I’ve been playing with a little something off an on at lunch…
After I finish the Grey Man I’m working on now, I was thinking about a ‘bit’ of a change of scenery…
Since all the cool kids are doing it, I thought I might do a sci-fi story. Here are a couple of short chapters, as usual no editing, kinda stream of consciousness writing stuff…
Comments appreciated! Am I wasting my time or not?
Prolog
Fargo was in a daze. Between the incoming plasma fire, the 20mm rifles and the loss of both his left arm and lower right leg, the only thing keeping him alive was the skinsuit and breathing mask. Well, that and the med-pack that was pumping a variety of drugs into his body.
The team had been landed on X423W three days earlier to perform a second in scout of planet to see if it was as habitable as the first in scans indicated, and to conduct an inventory and survey of the world. As a team, they’d been together for twenty relativistic years, and settled into their roles like an old comfortable pair of shoes. Sergeant Ethan Fargo, Earth native as team lead, empath and intel, had doled out the missions they’d pre-planned at the base before they ever climbed into the scout ship. Pop, from Kepler 62E was the scout and primary security. Hardt, Earth stock from Waldron-Antaries 4, was the science lead and pilot for the small shuttle they had been using. DenAfr, the Taurasian symbiote pair, was the sifter and primary medic, checking the air, water and soil for composition. In addition it was the back up security with Pop. Diez, also Earth native, was the comms, backup medic, and a level five Psi. Diez also maintained their armored suits and comms software and hardware they used in the field.
What they hadn’t expected was to encounter Traders…
They’d abandoned their armored suits as soon as they realized the Traders were targeting them somehow. Gotta remember to report that, he thought. But that didn’t happen until they’d lost Pop, the scout just after he yelled the warning. Hardt had recovered Pop’s can, then he was nailed just as he made it to cover. Fargo retrieved Pop’s and then Hardt’s cans as Diez came over common and said dump armor, so they’d jumped down into a ravine a hundred or so feet deep on anti-grav giving them momentary cover. DenAfr, the sifter had a few problems extracting itself from the armor, but that wasn’t unusual for them.
Diez had run a code and sent the suits on autonomous recovery mode, sending them climbing toward the upper end of the ravine and the shuttle as the three remaining members of the team headed in the opposite direction. Fargo missed the armament including the heavy pulse rifle, but his implicit trust in Diez and his intel expertise overrode that desire. At least he had his 6mm bead pistol and 13mm bead rifle, as did Diez. DenAfr, due to its size was able to detach the 20mm rifle from its armor and carried it with ease in the pseudopods it had extruded.
They’d made it about 10 klicks down the ravine when DenAfr rounded a blind corner and ran head on into four Traders. He’d shot two, bludgeoned one, but wasn’t fast enough to get the fourth one. Neither Fargo nor Diez had a shot until they’d cleared DenAfr’s bulk, but by then it was too late.
That they had killed the last trader wasn’t much comfort, as the loss of DenAfr meant they were really in the hurt locker. Without DenAfr, they would have no cueing if the Traders decided to throw a Biowep at them. Fargo remembered checking the telltale on their skinsuit, confirming it was red, then keying the suit and turning away as it burned down into a can. Surprising Fargo, it was exactly the same size as the cans for Pop and Hardt. He added it to the 40mm bandoleer he’d grabbed out of his armor, and ran his thumb over the tabs on the ends of the cans. Each lit with the GalScout personnel code for the individual.
He and Diez had made it another seven, maybe eight klicks circling back toward their camp and jump ship before they’d been caught in the open by another group of Traders and taken cover into some kind of wallow. Thankfully it was empty and deep enough to protect them from direct fire, but it was also hard to target the Traders without their armor.
Diez had psi-linked with Fargo and confirmed he’d triggered the emergency beacon before they evacuated the camp and he’d also sent out a blind broadcast while they were on the run, hoping there was some friendly ship that might hear it.
Fargo had thought, “Well, that’ll be a fat chance in hell, the scout ship isn’t due back for another ten day, and we’re so damn far out in the boonies I doubt there is anybody else in this star system.”
Fargo knew he was at the end of his rope physically, but noted that even though Diez was a tired as he was, there wasn’t any indication of that in the telepathic link, which earned a chuckle from Diez, “See, as long as I’m breathing, telepathy works. I stop breathing, it doesn’t work. File that one away Fargo.”
