William the Pecostian

Interstellar Tall Tales:

William the Pecostian

The stars winked back and forth across the field of view allowed to William, from the viewport of his ship. It was a moment of peace and seeming-stillness out in the void, as the craft drifted along its last moment of inertia. William took a deep breath of contentment, savoring the moment before the herd would have to be rustled up again.

“Get that cattle in line, Pecostian,” snarled the lead ship through the communication circuit. The translator was good enough that even with a mechanical voice, there was a hint of an impatient growl. “If that bull gets loose, you’ll be losing your bounty.”

     “I’m on it, Verton,” William responded, leaning back in his seat to reach a switch on a dedicated board for his hitches. The hitches were small automatic devices numbering in the hundreds that focused plasma lines. The lines were strong enough to keep the herd of asteroids in front of Widowmaker, William’s Fresbian-class starjumper. “The bull is just wanting to wander, is all.”

     The bull in question, a Kuiper-level iron-heavy asteroid almost large enough to be a planetoid, was tumbling its way towards open space, but fifteen hitches had gathered around it and methodically pulled it back towards the herd. One-hundred fifty Oort-level carbonaceous asteroids were clumped together, creating their own gravity well that showed up on Widowmaker’s sensors, while four other bulls roamed around their perimeter, guided by the hitches. William put in a command at his hitch-board to keep the bulls separated, or they’d charge each other and make the job even more difficult.

     “Well,” Verton said, “keep him from going too far. We’re almost at the last jump for this run, and then we’ll be at Dodger. The quiet’s got me worried. I want to get paid the full amount for running these herds, you know.”

     The full herd, over a thousand asteroids gathered in deep space, was slowly moved by William and the ten other cowboys towards the final junction, an oblong piece of technology hanging in the void. When everyone had gathered their herds near the junction, they’d initiate their final jump and be in orbit around Dodger, a company-owned planet specializing in mining asteroids.

     “Trust a human to let his herd try to graze,” muttered a voice over the comm. That had to be Phinex, the Scoatian cowboy. Scoatians were always skeptical about humans, the newest species to take to the stars, even if they left Old Earth well over two centuries ago and with William having never seen the fabled world.

     “Trust a Scoatian to underestimate the new kid,” William responded, and enjoyed the rumbling laughs from the other hands. “You know there are several herds out here being run by humans. We’re better at this than you think.”

     “Just because you’re that wonder from Pecostia don’t make you a veteran of the void, mustache,” growled Phinex. The Scoatian never did like William’s facial hair; they thought it very odd. “It sure don’t make you the legend you think you are. I don’t care what the rumors say about you, your kind could never—”

     “Shut it,” Verton cut in. The tension in his voice, even through the circuit, made William sit up in his seat. “My long-range sensor pinged on a gravity well, and it’s moving fast.”

     The chatter died instantly. A moving gravity well? It couldn’t be…

     “There ain’t a well out here,” one of the other cowboys said. “Bit why we use this junction to move the herds, Verton. No black holes or planets for light-years.”

     “And that’s what worries me!” Verton barked. William adjusted his own sensor board to extend away from the herd and felt tension tighten his shoulders: there was indeed a source of gravity on the move.

     “Beings, there’s something stirrin’ out in the void,” Verton said while William reset his sensor board. “We’d best get the cattle out of the wilds and over Dodger. Everyone, make ready for your jump.”

     There was a round of acknowledgments from the comm, and William focused on his work, pinging each of his hitches and angling his herd toward the junction. His herd was the last in the line, but he’d make up for the long wait by correcting his jump coordinates. As soon as he was in range, he’d put the Widowmaker into otherspace and be on his way to Dodger and a fat purse. He might even make it to Dodger before Verton, for all that he would be jumping last.

     A warning sound pinged from Williams’ control board. There were twenty hitches on the outer edges of the herd sending emergency signals; their cattle were attempting to break through the lines and head off into space, straining the plasma lines so much that William could see their dull beams from his viewport.

     “Oh no,” William muttered. He could see the extreme edge of the twisted accretion disk that marked the ancient black holes’ progress through space. William looked at the jump queue on his sensor board: three herds had jumped already, and he was number twelve. The junction could only handle two herds at a time, or it’d shut down and leave everyone stranded in the void while it ran its maintenance checks.

     “Come on!” William growled, watching the cowboys move their herds to the jump zone. He turned to the hitch controls and fed in commands to increase their energy output. “Of all the times for the Old Man to come looking for trouble.”

     “That’s the way of the void, Pecostian,” Verton said. “Looks like Old Man Twister saw our herds and wanted to pay a visit. Hurry it up, beings!” William could see more of the warped accretion disk from the far edge of his viewport. Half of his herd was now straining the lines of his hitches, being pulled by the increased gravity of the Old Man.

     Checking his sensor board, William noted that the queue had moved up more: eight herds had jumped. He fed in commands to his hitches for maximum output and switched on Widowmaker’s engines, goading his herd away from the new gravity well.

     Slide-stepping his thrusters, William saw the Old Man from a better angle. He was an ancient thing, a primordial black hole, that took up residence in the interstellar space just outside Dodger’s star. His accretion disk was bent as he moved through space-time, looking for all to see, if William remembered the stories correctly, like an old-Earth tornado out among the stars, picking up floating detritus and adding it to his mass as he swept through.

     William knew that there was no sound in space, but he could almost hear the Old Man growl as it shifted in its course towards his herd.

     “Napetap!” Verton said over the comm, and the circuit didn’t bother trying to translate the expletive. “The Old Man’s coming for us!”

     Ten of the herds had jumped, leaving only Verton and William to make the leap!

     “Prepare to jump, Pecostian!” Verton said, and William fed the jump coordinates to the computer. Before he could flip the switch and make the jump, however, an alarm sounded. The hitches were being overwhelmed by the Old Man. His lines were breaking!

     “Dammit, no!” William cried. He saw his herd break away from the order cohesion, tumbling away from him and towards Old Man Twister. The bulls, now freed from their restraints, charged recklessly into space, crashing into each other with their flickers of metallic glints. They were hurtled away from the heifers, sowing confusion in their chaotic sojourns. Two of the bulls collided with enough force to shatter upon impact, sending thousands of tiny stones zipping across the space between the herd and Widowmaker.

     The ships’ automated controls commanded the hitches, twenty of which were burned out, to retract to their holds, and Williams’ herd lost all cohesion. He could see his heifers, small and porous rocks that they were, being drawn to Old Man Twister just as quickly as the bulls. The Twister was now close enough that he could feel Widowmaker sliding to one side.

     “Jump, now!” Verton shouted, and his ship and herd winked out of view. William flipped the handle to cut in the jump-engine. The junction, a shining beacon to one side of his viewport, flashed brightly as it sent William, Verton, and their herds into otherspace. The view whited out almost completely, save for a smattering of black specks curving around Widowmaker: the remains of his herd.

     “Damn thing’s no bigger than a moon,” William said, knowing that the comm could not send his voice in otherspace, “but it ate my herd like it was nothing.” Three months of work, taken away from him and drawn into oblivion. He cursed some more.

The jump was not a long one; ten minutes passed in pensive silence before Widowmaker started bucking slightly. William’s ship never liked making jumps and signaled the egress point by stuttering the engines and making William lurch into his seat restraints. Widowmaker bucked again, harder, and William cut the jump engine. The whiteness of otherspace translated back into stars in the void, and William looked out the viewport to see the crescent shape of an arid planet’s day-side: Dodger.

     Widowmaker let out a cough from his engine, sending William into a light spin until he pulled on his controls and reigned the Fresbian-class back into control.

