AWARDS

♥♥♥♥½ TOP PICK! "Robin T. Popp blazes onto the scene and delivers a truly unique, fast-paced, thrilling and sexy adventure!" - Jill M. Smith, Romantice Times BOOKreviews

West Coast Beach
Las Vegas, Nevada
Earth, 2503 AD



“You’re not afraid.”

It was more observation than question and Nicoli Alexandres Romanof did not bother to respond. Though he could sense his friend’s unease, short of changing his mind, there was nothing he could do to lessen it.

There were others on the beach, enjoying the night-fishing, the stars, the moonlight, each other. A couple sat watching as the incoming surf chased their young children up the shore. Their peals of laughter floated to Nicoli on a salty breeze and mingled with the soft crash of waves. For a moment he paused to watch, conscious of his lack of happy childhood memories. A pang of guilt assailed him and he wished he could warn them all, send them away to safety. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. If the beach were empty, then they wouldn’t come, and it was imperative that they show up. Even knowing that some of the others on the beach would die horribly tonight did not alter his resolve. He tried to find solace in the knowledge that what he was doing was more important than the loss of these innocent lives; that the good of many often comes at the sacrifice of a few. Failing, he forced his attention back to his task.

“This will do,” he said softly, selecting a patch of beach somewhat away from the others.

The older man merely nodded and reached into his inner jacket pocket to remove a slim silver disc, no larger than the palm of his hand. Next he took off the chain he wore around his neck, at the end of which hung a clear crystal tube, about four fingers width in length. He stared at them, doubt clearly in his eyes.

“It’ll work,” Nicoli reassured him, nodding to the disc.

“This is not your best idea, Alex.”

Nicoli smiled at the use of his middle name. Only Yanur Snellen persisted in calling him Alex because, in Yanur’s words, “Colonel Romanof was too military and Nicoli sounded too formal.” Nicoli tolerated it, not because Yanur was the most brilliant scientist he’d ever met, but because Yanur was his friend. In a universe full of people, he only had one of those.

“If the Harvestors do show up tonight,” Yanur continued, “and this plan of yours works, it could be days, even weeks, before your life essence is returned to your body.” He paused before quietly adding, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to put it back.”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

“This whole plan is crazy. What if I run into problems tracking your body? What if I never find it?”

“Let Richardson worry about tracking my body. That’s why I hired him.”

“Okay, let’s say we find your body, but can’t put you back? Are you prepared to live the rest of your life in this?” He held up the tube.

Nicoli sighed. “If you can’t put me back, then have my body programmed for sex and give it to your maiden aunt as a present. Don’t think I haven’t seen the way she looks at me. This way, the old girl can do what she wants with my body and I won’t be around to care.”

“This is no time to joke.”

“I’m not joking.” He looked up and saw the concern in his friend’s eyes. “Okay, I’m sorry. Look, I have complete faith in you, Yanur. You’ll do your best.”

“What if my best isn’t good enough? You may actually succeed in killing yourself this time.”

“I’m not afraid to die,” Nicoli assured him.

“That’s what worries me.”

“Yanur, the Harvestors must be stopped. Their systematic annihilation of our people can not be allowed to continue.” Nicoli looked out across the horizon, his patience wearing thin.

“I agree. But who made it your responsibility to save the universe?”

“I did.”

“Why? Why you?”

“Because I have the military experience. Because I have no family to leave behind.” He turned to face Yanur and looked him directly in the eyes. “And because I figured out how.” His tone left no room for further argument. “Now let’s get on with this. The night is getting old.”

Nicoli lay down on the beach, raising his arms to place his hands, fingers interlocked, beneath his head. He crossed his legs at the ankles and for all appearances seemed to be resting peacefully. Further down the beach, other “moon-sleepers” lay in similar poses.

Resignedly, Yanur knelt and placed the silver disc on Nicoli’s forehead. He stood the tube on the disc, then ran his finger along the side to activate a hidden switch, but hesitated at the last moment.

“Are you sure there is no other way?” he asked, voice gruff with emotion.

The answer was in Nicoli’s grim expression. “Remember, once the transfer is complete, leave. It won’t be safe. Come back at the first light of dawn. If my body's been taken, go to the ship. Richardson will be waiting for you. If my body is still here, we’ll try again tomorrow.”

“But--”

“Don’t argue with me. Just do as I say.” Nicoli suffered a moment’s hesitation as children’s laughter floated to him once more. He cursed himself mentally for being weak, knowing that despite a lifetime of practice, he had failed to rid himself of all emotion. How many great plans failed because emotions got in the way? At thirty-eight, he was getting soft. “One more thing,” he said softly. “When you leave, take that family with you.”

