CHAPTER 4: SLOW RIDE UPHILL

Planet Cygnus Alpha, first satellite of Alpha Cygni a.k.a. "Deneb Minor" in the Cygnus Star Region
Defunct Weyland-Yutani mining outpost "Sojourn," southeast shipping complex
Ruins of secondary aerodrome, vicinity of launch pad 1

The motion tracker hissed and buzzed, and the two spacers watched and waited.

"There it is again. Bogey two o'clock left, in the storage yard," the gunner called in. "On foot between the silos. Hey, is that the tracker beeping?"

"Yep, cleared up a bit. Still some crap blowing in the air, but I see them. Estimate six tangos, holding steady," answered Pappagallo.

"Taking their time, aren't they."

"Yep."

"Any luck on the comms?"

"Nope."

The battered space vessel had landed on the fragmented surface of the main landing pad here, a relatively flat and wide open space, and and with no hostiles yet in sight, they had taken the opportunity to find cover before the blowing sand settled. Pappagallo had chosen to go high, nestling the rover amidst the wreckage atop the roof of a skeletal hangar overlooking the area. It was a decent spot, easy to see over a wide area and fairly well camouflaged from anyone below.

Hopefully, if the ship was attacked while they remained undetected, they had a chance to seize the element of surprise and ambush the ambushers. They would need every tactical advantage they could get, for it was now obvious that the vessel was an unarmed commercial boat, its civilian crew most likely incapable of aiding in their own defense. But as time passed and the only sign of motion remained at the furthest edge of the decaying aerodrome, the odds that they hadn't been spotted grew increasingly improbable; it was very likely that they were of the same band as the six-wheeler who'd seen them on the way in. It was now over twenty minutes since touchdown.

"Pops. I don't think they're advancing at all. I think we've been painted. Must be waiting for us to make the first move."

Within the rover's cabin, Pappagallo narrowed his eyes, and didn't reply. He touched a finger to his temple, thought things over. This wasn't going well. Typical desert dwellers were more than a little sun-touched, somewhere between dim-witted and deranged, and not known for alertness or patience. It was growing increasingly likely that these particular scavs were in fact seasoned wasteland raiders, the most rare and dangerous of the lot. They usually went after bigger prey like convoys or small settlements, and few lone travelers were unlucky enough to draw their attention. But for the old merc and his companion, it seemed luck was not on their side this day.

"Time's up," came from the gunner, short and to the point. Pappagallo saw it: the starship was extending a side ramp, and there were people on the boarding platform at the end.

Their offworld guests would be on the ground in a moment, and at their most vulnerable. Their choices were now to continue waiting for an ambush and hope that civvy casualties would be minimal if it happened, or to attack the suspected enemy position immediately and hope their air superiority would carry the day, or break cover to warn the visitors and perhaps work out a joint plan.

Pappagallo made his decision. "Let's go meet the newcomers," he told his companion. "If they lift off for a safer LZ then the job's done right there."

"Better punch it. They could be in sniper range of that scav nest right now. You know, we might make better peacekeepers with our guns unholstered," the man pointed out, as the rover's weapons began retracting and the roof panels unsealed in front and behind the cuppola's section.

The scout rover was designed with retractable topside covers, a smaller one over the pilot's compartment and a large one covering the whole rear bed. Armour was obviously thinner at those sections, but it allowed for rapid escape or deployment of soldiers and crew. The machine wasn't meant to be a battletank in any case, more of a well-armed utility vehicle that could run missions as an air transport or light APC if need be.

"Stow that smartgun too. They'll be spooked if they see all the firepower on this machine," said Pappagallo, standing up to look at the gunner directly as the cockpit's roof hatch slid open. "I don't want them thinking we have a load of troops in the back either."

"Hmm. Not a bad idea, but keep in mind the scavs will be just as relieved," said the gunner. He drew out a short-barreled heavy carbine from the sling on his back and set it by his side, but then paused as he was reaching to unlock the smartgun's turret rail. "Hang on, I've got an idea for some insurance."

Rather than stowing the topside gun, the man swiveled the weapon rearward and pointed it straight up at the crimson sky. He took off his widebrim hat and reached up to stick it on the muzzle, making sure to jam the downward edge of the brim securely between the barrel and the tip of the rangefinder. Then he turned and flashed an impish grin to Pappagallo, who was watching on with one eyebrow raised.

"Doesn't look so threatening now, does she? Just an idea your lady friend gave me when… uh… never mind. Anyway, with this setup I can let her loose in just a couple of seconds, and I've got my backup piece right here," he explained.

Pappagallo stared a moment, his icy gaze going from the gunner to the hat-sporting smartgun, then a faint smile of amusement started tugging at the corner of his mouth. He wasn't known as a man of mirth, but this was rather absurd. It was innovative enough, he supposed, just… odd.

Without further ado, he sat back down and powered up the rover. Within seconds, tattered sand-covered runways and landing pads were zooming below while dilapidated hangars and service buildings receded behind, and the big outworld ship loomed before them like some vast, beached leviathan.

x x x x x

As the mercenaries drew close, it became evident that this starship was in particularly bad shape. The hull seemed intact, but it was badly scorched and battered from many consecutive space flights and planetfalls without servicing. That could well be the norm of interstellar travel these days, but as it was, Pappagallo didn't like the odds of this machine getting back out to space in one piece.