Fargo thought back, “Yeah, breathing is good. Getting out of here is going to be a problem.”
Diez crept up to the lip of the wallow, fired and slid back down to the bottom projecting, “Well, I think we’ve cut them down a few. I see three out there and I think I got a hit on one of them. The most you sensed was nine, right?”
Fargo thought, “I screwed up, I wasn’t open enough. I was trying to sense if there were any animals, and I was blocking higher order in our band. But yeah, nine.”
Fargo climbed up to the lip, stuck his head up slowly, and surveyed the plain to the east of their camp and the jump ship. Looking slowly and opening his mind to any empathetic sources, he was jarred to feel someone behind him with a sense of gloating. As he started to turn, Diez had both projected and screamed, “Opposite lip! Drop!”
Fargo, half way through turning, couldn’t disengage his feet in time, and felt a blow to his leg as he dropped back to the bottom of the wallow, firing on the way down. Diez had fired on full auto at the one weak point they knew on the Trader’s armor, the connection plate between the body and helmet. From an upward angle it was actually fairly easy to kill them if you put enough beads on the seam. Diez was in the process of reloading when two more heads popped over the edge of the wallow. Fargo yelled at Diez as he fired at the one he thought was the most ready to shoot and took him out, but the second shot down into the wallow before Fargo could shift his aim.
Diez reared up, screamed both verbally and telepathically as he was hit across the chest and hips, but he fired on auto again and chewed up the side of the wallow, then the lip, and finally the second Trader. Fargo felt a blow on his left arm, and lost his rifle. He watched in cartwheel away from him, then the pain hit.
Fargo looked down and realized most of his left arm was gone, just as the med-pack hit him with another dose of pain killers. Fargo’s mind was a little fuzzy, but he realized he’d already had one dose, and wondered why. He started to get up to go to Diez, but fell over. Rolling over, he looked down and saw that his right leg ended at the knee. Oh, that’s where the other dose came from, he though.
Diez slumped to his knees, and his pain came through the link hitting Fargo like a hammer, until Diez med-pack dumped pain killers into Diez. Crawling over, Fargo managed to get to Diez, and propped himself against the side of the wallow as Diez fell back across his lap. Panting, Diez thought, “Damn, this shit is not good! Well, hate to say this Fargo, but I think they stuck a fork in us.”
Fargo thought back, “Stuck a fork in us?”
Diez coughed and pulled his breathing mask to the side, spit a mouthful of bright red blood, then left his mask hanging. “We’re done Fargo. Well done. It’s been a good twnety years. Had more fun than the law allowed. Got to see more shit than I ever thought I would. Proud to serve with you. Couldn’t ask for…”
Fargo thought, “Diez you gotta hang on man. You can’t leave me now. Your med-pack is as good as mine and mine’s keeping my ass alive. Diez. Diez!” Fargo leaned over and looked Diez in the eyes, then saw more blood dribble from his mouth.
Diez seemed to focus on Fargo, a half smile forming on his lips and one last thought came across the link. “Fargo, you’ll never believe what you missed.” Diez shook his head, almost in sadness and continued, “You’ll never believe…”
Fargo screamed as he felt Diez die, and thought his head was going to explode. He blacked out for some time, then slowly came back around. Something was wrong with his head, it was like he had double vision, except that it was in his mind. He slowly reached down and checked Diez telltale. It was blood red.
Sliding Diez off his lap, he keyed the recovery code and turned away as Diez was consumed inside the suit and it shrunk into another can. He picked it up and placed it in the bandoleer with the other three, pulled his bead pistol and leaned back against the side of the wallow awaiting the inevitable on world X423W.
After a couple of minutes, Fargo decided to make a try to get up to the lip of the wallow and get it over with, rather than sitting in the bottom of a hole waiting to die. He was a former Terran Marine dammit, and Marines go out on their feet, not on their asses. Holstering his pistol, he started slowly scrabbling up the side of the wallow, every bump of his leg or arm sending shooting pain throughout his body. Rather than giving up, this pissed him off even more, and he redoubled his efforts. After what seemed like an eternity, he made it all the way to the lip of the wallow, and rolled slowly over.