     “Everyone,” rumbled Verton, his voice sounding strained even through the circuit, “check in. Did y’all make the jump all right?” This was a real concern, as jumps made too quickly could spell disaster for the traveler. William listened as ten voices sounded out their status in an exhausted stammer. He put in controls for his hitches to redeploy and round up his wayward herd, counting them as the plasma lines gathered them up again.

     “Hey, Pecostian,” Verton said. “Old Man Twister was closest to you before we jumped. How bad you farin’, boy?”

     “I count sixty,” William said, rubbing his eyes as the asteroids lined up to go into the corrals. “Sixty heifers. No bulls. Twister must’ve grabbed them just as we jumped.”

     “It was a near thing,” Verton said. “Any longer and he might have taken you and Widowmaker with them. But we have a problem now, don’t we?”

     William scowled at the comm speaker. “Come on, Verton,” he said. “Don’t do this.”

     A chuckle sounded from the speaker. “Told you,” Phinex said, “humans trying to do what they’re just not ready for.”

     “Ain’t my fault that the Old Man saw the herd and was hungry!” William growled, anger in his tone. “He would’ve taken your herd just as easily as mine!”

     “You might have tried pushing your herd faster,” Phinex said. “Running them to the junction instead of drifting through the void.”

     “Enough,” Verton said before William could respond. “The corrals are taking the herds in. Make sure yours have your tags and you’ll get paid before going dirtside. Pecostian, you know the rules in the void: you drive your cattle and get paid for how many survive. Sixty out of one-hundred-five heifers and no bulls. You’ll get paid the amount you’ve earned.”

     William grimaced. That would barely cover the costs for stabling and feeding Widowmaker and recharging the hitch lines. He’d have just barely enough to see to his own needs.

     “Maybe when you hit dirtside,” Verton said, an almost commiserating tone coming across the circuit, “you should have a drink and talk to the other hands, find another job, eh?” The circuit cut out and William was left in silence again. He hung his head in defeat and put in the commands for his herd, what was left of it, to broadcast their brands as they entered the corrals. William hoped, sourly, that somewhere down on that dusty planet, he could find work enough to recover from the loss.

                                #

     The keening sound of the stations’ departure alarm wailed through Dodger station. Ishtah knew he would miss his rail if he did not amble straight away, but he ducked into the swarm of beings to break lines of sight. He did not have a choice. The platform was crowded with beings from all over the sector, making the place smell terribly and filling the air with Dodger’s dust. The lightrail platform hummed underneath his boots and Ishtah strained to look around the beings to see the rail compartments shove forward on their guiding beacons, readying to head for space and towards the junction at the outer edge of the star system.

     Ishtah looked at the ticket in his three-fingered hand, then up to a clock on the wall. That had to be his rail, he was sure of it. But with his pursuers searching for him on the platform, boarding was surely out of the question. Now what was he going to do? He considered talking to the port officer again, but the old Celgish had been suspicious of the young Arcosan the last time he tried to find another rail.

     Granted, Ishtah thought to himself, the port officer had been right to be suspicious of the ticket. It was a fake, after all. If Ishtah had tried to push the old officer any harder than he had, he would have arrested the Arcosan, put him in a detention block, and called his folks. Ishtah preferred to avoid the fury of his father having to come collect his wayward son just as much as he wanted to avoid the creatures chasing him. But where to go from here?

     “When you miss your rail, you hire a wagon or a cowboy,” his father had said once. Maybe his father meant for an occasion closer to Arcos, instead of on Dodger, but the advice was still valid. But what was a wagon to a non-Arcosan? Ishtah did not want to book passage on a Selusa wagon, for example. Their cabins were filled with methane instead of oxygen. He needed an air-breather.

     “You see this boy ‘round?” a gruff voice sounded from nearby, shocking Ishtah out of his musing. “Arcosan boy, blue down and amber eyes to him? Looks to be in a spot of bother?”

Ishtah ducked into the crowd before he could be seen. That had to be Willowix, the Scarran leader of the trio who had been hounding him since leaving Arcos. Ishtah could just spot the Scarran across the platform, speaking to an elderly Grumph and presenting a picture to it. Scarrans were large beings, heavily muscled and built for chasing the prey of their homeworld, their legs double-jointed to allow them to run faster than most beings. The mottling on Willowix’s face, normally shades of grey and white, were blue and red, and his head tendrils, typically left loose and swaying across his face, were back behind his skull. He looked, if Ishtah was anyone to judge, furious.

He also looked like a Marshall, which confused Ishtah even more. At least, the Scarran had a Marshall’s uniform and a shiny badge on his chest. Marshalls didn’t leave their sectors without warrants, and Ishtah did not have a warrant for his arrest. If anything, he had a note in the Warden files, the branch of government charged with looking for truant minors. The feathery down was a clear sign that the Arcosan was a youth among his people, even if the scales of his adult skin were poking through the down. The molting would be finished in a couple galactic weeks, sooner if he stayed as stressed as he was.

A slap across the back of his head sent Ishtah into the platforms’ guard rail, the impact making a loud noise among the passersby. Ishtah shook himself, and while ignoring the profuse burbles of apology from the rotund Burba matron whose tentacle had smacked him, trained his eyes back on Willowix.

The Scarran had noticed him! Ishtah saw him snap his large fingers to get the attention of his two…henchmen, a burly Trogan and whipcord thin Alaban, Ishtah guessed since they didn’t wear Marshall uniforms, and point at the Arcosan.

“Really!” Ishtah said to the Burba, “it’s all right! I’m not hurt! Have a nice day!” He ducked his head to better hide in the milling crowd and made his way down the stairs towards the exit, leaving the matron standing there, puzzled. Ishtah could see sunlight beaming through massive glass double-doors. A horn blared through the station; the next lightrail was coming in, and beings all wishing to leave on it should make for their respective platforms.

Ishtah pushed against the stream of soon-to-be passengers, shouldering his backpack up higher to keep it steady, and made his way out of the cavernous station and on to the dirt streets of Dodger’s main port. The dust from the roads choked him until he could pull his face cover up and around his diminutive beak and his goggles around his eyes. Gotta find a wagon, he thought to himself. This place resembled the ports on Arcos, so he wound his way through the more open crowd until he was down the street and away from the station, hiding in the shade of a market stall.

An adult Arcos, one with white scales and green shading, was manning the stall. “You lost, little one?” it asked. Ishtah was almost deliriously grateful for such a reprieve; his translator, set into one auditory hole, did not have to drone on in its mechanical voice.

“I’m looking for a wagon,” Ishtah said. “Or a cowboy with space on his transport.”

The older Arcosan frowned at him. “If you’re trying to get back home,” he said, “the station is just back that way. You sure you ain’t lost?”

“I ain’t trying to get back home,” Ishtah said, frustration pulling his moon-colony accent into his speech. “I need to get to the Capital, and I missed my rail.”

The older Arcosan’s feathery brows beaded together. “What’s a boy like you doing, trying to reach the Capital?” he asked. Then he tilted his head in thought. “Say, you know you look a lot like one of the Kempatki clan. That blue down is a good marker for it.”

“Never you mind my clan,” Ishtah said. “Can you tell me where to go to find a cowboy or not?”

The older Arcosan shrugged. “There was a cattle drive that came in about five hours ago,” he said, pointing at the collection of bars further down the street. “A team of cowboys made it dirtside and went straight there. If it’s a cowboy you’re looking for, best you’d try there. But be careful: those places aren’t meant for children.”

Ishtah pointed at the scales poking through the down. “I ain’t a child,” he said, then checked his next words as manners came back. “Thank you, elder.”

     The older Arcosan pointed at his own flesh, which had no holes in his scales, and winked through his goggles. “I ain’t an elder either, boy,” he said, and Ishtah could see the worried smile on his beak. “Good luck.”

