The Martian

By Ellen Ripley Carter

"The Martian" is all four books in one: Independence Day, Where it All Began, Hawk Among Vultures, and Martian Steele.
Book 1: Martia Steele, a captain without a ship, is starting over. To her a spacecraft isn’t just a vessel, it's independence, it's a means to take charge of her own destiny. She’s broke, and because she’s beautiful, few investors take her seriously. However, she has a cool head, a sharp mind, and a steady gun. Want of money drives her to take work as a freelance security agent for a team of scientists. They need her to protect their plans and equipment. However, it may already be too late. Part of that technology—plans to a weapon of insurmountable power—has already fallen into the wrong hands. Coming out of this alive will require the help of her brother Ben, his guns, and every bit of luck she’s never had. But there’s no choice. If she’s ever going to get a ship to call her own she first has to keep the universe from blowing up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329081161

Book preview

The Martian

The Martian

4 in 1 series

Independence Day

Where it All Began

Hawk Among Vultures

and Martian Steele

Ellen Ripley Carter

Editor: Claire Smith

Cover: Ellen Ripley Carter

Second edition published October 2015

Copyright ©2013 Ellen Ripley Carter

Digital Edition

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ISBN: 978-1-329-08116-1

Independence Day

Martia Steele is starting over. She’s a ship’s captain without a ship. To her a spacecraft isn’t just a vessel, it is independence, an avenue to take charge of her own destiny. But she’s broke, and because she’s beautiful, few investors take her seriously. However, she’s not without resources: a cool head, a sharp mind, and a steady gun make all the difference. Want of money drives her to take work as a freelance security agent for a team of scientists. They need her to protect their plans and equipment though it may already be too late. Part of that technology—plans to a weapon of insurmountable power—has already fallen into the wrong hands. Martia must infiltrate the weapon itself and sabotage key components. To get the job done, she must elude the weapon’s security and escape detection, even as the forces of several governments align against her. Coming out of this alive will require the help of her brother Ben, his guns, and every bit of luck she’s never had. But there’s no choice. If she’s ever going to get a ship to call her own, she first has to keep the universe from blowing up.

Chapter One

They had set out three months ago, the seven of them, and seventeen-year-old Benjamin Steele had grown dog-weary of the lack of action. He was eager for adventure, but they had found none. For a science vessel, cloak and dagger jobs were few and far between, but they paid well, and had the potential to be quite fun . . .

. . . if not for their captain, Gilead Westfield. The science ship’s captain always made these jobs more complex than they had to be. Ben usually took in stride whatever came his way; his older sister Martia, however, did not. Captain Westfield’s imaginative ways of doing things tended to push her every button.

On the bridge of the privately owned exploration vessel, Fulcrum, Ben quietly reclined in the co-pilot’s seat to read a book. The holograph star chart projected above Martia’s nav computer's panel went largely ignored. It served only as a prop should someone happen in. No one ever did.

Fulcrum’s A.I. brain –a fist-sized cube– made piloting the ship from the bridge obsolete. Voice activated, the ship could be commanded from anywhere aboard her. This room served only as a prop for the Federal inspectors who sometimes stopped them. The bridge was small and cramped and, except for Martia and Ben, none of the crew bothered coming up here anymore. Brother and sister found it the perfect place to get away from the others.

A slow plodding metal on metal thunk . . . thunk . . . thunk drew Ben’s eyes up from his book. His sister, Martia, sat reclined in the pilot’s seat with her leg cocked up on it. With one arm relaxed on her knee and the other resting on the window ledge, she held her knife loosely as she tapped out her irritation. She stared out the window . . . perhaps at the stars, perhaps at the Grenadier Nebula, or perhaps—lost in thought—at nothing at all. She raised the knife by bending nothing more than her wrist and tapped its blade tip on the ledge slowly again and again. Suddenly she gripped the hilt tightly and drove the knife point hard into the steel shelf; the tyrillium blade penetrated the metal nearly an inch.

Ben watched her with mild amusement. Capt. Gilead Westfield’s Tyrillium steel, an alloy he had contrived not five years ago, had yet to find its way to the marketplace. The knife, a birthday gift from Captain Westfield, had been given to replace a blade Martia had snapped in two. Westfield guaranteed this one would last her a lifetime.

Martia gripped the knife and tried to pull it free. It didn’t budge.

Bored? Ben asked, startling his sister who spun her head to face him. Her face flushed red with anger and embarrassed. What?! she snapped.

Ben offered her a small grin before dropping his eyes and raising his book to block her out, yet he was careful enough to not completely cover his view of her.

Martia returned to the unmoving blade and gripped it with both hands. If she wasn’t careful, she’d snap that blade tip right off.

No, she wouldn’t, Ben remembered. Westfield’s alloy was virtually unbreakable. Oh, this should be fun, he thought as he peered over the top of the book at her. Though Martia strained against the unyielding blade’s leather-bound grip, she was careful not to groan or grunt out loud.

Ben wanted to laugh at her, but he kept it to himself.

Martia released the handle and for an instant the knife vibrated like spring steel. To Ben, it sounded like the knife chuckled mockingly. Intrigued, she pulled the handle sideways and released. The knife made a low warbling sound. She did it again and got the same result. Then, with effort, she pulled the grip over nearly to the window severely bending the blade. All this time Ben surreptitiously watched her. It was then, when she released the knife, that the windowsill chose to let go. Before he could react the blade flew end over end right at him. In the next moment the knife’s blade sliced into and through his book, stopped only by the hilt. The blade’s tip was just inches from his face. Lucky for him his book was thick.

Wide-eyed, he turned the book onto its back and lowered it to show his sister.

Dumbstruck, Martia, herself startled by the mishap, peered at him over her hand covering her gaping mouth. She stared at him for a long moment and then suddenly broke out in laughter.

Not amused, Ben pulled the knife from his book, looked at it, looked at her, and then tossed it haphazardly toward the exit. It skidded across the floor and stopped when it hit the far wall.

I’m sorry, Steele, she said, doing a poor job of keeping the laughter out of her voice. Martia never called Ben by his first name unless, of course, she was scolding him. Some folks felt that her doing so was odd, but she didn’t care. To her he looked more like a Steele than a Ben, so that’s what she called him. He didn’t mind, not really. In fact, he rather liked the sound of it.

