have been; it made a strangled hissing noise, like air escaping from a tire, then collapsed.  Smoke drifted up from the mass of char below its eye clusters.

“On your feet, Smokey, and try to be quicker next time.”  The captain nudged the creature with his booted foot.  “Remember that these things don’t need guns to kill you.  Now, in you go.”

Smokey replaced the multitool and drew his pistol.  “I can’t believe you’re making me go in first,” he complained as he stood next to the doorway.  “I’m an engineer.  You need me to salvage technology, fix the ship, sort out what their-”

“You are going in first, private,” the captain said, speaking over Smokey, “because I’m sure as hell not diving in there, and I’m not sending in an officer until the first room’s clear.  Now, get, or I’ll shoot you myself and use your body as a shield against those damn spikes of theirs.”

The engineer nodded, took a deep breath, and charged through the door.

One of the other men nudged the one next to him, the one with a red cross on his back.  “Think he’ll actually get anywhere?”

“I give him ten seconds before he gets a spike through the head, and there isn’t a whole lot I can do for acid in the brain.”

Pistol shots, several of them, echoed out from the open door, accompanied by inarticulate shouts of rage.

“Then again,” the medic said with a sigh, checking the charge in his own gun, “I have been wrong before.”

Not even bothering to say anything, the captain strode calmly through the door, the others following close behind.

The interior of the vessel was filled with smoke.  Judging by the boxes and crates with very human writing on them, the room was some sort of cargo bay.  Smokey stood in the center of the room, pistol hanging limply by his side.  No fewer than four of the creatures lay around him, their greenish fluid dripping from the walls and boxes near them.

Someone whistled.  The captain snorted.  “Good job, soldier, but next time try to leave something for us to shoot.  See what you can find in the boxes.  Killjoy, Pluto, take the good doctor and check the rooms portside.  Boot, you’re with me.  Snap it up, people; there’s probably a lot more where these ones came from.”  He took the lead; Boot, whose gun had a blade crudely bolted to its front end, followed.

The portside door led to a long corridor, lined with more doors on either side.  Killjoy stood for a moment, apparently thinking hard.

Pluto, whose armor seemed to absorb light instead of reflecting it, sidled up behind him.  “Just break into ‘em one by one, or should we lock ‘em down first?  I mean, either of us could probably hold an end of the corridor, but the doc ain’t much good in a firefight.”  He glanced back at the doctor.  “No offense, Kev.”

The medic held up a gauntleted middle finger.  “None taken.”

Killjoy shrugged.  “I say we break one, then pull back if they swarm.  Plenty of cover in the cargo room if we need it.”  He took one last look down both sides of the corridor before walking purposefully toward the door on the other side of the hall.  He took a deep breath and then shot a burst of rifle fire at the glowing lock halfway up the door.  It slid open, revealing a small room, dimly lit.

“Aw, shit.”  Killjoy lifted the barrel of his gun.  “Doc, you better get up here.  Pluto, call in to the cap – we got trouble.”

The captain had his back pressed against a wall and his gun trained on the doorway next to him.  He was listening to the muffled grunts and hisses coming from the next room; from the sound of it, there were at least four or five of the creatures in there, but as far as he knew they weren’t aware of him yet.  Boot was somewhere else, probably hacking one of the creatures to death with his makeshift bayonet.

His helmet communicator blinked.  “Report,” he whispered.

“Captain, we’ve got a prisoner here.  He’s roughed up a bit, unconscious, but alive.”

“Get him off the ship ASAP.  We’ll rendezvous with you as soon as we can.”  The sounds from the other room stopped, and the captain fell silent.  He checked the charge on his rifle, reached for a grenade, changed his mind.

A sharp spike of pain shot up the captain’s back.  He clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on his rifle, willing the pain to go away.  It faded slightly, but did not vanish entirely.

Three of the creatures came around the corner, with two more trailing behind.  The captain flipped a switch on the side of his gun and opened fire.

The medic shook his head absent-mindedly as he looked over the unconscious young man.  “Scars on arms and chests, acid burns to left leg, abrasions on wrists… I have to say, compared to the sorts of things you idiots come to me with, this is practically a vacation.”

“Shut it, doc.  The captain said we’ve got to get out of here.”  Pluto looked uneasy.  “Can he move, or do we have to carry him?”