     Ishtah ambled through the crowds in the street, using them as pockets of camouflage while he kept an eye out for Willowix. He could not see the Scarran, but that worried him more than relaxed; Scarrans were adept hunters and knew how to stalk their chosen prey, if Ishtah’s schooling taught him anything about other species. The doors to the first bar were flanked by a particularly strange species: humans. Ishtah had not seen many of them before; they did not travel through Arcos or his family Lagrange Point often. Both humans were dressed oddly, with pointed boots and leather coverings over their pants and shirts. They did not wear proper vests and tunics like other bipedal species. They also had a wide range of hair styles that grew over their faces. At least on male ones, Ishtah guessed. They also had overly wide hats on their heads, which given Dodger’s sun and Ishtah’s own collections of hats, was something the Arcosan approved of. They made their own sources of shade on this bright planet.

     Neither human stopped him from entering, though one of them did stare at Ishtah as he pushed open one of the swinging doors. The pointed glance from a face with predatory eye arrangements made him nervous, but the human simply turned and went back to staring at the moving crowds. The door swung in with a loud creak and Ishtah winced at the noise before reeling back at the sheer smell of the place. Dodger’s dirt-smell, mixed with the scent of heated bodies along with the smokes and alcohol of at least a dozen species, which formed a gestalt that he had heard his father once call a cornucopia of funks, which seemed perfectly applicable to the wafting odors in the room.

     The bar was dimly lit, which given the brightness of outside was almost a mercy, and several fans whirled far overhead to accommodate the larger species. The bar itself was too tall for Ishtah to use, though he could see another Arcosan sitting at one end of the table, his scales a gleaming greenish-blue and turning his head to bite into a fruit with his polished yellow beak. The fruit looked fermented. Ishtah had seen his father and uncles doing that during festivals. The Arcosan had the same drunken look that his father and uncles did during those festivals.

     A few of the patrons turned to look at the younger Arcosan, and one smiled as Ishtah entered the large, spacious room. Ishtah took his mask and goggles off, hoping to spot something that said a cowboy was among the people. But life was not so kind as to provide giant signs over tables that said “Cowboy Needs A Job!” in Arcosic script. There was, however, a crowd of beings surrounding one table in particular. Two beings sat opposite each other at the table, grimly smiling at each, Ishtah guessed. Three dark bottles, two completely empty, sat on the table between them, while the third was nearing empty. It was being poured by another being into short glasses the two were holding on to.

     “Ya ain’t winnin’ thish round, Pecoshan,” the first being, a Scoatian, said, his voice slurring badly. Ishtah’s translation circuit adapted to the speech patterns. “No’way a human out-drinkin’ a Shcoatian brave.”

     The other person, a human with a very exaggerated bit of hair on its face, raised what Ishtah took for an eyebrow. “You sure about that, Phinex?” it asked. There was no notable slurring in its speech, according to the translator. At most, its fairish skin tone had slight red blotches just under its eyes. Ishtah guessed it was a male but thought to wait until he knew better before he made an assumption. “I think you’re about done here.”

     “Shhhove off, William,” the Scoatian said, waving its free hand in a wide gesture of negation. “Don’t care what legensh you got to your name; you can’t outdrink a Shcoatian. You don’t have the liver for it.”

     “Then let’s take another round and see how you do,” the human, William, responded. It held its short glass, filled with an amber liquid, out for Phinex. “Bet is the same?”

     “Yer’ on!” Phinex said, and he tapped at William’s glass with his own, if more forcefully than strictly warranted. The two tilted their glasses back and drank the liquid down, slamming their glasses top-first onto the table. Ishtah watched, as did the rest of the crowd, as the two stared at each other in a strained silence. The patrons surrounding the table looked from one to the other.

     Then the Scoatian let out a loud belch, sagged, and his head thumped onto the table, sending the bottles scattering. There was a thunderous applause from the bar patrons, while other grumbled and grimaced as money changed hands.

     “Somebody get his purse,” the human said. Ishtah noted that the color under its eyes was brighter, but nothing else told the Arcosan about how drunk it was. “He can’t pay his bet while unconscious, and I don’t want anybody telling Phinex I rifled his pockets when he was out.”

     Ishtah watched as the human reached behind it and grab one of those wide-brimmed hats and settled it on its head. One of the patrons went over to Phinex and pulled a pouch from the Scoatian’s vest, emptied it into a waiting hand, and counted several coins before replacing them and putting the pouch back in its pocket. The being dropped the coins in front of the human.

     “Phinex is going to need a floater,” the human said. “Somebody send for one, put it on his bill.”

     There was a round of chuckles from the patrons, and Phinex was hauled away from the table by other patrons to an empty seat. Ishtah could see, under the coat the human still wore, the straps of a bandolier. Across its chest hung a strange pistol in a small holster, while a more recognizable laser pistol sat in the holster on its left hip. That human had to be a cowboy! Ishtah shuffled forward through the crowd of patrons and stood at the table.

     The human looked up from counting the coins at the young Arcosan. “Something you need, kid?” he asked. Ishtah knew that the accent affected through the translation circuit was particular to humans, what they called ‘frontier-talk’. It sounded strange to Ishtah; the words leaned into each other as he spoke, but still sounded like they were drawn out slowly, somehow.

     “What’s a kid?” Ishtah asked. The word did not have a translation in his circuit. The human rested his elbows (were they elbows?) onto the table and peered at the Arcosan. Ishtah could see the glitter of a translator sparkle from one of its own ears.

     “It’s a human word,” it said. “It means child.”

     “I’m not a child!” Ishtah scolded the human, outraged. “I’m nearly through my second growth spurt!”

     “Arcosan, feathery down covering your torso and neck, small scales poking through the down, and small freckles of down on your face,” the human said, and gave its version of a smile. “You’re a kid. Don’t feel bad, though. Humans have a habit of calling anyone physically younger than themselves a ‘kid’. Think of it as an expression of affection. Now, is there something you need?”

     Ishtah opened his beak to speak when several things came into his mind. “That Scoatian,” he said slowly, pointing at the slumbering figure. “He called you ‘Pecostian’, right?”

     The human nodded in affirmation.

     “And he also called you ‘William’,” Ishtah continued, feeling excited despite himself. “Are you William the Pecostian?”

     The human leaned back in its chair and barked out a bit of laughter. “Nothing gets by you, kid,” he said. “Yes, that’s my name. Have you heard of me, then?”

     “Who hasn’t?!” Ishtah exclaimed. “Even on Arcos, there are stories about the human who rode through the tail of the Trinity Star Comet and lived, or about how one human faced down a herd of Phlebian Masses with only an exo-suit and a pistol, or the one who outdrank the King of Kenosh and gave his riches to the subjects.” Ishtah paused for a breath. “Did you really do all of that?”

     The human winked at the Arcosan and took a long pull from a beer mug and pushed the empty cup away. “Never confirm the rumors about you, kid,” William said. “It spoils the fun for everybody. Now,” he pointed at the chair formerly occupied by Phinex, “sit down and tell me why you are not back on Arcos and apparently wandering around a Dodger bar without your folks?”

     Ishtah sat at the proffered seat and looked pensively at the table, ignoring the server who walked up to the two. “I have my reasons,” he said, trying to think of how to explain his little problem to a legend. “I did not run away from home, but…”

     “But you’re here,” William said, raising an eyebrow and nodding at the server without looking at it, “without your parents or an escort, an obvious youth, and you’re talking to cowboys in a bar full of people who’d shoot you just as look at you.”

     Ishtah clacked his beak shut at that.