As sisters went, Ben couldn’t have asked for a better one. She had a good heart, which she kept hidden beneath leathers that had seen heavy use. She preferred these durable duds because they made her look older than her twenty years. Martia was pretty—something she couldn’t help if she tried—and most men assumed her to be naïve because of it. Fact was she was anything but innocent or foolish. Sister and brother had had their share of tough times, and now neither could afford to be seen as vulnerable.

The irony was two years ago she had worn dresses, bright summer frills, and fluffs befitting a royal, and she had lived in a mansion. In fact, she had come close to becoming an actual Queen. A prince had eyes for her, and he was handsome, confident, and approachable. To Ben, she and the prince seemed a good match for each other.

The king was getting on in years. Some felt the old man would die soon, and most hoped he would. But that hadn’t happened and now belonged to the past, to a once upon a time kingdom far far away Now, Martia sat on the bridge of an aging research vessel, a starship older than the king, and these days she dressed mostly in black well-weathered leathers. Ben supposed the faraway look that was often in her eyes was understandable. She missed their folks. She missed their having a ship to call their own. He felt bad for her, but what could he do? If those idiot investors could have only looked past her beauty, they would have seen a capable ship’s captain, someone worth investing in. As freighter captains went, Martia had a good head for money. Ben had no doubt that she could not only return to her investors the money borrowed but in short order and with interest.

In the tight bridge, a little less than two feet separated his seat from hers. Except for the bright instrument panels, the consoles were, like everything else in this ship, well-aged gray metal. Momma Westfield, the captain’s mother, kept every inch of this vessel diner-plate clean, but you couldn’t tell it at a glance. Try as she might, there was simply no way to hide the ancient look or feel of this past-its-prime space boat.

Today, like every day for the last two months, they had spent hours searching for their present captain’s quarry, and Ben had grown as tired as his sister looked. She climbed from her seat, patted his shoulder. Sorry, she said and went back to retrieve her knife. Returning, she slid unceremoniously back into her seat.

Bored? he repeated after a moment.

Huh? What? She tilted her head back and rolled it to stretch stiffening neck muscles. Her jet-black hair fell below her shoulders and swayed behind her as if it weighed nothing. No, actually, I’m not. With one hand, she pulled her long hair over a shoulder and started to twist it into a ponytail.

So what’s on your mind? Ben said, watching his sister with a mix of bewildered amusement.

She met his gaze with unflustered eyes. Several things, actually.

Give me one.

Okay. Something about our captain bothers me, Steele . . . In the back of my mind, I have this sense that we’ve met him before.

You mean before Los Dabaron.

She thought for a moment. I guess it’d have to have been. But that can’t be right.

Though that battle was eight years ago thinking about it still made Ben shudder. He had been just nine at the time; his sister twelve. Like her he didn’t like thinking about those years. His cousin’s death still stung. It seemed senseless back then. It seemed senseless even now. Nearly freezing to death he and Martia had somehow survived, but Cousin Clayton never woke up from that terrible sleep. Ben took Clay’s death hard. Martia did too, and those memories were never easy to review. If they had met Gilead Westfield before then he’d have been a boy himself.

Martia rubbed her temple. Captain Westfield’s behavior is weird.

Weird? Compared with what? How do you mean?

"Like he knows us. Couple that with this. His face seems familiar, but I just can’t place it. Ugh! She brushed the thought off with a flick of the wrist. Oh well, never mind. I think being on this ship is dulling my senses. Now I’m starting to imagine things that never were."

Stay sharp, sis. Things’ll pick up soon.

"Why on Earth did the captain name this old scow Fulcrum anyway? An image jumped right to the front of Martia’s mind. When I first saw that emblazoned on her prow, I thought, ‘Now there’s a spaceship I could sign on to.’ It had such a nice ring to it."

Ben remembered that. They had just escaped their enslavement. Stealing away from the pirate king in the middle of the night he and Martia had made a run for it in their little planet jumper. Miles from nowhere—well between worlds—their little two-man shuttle up and quit on them. Inexplicably power reserves quickly fell to zero. Adrift, they worked for hours to reignite the engines. But without power to life-support time eventually ran out. When an old spaceship happened across them they were nearly frozen. That anyone had found them at all . . .

With his energy all but gone Ben looked up through their frosty canopy to see ‘Fulcrum’ written in well-worn big block letters. Moments after, Captain Westfield tractored them into his cargo bay, popped their hatch, and wrapped them in warm blankets. That was the second time in Ben’s short life that he and his sister had escaped becoming popsicles. He remembered shivering fiercely and looking up at the captain—Westfield’s mother and sister beside him—and seeing that look of startled recognition in his face even then. Pressed, Westfield would admit to nothing.

So now, sis, you’re having second thoughts?

Martia shot an irritated look back at the door. What was I thinking? I was hoping this ship was the leverage we’d need! There’s real money to be made in risk. I want my own ship under my feet. I want danger, excitement. Not this.

Ben chuckled. "You don’t think riding in this old bucket is dangerous? Think about it. Any minute now rust could breach the hull. That’s dangerous."

She turned to face him and leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees. With her head turned slightly down and her eyes raised to meet his, she looked evil. I want to kill something, Steele. Her tone was blunt and matter-of-fact and would have sent a shiver through him had he not known her.

Ben snorted back a laugh. She didn’t really want to kill anything other than time. But this sort of thing, the look in her eyes, was why he joked that she was a Martian. He knew no other human who thought as she did.  Wow, sis, he said still smiling. You really do have some pent up issues there.

She turned to the star-chart, tabbed in their current location and expanded the view. Several blips, distant but within reach of their little recon ship, appeared.

"What say we fire up Viper, ditch Fulcrum for a few hours, and go hunting? There’s got to be a Confederate or pirate ship within reach."

While aboard Fulcrum, Martia and Ben’s two-man interplanetary jet had since been modified and improved by the Westfield team. She was a sturdy craft, now, and reliable. Most importantly, Viper was fast. Though it was never intended to be, the Westfields armed it with small cannons of their own design, and that made her dangerous. And Ben lived to be dangerous.