“He’s not moving anytime soon.”  Kev pulled a syringe from his pack and injected the man with a silvery-blue liquid.  “That should clear anything out of his system, but he won’t wake up until I can get him in a stable environment and make sure nothing’s wrong internally.  The gear I have with me is intended more for laser and acid burns…”  He bent and easily lifted the unconscious man, the joints in his armor whirring to compensate for the extra weight.  “All right, let’s go.  Don’t get hit, because I don’t want to have to drop him just to save you.”

“Don’t get hit,” Killjoy said, nodding thoughtfully.  “That never occurred to me before.  Good advice, doc.  Now let’s make like a tree and get the hell outta Dodge.”

A spatter of steaming liquid hit the captain’s faceplate as he swung the butt end of his rifle into the last creature’s head.  It crumpled without a sound, and he took an opportunity to stop and catch his breath.

“Cap.”

He didn’t have to look to know who it was.  “Go ahead, Boot.”

“Two more of them down, but it’s getting pretty dark out.  We headin’ out?”

“Ready when you are, lieutenant.”

They trotted back to the cargo bay, where Smokey was rummaging through a crate he’d pried open.  He glanced up as they entered.  “We got an awful lot of human med supplies here, plus all sorts of dry and canned food.  Maybe they hit a colony re-supply ship or something.”

“No time to wonder.  We’re getting out.”  The captain frowned.  “Any sign of the others?”

“No, I haven’t…”  The engineer trailed off as the thunk-thunk of laser rifles sounded from somewhere nearby.  Then there was a shout of pain, and two armor-clad figures appeared in the portside doorway, carrying a third between them.  Smokey ran forward and slapped the door control; it shut at once, and he pulled out his multitool.  Sliding a finger along the sensor bar of the tool, which changed configuration at his touch, he set to work spot-welding the door to the frame.

“Report!” the captain barked.  “What the hell happened?  Where’s the prisoner?”

Pluto shook his head, still dragging one of the injured man’s arms toward the door through which the last few rays of sunlight were shining through.  “We heard someone, a human voice, calling for help down the hall.  Ambushed.  The prisoner took a spike right in the chest, and Killjoy got hit in the leg.  Had to make a break for it.”

Smokey stood up and quickly backed away from the door.  “Won’t hold ‘em for long,” he said, gesturing to the now-sealed door.  “And we don’t know if there’s another way around.  I recommend we get out now, cap.”

“Go!” the captain shouted, and waited, gun trained on the door, until the others had stumbled their way back into the waning light, Pluto and Kev still dragging the swearing Killjoy by the arms.  As he ran for the door of the ship, the captain heard the grunting and hissing of creatures close by, and grabbed a grenade from his belt.  Pulling the pin, he hurled it over his shoulder and slapped the door control.

The explosion’s sound and shock wave were muffled by the tough metal of the ship, but it still left a ringing in his ears as he picked himself up off the muddy ground.  He sighed.  “We’re done here, people.”  He thumbed a button on the side of his helmet.  “Control, get us out of here.  Mission is a bust.”

“Aw, cap, come on-”

“No buts, people.  We failed to rescue the prisoner.”  The ship began to fade from the captain’s field of vision, and the usual momentary nausea rushed over him as the world went dark.  “Debriefing in ten.  My office.”

The tech disengaged the locks on the side of the simulator suit, and the captain pulled himself out, a sour expression on his face.  “Any word from General Stailer?”  He waved away the tech’s helping hand and stood, clutching to the top of the simulator for support.

“No, sir.”  The tech glanced at his clipboard.  “Sir, the medical staff requests that you undergo a brief series of tests to try to determine what the cause of these attacks might be.”

“No.”  The captain took a deep breath of the air around him, tasted sterilizers and cleaning products.  “My squad medic assures me that they are temporary, and will cause no lasting harm.”

“That may be, but they might be able to help-”

“No, Gaverson,” the captain said firmly.  “Now, I want you to do the shut-down checklists on the sim units yourself.  The left arm on mine was sticking slightly, and my movements didn’t reflect it.  You know the policy as well as anyone.”

“Yes, sir.”  The tech sounded resigned.  “If I can’t fix the arm, I’ll change the programming to carry the flaw over to inside the simulation.”