Yanur nodded and then, with their gazes locked, he pressed the switch.

Immediately, Nicoli’s eyes went blank and a wispy, amber light seeped out of his body. The light grew stronger as it formed a cocoon around the prone figure. The top of the tube opened automatically with a quiet hiss. Yanur watched, with some satisfaction, as the light gathered and was then sucked into the tube.

When all the light was contained inside, the lid lowered, making a slight clicking noise when the tube was properly sealed. Yanur placed two fingers against Alex’s neck and only removed them when he felt the strong, steady beating of a pulse. It had worked! He was still alive, or at least his body was. Even the worry of what lay ahead was not enough to squelch a moment’s elation for an experiment gone right.

He picked up the tube, now brightly glowing with Alex’s life essence, and secured it to the chain before hanging it around his neck. He returned the silver disc to his pocket and lifted his gaze to the night sky for a quick check. All was quiet.

He walked across the beach to talk to the young family, then stood by and watched as they gathered their children and belongings and headed for home. Once they were gone, he returned to his friend’s side and, ignoring the earlier order to leave, settled down to wait.

Less than an hour later, an isolated portion of the night sky began to shimmer and, like a hologram taking on definition and substance, an alien spaceship appeared. Caught dozing, Yanur scrambled to his feet, looking fearfully upward. Clutching the tube hanging from his necklace in a death grip, he gave Alex’s body a final look and a silent prayer, then turned and ran from the beach.

* * * * *

Skeeter’s was the last remaining icon of an era gone by. Situated at the remote end of the Las Vegas Coastal Airfield, the Old World pub offered sanctuary to world-weary travelers down on their luck. The ale might be watered down, but it was cheap. The meals weren’t gourmet, but they were hot and the portions filling. The rooms upstairs were small and lacked the amenities considered standard fare at even the low-end hotels. But they came free of pests (of all species) and could be inexpensively rented by the hour, day or month with no ID and no questions. The gaming that went on twenty-four / seven in the dank side rooms was just this side of legal. The activities that took place in the back rooms weren’t. The regular clientele were rough and settled their differences without benefit of legal intervention. All in all, Skeeter’s was a place best avoided by self-respecting, law-abiding citizens and the last place one would look to find a young woman of good breeding and affluent family. Which was precisely why Angel Torrence called it home.

Sitting now in the cockpit of her Falcon XLT, she studied the pub’s lights shining from across the tarmac. It had been a safe place to hide these past two years. Given the circumstances, she’d almost been happy here. But two years was about a year and a half too long. She needed to move on.

This time would be different though. She ran a hand lovingly along the console of her ship. Now she had the means to go anywhere she wanted. With the money she’d earned from this last job, she could make the final payment. This ship represented freedom.

Freedom. She’d been on the run since she was fifteen. Running from those who wished to control her, use her for their own purposes. Running from those who refused to let her go. There had been times along the way when she hadn’t known if she would survive. But she was tougher, and luckier, than she looked. Now she worked as an independent galactic courier. She wasn’t a certified pilot because that required registration and a background check. But her lack of certification only affected the clientele she attracted. Transporting illegal goods wasn’t always easy, but it was lucrative.

Right now, she had a job to finish and the sooner the better. Dugan would be waiting to hear how things went on Felinea. More important, he’d want his money.

Angel obtained final clearance for the Falcon with the Control Tower, verified that the stasis field was in place and prepared to disembark. She stopped by the small onboard cabin to retrieve her things. Gathering her waist-length hair into a braid, she shoved it beneath her shirt. She should have cut it a long time ago, but being tall and lean, with curves so subtle they went unnoticed beneath a few layers of clothes, her long hair was her most feminine feature. In a lifestyle of sacrifice, leaving it long was her only concession to feminine vanity.

Taking a cap from the closet, she pulled it low over her head, casting her face into shadow. She checked the gun in her shoulder holster, knowing it would be well concealed beneath the flight jacket. When she reached for the satchel containing Dugan’s money and hefted it over her shoulder, pain lanced through her side, reminding her that the gash there was still raw. Sneaking a look beneath the jacket, she could see that blood had soaked through her homemade bandage to her shirt. But the stain was small and dry, so she figured the bleeding had stopped and she wouldn’t need stitches after all.

Moving cautiously, she left the ship.