Martia pointed to a holographic blip in the star-chart. Looky there. This one might prove interesting. It’s moving at a pretty good clip.

In the mood to harass someone, huh?

A sly smile flitted across her face. Sneak up on a Confed ship, do a quick fly by? A little boom and zoom?

Sure, Ben mused. If we do it right, sis, we could piss off a fed ship in short order.

Enough to get it to chase us?

Seriously, sis? Do you doubt your abilities?

I’d like that.

Me too, he said with hunger-filled eyes. That would be exciting, but . . .

She jumped to her feet and clapped his shoulder. A little game of cat and mouse, Steele. Come on, it’ll be fun. We’ll be back before the captain knows we’re gone. She turned and headed for the door.

Hey, I’m all for tagging a government cruiser, he said, remaining seated. A few of them have pretty impressive juice. However . . .

She turned back to him and scowled.

Right now, Martia, that’ll have to wait. Captain’s been plotting and planning this heist for months. If we screw around and muck up his plans, he’ll have our hides.

She sighed and looked back at the exit longingly. Steele, my boy, I swear if we sit here much longer I’m going to go stir-crazy. Plans or no plans I’m running out of patience.

He saved our lives, sis. We owe him.

She sighed her irritation. Yeah, sure, but when is that debt ever going to be paid off? I can’t take much more of this.

We need our own ship, Ben said without thinking. Before he could bite his tongue he heard himself describe the first thing that popped into his head. "Something big enough to hold Viper, a few supplies, and can easily be made to feel homey during long runs. But at the same time it should be small and inconspicuous, something easy to hide."

She stepped closer. You mean a launch platform of our own for times like this?

"Sure, Martia, why not? You don’t like taking orders anyway. Having our own ship would mean you could be your own boss. I will miss Mrs. Westfield’s cooking, though." Immediately a picture popped into his head of Martia’s last attempt to cook a meal. Whatever it had been, she had turned to charcoal.

We could do that, she said, smiling big. "Find a sizable yacht, I mean. Something not so big as Fulcrum but, yes, I like your thinking. And fast. It’s gotta be fast, right?"

I’ll bet Tyson Blackhart has something in his inventory that’ll suit.

She shot Ben an evil look. Expecting it he met her scowl with a coy smirk.

Steele, don’t start.

Cap isn’t going to like our cutting out on him, he said to change the subject from the pirate prince, Martia’s one-time love interest.

I said leave it alone.

Ben hesitated. Somehow, without meaning to, he had dug deeper into what was clearly her sore spot. That was not his intent. No, wait. Let me back up here. I wasn’t suggesting you had cut out on Blackhart.

No? She had taken off her sister face, and donned the face of Lieutenant Steele, captain-of-the-Fulcrum-guard.

Ben knew he was in trouble when she crossed her arms, but he felt committed to going all in. He sighed. In for a dime, in for a dollar. No, sis.

Sounds to me like that’s exactly where you were taking this conversation. You need to back off.

Ben straightened tall in his seat. "Well, that isn’t where I was going. That’s not it at all. He threw up his hands as if to erase his previous comment. Forget Blackhart. Forget all that. Let’s start this conversation over. I was just saying—"

Man! You just won’t quit.

". . . as you will recall, when we signed on to Fulcrum, sis, we agreed to commit ourselves to this ship. Captain Westfield said he wanted at least two years’ service and two weeks’ notice if we decided to leave after that. Considering he’d saved our lives I think we should stick to our agreement."

Yes, well, that was before we found out this job was so . . . What’s the phrase I’m looking for?

Boring as hell?

Mind-numbingly stupid, she said.

Stupid? Where did that come from?

At best, Westfield is going to get us caught. At worst, killed.

I take it you don’t like his plan.

No, actually, I don’t. His plan is . . . it’s . . . She knit her brow. "You know what? There isn’t a word in the English language that means ‘stupid’ to that degree."

Did you tell him?

You know the captain. Once he gets an idea in his head, it’s nearly impossible for him to see things differently. Seeing Ben was actually on her side, her posture relaxed.

Ben sighed and pushed to his feet, came around his chair, and sat on its backrest. Yeah. His eyes do tend to glaze over, don’t they?

The way he stands there clutching his beard . . . She mimicked the captain by stroking her chin.

Ben grinned at the picture in his head. Don’t forget the forefinger resting on his lips.

She rolled her eyes. "Right. You’d think he was actually considering your suggestion when, in fact, he’s dreaming of God only knows what—an Orion beach or something—but his mind certainly isn’t on your advice. I used to think that chin thing made him look studious. Now, not so much."

"Haven’t you noticed, sis? He is a geek."

Something in that made her perk up and think. He was a geek. She hadn’t considered that fact as relevant before, but it was more than that. It was a game changer. Why did a geek want to captain a starship at all? She’d have to give that some thought.

Martia calmed her voice. I think it’s funny how his hands can’t seem to find a home. She mocked him by putting her hands first in her pockets then on her hips before finally folding them stiffly. To brush away the notion she threw up her hands.

That’s only around you, Martia. When you’re near, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, that’s for sure. It’s like there’s a casual pose out there somewhere just beyond his reach. When you’re not in the room, he’s . . . well, he’s smooth.

Smooth?

Wrong phrase; let’s just say he’s less klutzy . . . less stiff.

She snorted back a laugh, then went to Ben and leaned in close to whisper. When’s the last time you shot something, little brother? Isn’t that why we were hired; to slap bad people around and break their things?

As she straightened, Ben thought about it, then shook himself. The fact was that—if he had to think about it—it had been way too long since his last firefight.

For that matter, sis, I can’t remember the last time I hit someone. For the last year, we haven’t gone anywhere stimulating, or done anything remotely fun.

Right! Cap never goes to any place interesting. Freight crap here. Freight piddling stuff there. Dull, dull, dull. Agh! If he wants to deliver goods willy-nilly he should clear his cargo bay of all the machines and gadgetry and haul real freight. She glanced back over her shoulder to make sure they were alone, then lowered her voice again. "Finally . . . finally we get this job, something easily made fun and interesting, and what does he do? He twists it into all kinds of stupid. She emphasized by screwing up her face and twisting her hands together. The man needs a hobby. No! He needs a new occupation!"