No one shot at them as they crossed the distance to the ship, but he was less concerned about his armoured rover's safety as opposed to the folks completely exposed on that descending ramp. He noted that the space vessel's massive landing struts offered the side ramp some degree of cover from the scav position's line of fire, and as they neared the ramp he angled his vehicle to obstruct their firing arc further.

There were three people on the boarding platform, two men in civilian garb and another wrapped head to toe in dark cloths. He recognized the third as a woman; even that much heavy covering didn't quite mask her prominent curves. That gave him pause, for the sight of a female traveler was a rare thing on the frontier. These were dangerous waters for a lady to be sailing, most especially a curvy one.

"Alright, that's close enough!" one of the men barked. He had on a jacket emblazoned with the Company's fleet logo and the name 'USCSS Sotero,' and he pulled an autopistol from an underarm holster, brandishing the long-handled weapon at the rover as it touched down before the ramp.

Pappagallo looked at him, unmoved, and stepped partways out the side hatch with one foot on the sand to face him. "All friends here, Merchant Officer. Welcome to Cygnus Alpha," he said in cordial manner.

"You're not military, who the hell are you?"

"Just a couple of frontier spacers looking to make palaver," the gunner answered him, briefly turning from his watch on the distant silos. "You look new to these parts, so I'll tell you now: we have a rule here on the outworlds. Man pulls a gun, he better be ready to use it, because every spacer who sees him is going to draw their own steel. And believe me, everybody around here is packing. No one's going to be much impressed by another fella waving a piece, my friend."

To make his point, the gunner put his heavy carbine over the arm in casual pose, tapping the barrel on his shoulder in emphasis.

"Raiker, will you put that thing away? They would have shot us already if that's what they wanted!" the second man whispered sharply in the crewman's ear, who slowly lowered his autopistol but did not put it away. This one was a dapper looking fellow, well-dressed and mustachioed. A civilized type for sure, there was no frontier ruggedness about him. Turning to the mercs, he stepped off the ramp, raising an empty hand in greeting.

"I'm Henry, traveling salesman in women's garments and fine clothes of all sorts," he said, openly and affable. "You said you wanted to talk? I'm not in charge, but I can listen. What's to talk about?"

"Well, we'd work for you if you need a freelancer's service. A ticket off this planet would be even better. I might even be inclined to look at your wares," said Pappagallo. "But this isn't the time or place. There's some bad people near here looking to take what we would trade for, and they could be packing enough lead to hurt your tall ship here. I suggest you take off again and meet us at a safer place, and we can continue chatting there."

The woman, who had been quiet and watchful of the mercs up to this point, started to speak up. But the Company crewman, Raiker, interrupted: "I don't think so, Marshal Gunsmoke. Thanks for the warning, but we can take care of ourselves. We're not fucking about on this dustball anyway, we're just picking up something from the outpost and we'll be on our way."

"If you're thinking about hitting the 'secret' aerodrome vault for supplies, don't bother," warned the gunner without looking back at him. "Look around you, man. This town has been looted right down to the bolts and the wiring. Bandits and scavengers have been picking over the place for decades, there's nothing left but rusty scrap."

"You yokels think you found everything the Company hid away?" Raiker retorted. "I don't think so. 'Bad people' my ass, you want us to fuck off so you can find the vaults yourself! I'm not impressed by some asshole waving a pea-shooter either, pal. So before I get really pissed and break out our real firepower, why don't you go find yourself a nice shithole to…"

As if to deliberately silence the man's tirade, a rapid sequence of sounds occurred at that moment. First, an innocent-seeming pop in the distance, from the direction of the outlying silos facing the side of the rover, the direction the vehicle's gunner was watching the whole time. Then, a hiss. And then, a sharp clang, sounding like someone had tossed a metal wrench with all their strength against one of the great landing struts nearby.

Everyone on the ramp platform flinched. The two mercenaries did not.

"Sniper," the gunner remarked in the same sort of tone he might use to announce bad weather. The pop-hiss-clang happened again, inciting the alarmed newcomers to duck behind the massive hydraulic winch at the platform's side, but seeming only to amuse the gunner.

"He's wasting his ammo, he's got no angle on anything except me." He left it unsaid that from his sheltered position in the rover's armoured cuppola, he wasn't particularly worried about his own safety.

"Can you see him?" asked Pappagallo, conversationally.

"Yeah… yeah, there he is. Idiot with a long rifle, thinks I can't tag him right there on that high dome. Give me a second."

Bringing up his carbine, the gunner sighted down the short barrel and took three swift shots at the row of silos bordering the landing field. His weapon was a powerful one, and its report thundered over the field. At the largest silo several hundred meters away, clouds of needle-sharp antipersonnel flechettes peppered the upper area of the sniper's perch and whistled overhead, prompting a startled curse from the man positioned there.

"That should keep their heads down a while," said the gunner, then silently noted to himself: Eight stingers in the clip. Five stings and six slugs on the belt. Wasting your own ammo, man. Avoid burst fire, shoot only at what you can hit.