The sun was just beginning its ascent across the eastern sky, painting the airfield in grayish blues and pinkish yellows. The field was in decent shape considering it was routinely subjected to terrorist attacks. Now, despite the early hour, there was a steady drone of activity. At least a hundred ships hovered over designated landing pads, stasis fields holding them in place while maintenance crews ran through pre- or post- flight checks. At the head of the tarmac stood the Control Tower, from which all launches and landings were coordinated. Even this far away, she smelled the familiar pungent odor of Tyrillium fumes and inhaled deeply, watching as pilots and other personnel rushed back and forth, taking care of business. She would miss all this.

Turning to her own ship, she gave it a cursory once over. Everything appeared in order. As much out of habit as curiosity, she took note of her neighbors. Most of the ships she knew by sight. On the left hovered TJ’s derelict cruiser, the kind typically used for common trade. On the right was a sleek little number she’d not seen before. A real beaut. A small three- or four-person craft designed for high-speeds and long distances. She wondered if it handled as good as it looked and ignored a twinge of longing to find out. Drawn by peculiar openings on either side of the nose, she stepped closer. Smartly embedded in the outer paneling were PCPs: pulse cannon portals. Definitely not your standard aircraft. It looked like Government Issue, but that didn’t make sense. The United System of Planets’ Security Forces had its own airfield not far from here.

Bold blue letters across the side spelled the ship’s name, Icarus. The name sounded familiar to her. She searched her memory of ancient Earth folklore and remembered a character from Greek mythology who had fashioned wings out of wax and feathers to fly. Unfortunately, he had foolishly flown too close to the sun, causing the wax to melt. He had plummeted to his death. Angel couldn’t help but wonder if this was an appropriate name for a starship. Maybe the ship’s owner had a sick sense of humor. Which negated the government theory seeing as how the government had no sense of humor, sick or otherwise.

Turning from the ship, Angel scanned the tarmac once again before starting across. The sense of foreboding that started last evening before she left for Felinea was getting worse. If what happened there was any indication of what was to come, the sooner she left, the better.

Inside Skeeter’s, things were quiet. Only the die-hard patrons were still up and about at this hour. A few heads turned briefly at her entrance. Across the room, Martin stood behind the bar, cloth in hand, wiping down the counter. Ol’ Joe was passed out in his usual spot, head down, a thin stream of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth to pool on the countertop below. Over by the stairs, Pixie was finishing “business” negotiations with a potential client. Angel had to admire the older woman’s stamina. This was probably her tenth customer tonight. Others sat around gaming tables, wagering and drinking ale. It was the same scene as a hundred times before, right down to the outsider sitting in the corner.

He looked out of place drinking coffee, but he was minding his own business. Angel could respect that.

She gave a mental shrug as she moved into the room. She had her own problems to worry about. The door to Dugan’s office was closed and she knew better than to knock. Martin had no doubt pressed the button under the counter alerting Dugan to her arrival, so she headed over to the bar to wait.

“How ya doin,’ Angel?” Martin’s smile was warm and friendly. She was afraid her own came across looking more like a grimace as she tucked the toe of her boot under the bottom rung of a stool and pulled it out. Hiking a hip onto the seat, she left one foot on the floor for balance. With some effort she lifted the satchel off her shoulder and onto the countertop.

“Jeez girl, what happened to you?”

Angel looked up and saw Martin staring at where her jacket gaped open at the side. She quickly pulled it closed. “Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that. I know blood when I see it. You run into trouble on Felinea?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. You should see the other guy.” As a joke, it didn’t work.

“Yeah?” He sounded skeptical. “Maybe I should take a look at it. Clean it up. Do a little sewing?”

“No thanks.”

Martin didn’t press her further, but instead reached under the bar to pull out a double-shot glass, which he filled with an iridescent sky-blue liquid.

He pushed the glass toward her. She downed the icy cool liquid in a single swallow. Martian Ale went down cold, but arrived hot. As the warmth spread throughout her body, she felt the pain in her side ease.

Angel pushed the empty shot glass across the counter, indicating with her hand that Martin should fill it again.

He gave her a questioning look. “You never drink more than one. That side of yours must be hurting.”

“I’m celebrating,” she said, watching him fill the glass again.

“Really? Care to share the good news?”

“As of tonight, I am the proud owner of one Falcon XLT space craft.” Tonight, for the first time in my life, I’m free. But she didn’t say it out loud.

“And at such a young age, too.” Martin smiled. “Well, I guess congratulations are in order.” He pushed the refilled shot glass toward her, then poured a smaller one for himself. They raised their glasses in a silent toast and downed the contents. This time the icy burn wasn’t as startling to her system.