Ben chuckled.

Martia turned to pace, stopped at the door, which auto-opened with a sucking sound, and craned her neck to look back at him. Jerking her head, she invited him to follow. I need to go to a bar, down at least two drinks, then find the biggest, burliest man there, and punch him square in the nose.

Ben didn’t move. "Okay, so you want to blow off some steam? I get that. You have been wound pretty tight these last couple days."

She spun around to face him. The door closed behind her. I’m sorry I snapped at you, but if I don’t scratch this itch . . .

Pirate bar then?

Pirate, Confederate; at this point, I really don’t care.

Yes. I see that. However . . . Ben grimaced, . . . I have issues with Confederate taverns, sis. And I’d just as soon not subject myself to any of them.

Issues? Such as?

"If you punch someone in a Confederate tavern they’ll lock up our ship. Look at a Confederate cop sideways they lock up our ship. Make an off color remark about the Confederacy’s Prime Minister—worse—they lock us up. I swear those people have absolutely no sense of humor. They just don’t understand a guy’s need for adventure, for danger, for roughhousing with the big boys."

Or a girl’s. She chuckled. No, they don’t. But still, there’s something to be said about slapping that smug look off a Confederate cop’s face.

"You really enjoyed that, didn’t you?"

She grinned mischievously and shrugged. It was worth the jail time. Two days in lockup was nothing.

He rolled his eyes. Fine. Then after this job we’ll look at getting you tossed into a slammer again, okay?

When he didn’t move she knew he was kidding. Come on, Steele, let’s do it. Let’s go to a Confed bar and raise a ruckus. I have got to vent or . . .

Yes, there is that. But I say we stick to pirate strongholds. Pirates understand a person’s need for a good brawl. And they aren’t prone to cuff good folks like us.

Not if they see we’re on a well-deserved vacay. Pirates and rogues tend to be a little more relaxed and a lot more understanding about such things.

Chapter Two

In his office on Fulcrum, Captain Gilead Westfield studied himself in a full-length mirror, posing first this way, then that—first, hands on hips, then in his pockets, then crossed—but he couldn’t find any pose that made him appear casual and comfortable with himself. Martia was on his mind, and even that made him nervous.

"Be Cary, he muttered. Focus. Do the Cary."

Gilead believed Cary Grant, an old-time actor, was the coolest man who had ever lived, but no matter how hard Gilead tried, he just couldn’t nail Grant’s mannerisms. He couldn’t get beyond looking stiff and ill-at-ease. In costume, looking relaxed was hardly ever an issue for him, but he seldom felt comfortable in his own skin as himself, plane ol’ Gilead Westfield. What maddened him most was finding a proper and casual place to put his hands. Grant had a way of gesturing that seemed so real, so casual, and—most importantly—so manly.

Ah, come on, Gilead, he grumbled to himself, you can do this.

Deep in thought he didn’t hear the outer hallway door open until Josh and Nate brought their argument to his door. Focused on each other neither had yet looked in to see him acting like a fool. Gilead scrambled around his desk and switched the holo from the projected Cary Grant movie to a tactical display of this sector. His heart raced from fear at the prospect of getting caught practicing Cary Grant poses and mannerisms. He dropped into his chair, which complained with a squeak. Desperate to make a certain impression he casually looked up at the boys from the computer-generated screen.

Joshua Chisholm and his brother Nate were so engrossed in their argument neither had looked in on him . . . yet. Fifteen-year-old Josh was saying something about open space and going like crazy. Nate, his ten-year-old brother, disagreed, and when they were about to pass Gilead’s door Nate peeked in. Sir, sorry to bother you, but if we had to run from a fight against Confed forces wouldn’t it be wiser to duck into an asteroid belt?

Well, I—

The Confederation has Talon fighters, Nate, Josh said. His brows were pulled severely together and drawn low. If we do something as stupid as duck into an asteroid field, they’d catch us for sure. Duh. I say we head for open space and run like crazy.

"What? That’s all kinds of stupid. This old ship can’t outrun their HvM180’s. And you know that."

What I know is—

Buddy, you get a missile like that locked on your tail, you might as well hang it up. Inside an aster—

Have you ever heard of Chaff? Come on Nate. Get real.

Ever heard of a Zero-point energy? Nate countered. You lure Talons into a predetermined area and spring a ZPE web. Boom! Trapped. Easy-peasy.

And if they rocket just one ZPE emitter, what happens?

Nearby emitters reattach to close the gap. You can’t escape a box trap of ZPEs, Josh. Can’t be done.

And what happens if more than one emitter gets knocked offline? Too many, and the whole system implodes in on itself crushing the Talons inside. Crushing the pilots too, I might add. ZPE box traps are stupid. And besides if you’re running from Talons, Nate, where are you going to find time to set your stupid trap? Josh looked at Captain Westfield. Am I right? Tell him I’m right.

Well, I—

Never mind. Josh spun on his heels and headed away.

Nate followed. Okay. Point taken. The boys’ voices faded down the hall. The hiss of the passage door opening and closing were the last sounds Gilead heard them make.

He shook his head and turned his attention back to the computer screen to study Fulcrum’s course and heading, but the anger welling up inside him was palpable. No one took him seriously. None of his crew seemed to treat him like they’d treat any other ship’s captain. Was it his age—he was twenty-two—his breath . . . what? He’d grown a beard to make himself look older and hide what Martia said was his baby face. She’d never said that to him directly. He’d overheard her say it in passing, but it stung all the same.

Zero-point energy web strung between asteroids indeed.

Huh! Hey, wait! That doesn’t even exist! A smile spread across his face as he realized the boys were talking about some vid-game they were playing. But who says a ZPE couldn’t actually exist? I could . . . no, wait. He shook off the distraction. Back to business, Westfield. Now where was I?

Incoming, Fulcrum announced over the ship-wide loudspeakers. Two Cougar-class Talon patrol ships.

Martia rolled her eyes. Here comes all kinds of lunacy. She and Ben were first in the conference room.

At least it’s something to do, Ben said. We’re finally back in business. Here’s to hoping this thing goes south.