"Are we in serious trouble?" Henry asked the starship crewman, trying to imitate the mercs' unperturbed demeanour. "Maybe we should land somewhere else like they say!"

"Fuck that," snarled Raiker, and touched the earpiece of his headset. "Rob, did you get all that? This rock ain't worth all this bullshit. Let's prep for lift-off and try Argus next."

"Officer Raiker, listen," the lady tried to break in, her tone urgent. "That would be ill-advised with the core…"

"Bitch - get on the fucking ramp or get lost! Now!" Raiker shouted at her.

"Wait, wait! Miss? What was that about a core?" the gunner asked, looking back of a sudden. "Core of what, the sublight drive?"

The shrouded woman looked up at them with big luminous eyes of startling beauty, started to speak again and was again interrupted.

"Last call, toots!" the Company man snapped. "Get your wide ass on the ramp or go play in the sand, I don't give a flying fuck either way! You got five seconds before I hit the button!"

"Merchant Officer Raiker." Pappagallo's voice was soft, and cold as the depths of space. "The next time you open your mouth, I will shoot your teeth out the back of your head. Do you understand?"

Dav Raiker actually knew how to use a gun and wasn't hesitant about putting holes in people, and he twisted his mouth in a sneer. He started to bring up his own weapon, a scornful retort on his lips. But even though he had decent cover behind the ramp's hydraulic winch, something gave him pause.

The big redneck, whom he'd contemptuously dubbed Marshal Gunsmoke, had a gun holster on his right hip with a safety cover over the top. Raiker had a trained eye for detail, as any good pilot did, and he was pretty sure that when the Marshal first put his leg out of his flyer, that holster cover had been strapped closed and he had rested his right hand on the vehicle's door frame.

Problem was, the cover was open now, and the grip of the large black pistol in there was visible. Raiker had never taken his eyes off Gunsmoke for any longer than a fraction of a second, and he could have sworn the man hadn't moved since he first saw him. But now, just as he was about to flip him off, he realized the freebooter's gun was loose and ready in its holster and that right hand of his was hanging casually beside it. Raiker had never seen that hand move.

The tall prick had the deadest don't-give-a-fuck eyes he'd ever seen, and they were fastened squarely on him. Raiker was starting to get a very bad feeling about what could happen in the next five seconds. He shut his mouth.

"Good choice, friend. They call this man the Mad Dog of Koronis, piss him off and you'll see why," said the gunner, easing comfortably into the good cop role. "Sorry Miss, what were you saying just now?"

"Thank you," said the lady, startling Pappagallo for an instant with the warmth in her voice. It had been a long time since he'd heard a female voice so sincere and unafraid. The few women on Cygnus Alpha did not speak that way, if they spoke at all.

"I was saying just now that hyperspeed travel would be ill-advised with our core tritium cells so overtaxed," she explained. "I believe that the Sotero's exterior hull has degraded to unsound condition from our planetfall. The hull grid was haemorrhaging power trying to hold the spaceframe together, and by my estimate there is no longer enough output from her fuel cells to sustain the main drive at the same time. She can probably manage atmospheric flight, but she might not survive an orbital escape."

"You mean we could have been killed if we went back into space?" exclaimed a shocked and angry Henry, directed mostly at the Company man.

"Well look at that, Mister Raiker. The person you were so busy shouting down might have just saved your life," commented the gunner to the Sotero's pilot, who indicated his opinion of the woman's technical assessment with a derisive gesture

"Look, Raiker, we have to… er, could you let him speak, Mister, er, Mad Dog?" asked Henry, drawing a chuckle from the gunner. At Pappagallo's nod, the salesman continued: "We have to do something, and this place isn't safe. Why don't we just fly to somewhere safe on this planet, maybe buy some supplies and do some repairs, and then go for hyperspace?"

"Fuck that," was Raiker's curt response. "This is a freeport, there ain't anywhere safe here. Besides, that stupid cunt…"

The Company crewman stopped abruptly, as Pappagallo gently raised a finger, conveying a depth of menace disproportionate to such a simple motion.

"That… that woman doesn't know what she's talking about," he amended. "The Sotero's one hell of a tough bird and she's been through way worse. We'll make hyperspace just fine. It's the captain's call anyway, and he's as fed up with this place as I am. You can come for the rest of your charter or you can stay here, it's your choice."

"Oh yeah? So the lady doesn't know what she's talking about, huh?" Henry replied, getting even more riled. "If you two idiots knew what you were doing, we wouldn't be lost on the outer rim in the first place! And it's her fuel cells slaved to your damn power plant, you think I don't know that? The hell with you, I'll take her judgement over yours any day!"

"Excuse me, Mister Mad Dog?" said the salesman, turning to the elder mercenary. "I'd like to hire you, if you're still offering. Could I charter your vehicle for a trip to the nearest safe settlement?"

"And could I as well?" asked the lady, looking up at him with her lovely shining eyes.

"Yep, can do," he nodded, and the gunner smiled and added: "We were heading somewhere like that anyway. Hop in!"