     “Sounds like a runaway to me, kid,” William said. “By galactic and sector law set by Parliament, I’m supposed to turn you in to the Wardens. They offer a reward to reporting truants. Did you know that?”

     “Well, no,” Ishtah said. “But I need to take care of something, and the Wardens wouldn’t help and—”

     “First,” William said, holding up a hand palm-forward at Ishtah, “your name. Never explain your business without giving your name. If that sort of thing is important to you.” He gave Ishtah a hard look, eyes narrowing. “Is it important to you?”

     Ishtah paused at that, thinking, then nodded. “I am Ishtah Vorst of Kempatki Clan,” he said.

     The human turned his hand in an offering gesture. “I am William, the Pecostian,” he said. Ishtah, not knowing what else to do, put a feathery hand into his, and the human moved its hand in an up-and-down motion.

     “Now I know your name and family, and we’ve shook hands” William said, releasing Ishtah’s hand. The server had returned and placed a mug of a strong-smelling alcohol in front of the human. “What is your business?”

     “I need to get to the Capital,” Ishtah said, mind racing to get his information correct. He dug in his vest pocket and pulled a sheet a hardcopy from it. “My family owns a Lagrange Point over Arcos, and a lightrail company is trying to buy it.”

     “That sounds perfectly reasonable,” William said. He looked at the hardcopy and shrugged. “I can’t read Arcosic script, kid. Why is this a problem?”

     “Because it’s everything we have!” Ishtah exclaimed, and suddenly felt tension in his shoulders. He was probably too loud in his excitement and looked around the bar nervously. Several patrons were staring at him.

     William followed his gaze and waved a negligent hand at the patrons. “Mind your business,” he said to the other beings, who turned back to their drinks and talks. He looked back to Ishtah. “The lightrail companies pay good money to set up junctions at Largrane Points, kid,” he said. “It’s how they’re able to bring their railways directly onto a planet surface if I remember right. So, what’s the problem?”

     “The problem,” Ishtah said, pulling out another piece of hardcopy and showing it to William, “is that they don’t want a station on Arcos. They want to set up a bypass.”

     “Oh,” William said, looking at the second sheet, this one in Galactic Standard and apparently legible to the human, “well, that’s a problem, all right.”

     “Arcos does not have that many Lagrange Points,” Ishtah said, leaning forward in his seat. “We have only two, thanks to no moon around our planet and so few other planets to set up the points. My family owns the primary Point and it translates just over the main port. It’s how we made the money we have, by setting up the tolls and having a clear stake on the point in space. Arcos doesn’t get much traffic, but what it does get is the lifeline for my people into space.”

     “What about the second Point?” William asked, still reading the second hardcopy, and not looking at Ishtah. Ishtah could see him reaching out for his mug and pushed it gently across until his hand grabbed the mug.

     “It translates too far away from Arcos,” Ishtah said. “It takes several hours to arrive at the planet from there. No trader with a deadline wants to wait that long to bring goods to or from the planet. But the lightrail company, Singularity Reaches, explained that the one-time payment to our family would be enough to leave Arcos and let the planet figure out its Lagrange Point problem on its own.”

     “I’ve heard of Singularity Reaches,” William said. He looked up at the Arcosan. “They’re known for being pretty aggressive in their acquisitions.”

     “Why I took the deed and ran,” Ishtah said.

     “So, you are a runaway,” William said, smiling. Ishtah ground his beak in frustration.

     “I intend to go back home,” Ishtah said, “after I present my deed to the Arcosan representative in Parliament and ask her to put a stop to the purchase.”

     “Tall order,” William said, draining his mug and wincing at the harsh drink. “You’re a short glass, kid.”

     “I don’t understand,” Ishtah said. William waved the comment away.

     “You need a ride,” the human said, “and you need an air-breather wagon. How much are you offering for the job?”

     “Ten-thousand vancos,” Ishtah whispered. William sat up at that.

     “It’s my college fund,” Ishtah explained. “I have access to it now, to begin my bidding for schooling, but this is more important and I—”

     “Quiet,” William hissed, placing a hand on Ishtah’s arm. It looked around the bar, eyeing the other patrons. “You have that on you, right now?”

     Ishtah nodded, and William smiled. “Then we’ll consider doing business, but I ain’t taking your school money,” it said. “We can settle this out after the job, most likely with your parents.”

     “You’ll take me, then?” Ishtah asked, hope making his voice creak and ignoring the dread of having a stellar legend explain to his folks that he took their son on a wild interstellar adventure.

     Before William could answer, the door to the bar swung open violently as if kicked by a large foot. Everyone stopped to look at the new arrivals: a large Scarran with his head tendrils tied back and two smaller beings trailing behind.

     “Ain’t lookin’ for no rubble,” said the Scarran, looking at the stunned patrons. “I’m lookin’ for an Arcosan boy. He amon’ you, then?”

     William quickly moved out of his seat, circled the table, and put little Ishtah behind his back and coat. “Tell me, Willowix,” he said loudly, “when did you become a Marshall? That’s a mighty nice badge on your chest.”

     The Scarran turned and gave William a toothy smile. “A’, the Pecostian,” Willowix said. “I got in’ucted two mont’s back. Now I’ve at’ority and the like, so quit runnin’ that mout’ of yours. Ya’ seen this boy?” He held up a poster that had Ishtah’s likeness on it. “He’s wan’ed for t’eft and like.”

     “That looks like an Arcosan youth,” William answered, peering at the poster. “A bit out of your jurisdiction, not to mention that badge says you’re for the Carathol Drift sector. You’re a bit out of your territory, ain’t you?”

     “Always a smar’talka, ain’t you William?” Willowix asked, his face-mottling changing from grey to purple. “I di’n’t ask for yor’ ‘pinion, did I?”

     “No one ever does,” William sighed theatrically, “and more’s the pity for the entire universe. So.” Ishtah heard his tone change and he thought the human was giving the Scarran a pointed stare. “What did that boy do to deserve the attention of a Marshal instead of a Warden? Especially a Marshal operating out of his assigned territory?”

     “Ain’t none o ’your concern,” Willowix said. “You see the boy or no, Pecostian?”

     “I’m just curious,” William said, raising his voice and holding out his hands as if to include the bar patrons, most of whom were watching the conversation. “What if there was a bounty on him? Could be one of these fine gentlebeings here or myself that want to aid you in your search for that bounty. You do have a proper bounty on the boy, right?”

     The other patrons, some of whom had noticed Ishtah hiding behind the human, turned to give Willowix hard glares. The Scarran stared back at them, his expression and mottling nervous. Scarrans might be fierce warriors, but even they would pause at the idea of fighting forty or fifty drunks in a small, to them at least, room.

     “Ain’t no bounty on t’e boy,” he answered. “T’e lad stole some papers, is all. Wort’ quite a bit of quid to someone in my Sector.”

     “Oh!” William exclaimed, snapping his fingers as if suddenly recalling something, “is that it, then? So, you’ve checked in with the local Marshal and Warden, right? Established your hunting rights in this Sector, everything above board, so on and so forth?” Ishtah could all but hear the toothy smile the human had to be showing.

     Willowix let out a low growling sound and Ishtah saw him move a massive hand near the handle of an appropriately sized pistol at his hip, his henchmen following suit. “Getting’ real tired of yor’ mout’, Pecostian win’bag,” he said, his frustration coloring his skin to gray and black. The bar patrons became very still.

     William slowly turned his hip and moved his coat behind him, revealing the laser pistol on his left hip. He tucked a thumb into his belt. “Now now,” he said, “no need for violence or bringing our homeworlds into this, Willowix. You’ve never even been to Pecostia, I bet.”

     Willowix started an angry reply, when the Troag, behind Willowix’s right shoulder, started and put a meaty hand on the Scarran’s shoulder.