Seriously?

You want action, don’t you? Look, Martia, the only way that’ll happen is if this thing goes screwy. So let’s hope it does.

The next moment, Gilead Westfield, his mother Zara, and the other three crewmembers—Joshua, Nate, and Rachel—stepped into the conference room. Zara, a lady in her mid-forties, carried into the room a box filled with a few theatrical props and set them on the center table. She was unassuming and down to earth, but she knew her own mind. She wouldn’t take any backtalk once a plan was in place. If this was the thing agreed to this was what they’d do. Period. She and Gilead quickly went over the plan with the crew one more time. Then she inspected each person in turn. Okay. Simple plan, people. We all know our places. Let’s make it work.

Martia rolled her eyes. Simple plan? Pointless plan.

Let’s hop to, people! Scoot! Zara said, clapping twice to punctuate the need for haste. Zara had two kids of her own—Gilead and seventeen-year-old Rachel—but she acted as though everyone aboard were hers; hers to scold, hers to praise. And she insisted everyone call her ‘mom.’

The others nodded and hurried out of the room to leave Zara and Gilead alone with Ben and Martia.

Gilead fumbled around as if trying to figure out where to put his hands, first on his hips, then crossed—almost—then he made an attempt to put them in his pockets before finally giving up to let them dangle awkwardly at his sides. He considered his mom’s troubled face for a long moment. Zara wrote this play. She had cast herself and Gilead in its lead roles. Come hell or high water she’d make it happen.

To Martia Gilead Westfield looked like a puppy lost in a lion’s den. He always looked jittery to her. He was the ship’s captain, sure, but leading others was not his forte. Martia released an impatient sigh.

Captain Westfield shot an annoyed scowl at her before turning back to his mother. Mom, that leaves you to do all the talking for us. Are you sure that’ll work?

Zara smiled confidently and hugged him.

Embarrassed, Gilead pushed back to look at her questioningly. You nervous?

Now what do you see written in my face, Gil?

You look eager.

I just thought you might be nervous yourself. You looked like you needed a hug, so . . .

Come on, Martia muttered under her breath, hoping they didn’t hear, and at the same time hoping they did.

Gilead glanced at Martia who was just two years his junior, but she was no way a kid. For that matter, neither was Ben. At least Ben tried to act as if Gilead’s captaining this ship was for real. Gilead turned to his mother. You have every right to feel nervous, Mom. Those inspectors play for keeps.

I know they do, honey, Zara said raising an amused smile. Don’t you fret. I’ll do just fine. So will you.

Martia turned to Ben and patted her own cheek. O M G, my face is going numb. I think I might be allergic to all this high-sugar syrup.

Ben snickered but tried to keep it low and off the Westfields’ radar.

You’re a funny girl, Martia, Zara said without taking her eyes off her son.

Martia sighed. Yes, well, any more of this and my head will explode.

Zara looked squarely at her. The secret to a long life is to love on your family openly. You ever get young’uns of your own you just might want to remember that.

I see. So the secret to a long life is to make everyone in the room around you uncomfortable. Now there’s a goal we can all aspire too. Maybe, with any luck, she’d get herself fired. There was always hope.

Hiding his grin with his hand Ben stifled a laugh.

Gilead dropped his gaze.

Zara hmphed. You are one hard woman, Martia.

Martia offered a hint of a smile. Wow. Thank you, ma’am. She shot a thumbs-up at Ben. Finally some recognition.

That wasn’t a compliment.

Really? She cocked her head quizzically. How could that have been anything but?

Martia, I swear—

Ladies! Gilead snapped. Three hells, will you two quit?

Martia spun toward a window. "Oh look. Two Talons are pulling up beside the ship. Ben, we better get going. So should you two . . . lovebirds." She and Ben headed out of the room.

As if to find solace in a higher power Gilead raised his eyes to the ceiling.

You’ll be okay, son. Don’t let Martia get to you.

Stop it, Momma. Just stop it. Fact was Martia had gotten to him. She had gotten to him back when he was a gangly, gawky, awkward thirteen-year-old geeky glasses-wearing kid. Martia was the one person he just couldn’t get out of his mind from the first day they met. Even at eleven she proved to be the most fascinating creature he’d ever encountered. But he wasn’t remarkable enough to make any kind of impression on her . . . not then, not now. He was grown now, sported a full and smartly groomed beard. Even had his own spaceship. And despite the vastness of the universe he had managed somehow to find her and, just to be close to her, give her a job. But she didn’t even remember him. Now she was just his crewman, and he her captain . . . barely. He shook off the memory and turned back to his assigned task. Pawing through the props Gilead found a pair of reading glasses and a cane. Those in hand he turned on the holo-emitter strapped to his belt. Holographically his skin rapidly aged to that of an eighty-year-old. To complete his disguise he hunched over and braced himself, wobbling on the cane. He was a thin man, but still he had the ship adjust his virtual weight to reflect that of an old frail, umm, frailer man.

Zara put on an apron covered with flour and grease stains, threw a macramé shawl over her shoulders then flipped her holo-emitter on to complete her disguise as a sixty-year-old spinster. And with that she went down to the cargo bay alone.

They disguised the science lab holographically as a freighter. The small cargo bay was enlarged by visual trickery. Walls appeared as crates lining narrow paths.

With the stage set, Zara raised the curtain—the huge cargo bay doors. As they rose to allow in the inspectors it unveiled Grenadier. The nebula hung in the heavens like a bright, multi-colored shroud. She gasped in awe, and her thoughts immediately went to Atheron, her home-world—and to her friends and family there. It was too bad their space lab, Fulcrum, was on this side of the nebula. But on the far side, near Atheron, sat the Confederate capital, Parandi—and a whole plethora of patrols guarding the center planet. These days travel there was way too dangerous.

Then suddenly the beauty of Grenadier was spoiled by the arrival of her audience, two Talon long-range fighters. Oh, well, she sighed. "Fulcrum, all stop."

Zara watched the little fighters, silhouetted against the nebula, move up beside Fulcrum, then gingerly swing in close to make boarding her easy. At the open bay door, she, as the old woman, gazed out. The cargo bay lights illuminated the Talons only faintly. Even so, she could see their canopies rise.