As he lay there, he wondered if anyone would ever find them, or even care. He wasn’t much of a praying man, but he said a prayer for his team members, and hoped there was an afterlife so he’d seen Amy and Ike one more time. Levering himself up on the body of the Trader he’d shot, he looked across the flat to see the last two Traders he’d sensed coming out of the forest in armor.
His thoughts turned to the last stanza of Fiddler’s Green
And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers’ Green..
He reached for his pistol, then the world turned white.
And another character…
Help Wanted
Fargo’s e-tainment center beeped with an incoming message, and he said, “Accept.”
The screen blinked on to show a bearded face, something Fargo didn’t remember ever seeing since he’d left Earth. Confused he said, “Ethan Fargo Can I help you?”
The bearded face said, “Mister Fargo, I’m Rick Remington, RRInc. I’m on my way down to Hunter, should be groundside tomorrow morning. I’d like to meet with you, as I’ve been told you might be able to help me out.”
Figuring the time lag, Fargo estimated this call was at least being made from insystem, rather than out. “Mister Remington I can be at Hunter SP one by zero nine in the morning. Where would you like to meet? And can you give me some idea of what help you’re looking for?’
Remington rubbed his face saying, “Your name was passed to me as a hunter. I’ve got a problem at one of my camps that needs a hunter to take care of it.” Fargo saw Remington look away and then back, “SP one, at zero nine. Got it, main conference room at the administration building. See you then.” With that the screen went black and disconnected symbol popped up.
Fargo commed his sister Luann and asked if she had any idea what or who Remington was. She told him that Remington Inc. had the logging concession for Hunter, and was running a number of small camps with a main mill near the Evergreen jump port. He thanked her and brought up a search engine, finding a number of articles and features on Remington. Selecting one that seemed to have been produced by the company, he brought it up and watched it. He was amazed to find that there was money to be made in natural lumber. He’d never thought of that as a scarce product, or anything other than an interim building material until one could get plascrete in place. But the video seemed to indicate there was a large galactic market in fine wood for boardrooms, homes and government buildings. He had to look up the word veneer and confirm that it meant what he thought it did, and he wondered how Remington got the wood off world.
After viewing more videos, he finally gave it a pass, since there didn’t seem to be anything on Remington himself. After feeding Cattus and Canis, he dialed up what he now thought of as chef’s surprise and waited for the auto chef to spit out his dinner.
The next morning at zero seven, he hauled the lightflyer out of storage and configured it for cargo, since he needed to bring supplies back, and had more skins to take down to the spaceport. After locking the cabin down, he sent Cattus and Canis to their packs, and launched for the spaceport. A warning of a new tight beam popped in on the navigation display, and he accepted it, remembering he needed to go see Drogan about using him for security on the expansion of the tight beam links that TBT was putting in.
Fargo left his rifle and the skins in the lightflyer, locking it and walking across the ramp to the administration building. As he neared the building, one of the stranger craft he’d ever seen come in for a landing. Ungainly, and not in the slightest aerodynamic, it looked like somebody had chopped off a freighter just below the bridge and first deck and put a flat plate on the bottom. That was accentuated by the lander legs that looked grafted onto the four corners of the ship? Shuttle? And what looked like two additional tractor modules grafted on behind the ship’s bridge. Shaking his head, he continued on into the building and was greeted by Sergeant Omar, who asked, “Ho, lieutenant of the retired, meeting today you have?”
Fargo replied, “Ho Sergeant, meeting I have, important people come.” The sergeant waved him through and Fargo went to the snack bar, picking up a bulb of coffee to kill a few minutes. He arrived at the conference room to find a huge individual pacing the floor mumbling to himself, as the person turned, Fargo realized it was the same face he’d seen on the vid, and that it sat atop a body that was at least six-six and three hundred pounds. He also sensed trepidation and a locked down set of thoughts. He said, “Mister Remington? I’m Ethan Fargo.”
Remington came around the table and stuck out a hand the size of a small ham, “Rick Remington. Do you go by Ethan?”
Fargo surreptitiously checked to make sure Remington hadn’t broken anything in his hand as he replied, “Most of the time it’s just Fargo. Too many years of mil and GalScout. It drills a Pavlovian response to the last name. So what can I do for you sir?”
“It’s Rick, please. Sit, sit. Can I offer you a libation?”