     “Eh, boss!” the Troag said, “Who’s that hidin’ be’ind him?”

     Ishtah, in his excitement, had not realized that when William moved his coat, he would be somewhat visible. He grimaced and shuffled to get back behind the human.

     Willowix smiled, in both the human and Scarran fashion. “Who’s that be’ind you, William?” he asked. “Little Arcosan boy, from the looks of ‘im. Yor’ savin’ me a lot of trouble.”

     “Are you assuming,” William asked, “that just because he’s young and Arcosan that he’s the Arcosan boy you’re looking for. Awful wrong of you to think they all look alike.”

     “Nah,” Willowix rumbled, “that’s just a ‘uman thing.” He turned his head slightly to look back at his henchmen. “Get-”

     It happened so fast that Ishtah was barely aware of it happening. Before the Scarran could finish his sentence, William had pulled the laser pistol from its holster, leveled it, and with the loud crackle of electrical discharge, fired three bolts of plasma. The first bolt flew wide of Willow’s shoulder, but left a neat little circle burning in the center of the Troag’s forehead plate. The Troag had barely started falling back when William let loose the other two bolts at Willowix. Instead of hitting the Scarran, they blazed against a kind of barrier that shielded Willowix. The light was so bright that nearly everyone, including Ishtah, was blind for a few precious seconds. He ducked down as he heard the other patrons start firing their own weapons and throwing furniture.

     A hand came down on Ishtah’s shoulder with a vice-like grip, and he could barely make out the face of William the Pecostian. “Time to run, boy!” he shouted, pitching Ishtah forward toward the door, dodging a blind grab from the Scarran.

     The two barreled through the doors to the bar and into the bright, dusty street of Dodger’s shipping district, the violent crashes from the bar fading behind them.

     “Where’s your ship?” Ishtah asked, shoving his goggles and mask back onto his face. Several onlookers were walking by the bar, forming a large crowd that pushed against the young Arcosan.

     “Widowmaker is tied up back in his berth, of course,” the human said. Ishtah, his eyes adjusting, noticed that the human had not bothered with either goggles or a mask. William reached over and grabbed Ishtah by the collar of his vest and started pulling him along in the direction opposite of the berths.

     “Wait!” Ishtah cried, reaching up to slap at the hand holding his vest. “I can run! Aren’t the berths back that way?” He pointed behind him.

     “That they are,” William said, letting go of the Arcosan and hustling through the growing crowd. “But Willowix would have planned for that.”

     Ishtah felt an elbow bang against his head as he tried to duck around someone but ignored the apologies. “How’s that?” he asked. He was amazed that he was keeping pace with the human, for all that the man had legs like an Arcosan plains-jumper.

     “Willowix ain’t all that smart,” William explained, stepping in front of Ishtah and threading through the crowd to help the Arcosan. They were almost out of the gaggle of beings. “But Scarrans are very cunning hunters. Credit where it’s due. He would have paid someone to watch for you at the port and keep you from boarding whatever wagon you hitched a ride on. So, we’re getting out another way.”

     The two made it through the crowd, finally. Ishtah was breathing a bit hard. “How?” he asked.

     “Oh,” William said, panting too but sounding off-handed, “just a little something I have in case I find trouble on a world.”

     A deafening roar sounded from behind them. The two looked back at the bar just in time to see the doors go flying off their hinges and into the street, hitting several of the onlookers. Ishtah could see the Scarran blinking in the bright sunlight as he scanned the street, spotted the Arcosan, and pointed at him.

     “Get ‘im!” he shouted. Ishtah saw both henchman, both, come running out of the bar and dive into the crowd separating them.

     “And that’d be the trouble!” William said, and both turned to run again. “Head for that circle at the end of the street,” he was saying, “the one with the tower in the center.”

     Ishtah could see the circle drive and the obelisk in its center and both raced towards it. A flash of light zipped over Ishtah’s shoulder and he yelped in surprise.

     “Ho’boy!” William shouted. “They must want your deed something fierce, kid! Say, you ever fire a pistol?”

     “A few times,” Ishtah said, jumping when another bolt slammed into the ground right next to him and sent a plume of dust and sand into the air, “with my dad and uncles. I’m not much of a good shot.”

     “Don’t need to be,” William said, pressing his laser pistol onto Ishtah’s chest. “Take it and fire back, but mind the crowd, and don’t shoot the Alaban.”

     “What?!” Ishtah asked, surprised and fumbling with the pistol. He turned to level the weapon back behind him. “There’s a Troag back there with a bolt in his forehead but you want me to avoid hitting the Alaban?” Said Alaban was slinking through the crowd behind them like an Arcosan grass-viper intent on its meal.

     “Yup,” William said. Ishtah squeezed off a shot that went up and wide, caroming off a metal roof. The sound was loud enough to even make the henchmen flinch and stumble. “Alabans just get mad when you fire lasers at them. Now where is it?”

     Ishtah looked back at the human to see him slapping at pockets, and with a smile he pulled out a two-fingered glove of some sort. The human put it over the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

     “Widowmaker’s caller,” William explained, pushing Ishtah into the center of the street and away from bystanders as the henchmen fired more shots at them. The human made a circle shape with the gloved fingers, put them in his mouth, and let out a sharp whistling noise. The glove lit up with small lights playing across in strange patterns, and Ishtah heard an engine suddenly kicking itself into motion. The noise of the bucking engine was coming from behind them, and Ishtah, turning to take another shot at the henchmen chasing them, saw a glossy black Fresbian-class ship rise over the rooftops of Dodgers’ buildings. The ship turned, orienting on William, and was careening toward the pair, gathering speed.

     “This will have to be fast, kid!” William shouted, reaching over to push Ishtah forward. “Widowmaker’s done this a few times, so we’re worrying about us. When he drops into the street center, we jump on. Got it?”

     “Got it!” Ishtah replied, though he had no idea what the human was going on about. The sound of someone being shoved roughly drew his attention back behind them, and Ishtah had the laser pistol up and firing as he ran. The two henchmen, who had managed to gain some ground, flinched when a shot buried itself into a nearby buildings’ corner post, and Ishtah smiled at that.

     The smile died, and more feathery down fell from his face, when Willowix burst through the crowd of confused bystanders. The Scarran’s face mottling had shifted to red and purple in his fury. Without preamble, Willowix grabbed a bystander, who had been attempting to get out of the way, by its shirt collar and simply threw the being to one side, where it collapsed onto a porch.

     “Pecostian!” Willowix shouted. Ishtah could see the Scarran unholstering his massive pistol on his hip and bringing it level with the human.

     William looked back at the Scarran, and turned in his step, his long coat flaring out behind him. Ishtah saw a manic grin on the human’s face.

     “I’ve got something for your shield, Marshal!” William said, his left hand going to the odd pistol holstered on his chest. Ishtah barely saw the motion as the human moved in a quickdraw faster than he had ever seen his uncles try, and the pistol was aimed straight at the Scarran before Willowix could have registered it. The human thumbed back a lever on one end of the pistol and squeezed the trigger once. The pistol roared, the sound deafening to the Arcosan and much deeper than a conventional laser pistol, and flames leapt out from the barrel as it fired.

     Something slammed into Willowix like an Arcosan three-horned bull, sending him back and off his feet. His shield blazed with white light for an instant before shattering as if it had been made of frosted glass instead of magnetized energy, its own sound a screech. A small explosion went off on Willowix’s belt and began burning into his clothes. Whatever had hit the shield had enough force to still transfer into kinetic energy, and the bulky Scarran flew back, landing on his back in front of his henchmen. His pistol had gone flying in the impact.

     Everyone behind Ishtah and William simply stopped to stare at the Scarran in shock.