"Er, could you wait a moment? It's not just me, I've an assistant and six crates of merchandise to bring down. Wouldn't be much of a salesman without 'em, right?" said Henry apologetically.

"I also have possessions to retrieve from the ship, a CTAC size four container and a carry-bag," said the lady looking anxiously at the mercs' vehicle. "Can you accommodate us?"

Pappagallo glanced at his gunner, who returned the troubled look. The scout rover's rear bed could only handle about nine cubic metres worth of cargo at the most, but he couldn't ask these folks to leave their possessions behind. Regional currency was worthless on Cygnus Alpha, and without goods or high-demand skills to barter, they would soon be reduced to slaves, petty criminals or starving paupers, none of whom tended to live very long.

But with nine m-cubed for three people, half a dozen cargo crates and a coffin-sized container…

"We might have a problem," the old merc murmured to the gunner. "Yep," the younger man replied dryly, sounding rather like the elder.

x x x x x

The gunner could hear the side ramp lowering, it wouldn't be long before it reached the ground. But every second it was up there was a moment of vulnerability for the exposed crates and people upon it, and it felt like it was taking forever. Still, he figured that it probably felt far, far worse for the descending folks themselves.

He saw a flicker of motion at the decaying silos on the landing field's perimeter, atop a different silo this time. There they were, looking to duck his overwatch and take their best shot at doing some damage.

"Don't think so, lads," he murmured and the blast of his carbine again resounded over the field. The tiny heads peeking over the silo rim vanished, and he wondered if he'd scored a lucky hit. Six stingers in the clip, five stings and six slugs on the belt. Watch the ammo, ace. That's all there is.

"Is that the lot?" asked the gunner as he heard the ramp touch down. He peeked back a moment now that they were relatively safe, and saw Pops and their new clients stepping off: the cloaked lady, the salesman Henry, and an unassuming man that he supposed was Henry's assistant. The ramp was loaded with several large cargo containers, but there was no cargo bot nor any one else to assist them.

"Yep," replied Pappagallo, but there was an edge to his voice unlike his usual dispassionate manner. "Are those scum making a move?"

"No, but if you feel like playing whack-a-mole…"

"Put the smartgun on autofire and get down here double time! That jackass of a captain is dusting off in five minutes and he's not lifting a finger to help!"

"Sycorax shit,"the gunner swore, grabbing the cuppola rail and vaulting clean over the vehicle's roof. "Go go go!"

It seemed the ship's master was about to kick the tires and light the fires, skipping pre-flight prep and safety checks and returning to the skies while the engines were still hot. Hell, if he was allowing a scant five minutes before lift-off, it was doubtful he was doing any launch prep at all.

Working feverishly, the five spent two minutes and twenty-one seconds loading the first of the salesman's two crates and the woman's large and exceptionally heavy coffin-shaped container onto the rover's rear bed. Pappagallo distantly noted that the lady put in more than her fair share of work; she was pretty strong for her size. Halfway through, with four crates left, he called a halt as he realized his ominous prediction had been realized.

"Not enough room," said the gunner, grimly stating the obvious. The crates were just too tall, the rear compartment didn't have the volume to stack them all. It could take either four crates or two crates and the CTAC container, all arrayed flat on the bed, but the compartment wasn't high enough to stack the rest atop that and still close the roof cover. And if they tried to make the run through the ruins of Sojourn with the roof open…

"Henry, can you get by with two out of six?" asked Pappagallo, but the stricken look the salesman gave him was enough of an answer. As to their other options, abandoning the lady's sole possession of the CTAC container was out of the question, and there wasn't enough time to open the crates and fit their contents in separately.

"Forget it! Stack the rest and we'll figure it out later!" he barked. He had to shout to make himself heard now, for the Sotero's engines were spinning up and the roaring thrusters were already kicking up a sand storm all around them. The starship's blinding-bright landing floods and nav lights were blazing down through the blowing clouds, and considering they were directly underneath the great looming ship, it was quite the terrifying sight.

Two more precious minutes later, the rover was loaded up. By now the scouring dust storm was violent enough to cause pain to exposed skin, the din was almost earsplitting, and the unbearable heat radiating from the ship's jets had their clothes smouldering. Pappagallo, the lady and Henry crammed into the crew compartment, the salesman's assistant huddled in the cuppola, and the gunner was left exposed on the roof and clinging to the barrel of the smartgun for dear life.

Pappagallo turned the rover in the opposite direction from the silos and throttled up as fast as he dared. His visibility was nil with the billowing sand gusting everywhere he looked. He was driving blind, and he couldn't see above or below and had no idea of his altitude either. It was like flying through the Scyllan Nebula, nothing but raging red clouds in all directions. The old merc wrestled with the stick, feeling as though his vehicle was being blown sideways, and at one point there was a gut-wrenching jolt that felt like an impact with the ground. He could only hope that everyone was still aboard and unharmed.