The pilots—here to inspect ‘freighter’ and freight—climbed from their ships and jetted over to Fulcrum. Their nearly formfitting black space suits made them look more menacing than the old bulky suits of yesterday. The cargo-bay door’s air-containment-field shimmered around them as they passed through it. Once inside Fulcrum they removed their helmets and dropped their jetpacks. Completely ignoring the old woman, they looked around. If this decrepit freighter ever had glory-days dirt, grime, and years of neglect hid them well. Not in either man’s imagination could they picture this ship as it was when it was new.

Zara, taking seriously her role as an old spinster, approached the men and held out her aged, trembling hand. Her voice shook. I do hope you gentlemen can stay for dinner. We seldom get visitors way out here.

The enforcers looked at the canisters and crates but gave the old woman, who was as dingy as her old ship, little notice.

She took hold of one man’s hand, but he seemed unaware of her grasp. She was nothing to him, and he treated her as such.

An elderly man, severely stooped, hobbled into the cargo bay, tapping a cane to find his way.

Look, Daddy, the old woman said cheerily, her voice all the while hoary and unsteady. We have gentlemen callers, and I’ve invited them to dinner.

The crotchety old curmudgeon scowled and spoke irritably. Well, daughter, they better be gentlemen. I don’t cotton to no pirates. You remember the last time. Gilead had taken to his part perfectly: his voice, his stoop, his use of the cane all marvelously played. The man had a real knack for roleplaying just about any part.

Oh, Daddy, that was a year ago, Zara said, now fully engaged in her part. These here look like decent soldiers of the Confederation.

Though stiff and frail the old man seemed to perk up, rising from his stoop almost a full two inches.

Are they enforcers, daughter? Are you men enforcers? Nearly blind the old man moved to two dark broad bands that ran up a wall and held out a hand as if to shake theirs. I was an enforcer, too, he said cheerfully.

After a noticeable silence he added in approval as if to bolster the two lines on the wall, That’s right—stand there stoically and pay me no never mind. That’s what I’d have done back in the day,

The elderly lady turned him from the wall towards the men. I’m sorry. His eyes aren’t what they used to be.

Clearly confused the old man looked back at the two lines, tilted his head back to see through the reading glasses that hung low on his nose, and tapped the wall with his cane just to be sure they weren’t men.

Oops. Embarrassed he flashed a toothless grin at his daughter. He, too, was filthy and carried a certain odor that begged for a good scrubbing.

The two men looked at each other and smirked. The old man may have been an enforcer in his day, but that day had long since passed. Now all he was to them was some old fool to ignore if he needed some attention or harass if he didn’t.

All of a sudden, and without warning, the old man clutched his chest. His face pinched in pain. The old woman, still holding his arm, winced as he crumpled. Zara pretended to strain to keep him from falling. She managed, as they had practiced, to lower him less than gently to the floor.

Gilead’s face flickered for an instant. At his belt, his holo-projector momentarily sparked. Had the inspectors missed the projector’s faltering? Blast! If it gave out now, she and he and all they’d worked toward would be stew for the dogs. She suddenly realized that they should have made a backup plan or exit strategy beforehand, but they hadn’t. Zara would have to wing it. Her only recourse was to keep the inspectors’ focus off the old man as much as she could and hope for the best.

My pill, daughter, he pleaded thinly. My pill.

Zara tensed. Gilead apparently hadn’t noticed his holoprojector’s hiccup and was drawing unwanted attention back to himself.

The two enforcers walked casually to his side and watched with indifference as the frantic old woman pawed through one of her apron pockets. Finally she drew out a pill bottle, opened it, and placed a small tablet under her father’s tongue. Before she could put the bottle away it slipped from her shaky grasp, hit the floor, and rolled to one of the men.

He stopped it with his boot and scooped it up to read the label. Ashton. Justice Ashton. He glanced at the old man then read the label again. "Are you the Justice Ashton of Ceti?"

The old man nodded feebly but neither opened his eyes nor let go from clutching his chest.

Which way to this man’s bed, woman?

The spinster pointed shakily to a doorway.

Go! Lead me to it. He picked the man up—Fulcrum altered Gilead’s weight to make him lighter than he actually was.

Cradling Gilead in his arms the inspector followed Zara ahead of his partner. Once they were in the old man’s room he laid him carefully on the bed.

Martia moved her small ship around from Fulcrum’s far side to the inspector’s two Talons. Ben followed in a ship of his own. Rachel, Josh, and Nate, already there, broke the key-codes of each Talon. Following Rachel’s signal Martia and Ben climbed from their ships and jetted to the inspectors’ Talons to take control of them. With the control of each Talon now theirs, they settled in and fired up the engines. Rachel inserted the newly acquired key-codes into the replacement Talons and returned to Fulcrum with the two boys. Easy-peasy.

Both enforcers looked around the room which, like the rest of the ship, was filthy and well-aged. Shadows of where pictures once hung filled one wall. Alone at its center dangled a framed certificate. The lead enforcer took it from the wall to read.

No! No! the old man protested. Daughter, don’t let them take it. It’s all I got left.

It’s okay, Daddy. It’s okay, she said, patting his hand to calm him. Then she noticed his holographic overlay had vanished entirely. The projector winked and suddenly went dark. Wide-eyed, Zara looked at the inspectors who had their backs to them. Frantic, she pressed the projector’s button again and again, but it refused to re-engage. It was then that Gilead saw and realized what had happened. Startled he sat up. Zara pushed him back down with one hand and grabbed the bedspread with the other to hide his face.

One enforcer glanced back toward them and looked at Gilead before focusing on her. Disconcerted and suspicious his brows pinched together. "Woman, what are you doing?"

Zara looked down. Gilead was once again an old man. She lowered the blanket and patted his hand. There you go, Daddy. Better?

Gilead nodded as he pulled the blanket up around his chin and shivered.

The inspector turned away to once more study the certificate.