     “That’ll learn ya!” William whooped, laughing as he turned back and continued running. “Almost there, kid! Widowmaker doesn’t like to wait, so come on!”

     Ishtah ran along, hearing Widowmaker’s engine roar and buck overhead. He saw the ship angle toward the street circle and noticed everybody who was in that circle running away. A side-hatch on the ship had opened as it stopped and began lowering itself to hover a few feet off the dusty ground.

     Shots rang out from behind Ishtah, who ducked. William grunted in pain as one of the bolts dug into his arm, but he didn’t slow his pace. They had entered the circle intersection.

     “And here we go!” William shouted, grabbing Ishtah’s vest again and, like Willowix with the bystander, hurled Ishtah through the open hatch, jumping up onto the waiting ramp as Ishtah bounced off the deck. The henchmen, seeing their quarry making good its escape, began pouring bolts into Widowmaker’s hull.

     William slapped the control to reseal the hatch and ran to the cockpit. “You ever fly a Fresbian-class?” he asked. Ishtah pulled himself up as the hatch clambered back up.

     “Too rare,” Ishtah responded, wheezing. “Never saw one at our Lagrange Point. Sat in a Mustang once, though. Dad let me.”

     “Then come on!” William shouted from down the hall. “You’re up front with me!”

     Ishtah lurched as the Widowmaker turned on its side, the sound of bolts pinging off its hull. “But I’m not a pilot!” he said.

     “Best time to learn!” William said, laughing. Ishtah followed the human to the cockpit and sat in one of the chairs behind William. He fumbled with his straps while William ran his hands over the controls, putting in commands. Widowmaker bucked and was streaming skyward at a reckless speed.

     “We won’t have much time,” William said over his shoulder, “but we have a sure-fire way to get to the Capital quickly. It’s just a little bit risky.”

     “A little bit risky?” Ishtah asked, incredulous. “What do you call what just happened, then?”

     “An argument,” William said, getting a firm grip on the ship controls. Widowmaker was almost in low orbit already.

     Ishtah was wondering if it had been a good idea to trust this human, living legend or not. “What are we doing?”

     William looked back again, smiled, and pointed out the viewport. Ishtah could see the smaller beacons for the lightrail he had missed as it passed through the sky.

     “We’re jumping a train,” William said.

                                     #

     Terendoc, a young Wistrin and soon-to-be Marshal, sat at the desk to the local Marshal office on Dodger. He watched the clock on his terminal as it slowly counted down the last ten minutes to his shift. His day off was tomorrow, so he had plans to go out on the town for the evening. It was always the last ten minutes of the shift that moved the slowest.

     Terendoc sighed through his face tentacles. Ten more minutes and he could shut down his terminal and leave his desk. Knowing his luck, some fool was going to come barging through the door when he had two minutes to go, needing help with something stupid and meant for the local sheriff and not the Marshals. But he was the first face the people would see upon entering the office. He had to be helpful, if he ever wanted to get another assignment and preferably away from people. Maybe he could transfer to supply or something quieter—

     The doors to the office slammed open, almost as if someone had kicked them with a large boot. Terendoc stood up from his seat, tentacular fingers wrapping around the baton issued to him as an exceptionally large Scarran crossed the threshold. The Scarran was covered in dirt, dust, and whatever Scarrans used for sweating. He had a large burn on his hip as well, and the smoking remains of a box on his belt.

     “Look ‘ere, gas bag,” the Scarran said, holding up a Marshal badge in one hand and pointing at two other beings, a Troag and Alaban by the looks of them, who were following him. “I’m Mars’al Willowix, pursuin’ a crim’nal who’s made for open sky. I need a ship from your motor pool, now.”

     “Now, see here!” Terendoc spluttered, hefting his baton. “You’re not a Marshal I recognize, and I will not take kindly to being called ‘gas bag’. My name is Deputy Terendoc. Change your tone and explain yourself.”

     The Scarran growled and its face mottling shifted colors. He walked toward Terendoc’s desk, reached over, grabbed his baton with his free hand, and placed the Marshal badge on the desk. With a deft move of his thumb, the Scarran snapped the baton with a loud crack.

     “Run my badge num’er, gas bag,” the Scarran rumbled, “and get me a ship. Don’t give me any rubble.”

     Terendoc looked over at the clock. Four minutes left. He sighed.

                                #

     “Are you out of your mind?” Ishtah asked as William keyed for several programs to be moved from his screen to the Arcosans’ seat. “You can’t jump a lightrail! That’s impossible!”

     “Oh, it’s possible,” William said, as his flight path was being calculated. “It’s just so dangerous that very few have tried it with ships this size.”

     “Because ships this size don’t have a strong enough jump engine to match a lightrail in transit,” Ishtah said, “and the pilot has to make the jump at a junction right as the lightrail passes over it.”

     William looked over his shoulder at Ishtah. “Widowmaker can make that jump, no problem,” he said. “He’s got a kick that makes his jumps stronger than any other Fresbian. The timing isn’t ideal, true, but if we hurry, we can make the final junction before that lightrail leaves the system.”

     Ishtah stared at William for a moment before letting out a frustrated sigh. “What can I do to help?” he asked.

     “Keep an eye on your screen,” William said. “You have the sensor station queued up. We got out in a hurry, but Willowix was determined back there. We ain’t seen the last of him, trust me.”

     Widowmaker was banking wide of Dodger’s satellite zone and aiming for deeper space when Ishtah made a surprised noise. “There’s a ship leaving the planet, on a pursuit course with us,” he said. “It’s broadcasting a Marshal signal.”

     William smiled. “What did I tell you?” he asked. Ishtah made a grinding sound with his beak.

     “How did he get a ship so fast?” he asked. William put in the commands to let Widowmaker have full power to his engines, and the ship leapt forward as it gained velocity.

     “That Marshal badge can get a lot of things done, kid,” William said. “Keep an eye on that ship. We’ll try to lose him at the outer edges of the system. Maybe there’ll be a few herds coming in that we can hide around.”

     “Missile!” Ishtah cried. “Stunner-class capture missile, heading right at us!”

     “Or maybe we’ll have to run,” Wiliam sighed, twisting the controls. Widowmaker went through several spins before William pressed the controls for the flares. He noted three deployed and hoped that would be enough to dazzle the missile.

     “The missile is flying off,” Ishtah said, relief in his voice. “The flares confused it.”

     “Splendid,” William said. “How far to the inner-system junction?”

     “Coming up on it now,” Ishtah said. William could see the flashing of the beacon from his viewport and nodded to himself.

     “Jumping for the outer-system area now,” he said, cutting power to the main engines and flipping the jump-engine’s handle, sending Widowmaker into otherspace. Ten minutes later, the ship translated back into the void and William could see several herds of asteroids being guided toward the junction they had just used. Widowmaker, his engines cut, was drifting lazily in space.

     “Right then, kid,” William said with a smile. “Mark the final junction beacon on the sensor board. When the lightrail is about to use it, we’ll jump at the same time and be on our way.”

     “Can Willowix follow us from there?” Ishtah asked. William shook his head.

     “Nah, but he can follow us all the way to it,” he said, putting power back into the main engines and sending Widowmaker racing towards the junction, being mindful of the cattle.

     “Ship coming out from the junction!” Ishtah cried. “It’s Willowix!”

     William sighed. “Of course, it is,” he said.

                                #

“Hey, boss,” the Troag said from its seat behind Willowix, “I’ve got Widowmaker on m’board.”

     “That’s just robin, Churg,” Willowix said. “Target the engines and lob ‘nother missile. We want t’at boy alive, remember.”