A large dark wall materialized through the sandstorm. By its size, he figured it for the remnant of the aerodrome's east terminus, and he yanked at the stick in desperation as the rover was driven full-tilt toward the ruins. By some miracle that likely wasn't related to his piloting skill, he managed to steer his course between two of the large building structures, and there was another nerve-wracking impact as the rover struck a wall and came to a sudden halt. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise: there was enough of the terminus buildings still intact to offer shelter from the storm, and he put down on the sloping sand within the alley and took a deep breath as he collected his wits.

"Sound off! Everybody alright?" Pappagallo's voice boomed over the subdued roar of the wind. His nervous passengers reported their status, and it turned out everyone seemed more shaken up than anything else, even the gunner trapped outside. The latter's good spirits remained unshakeable; he reported that their 'lady friend' had somehow managed to save his hat a second time and he was thinking about proposing marriage.

It also turned out that their turn of good fortune extended to the rover's cargo. None of the upper crates stacked in the bed had been thrown off, though admittedly the wind had been mostly at their back. That fact caught Pappagallo's attention.

"They're still in? All four of them?" he said, more of a musing statement than a question.

"You're not thinking of… you are, aren't you?" said the gunner at the side door, sensing his intent.

"What? What's he thinking?" asked Henry, sounding a little less rattled now.

"We were just thrown around hard with the bed cover open and those crates stayed aboard," the younger merc answered him. "We can move just fine as we are, soon as the worst turbulence dies down. The dust will give us some cover too."

"Henry, I want you and your 'prentice in the bed ahead of the crates, let the gunner back in his turret," Pappagallo ordered. "Ma'am, you should stay in front with me, you can have the copilot's chair."

"Ladies first, huh," Henry said, grousing a little but smiling. "I don't mean to deprive you of her company Mister Mad Dog, but I could do you some good in that chair. I happen to know how to drive."

"You also happen to be larger and stronger than her," said Pappagallo, his voice brooking no room for argument. "If those crates shift forward, you two stand a better chance against being mashed. Move it."

If the lady had any feelings about her preferential treatment, she did not say. She simply observed, her beautiful eyes taking in every detail and betraying nothing of her thoughts.

In the crimson sky above, the cluster of blazing light from the Sotero's jets faded to a single bright star as she returned from whence she came. The roiling winds soon started to calm, and Pappagallo lifted off without saying a word and veered his machine out the alley into the swirling clouds. As it was, the dust was still too thick to let him return along their entry route by visual navigation, so the old merc simply checked his positioning system and turned to the general direction of North Cross city, and started off.

"Watch three-sixty, going weapons-hot," he notified the gunner, and flicked the switch on his joystick. "Stay alert," he said to the others. "The bandits won't let us off easy. If you see anything, say so."

There was no interference from the scavs at first, but there was no way of knowing if they were being followed. The rover's motion tracker was useless with all the particulate in the air, and it was easy to see phantoms hunting them in the formless clouds. A seemingly endless two minutes passed.

The small port hatch to the bed was pulled open, and the salesman stuck his head into the pilots' section. "Why are we moving so slowly?" asked Henry, his anxiety masked with irritation. "The engine wash from the Sotero's gone, let's take off and have done with these bastards!"

"We can't," Pappagallo said tonelessly. "The hover system only gives about a four metre ceiling and ten, maybe twenty klicks at full throttle."

"What? This is a flyer, use the bloody turbojets, man!"

"You don't understand, we can't fly because of the crates," the gunner explained, squatting down in the cuppola well behind the pilots' chairs to talk to Henry face to face. "Our aerodynamics are all messed up with the back roof open and those crates sticking out. That's why he wanted to ditch the ones on top, we'll stall out if we go to flight speed. We have to crawl out of here on the hoverjets, it's the only way to take everyone and all the cargo."

"Oh hell. Now he tells me," Henry groaned, turning to his assistant. "We're sitting ducks like this. Johann, how much of the stock can we lose and still…"

"Relax," Pappagallo broke in before the salesman could get too worked up. "This overloaded machine can still outgun and outmanoeuver any two-bit scav on the planet. We'll be out of here in a few minutes, just close that hatch and sit tight."

Another long minute later, the clouds of dust were mostly settled, the skeletal ruins of Sojourn rising up ghost-like from the murk. The gunner snatched his lid from the tip of the smartgun and put the widebrim back on as the hot sunlight began to shine through, and he brought the big weapon to bear on their course ahead. Their cover was gone.

There was a sudden explosive sound, a crash and tearing of metal off to the side. The gunner spun to face in that direction, smartgun primed and ready, and all but one of the people within the rover flinched.

"Easy," said Pappagallo, his deep voice turning soothing. "Building fell over. Just wind."

"A good wind will do that," the second merc agreed. But he did not look away from the direction of the noise.

"You new in North Cross, gunner?" Pappagallo asked after a time. The gunner smiled at his casual tone, a little surprised that the hardbitten old warrior was sharing friendly words.

"Yeah, just in from Shady Sands," the younger man replied. "You?"

"Junction. Any action up in Sands?"

"Nada. Zero. Zip. Nothing left to wrangle over. Any in Junction?"

"Nope. Same story."

"Same all over, huh." The gunner abruptly swiveled to face aft, squinted to try and penetrate the settling dust clouds. "Bogey on our six. Right side, peeking out an alley."