“What’s the story on the stiff in the corner?” Angel wanted to change the subject.

“Don’t know. He doesn’t talk much, just sits and drinks coffee. Every now and then, he’ll look at his watch and go outside. I followed him once, just to see where he went.”

“And?” Angel prompted when he paused.

“And nothing. He walks over to that sleek little number on the field, you know the one I mean, and just stands there for a minute like he’s waiting for someone. Then he comes back here and orders more coffee.”

Angel lazily pondered what the man was up to. Thanks to the Martian Ale, she felt almost as good as new. Her hands absently played with the empty shot glass as her attention wandered down the bar.

“I miss something?” She nodded toward the images flitting across the vid-screen.

“Harvestor attack, not far from here. West Beach.”

Angel absorbed the news in shock. She’d just flown over that area not an hour ago. “Damn.”

“Yeah.” Martin nodded. “It’s getting so decent folk aren’t safe going out at night.”

Angel shot him a look, eyebrows raised. How long had it been since either of them had been considered “decent folk?”

“Point is, no one is safe anymore.” He focused his look at her injured side.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Torrence!” A male voiced bellowed. “Get your ass in here.”

“Then again...” She pushed the empty glass toward Martin and slid from the stool. “Been nice knowing you.” This time she hardly winced when she hefted the satchel onto her shoulder. With more calm than she felt, she walked into the back room.

Alistar “Skeeter” Dugan, Underground Boss of the West Side, was in his mid-fifties and sported an athletic build just starting to go soft. His commanding presence gave him the stature his average height could not. He was overbearing, unforgiving, and his sense of humor had died along with his wife and daughter ten years ago. He was not a man to be messed with and Angel had no doubt that if she irritated him enough, he would forget how much she reminded him of his daughter.

“It wasn’t my fault,” she said, walking across the room to his desk. She slid the satchel off her shoulder and let it fall to the desktop. “Here’s your money.”

“Not your fault?” Dugan shouted, slamming the door behind her. “You shot the son of Felinea’s leading crime boss!”

"Give me a break, it’s not like I killed him. It was just a scratch.”

“You shot off his –.”

“I know what I shot off,” Angel interrupted. “Look, the guy was all over me. I told him I wasn’t interested, but the more I said ‘no’, the more he heard ‘yes.’ I didn’t have any other choice. Besides, what’s the big fuss? He’s Felinean. It’ll grow back.”

Dugan stormed up to her, causing her to step back. She wanted some distance between them, just in case. His hand shot out and grabbed her arm, wrenching her around. Pain shot through her side with the sudden movement and she couldn’t hide her reaction fast enough. Distracted from what he was about to say, Dugan pulled back her jacket flap.

“Explain this,” he said when he spotted the blood.

“Like I said, Tony didn’t like hearing ‘no.’ Things got a little rough before I got my point across.”

Dugan studied her for a moment and she saw some of the anger drain from his face to be replaced by something else. Resignation, maybe. “If you were anyone else, I’d have your head on a platter, literally, and see that it got delivered to Felinea with my deepest apologies.”

Angel swallowed hard because she knew Dugan meant what he said. “I’m sorry, but the guy had it coming and it’s not like I did any permanent damage.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No way. I purposely used a narrow beam so I could isolate the damage to that single area. Now granted, there was some confusion and it was a small target, but -.”

“Oh, you hit what you aimed for. But you don’t get credit for originality. You do, however, get credit for being number nine and as they say, ninth time’s the charm with Felineans. No more regenerations for that particular organ and folks over there are upset. Tony in particular.”

The news hit her with the force of a physical blow, but she tried to cover it with flippancy. “He’s a slow learner. They should thank me for taking him out of the gene pool.”

“The Tom’s not laughing. He wanted grandkids. Now he wants revenge.” Dugan went to stand behind his desk. He pulled the satchel closer and opened it. Reaching inside, he dug out the bundles of currency and counted them. After counting them a second time, he looked at her. “It’s not all here.”

“No, it’s not. I took out what you owed me, less the final payment for the ship, as per our agreement.” She refused to look away, waiting for his reaction. Then, to her relief, he nodded. Picking up one of the bundles, he stared at it for a moment, as if trying to decide what to do, then held it out to her.

“Take this,” he said. “You’ll need it where you’re going.”

“Which is where?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care, but don’t take your time getting there.”

Angel shook her head. “I don’t need your money. I’ll be fine.”