The captain nodded, and then surveyed the room.  The other five simulation suits were also open, and the rest of his squad were pulling themselves out, exchanging greetings with the techs, grumbling about the aborted mission.  He allowed himself a brief smile before he turned and staggered out of the room.

Good men, all of them.  Not the best in terms of accuracy, not the most efficient, and certainly not the most disciplined, but they worked well together as a team, and that was the most important thing.  A squad full of crack shots like Jason “Deadeye” Thomas might be able to take down a gunship with hand weapons and clear it in ten minutes, but the aces like him were always the drama queens of the unit.  A man like Killjoy might need a bit more ammunition to drop a charging hostile, but he also didn’t insist on hiding behind everyone else and only having the best of everything when on patrol.

Even Smokey was shaping up into quite a competent soldier.  He was still a better engineer than sniper, but dropping four enemies in close quarters with a pistol, and not even getting scratched, wasn’t half bad for the new wolf in the pack.  Still a bit reluctant, though; when Smokey finally figured out that arguing wouldn’t get him anywhere, and he got a bit more willing to follow potentially dangerous orders, the captain would start treating him like an old hand instead of a rookie.

His quarters were small and sparsely decorated.  The larger of the three rooms he was allotted was the office, with a quartet of chairs facing his clutter-free desk.  He took a seat, clenching his jaw as the motion sent another spasm of pain up his spine, and slowly began writing out his summary of the day’s training mission.

He was interrupted by a knock on his door.  “Come.”

His squad filed in and stood in a line facing the desk.  The captain waved at the chairs behind them.  “Take a seat.”  He watched, with some internal amusement, as Smokey’s face turned glum but then brightened as Kev motioned for him to take the medic’s usual chair.

Picking up his summary, the captain cleared his throat.  “Insertion was fine.  Good job piloting, Pluto, but your landing was a little bit rough.  Ease on the throttle when you clear the hills next time.”

“Unless speed is essential, or we’re in a critical situation.”

“Correct.  But assume caution unless instructed otherwise.  Now, entry was also fine.  Smokey, a point off for minor insubordination-”

“Now wait just a minute-”

“Which is more than made up for by your stellar performance in clearing the cargo bay.”

“Oh.  Thank you, sir.”

“As far as the rest of the mission, not so good.  No enemy intelligence captured, no technology recovered, and no clear idea of motives.  Final casualty count is fourteen of them dead, one prisoner dead, and Killjoy’s leg gone.  The leg could be replaced, but we can’t make a prosthetic prisoner.”  The captain tossed his paper to the side and looked from one man to the next.  “Suggestions?  What could you have done differently?”

Pluto made a face.  “We could have taken the prisoner back to the cargo bay before going after chasing down whatever sounds they were channeling through the ship.  Secure the goods before going on a wild goose chase, or something like that.”

“True.  Anything else?”

“How about armor that’s better than tinfoil against those spines?”  Killjoy slapped his leg where he’d been hit.  “Or maybe toning down the pain sims a bit… I don’t really like the feeling of my bones dissolving.”

“If you don’t like it, don’t get hit.  The armor has worked just fine on everything the marines have come up against in the past twenty years, and the top brass is always slow to change.”  The captain smiled in a predator’s grin.  “And the pain sims are toned down.  What you felt was maybe half of what it’s really like to have your bones dissolve.  They’re just set high enough to make you care about keeping yourself safe, but not high enough to trick your body into thinking it’s dying.  Save that for the real thing.  Anything else?  No?  Great.  I hope you learned something today, because we’re heading out tomorrow for the real thing, potential hostage situation and all.”  He waved down their cheers and curses.  “Dismissed.  Smokey, could I see you for a minute?”

The engineer nodded and stood at attention before the desk.  The captain sighed.  “I know I’ve been rough on you, and you helped to prove yourself today – in fact, I’m thinking of putting in a commendation for your bravery – but there’s something I want to make clear.”

“Yes, captain?”

“Don’t ever run into a room like that again.  Take a moment, see if you can spot any hostiles, maybe toss in a smoke or stun grenade, but don’t dive in like that.”

“But you said-”

“I told you to go in.  I didn’t say run in guns blazing.  You’re a damn good shot, Smokey, but that won’t always save you.  What if there’d been a fifth one waiting right by the door?”

“…yes, sir.”

“Good.  You did very well today, Smokey.  Dismissed, and get some rest.”