Pappagallo checked his motion tracker, which was mostly cleared up by now. There was a single signal, small and holding steady at the furthest edge of the tracker's range.

"Don't think so. Birdie," he said, calling it a no-threat, the opposite of a bandit. It was most likely a scout, unlikely to start taking potshots from that far off. Then the tracker started emitting a different set of bleeps started as another signal appeared, this one up ahead, and that got his attention.

"One o'clock high left," he notified the gunner. "Ladder hatch."

"I'm not in a good position, let him stick his neck out and…"

A slugthrower's staccato blast interrupted him, the sharp rat-tat-tat of a speed shooter, likely a makeshift autopistol. There were multiple impacts on the rover's forward section, on the armoured roof beside and in front of the gunner.

The gunner whirled halfway from the rear-facing smartgun, whipping his carbine out of his back sling like a swashbuckler drawing a sword, and fired one-handed at the shooter's muzzle flash. Near the top of the dilapidated comm tower ahead, the entire upper half of a rusty side hatch disintegrated in a spray of ripper flechettes, and the scant remnant of the structure's roof collapsed inward. The automatic gunfire ceased. In the fraction of a second since opening fire, the attacker had been allowed only four shots before the gunner's riposte.

Five stingers in the clip, five stings and six slugs on the belt. Sure would be nice if I could get off a shot with this great ol' cannon instead of my own lead.

"Nil movement. Scratch one bandit, nice shot," said Pappagallo after a moment, keeping his tone cool to calm the frightened passengers. "How's your hull?"

"No breach. Scratched the paint a bit though," said the gunner, eyeing the smoking torn spot on his jacket's left shoulder.

"Good man. Keep sharp, we're almost out."

"Remind me why that's a good thing? At this speed, the open sands won't be any safer."

"You remember that downed wheeler on the outskirts?"

"Ah… that could be handy," the gunner replied approvingly. "Let's just hope these blokes don't get there first."

Several more minutes passed. The native wind of the wastes chose this moment to pick up where the Sotero had left off, adding a low, eerie moan to the hum of the rover's hoverjets, and drawing a quiet oath from Pappagallo. Its reception scrambled up yet again, the hissing motion tracker still managed to pick out an occasional contact flitting in and out at furthest range, but no closer than that. There was a sense of quiet menace in the empty streets, the certainty that they were being watched.

The crumbling buildings and machines began to give way to the near-disintegrated debris on the outskirts of the ghost town. Everything looked different from when the two mercs first came into Sojourn; the sand had been blown into different drifts and patterns about the ruins, and a dour haze coloured everything in view. Nonetheless, it didn't take long to see they were on the right track; the damaged ground rover came into view looking no different from when they'd first seen it.

"Everybody out," Pappagallo ordered, halting his vehicle beside its wheeled counterpart. "We need to move four crates and quick."

"Not you ma'am," he stopped the lady, who was about to hop out behind him. "I need someone watching the motion tracker. If you see anything through the fizz, let me know." Her indignant look fell on the back of the merc's head as he moved out; though he meant not to patronize her, he had no time for gentlemanly civility.

The gunner had jumped out quick as a flash, and was inspecting the ground rover as Pappagallo came up. "It doesn't look good. Controls are smashed," he reported. "The tow pod's empty, we can use that if I can't jury-rig a joystick or two."

"Forget the wheeler," Pappagallo ordered. "The pod's enough, let's get it hitched."

The gunner uncoupled the cargo pod without any problems and the four men wrestled it over to the air rover and locked it in place. From there they needed only to move the four topmost crates a couple of metres out the rear bed into the pod, but the old merc halted halfway through the job and held up a hand, eyes narrowed.

"The send-off party's here."

x x x x x

"Get back in the machine and hang tight!" the gunner barked to the two merchants. He was already scrambling to the roof turret: he too had heard the sound of a vehicle engine over the moan of the blowing wind.

The shrouded lady murmered an apology through the comm system, but it wasn't her fault for missing their enemy's approach. Whether through sheer luck or careful timing or both, they had come right at the moment when the rover's motion tracker was rendered useless by the resurgent wind.

The tall, silent figure of Piers Pappagallo walked around the side of his machine but made no attempt to enter. The ominous silhouette of a familiar spike-festooned vehicle was already emerging from the blowing sand, and dark figures were materializing on either side.

These were raiders all right, coordinated and well-equipped. They weren't angling for an immediate attack, not with this kind of approach, and he wasn't too surprised. This lot was smart enough to recognize dangerous prey, and too stubborn and ornery to let it go. If they wanted a showdown, Pappagallo didn't plan to disappoint.

The old merc faced them and waited, watching on as they spread out. Within his rover's turret, the gunner watched on as well, silently noting the near-indistinguishable figure taking position behind the remains of a segmented wall, another figure with what could only be a massive shoulder-mounted M5 in his arms, and the big one ahead of all the rest wearing glinting metallic chest armour or perhaps a multitude of metal bandoliers.

For a long moment, the outworld mercs and the desert raiders faced each other. The raiders had spread out in a wide dragnet in front of them, but were moving no closer. Pappagallo was still as a statue, his hand motionless beside his holster, and the gunner seemed to be half-asleep as he leaned comfortably back in the rover's cuppola, his carbine resting on his lap below the smartgun rail.