Fargo said, “No thanks, I’ve got a coffee. So Mister Remington, what seems to be the problem?’
Remington eased his bulk into one of the chairs and put his forearms on the table, looking directly into Fargo’s eyes. “It’s Rick and I’ve got some timber rats holed up in their modular out at one of our camps. They’ve been spooked by what they claim is a Silverback, or maybe two. They are refusing to leave, claiming they can hear it prowling around the module, and screaming at them. It apparently attacked one of the guys while he was in an Exoskel, and scared the shit out of him. He ran it back to the module, and now…”
Fargo leaned back in the chair, “A Silverback? Are they sure?”
Remington shrugged, “Well, they’re up at forty-seven north. That does seem to be within the known range of those beasts.”
Fargo asked, “How long have they been stuck in the modular structure?”
Remington replied, “Going on three local days. I got back in system yesterday and got their ping then. Took me most of yesterday to figure out how to approach it, and find you.”
Fargo said, “Just out of curiosity, how did you find me? And what makes you think I’d take something like this on?”
Remington said, “Heard about you from one of the shuttle pilots, he was talking about how crazy you are, hunting Silverbacks and other shit down here. Guess he’s seen some of your skins, and commented that you must be good, as you’d sold a dozen or so of them. I also found out you’ve worked security for TBT on their services expansion here. I figured anybody that survived one Silverback, much less a dozen and is a security guy would want a shot at another one. I’ll pay you ten thousand credits, and you can keep the skin. I just want my guys back working.”
Fargo sensed Remington’s nervousness, mingled with hope, and steepled his fingers. Thinking for a minute, he finally said, “Okay. Let’s do this.”
Remington dropped his head, then said, “Thank you. I was afraid that wouldn’t be enough. When can you be ready?”
Fargo got up, “Give me fifteen minutes. How do I get there?”
Remington replied, “I can take you in the beast outside. It’s not real comfortable, but it’ll get us there and back.”
Fargo nodded, “Okay, let me get my rifle and pack. Meet you back here in fifteen.” He headed back to the lightflyer, got his gear and walked back to the admin building. Remington stood watching and said, “That’s all you’ve got?”
Hefting the rifle, Fargo said, “All I need. How do we board that monstrosity?”
Remington laughed in relief, “It’s got a bow ramp. Bottom is completely sealed, ten inches of battle steel.”
Fargo whistled, “Ten inches? What kind of battles are you fighting with this thing?”
Remington keyed a command and a ramp exuded from the first deck, sloping sharply to the ground. He led Fargo up the ramp and into the first deck, then up a short passage to the bridge. Settling in the pilot’s chair he adjusted his bead pistol to a more comfortable position as he indicated the nav chair for Fargo. “Put your stuff in the locker at the back of the bridge, it’ll be safe enough there. Then you might want to strap in. Ol’ Betsy here isn’t the best riding beast around.”
Fargo stowed his gear, noting the magnetic holders and ensured his rifle was properly aligned with the rack, then dropped his backpack in the bottom of the locker. Returning he saw a small lustrous object sitting on top of the pilot’s console and glare shield. He looked at it and saw Remington follow his view. Remington picked it off the glare shield and handed it to Fargo, “That’s Ol’ Betsy. She’s pretty much a fish out of water, so to speak.”
Turning it over in his hands, Fargo saw a beautifully carved Earth Dolphin that looked almost alive in the wood. Marveling, he handed it back saying, “That is absolutely beautiful! It looks almost real! Who did that?”
As soon as he said it, he felt a surge of emotion from Remington, “Well, I did. It’s a wood called Teak. Every one of my rigs has a name and a carving in it. Kind of a tradition for me.” Taking the carving back, he sat it back on the glare shield, and fired up the beast as he called it. Whatever else Richardson might be, Fargo knew he was riding with a master pilot, as he watched Remington almost unconsciously hold the ship level in ground effect as he retracted and rotated the lander legs. As soon as he got clearance, Remington popped the beast to altitude, and programmed in a course for the camp.
Fargo waited until Remington had completed the programming and slumped back in his seat, then asked, “Just out of curiosity, what the hell is this thing?”