Though his projector was dark, Gilead’s disguise had somehow returned without it. Then Zara remembered the ship. At the mobile holoprojector’s failure Fulcrum had intervened. Remembering the script, and her role in it, Zara took a breath and left Gilead’s side to stand beside the officers. Still trembling, she offered the men a feeble smile and spoke softly as if to keep her father from hearing. About a year ago pirates took all we had. This certificate was the only thing Daddy could hide well enough to keep. The scum took all his medals, war mementos, and certificates of valor, ‘cept this’n of course. They had no real value ‘cept to me and Daddy. Pirates is just mean that way.

The enforcer read it carefully and then reverently returned it to the wall. Turning, he patted her shoulder reassuringly then went back with his partner to stand beside Gilead’s bed. This man is Justice Ashton, he said, his words filled with respect.

I saw that, said the other. Iron-Justice himself, right? Impressive.

Without tearing his eyes from the old man, the first inspector shot a thumb over his shoulder. That certificate honoring his victory at Odeedum is quite the keepsake. This man’s strategy to win that battle was definitely one for the books. He leaned close to the old curmudgeon. You have been my hero since I read of your exploits at the academy. The story of Odeedum took my breath away. It would be a great honor to shake your hand, sir. He leaned over the old man and took his hand.

The old man’s grasp was feeble. He struggled to breathe but tried to speak clearly through his wheezing.

"I don’t shake a good man’s hand lying down—gasp—I needs to sit up, son."

With great effort, he threw off the blanket and tried to rise. As he leaned to pull himself out of bed, without warning he coughed straight and hard into the enforcer’s face—then fell back in bed exhausted, and gasping for air.

The enforcer straightened and wiped the expectorant from his face in disgust then turned away to leave. His partner followed close behind. The old woman went with them to the bay and, once there, the enforcer, with a concerned smile, assured her their inspection was over. He wished her luck with their continued journey. Replacing his helmet and pack, he and his partner jetted back outside the ship.

The two enforcers waited and watched as the old woman closed the cargo bay door. Fulcrum moved away, the bright cherry red heat of the Ion converters could be seen well after the ship disappeared from sight.

See that? said one enforcers to the other. Still using Ion converters. Blast if that ship ain’t old. I say when we come across another ship that ancient, from here on out, let’s just say we inspected it and give it a pass.

I hear ya, said the other. I left that old freighter feeling pretty dirty. I don’t think a week of baths will get me clean.

The maintenance crew will have to sanitize my cockpit thoroughly if I’m ever to fly this Talon again.

Mine too.

I’ll have to burn this suit.

I’d rather float in space forever than have to put my tail in another old ship like that one.

I hope I didn’t just see my future. That guy was a great Confederate war hero, but just look at him now, dirt poor and living in filth. Sheesh! Are you sure that was the right ship? No one said anything about it being a freighter.

Who knows? Intel has been wrong before. The two enforcers returned to their ships and sidled down into their seats which seemed a tighter fit than before. As each lowered his canopy he realized the forthcoming explanation to his commander was going to be difficult. Neither was the ship either man had arrived in.

Chapter Three

When the old man accompanied the old lady back to the rec-room he danced a jig as he walked much jauntier than his years suggested. The image was so disconnected from the action that Zara couldn’t help but chuckle at Gilead’s shenanigans. Gil, for an old guy, you’re pretty spry.

Got to admit, Momma, I’ve felt worse. He winked and slid the holo-badge from his belt. It had been fried. The holograph-projected-years melted away. He looked toward the ceiling. "Fulcrum, old friend, nice save."

Glad to have helped, sir, the ship said in a tone devoid of emotion.

Zara turned her mobile unit off, and she too returned to her ‘youthful’ look, sort of. The crew gathered around them. As he studied each man, woman, and child in turn, Gilead tried to find a home for his hands before finally settling on folding his arms and resting one forefinger on his lips. His attempts to look nonchalant never seemed to land first try.

Saying nothing, Martia stepped back, took a seat, and turned away completely disinterested. Raising her feet to the windowsill she crossed one leg over the other, interlaced her fingers behind her head, and leaned back.

Along with Ben, Gilead noticed and wondered if anyone else had. He could guess what it meant and knew things would soon come to a head between him and Martia.

So how did it go? he asked to avoid drawing attention to the young woman.

Ben drew an arm around Rachel, his friend, his fellow seventeen-year-old, to half-hug her. Smooth. Race bypassed the new Talon’s security systems in three minutes.

Rachel Westfield shrugged. Sorry, Gil dear. I wasn’t expecting their security system to be so retro. I’ll do better next time. I promise.

Everyone laughed. Three minutes was remarkably fast, even if Rachel didn’t think so. She was Gilead Sr. and Zara’s other child, and like Gilead Jr., she was an accomplished gadget-maker.

Zara took Rachel’s shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze. So now we have two of the new Talons to give to Providence intelligentsia. What condition did you leave those two enforcers in?

Well, Josh answered, we did leave them two perfectly good, fifty-year-old Talons. Minus a few extraneous parts, give or take. I mean, a transmitter is really just dead weight, isn’t it? Having one would’ve added to their fuel consumption. Best they not have them.

Joshua Chisholm and his ten-year-old brother Nate were Fulcrum’s loadmaster – cargo lifter pilots. It didn’t take strength to run the muscular lifters. It just took a careful, quick mind which both boys had.

Hey, they should be happy, Ben said with a sly smile, Saber class Talons are classics. And the radio we left in each will pick up some great AM stations.

The crease between Gilead’s brows deepened. AM stations?

Josh nodded. Yes, sir. By my calculations, radio signals from old Earth should be reaching this sector of space just about now.

Gilead chuckled. AM indeed. So, what do you suppose they’ll hear?

Josh frowned. It’s AM radio, sir. More than likely, if they fine tune the signal, they’ll hear old-time Gospel. That’s what we were thinking anyhow.

Ben’s grin had a devious cast. That or Rush Limbaugh. Either’s good.

Gilead grinned. Come on—all kidding aside, what situation did you leave them in?

Feigning confusion Joshua and Nate glanced at each other. Neither said anything.

But Rachel raised her hand and shouted as if in a game show. Pick me! Pick me!

Along with Zara, Gilead chuckled. Okay, sis. What’s their real status?

Very proud of herself Rachel spoke cheerfully. Well, to help them find their way and get to the nearest planet, each ship has a good working scanner and just enough fuel to land.