     Churg grunted in acknowledgement while the Alaban, not a talker, whistled softly to itself as it worked. Willowix kept an eye on the viewport and the twisting Fresbian ship as it juked through space, trying to throw off the missile lock that Churg was working on.

     Ain’t getting’ away t’at easy, boys, he thought to himself. A hunters’ grin formed on his face.

     “Boss,” Churg growled, frustration in its tone, “that Pecostian is flying near the herds. Missile ain’t gonna lock on ‘im when he gets there.”

     Willowix checked his own sensor board, noting the three cowboys driving their herds to the junction. That Pecostian was angling his ship to fly right by those asteroids. It was good idea, Willowix supposed. There were several bulls in those herds that would throw off a missile lock.

     The grin widened on Willowix’s face. “Change t’e payload on t’at missile, Shill,” he said, glancing at the Alaban. “Send ‘em a concuss’a. I’ve an idea.”

     The Alaban smiled, revealing several rows of tiny, serrated teeth.

                                #

     “Send a message to that lead cowboy, Ishtah,” William said as Widowmaker rotated on its axis. “Let them know we’ll be running a little close to the herd, but we’ll keep from spooking them.”

     Ishtah, a human-spec headset sitting poorly on his plumage, began speaking into the microphone. The cowboys and their herds were starting to drift closer together, making ready for their inner system jump. Or being nervous about Widowmaker skirting too close to what looked like a five-hundred-count herd of multi-ton rocks.

     “William!” Ishtah snapped. “The Marshal just fired another missile!”

     William looked down at his sensor board, noting the missile and its flight path. “But he didn’t get a lock on us. What’s that fool playing at?”

     The answer to that question hit William like a splash of cold water. “The herd!”

     Ishtah started frantically speaking into the microphone. William could see the cowboys starting to pull their herds away, but it was too late. The missile flew into the collection of asteroids and hitches and detonated, sending out not fire and shrapnel but a sphere of energy and arcing lightning. That sphere struck the asteroids, cutting the hitch lines and sending several dozen of the heifers on chaotic trajectories. The cowboys previously guiding the asteroids began flying about, trying to re-establish the hitch lines and avoiding collisions.

     Ishtah and William looked out at the collection of asteroids zooming through space towards them and said together, “Stampede!”

                                #

     Willowix smiled as he watched the Pecostian weave through the stampeding asteroids. Now that the human was stuck trying to survive, he would not be making any jumps to wherever that Arcosan boy was aiming for. Now all he had to do was park his ship near the outbound junction and wait for the Fresbian-class ship to either escape the stampede, what Willowix preferred, or get hit by one of those asteroids, which Willowix hoped would not happen.

      “Eh, boss?” Churg said, his tone pensive. “What’s gon’ happen if he gets stampeded?”

     “Fresbian’s a tough li’l flier, Churg,” Wilowix said. “A hit won’t do much. We just need the engines to lose power. If the Pecostian escapes the stampede, launch another concussor at him and knock the ship out.”

     Churg burbled an acknowledgment, then added, “Boss, Old Man Twister is nearby.”

     “We’ll have the Pecostian in tow before he arrives, Churg,” Willowix said, confidence in his voice. “Keep an eye out for the Old Man.”

                                #

     William sent the ship spinning madly through the tightly packed asteroids, juking Widowmaker as two asteroids collided with each other and sent micro-meteors flying out in all directions. Twisting through the stampede was commanding his complete attention.

     “The Marshal’s trying to get another lock on us!” Ishtah yelled.
     “Well, William growled, “that’s not fair. Ready more flares!”

Ishtah worked at his console while William struggled to keep them both alive, and the moments passed in frantic silence, occasionally slinging the pair against their seat harnesses as the Widowmaker was put through a sharp bank or corkscrewing twist.

“Doesn’t this ship have shielding?” Ishtah asked while the Widowmaker corckscrewed up and over a charging bull.

“Shielding?” William scoffed. “Do I look like I’m in the Expeditionary Fleet? What cowboy can afford a shielding unit for his ship?”

“Oh come on!” Ishtah complained suddenly. “This is just not fair!”

     illiam started to ask for an explanation when his own sensor board pinged. A new gravity well. A mobile gravity well.

     Here we go again, William thought to himself. “I guess the stampede got the Old Man’s attention!” he said twisting his controls to send Widowmaker zipping close by a meandering heifer. “Ping the junction, Ishtah. It’ll alert you when the lightrail is on the way.”

Ishtah complied and eventually swore. “The lightrail will be at the junction in a few minutes,” he said. “Can we get there in time?”

William smiled, twisted the controls again, and Widowmaker was suddenly in open space, the herd of asteroids leaving them behind. Old Man Twister was not in his forward viewport yet, so they might have a chance.

“Nothing to it, kid,” William said, but he almost bit his own tongue as the Widowmaker bucked, hard. The engines made a sputtering sound that William had heard only once before, when the ship he was crewing on had taken a glancing blow from a concussion missile.

“Napetap!” Ishtah swore. “The Marshal launched that missile before we got out of the herd! We couldn’t deploy flares in time or they’d have made the herd stampede even worse. The missile went off just inside the herd from us. The engines got caught in that blast and are shutting down.”

William tried to go for a hard restart, but the engines wouldn’t budge, and the ship continued to drift on its last trajectory. The missile must have been close enough to knock out the starters. He tested the maneuvering jets and the ship spun slightly in a different direction but did not give much in the way of thrust.

Unfortunately, the new spin brought Old Man Twister into his viewport, and the ancient black hole’s accretion disk was bent into a cone-like funnel, a bad sign among the cowboys in the area. The Old Man was barreling towards them.

And to think all those Old Earth scientists only saw these things from one point of view, William thought, his mind wandering in his moment of horror. They never saw the space tornados for what they were.

William heard Ishtah slump in his seat. “What can we do?” the young Arcosan asked, openly despairing. “We’ll have to surrender to Willowix, or Old Man Twister out there is going to eat us. I’ll lose my family’s deed and the Lagrange Point! There’s no way we can escape the spin on that black hole.”

William was staring hard at the black hole, watching one of the stampeding bulls being pulled into its gravity well. He saw the asteroid, colliding with the tiny bits of matter and radiation and burning brightly.

“Old Man Twister isn’t much bigger than your average moon,” William said, mostly to himself. But Ishtah heard him clearly.

     “Yeah?” Ishtah asked. “Can your jets push us around a moon that can bend space and time?”

     “If Widowmaker could do that, I wouldn’t bother moving herds,” William said, thinking. The Old Man was between them and the junction, spinning counterclockwise from his perspective. It might work…

“Ishtah, bring up the hitches. I want five charged and ready to deploy.”

     William turned his gaze from the ever-growing black hole to the Arcosan, who had a stunned and exasperated look on his face. “Why?” Ishtah asked.

     “Set up two to send out opposite energy lines, two to emit both lines on opposite sides of itself, and one as a base,” William continued. “I’m going to set full power to the starboard thrusts and get us moving at an angle. Set the range parameter to absolute maximum, to these coordinates.” William sent the numbers to Ishtah’s screen.

     Ishtah read the numbers and looked back up at William, more of his down falling from his strained face. “Tell me you’re joking,” he pleaded.

     “You wanted William the Pecostian, a living legend, to help you out, right?” William asked. “You have to be ready to accept that you’d try something legendary.” He pointed at the front viewport at the rip in the space-time continuum. “We’re lassoing Old Man Twister.”

                                #

     “Boss!” Churg barked, still looking at his screen. “Widowmaka’ is sendin’ out hitches and slidin’!”