It always seemed to come back to this scene, Pappagallo reflected. The modern fighter that sighted on a confirmed hostile was meant to let loose straight away, and the hell with rules of engagement. Yet somehow, you always ended up facing off with somebody who meant to kill you, and time would seem to freeze as each waited for the other. It was something in human nature, he supposed, something to do with obsolete predatory instincts. It didn't matter.

"Our guns match yours," an amplified voice suddenly boomed out from the lead figure. "But we outnumber you. I feel kind, let you go today. But your cargo is ours now."

The figure tilted its head as one of its comrades leaned close. Then it added: "And so is your woman."

Somewhere inside, Pappagallo felt a vague unease as he considered the offer. It wasn't a bad one, all things considered. It was certain that there would be no employment to be had from these hapless outworlders, just a waste of his fuel and supplies. Likewise, an unclaimed woman on Cygnus Alpha was nothing but trouble, and even if he jacked the cargo himself, it was an even bet whether there was anything worthwhile in that crapload of luxury goods. So why the hell was he still here? What the hell was the point?

Beneath the faded brim of the USAAC Naval Fleet Command cap, the old merc's eyes narrowed against something other than the blowing sand. How long had he been on this sun-baked rock now? Sometimes, it seemed like he was getting as cynical and indifferent as every other hustler in these parts.

Pappagallo's arm blurred as the heavy M4G1 seemed to leap out of its holster into his hand, and his answer to the raiders' offer rang out over the wasteland wind. The silhoutte of the rocket launcher holder was the biggest form due to his weapon, and his was the first to vanish as he was blown off his feet into the storm.

The raiders countered with a maelstrom of firepower, but the blinding sandstorm was working against them now: staccato gunshots cracked as muzzle flashes blindly lit up the gusting murk, and hissing slugs flew all around the tall spacer without coming close.

He began to advance with his long strides, his measured, rhythmic shots the most telling of all as he targeted one sparking muzzle after another. His own weapon did not have a muzzle flash, and his aim was sure and deadly: one figure looked to be winding up for the toss of a flare or grenade, and he was the next to fall. Another was spitting fire through the haze with a trusty buckshot-spewing shotgun, and he quickly followed.

Then there was a sharper, familiar sounding crack above and to the side. Pappagallo dropped to a low squat behind a waist-high bit of wreckage as a heavier gunshot whistled uncomfortably close by: the raiders' sniper was on the hunt.

The gunner on the armoured flyer responded, and the smartgun's oddly melodious roar started up behind the crouching merc. Heavy armour-piercing rounds shrieked through the air, tearing through the nearby segmented wall like paper. There was no further action from the sniper.

The attacking smartgun then swiveled to the line of raiders, who dived and scattered away from its terrible stream of explosive AP rounds. Some of the scavs dodged too close to Pappagallo's semi-concealed position, and he made swift and deadly use of the opportunity.

Then another previously unseen heavy gun opened up from the top of the spiky wheeled vehicle. The younger spacer had revealed his position through the sandstorm with his searing smartgun burst, and Pappagallo could hear the impacts of the enemy cannon against his vehicle's armour. A high-powered vehicle mount was a serious problem: if it had enough ammunition, it could finish off the outworlders in short order.

The smartgun returned fire, but the old merc had had enough of this. He wasn't going to let this turn to a battle of attrition to see whose machine had the most ammo and the thickest plate. He pulled an IR flare from his belt, slid the finger-sized casing into the M4G1's undermount tube, sighted, and fired. It was quite unlikely that anyone in the enemy vehicle would hear or care about one more impact on their hull.

"Unit. Lock on active ping. Confirm." He waited a moment, cannon shells flying both ways just overhead, and then his vehicle confirmed his order with a single beep through his wire headset.

"Fox three, fox three. Confirm."

There was a deep, booming thud behind him, then the blazing flare of a seeker missile streaked above with a howl that momentarily drowned out the windstorm. And after the thundering explosion died down, there was no other sound than that of the storm.

A long moment passed. There were several scattered shots from much further away, then they were silenced by a distant amplified voice, urgent orders shouted in some obscure Yemeni dialect. The battle, having lasted less than a minute, was over.

Within the crew compartment of the military flyer, the woman watched with eyes widened with awe as the dark, tall figure of the elder warrior gradually emerged from the blowing sand, looming against the flames of the burning raider vehicle. He was walking as evenly as ever, one arm up to hold his cap snugly on his head.

"My God," said Henry to his stunned assistant in a shaky voice. "It's like he stepped out to take a leak."

"So that's it then?" the younger mercenary asked quietly as the elder eased his lanky frame inside and shut the hatch.

"Yep."

Pappagallo actually estimated that most of the raiders had survived the skirmish, including the leader, and could well regroup. But they'd had their noses bloodied pretty good, and he figured to be long gone before they got any ideas. As soon as the rover was out of the storm and away from Sojourn, there would be one more quick stop to properly load the cargo pod, and then it was clear skies all the way back to North Cross.