Ben scoffed. Unless they prefer soft landings. Unpowered, a Talon’s glide path is same as a rock’s.

Race looked at him with incredulity. Ben, my calculations were exact. They just need to be frugal with the fuel. No big deal. That and find a patch of flat ground to land on.

Gilead snorted a laugh, and Zara chuckled. Apparently the kids gave the inspectors just enough fuel to get to Hawthorn if they were, as Rachel suggested, very frugal with their fuel consumption.

Martia sat quietly and contributed nothing, but her unobtrusive behavior didn’t escape Gilead’s notice. Distracted by the girl’s attitude he dismissed everyone, watched her for a brief moment, then followed the others out, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Chapter Four

Later that hour Gilead found Martia in a corridor. Hey, he said. He caught her hand to stop her then just as quickly released her. He folded his arms. He gestured with one hand but instead of looking casual—his hope—his movements were forced, stiff, and contrived. This seemed to amuse her.

Martia, you okay?

I’m fine, sir. Why do you ask?

Are you? You’ve been short, irritable. Is it something I’ve said? Something I’ve done? He brought his hand up to his chin, and rested a finger across his lips, but the motion was clumsy. The more he tried to relax around her the more his muscles fought him.

Her answer . . . a slight shrug. It isn’t you. It’s me.

This isn’t the life you would’ve chosen for yourself, is it?

She paused and bit her lip. When she spoke she chose her words carefully. "Steele and I have been on our own for quite a while. We were trained to handle ourselves in a fight. That’s what we do. This sedentary life takes getting used to and, in fact, I don’t really want to get used to it."

Well, that’s the shipping life. Huge expanses of boredom punctuated by spikes of excitement. Nothing I can do about that.

She forced a faint but friendly smile. Why did you hire Steele and me?

"Well now, that is a story, but not one I wish to tell in the hallway." Turning to his office he gave a quick snap of his head, bidding her follow. He took a seat at his work desk, and Martia took a seat across from him.

Once, he began, while my family and I were out enjoying the sights, someone broke into this ship. We lost a valuable machine and irreplaceable tech that day. I feel better having the added security. I thought you knew that?

A black cube sitting on his desk caught her attention. She picked it up to study as she spoke.

Sir, that’s what you said when you first signed Steele and me on as security. Our presence should’ve made you bolder, braver, but instead, according to Race, you’ve grown more timid. You avoid planets with even the slightest reputation for trouble. She flipped the cube into the air and caught it without looking.

That isn’t true. I—

Captain, you know the greater the risk, the greater the reward, right? She flipped it again.

Sure, but—

She flipped it higher irritating him with her indifference to the cube’s importance.

He rose from his seat. I know that, Martia, but— He leaned across his desk and on her next toss, snatched it before it hit her hand. Seating himself, he replaced the cube in its cradle.

Her eyes flicked to him, then the cube, and then back to him. Sir, take advantage of Steele and me being here. We’ll do our best to keep you safe. I promise.

Crossing his arms, he raised his eyes to the ceiling and tapped his chin thoughtfully. I just don’t think the rewards justify the risks.

It’s a wonder you make ends meet.

He dropped his eyes to her. You want a raise, is that it?

I don’t want a raise. Fires and furnaces, sir, I’d take a pay cut if we can just break this blasted hometown monotony. A scrape once in a while, a shootout, a fistfight, give us something to do; something dangerous. That’s all we’re asking.

"There was this job, he said referring to stealing these two Talons. That was dangerous."

That was dangerous only because you made it so.

"What?

"The fact is that was amateur hour."

Really? he said, incensed. He and his mom had taken great pains to work out every detail. And what would you have done?

"Oh . . . now you ask."

What do you mean?

"You’re a gizmo guy. I get that. But I’m your chief security officer. I should be the first person you come to about matters of security. Not Mommy."

Leave Mom out of this.

You should stick to making your whatzits and leave security operations like this last one to me and Steele.

Excuse me? I am the captain of this vessel, and—

A job you’re completely unsuited to.

What? Hey!

Someone had to tell you.

Is that what you believe, that as captain I’m out of my element here?

Doesn’t this last job prove that?

Martia, I . . . he threw up his hands and spun away. Taking a cleansing breath, he turned back and dropped his hands flat to his desk. Okay . . . Fine! What was wrong with this last job?

Do you really want to know?

I do. Tell me. He held up a hand to halt her before she could start. No. Never mind.

Fine. Martia pushed to her feet, focused on the black cube once more, and picked it up. What is this? she said, testing its weight.

It’s an urn, the remains of a friend. Put it down.

Her brows leveled. Sure. She set it back into its holder then turned on her heels and headed out.

Wait! Capt. Westfield hurried after her, catching her before she ducked through the end-of-the-corridor hatch. I do want to know, he said. What was wrong with this last job? He wanted to grab her shoulders and spin her around to face him, but . . . he yanked his hand back. Touching her like that could be taken the wrong way. Martia was very capable of returning his arm to him broken.

Already halfway through the hatch Martia stopped. Hesitant, she pulled her foot back, turned, and pressed a stiff, accusing finger to his chest. You took all kinds of security risks just to play dress up.

Dress up?

"Yes, dress up. You made a gizmo that makes you look older, so you just had to use it. You’re the captain. You’re in charge. Fine. But that scheme just to get two Talons? That was convoluted."

Convoluted?

It was completely unnecessary.

His jaw dropped.

Martia’s nostrils flared. She was on fire, her tone ardent but measured. As angry as she was, to Gilead she was no less breathtaking. Gathering himself, he crossed his arms and said the only coherent reply he could think of. Oh, really?!

You should have at least asked me what I thought of it. But apparently to you I’m just a potted plant.

"And what would you have done instead, Miss Security expert?"

I would have stunned those arrogant dillholes, taken their ships outright, and then sold those men into slavery.

Sold them? What the—

Oh, don’t look so incensed. Working a farm would’ve done ’em good. A year or two working the mines of Kesselring would have humbled them some. You saw how those arrogant cocks strutted in here. You saw how they treated your mother. That didn’t bother you?

I never considered taking offense. That’s just the way those people are.

"A man treats a frail old lady like crap, and you’re okay with that?