Remington chuckled, “Well it’s a homebuilt tractor. It was a fancy ships shuttle, and got crashed. I bought it for salvage, gutted it, cut the bottom off and welded a new bottom on. The lander legs and additional tractor power came from some other units that we salvaged, and voila, the Betsy the Beast.”
“What do you do with it though? That’s the question.”
Remington glanced over, “Well, we use it to haul trees from the camps to the mill at Evergreen. With the tractors, I can snuggle a load up against the belly, haul it to the mill, lather rinse, repeat for all four of the camps that Evergreen supports. I’ve got another one, Barbara down at South Fork mill, supporting the camps down there. They’re both local space worthy, so I can and do use them to haul finished cuts up to the station. Once they’re out of atmosphere, they’re pretty quick. Down here, they’re limited to sub Mach. Just have to make sure the load is far enough forward that it doesn’t get singed.”
Fargo asked, “How big a load are we talking about? This thing, er, beast is what forty-fifty meters?”
Remington nodded, “Yep, right at fifty meters long, and with the mods thirty meters wide. She’ll tractor a hundred twenty-five tons, and we’ve hauled trimmed trunks over two hundred feet long.”
Fargo whistled, “What grows that big? I mean, I’m originally from Earth, and the only thing I ever heard of that even came close was a tree called, um, I think it was a Redwood.”
Remington replied, “Yep, that’s what we’re into at the 47 North camp. Some old growth Redwoods. They’re giving us about a twenty to one ratio of weight to board feet of lumber.”
During the next four hours, Fargo got most of Remington’s story, from his start as a genie machinist, which accounted for his size, through his transfer to a pilot and ship captain. The irony of the story was the fact that as a ship captain, he’d seen the fancy boardrooms and high end buildings and the real wood paneling and trim they contained. When he’d brought the first colony ship to Hunter, he’d lost his wife to an undiagnosed brain tumor during the trip. Not wanting to go back to an empty home, he’d taken a cash out in system after his second trip and started with a small mill that he ran himself. Remington admitted he’d stolen plans from the history books on how to cut big trees, and had mostly built his own systems, just like he’d built this ship and its sister basically out of spare parts. Hiring a few disaffected spacers and a few settlers he’d branched out slowly over the last ten years, and now spent most of his time, as he said, fighting the bureaucracy and the thieves at Star Center. He didn’t have his own ships to haul the lumber back to Earth or the major planets, so he sold it to brokers at Star Center. He told Fargo he was making a bit of money, but not a lot.
That was one of the reasons for very small clear cuts in specific areas. He’d also told Fargo that he estimated the total amount of wood he could take out in the next thirty years would exceed one trillion credits. Fargo had laughed at that, until Remington explained that one single one meter wide forty meter long Redwood, Teak, Mahogany, Oak, Maple or Chestnut plank with good grain and no knots could fetch three thousand credits by itself. Fargo had mumbled to himself he was in the wrong line of work at that statement.
A little over four hours later, Remington took control of Betsy and began a descent into what looked to Fargo like a mountainous area covered by a solid forest. As they descended a small clearing emerged from the forest, and Fargo saw clouds touching the peaks and fog shrouding the valleys.
Fargo allowed his empath sense to expand and he picked up a pair of what he’d come to know as Silverback attitudes for lack of a better word. They seemed to be the only ones on the mountain, and they were both below the ship and near the camp. Fargo sensed the Silverbacks either saw or heard the ship as it descended, and felt them start moving closer to the camp as Betsy touched down.
Remington quickly shut down the ship and pulled what had to be a 16mm bead rifle from another cabinet. Fargo picked up Remington’s fear and determination and quickly said, “No! You aren’t going out there. This is just going to be me. I’m not taking a chance on your getting hurt or killed. I’m going to do this my way. Now either stay here or run for the module. But whatever you do, do it quickly!”
Remington started to bridle at the tone of voice, until he realized Fargo was already in the hunter/killer mode and he was nothing more than an impediment to Fargo. He extended the ramp as Fargo pushed out of the compartment, rifle in hand. Activating the cameras he followed Fargo’s exited Betsy and watched him calmly walk toward the Module. Remington sealed the entry and retracted the ramp as Fargo walked away. Two thirds of the way there, Fargo stopped and turned around, facing into the broadest part of the clearing. And just stood there.
If you made it this far, thanks for reading and looking for your comments, good bad or otherwise… Thanks!