"Not a bad day's work," the gunner summarized with a wry smile. "Not bad," Pappagallo echoed sourly, noting what was left of his ordnance.

"My God," Henry said again in a whisper, shaking his head. "My God."

x x x x x

North Cross City, southeast open district
Haddock's Free World trading post, rear landing field

Piers Pappagallo stood leaning against his vehicle on a dusty landing field, one that wasn't particularly different from those of a hundred backworld tradeshacks he'd been to.

He watched on as the shop hands unloaded Henry's crates; it seemed he had something in his six crates of clothes that had caught Haddock's eye, enough for the miserly trader to send his boys out to help in any case. The outworld clothier was getting some fine service today.

"Mr. Mad Dog!" There was the man himself, bustling over with a bottle of hooch and a big grin. "Mr. Mad Dog, I'd like to buy you a drink! And your friend too!"

Pappagallo raised an eyebrow as Henry offered him the small bottle, proclaiming that it was all the way from Old Earth. The gunner, who was standing against a nearby docking strut, stopped his count of his remaining shells and shook his head with amusement. If that bottle was from the Terran system, then Henry had somehow found himself a shot of cheap booze that had traveled the length and breadth of human civilization.

The old merc accepted the liquor; it wasn't Haddock's worst. "That fight was the most amazing thing I've ever seen," Henry said, earnestly. "You two really are the best of the best, and I don't know how to thank you."

Pappagallo would have preferred if Henry had an ingot or a power cell to thank him with, but he supposed the drink would do. The job wasn't a complete bust after all; the salvaged cargo pod was a handy tool that he'd never seen available for trade on Cygnus Alpha.

"Where are you from?" Henry asked him in affable kind. The merc didn't answer, just took a sip and casually pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. Junction was back that way somewhere, and beyond that he didn't care to say.

"Where are you headed?"

Pappagallo passed the bottle to the gunner and then silently pointed ahead, toward the fireball of Deneb slowly descending below the horizon. He didn't much care if he was coming off cold; the man's grateful chipperness was getting irksome. It was late and he was tired, he figured he'd hole up here tonight then head back out to Dean's on the morrow.

"Thanks for saving our lives, mister," said Henry's young assistant as he came over, and to that the old merc nodded and touched the brim of his cap. Johann didn't speak much but made his point with few words when he did, and that was all right by him. "Henry, Mr. Haddock's called our cab, it's time to go."

"Okay, just a minute," Henry said, accepting the bottle from the more gracious younger merc and taking a deep swig. "That was really something to see, you know? I'll never forget it if I live to a hundred!"

"The cab's here, Henry."

"Hold on Johann, I'll be there! Anyway, nobody's going to believe all this, you know?" said Henry, and took another gulp, seeming to relish the idea of sharing a drink with real warriors. "It's like something out of a holovid, two heroes and a bandit showdown in the desert storm!"

"Henry, the cab's waiting! Come on!"

The merchant gave his assistant an annoyed look, then half-turned to thrust the bottle back into Pappagallo's hand. "You keep this, you earned it. I'm gonna tell 'em all anyway, you know? People gotta know about the Mad Dog of Koronis! They'll come to you for business, and they'll think twice before messing with ya! Thanks again, and good hunting!"

The tall spacer watched on as the exasperated Johann grabbed his boss and hustled out to the front of the trading post, and the younger man snorted with laughter as Pappagallo took off his cap and ran his fingers through his greying hair, an obviously rare gesture of amusement from the unemotional merc.

"Looks like a legend in the making, eh?"

Pappagallo looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "The 'Mad Dog of Koronis?'"

"Hey, I had to come up with something impressive on the fly, give me a bloody break man! And besides, every barren asteroid cluster deserves its own wild animal, don't you think? What are you called, anyway?"

"Pappagallo. I'm fine with Pops. You?"

"O'Hara. Make it Harry," he said with a slight grin. "So where are you headed?"

Pappagallo shrugged; beyond Dean's place, one way was as good as the next. "Drifting south, probably. And you?"

"Just drifting." The two mercs silently stood together a moment, then headed their separate ways, the elder to the adjacent trading post, the younger out to the streets. That was all that needed to be said.

From within the trading post, Eve Owan of Naraka Prime watched from an open window. Even though they were the first people she had met on this planet, she was convinced that she knew them for what they were.

They were the right men.

x x x x x

Author's Notes:

My bro Mist Archon has a saying for how he likes combat in literature: fast, deadly, and over. Yeah, that's how I like it too, but the chapter still ended up bigger than all the rest. Hmph. That always seems to happen when I put battle down on paper: a 30 second fight and its buildup ends up bloating 30 pages and so forth. That can really bog down the pace, I hope I managed to keep it quick and exciting here.

Oh, and I really didn't like the chapter name I came up with, but just couldn't think of anything better. This is the redux of the 'ride to Boot Hill' scene from Magnificent 7 after all. "Riding the Storm" was my other choice for a title, but gawd, that sounds so cliche'd.

"The Gunslingers" is the title of the next chapter, and I'm not at all uncertain about that name. Thinking realistically, I hope to have it done in January. See you then, and Merry Christmas!

-SA