, or at a bookstore near you.Chapter 1
The crowd was boisterous and rowdy. Clinking glasses and bawdy laughter mixed with scuffles and shoves, and the air reeked of lager and sweat. At the bar, the patrons jostled to fill their steins with the chilled, intoxicating brew that warmed their nights and made life on the cold, arid planet bearable. Men from a dozen worlds drank and sang, churning the room with their stories and songs. Lights glowed warmly through the frosted windows, and laughter and music floated beyond the walls to be scattered by the wind.For it’s Springtime on Ishtar, me darlin
It’s payday, come lager an’ carolin
An’ me dusty, dry glass needs a-fillin
By a lusty young lass who’s a-willin.
A tall, muscular man broke through the cluster at the bar, carrying four steins of lager. Swarthy and bearded, he wore maroon thermoflax coveralls and black leather boots. He ambled tenuously to a round wooden table in the center of the room, with most of his cargo intact. At the table, three others sat by candlelight, two in native attire and a Cosmic Guard yeoman. They were engaged in heated conversation lost in the din of the crowd.
Now the girlies o’Ishtar ain’t pretty
Nor graceful, nor charmin, nor witty
But it scarce matters me, as I dally
While the icy winds roll through the valley
An’ it’s Springtime on Ishtar, me darlin....
“Laddy,” said a native with a heavy Ishtari accent. Scraggly patches of beard covered his craggy face, and he wore a blue knit cap. “Ain’t no slimy lizard can tell me, pack up an’leave. A scant six month gimme bare time to ’coup me costs o’gittin there, an’ they have the bloody gall to swoop down from the sky an’ farce me off, an’ escort me half-back here.”
The bearded native distributed his catch from the bar. “Well, Cyrus,” he said. “Ye did after all let them carry ye off, wi’out liftin s’much as a hand-laser agin them. Ye know, we seen how they scattered when the laddies came after’em proper at Hawkins. If ye’d just stood your ground—”
“Pssh.” The second native made room for the bearded one at the table and cast a side glance at the green-shirted yeoman sitting across the table. “Ain’t no blamin Cyrus, now. Ye know bloody well it’s these limp-wristed Cozzies what’s too bloody sissified to be protectin decent folk agin them stinkin sallymanders. If it showed us anything, Hawkins taught us that, it did.”
Cyrus sipped his lager. Bloodshot eyes flashing, he turned to face the yeoman. His mouth twisted into a sly grin, as if welcoming the fight he hoped to provoke. “Spacer,” he hissed, “ye say ye’re not lackin sympathy. But them lizards is gittin bolder by the day, makin it so’s honest merchants like us can’t survive. ’Twixt them an’ the pirates, we risk our hides ev’ry time we sail, an’ all we git from yer kind is preachin and promises. Well, laddie, where’s our help?” The others at the table gently pounded the table, indicating their agreement.
Like all servicemen in the region, the yeoman had become quite adept at deflecting questions like this. Locals accosted CosGuarders randomly on every planet and colony along the frontier, demanding answers to the alien threat. It never helped to remind them that if they stayed on Terra’s side of the Neutral Zone, the Crutchtans wouldn’t bother them.
“Gentlemen, we have our own problems,” he began, reaching for his stein. “We can’t ignore Crutchtan abuse of our citizens, but it’s bad tactics to confront an enemy without knowing his capabilities. Besides, the human race doesn’t revolve around Ishtar.”
“Bosh an’ bahanna!” bellowed Cyrus. “Them lizards has pushed us out o’too many systems already. If we don’t draw the line soon, they’ll be half-back to Earth herself afore the rest o’ye even blink. An’ besides, all we be hearin from ev’ry corner is not to worry, because our ships is so superior.
“Well, the whores can all go lonely for the good it does us, if we still git ourselves pushed around. An’ if you Cozzies keep givin ground each time they hiss at ye, there’s naught akeepin us from the lizards’ stewpot.” His companions all agreed.
The yeoman shook his head sadly. Reasoning with spacers was like teaching algebra to a mutluk, he though. And reminding them that the Crutchtans were vegetarians only made matters worse. “I’ve no love for them either, but they’re hardly savages. They’re advanced enough for space flight, after all.”
“Cozzie,” rasped Cyrus, his eyes blazing in the candlelight. “Ye never met them creatures face to face, like I did. Never felt their slimy hands on your skin, nor looked in them slitty eyes to see the devil’s own soul.” He emptied his stein and wiped his mouth in his sleeve.
“I tell ye, them monsters won’t be restin until they’ve destroyed us.”
Fortunately, one of the spacer’s friends interceded. “Laddies,” said the one lately returned from the bar, “we’ve enough trouble these days, wi’out goin for each other’s throats. To spacers,” he said, lifting his stein. “The sorriest lot o’bastards in Terra.”
“To spacers,” chorused the others.
Around them, the clamor grew like a dust storm on the Ishtari plains. Old friends shouted greetings across the dimly lit room, and the talk became militant on subjects ranging from trade tariffs to the shortage of women on the frontier. Everyone drank as if dying of thirst, and hoarse voices raised hearty choruses about asteroid mining and Demetrian summers, pirate raids and outlaw heroes.
For ten long years, they never found him.
Ten long years, they’ll ever hound him.
An’ the night he left New Dublin town
A star rose in the sky,
An’ the light that burns forever
Is the gleam in Danny’s eye.
The yeoman and two of his new friends joined in the singing, which shook the rafters and echoed in their groggy heads. It felt odd, celebrating one of CosGuard’s darkest moments; but he was a Demetrian, after all, and Danny O’Donovan was a legend in the folklore of his youth. Cyrus stared ahead, his jawbone twitching. At his table, he alone refused to join the merriment.
A hundred howlin’ Cozzies couldn’t catch him.
No outlaw band could make a stand to match him.
An’ one day, for fun he stole a frigate
From the Cosmic Guard
An’ gave it to the settlement
At Mullinberry’s Star.
“They’ll destroy us,” muttered Cyrus, oblivious to the cheer resounding through the pub. Amid the chorus of voices, none could tell that his accent had changed. “Or we’ll be destroyin them.”
© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky
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