Dugan walked around the desk and shoved the stack of bills into her jacket pocket, being careful not to touch her injured side. “Don’t be so damn stubborn. The Felineans will be here soon. For political reasons, I won’t stop them, but I sure hate the thought of you dying, so I think it’d be better if you weren’t here when they arrive. I’ll ship the stuff from your room to you later if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Angel learned long ago not to accumulate more than she could carry. So her “stuff” included the locket hanging around her neck, a gift from her mother, and the laz-gun resting in her holster, a gift from Dugan. Everything else could be replaced.

“How bad is your side? Do you need Martin to look at it?”

“No, I’ll be all right.”

“Then you’d better go.”

And just that easy, her moment arrived. Angel knew she had to leave, had even planned on it, but somehow it hurt to be told to go. Sometime over the past two years, despite her best efforts to remain distant, she’d developed a fondness for these folks. They’d become her family. It shouldn’t be that hard, she told herself. She’d left family before. But as she looked at Dugan, a feeling of such loneliness stole over her, the weight of it was suffocating. Emotion rose unbidden to choke any words she might have muttered into silence.

As she struggled to compose herself, a commotion in the outer room distracted her.

Curious, Angel joined Dugan behind the desk so she could see the security camera monitors. Out front, six men, looking serious and extremely tough, stood with guns in hand. Tables lay over-turned around them while most of the clientele stood waiting against side walls.

“Terrorists?” Angel asked hopefully.

“Felinean Avengers,” Dugan corrected.

“Damn.” This just wasn’t her day. She could see Martin with one hand under the counter, no doubt with his mini-Mag trained on the group. But he’d only be able to take out two, three at best. The rest of the patrons wouldn’t interfere and, as Dugan had warned her, neither would he. That left three of them to one of her. She didn’t like the odds.

“Take my private exit,” Dugan said, pressing a button under the desk. To her surprise, an opening appeared beside her in the wall. “This comes out two doors down, behind the trash dumpster.”

Angel stepped into the opening, but couldn’t bring herself to just walk off. She had brought trouble to Skeeter’s and her friends. She couldn’t just leave them to fend for themselves.

“Dugan…”

He nodded as if he understood, then reached into his own jacket and pulled out an impressive Smith and Wesson Destroyer. He gave her a slow grin. “Better hurry.”

She smiled, turned and left. Despite what he’d said, Dugan wouldn’t make the Felinean Avengers’ job any easier. No one came into Skeeter’s to start trouble without getting a little in return.

She went swiftly through the tunnel, exiting behind the trash dumpster. She skirted the side of the building and gazed across the open stretch of tarmac separating her from her ship.

There were no avengers outside waiting for her, but the hairs on the back of her neck started to prickle anyway. The sense of impending disaster weighed heavily upon her as she started the trek across the landing field. Her feet felt leaden, but she forced herself to move quickly.

She hadn’t taken three steps when the explosion came.

The shock wave caused her to stumble, while gravel rained down on her, peppering her head and back. Instinctively, she turned to see the scorched spot on the ground several meters off. She tried to locate the Avenger responsible, but none were visible, so she scanned the rest of the airfield. Everywhere, people stood frozen as they also tried to figure out what had happened.

Into the quiet came another explosion, this time on the opposite end of the field. The Avengers wouldn’t take out the entire airfield just to get to her. It had to be a terrorist attack. As if to confirm her thoughts, the Terrorist Alarms began to wail and total chaos broke loose. For Angel, it was a blessing in disguise. If she survived.

People scattered aimlessly in an effort to get away from the unseen attackers. From around the field’s perimeter, patrons flooded out of pubs and restaurants, desperate to get to their ships. Angel was soon lost in the crush. Sneaking a look behind her, she saw the Avengers leave Skeeter’s and head her way. She turned and let the moving crowd carry her in the direction of her ship.

Halfway there, another explosion came almost from behind and knocked her to the ground. She tried to get up, but a weight pinned her down. Twisting her body, she looked up to find the stranger from Skeeter’s lying on top of her.

“Get up,” she yelled, but he wouldn’t move. Exasperated, she tried to shove him off but to no avail. She looked around for help, but people were too concerned with saving themselves to offer assistance. Then she noticed the blood on her hands. Had her wound reopened in the fall? She didn’t think so. Concerned, she looked for the source of the blood.

And found it. A large piece of shrapnel stuck out of the stranger’s back. Judging from the quantity and color of the blood, she feared the metal was deeply embedded. She looked again at the stranger’s face and this time registered the blank, lifeless eyes.

Overhead, a distinct whistling sound distracted her. She covered her head with her arms as the missile arced past her, praying she had misjudged its trajectory. Please God, she silently pleaded, let it be TJ’s junker.

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