     Willowix looked down at his own screen to confirm, then out the viewport to spot the Fresbian as it moved through space, sliding to port while still moving away from them. “What te’ devil you think you’re doin’, Pecostian?” he asked, watching the cowboy. He was still heading towards Old Man Twister. Any further and the ship would be caught in its gravity well.

     Willowix turned to the Alaban. “Ready a stunna’ net,” he said. “T’at Pecostian can die by the Old Man all ‘e likes, but ‘e ain’t going ‘til we get t’at Arcosan’s deeds, you get me?”

     The Alaban nodded and whistled softly to itself as the stunner nets, a capture device for the Marshals going against a fleeing craft, was readied and loaded into a missile tube.

                                #

     “Hitches are deployed and will be attempting to secure their lines in a few seconds,” Ishtah said, his eyes not moving from his screen, “and the Marshall is attempting to get a lock on us again!”

     William grunted an acknowledgement, his arms straining to keep hold of the controls. Widowmaker had grazed the gravity well of Old Man Twister, and he was fighting to keep them just outside of its reach. One miscalculation and they would begin the slow spin toward oblivion.

     “The moment that hitches have established their connections,” William said, “you are to feed as much energy into their lines as you can. With only five instead of several dozen, you’ll be working with a lot of power.”

     “Got it,” Ishtah said, and William could hear the faint sound of excitement in the Arcosan’s voice. Well, he was being a part of a living legend, now. If they survived, his name would go out into the universe.

     Best be right about this, Bill, William thought, using the rarely-said nickname he kept for himself. The kid never asked to be a part of galactic folklore.

     “Hitches have established connection!” Ishtah reported, his voice tight with excitement. “Beginning energy feed…the lines are holding!”

     William smiled fiercely. “Send instructions to the negative-feed hitches to tighten their lines to just outside the gravity well of the Old Man and stabilize their positions,” he said, tapping the thrust controls to move Widowmaker to just outside the accretion cloud, “and wait for my command to open the main engines’ input valves.”

     William could feel Ishtah’s eyes on him as he watched the hitches, obeying the Arcosan’s instructions, draw themselves closer to the Old Man and begin to join the spin of the accretion disk. The line leading from the base hitch, connected to the Widowmaker, began to grow taut. The Fresbian ship lurched as a new direction was put into its movement by the line. The ships’ sensors began warning about the heated micro-material and radiation levels of the accretion disk.

     “Feed power into the main line!” William said, using every muscle in his arms and torso to keep the controls steady, “and set the internal grav system to full! It’s about to be a bumpy ride!”

                                #

     “Bosss,” the Alaban whistled to Willowix, finally speaking, “the ssship isss matching the ssspin of the Twissster.”

     Willowix stared at his viewport, stunned. The Widowmaker was swinging around the black hole in slowing constricting arcs, the lines of its hitches glowing brighter as the revolutions increased.

     “W’at te bloody ‘ell you think you’re doing, Pecostian?” he asked, watching as the Widowmaker spun around the black hole in ever-faster loops. “T’ey can’t keep t’at up for long, though. Is t’e stunna’ net ready?”

     The Alaban whistled in the affirmative. “The bassse line isss sssecured and the misssile read to launch,” it said. “Jussst give the order and we’ll have that Fresssbian ssship in tow.”

     “Robin,” Willowix murmured in his basso voice, listening to the computer establishing its lock on the spinning ship.

     “Boss!” Churg barked, staring at his own screen. “The lightrail is here and headin’ for the junction!”

     “Bloody hell!” Willowix snarled, seeing the long, cylindrical craft angling away from the first junction toward the other, arrowing around the roving black hole. “Chuck t’at stunna’ net at t’em now!”

                                #

     William was leaning over this ship controls and fighting from being pressed into the right side of his seat, listening to the various warnings blaring from Widowmaker. The ship was moving at a fraction of the spin from Old Man Twister, but that was more than enough for the artificial gravity to be strained to its limit. He was surprised the hitches had not fallen into the gravity well already.

     “William!” Ishtah shouted, his own voice showing the strain against the momentum of the spin. “The lightrail is approaching the outbound junction!”

     “Wonderful,” William growled, his teeth clenched as his body strained against the pull of the black hole. He haltingly tapped at the keys on the screen, bringing up the junctions’ coordinates. “Open the main engine input valves!”

     Ishtah leaned away from his seat, with difficulty, and put in the commands. Widowmaker shuddered as the heated material and radiation from the accretion disks’ outer edges began to sink through the valves. The heat sensors from the engine added their own warnings to the cacophony in the cockpit.

     William kept his eyes on the sensor board, watching as the locking system tried to establish itself. This was going to be too close.

     Suddenly the Widowmaker lurched at an odd angle from their spin, their speed arrested.

     “Launch from the Marshal’s ship!” Ishtah cried. “There’s a stunner net on our hull!”

     The sensors from the engine screeched a high note that rose over the other warnings. William looked at his engines monitor, seeing them flash from the dull gray of inactivity to the green and yellow of overcharge.

     “Cut the hitch lines!” William shouted. “Now!”

     William felt the ship lurched again, this time away from the Old Man, and he opened the engines to their maximum output, slamming him against his seats’ backrest. Widowmaker, locked onto the junction, stabilized its flight path, and barreled through space toward its target, the stunner net from the Marshal’s ship pulling for an instant against their flight and snapping from its hold.

     “We’re loose!” Ishtah yelled. “The lightrail is making the jump!”

     “Kicking in the jump-engine!” William shouted, straining against the pull from his ships’ momentum to flip the switch. He could see the Marshal’s ship, pulled sharply by the now-disconnected stunner net, trying to fight against the gravity well of Old Man Twister and failing, being hit across its flank by the super-heated material of the accretion disk. The junction was zipping toward them in his viewport and the lightrail had just disappeared into it when his fingers lifted the switch, cutting in the jump-engines.

     The Widowmaker, shunting power from the overloaded main engines to its smaller jump-engine, gave the hardest buck William had ever felt, and suddenly his viewport was whited out, showing the veranda of otherspace, the tail-end of the lightrail an oblong shape of darkness just in front of them. The ship stabilized, letting William finally relax in his seat and lower the artificial gravity to standard. He heard Ishtah let out a whimpering sigh.

     They had made it.

                                #

     “William the Pecostian, the human who lassoed a black hole named Old Man Twister,” called a voice that made William look away from the hatch he had been working on alongside Widowmaker. Ishtah Kempatki was walking along the drydock lane that floated in the lower atmosphere of the Capital. He looked a lot more confident than the kid who, just weeks before, had screamed his fear away as they escaped Willowix and his Marshal badge. William wondered whether the Scarran was going to be hauled in for an inquiry if he had not already lit out for the outer systems.

     The kid is becoming a legend all of his own, William thought, grinning at the Arcosan youth.

     William closed the maintenance hatch of the Widowmaker, listening to the various output vents as they went through their automated checks, as Ishtah came walking up. It was the first time William had seen the Arcosan in over a week. The light of the Capital’s star glinted off the various hulls of ships that sat in the floating drydock of the planets’ atmospheric harbor.

     “News from the representative,” Ishtah said, raising his voice over the din of ship maintenance. He was dressed in Arcosan businessmen garb, yellow and green jacket over a blue undershirt. The plumage atop his head were flattened against the breeze coming across the harbor. “She brought the deed up in her argument against Singularity Reaches on it acquiring new Lagrange Points, and used my statements about Willowix to pursue charges of intimidation and hostile takeovers. Parliament had apparently been trying to rein in the company from knocking down smaller businesses and ranches, with little success. Looks like Singularity Reaches won’t be opening its new line around Arcos.”

     “Sounds like you did the impossible, kid,” William said, smiling under his mustache as he dogged down the hatch. “Any word from your folks?”

     He looked over to see Ishtah blush in the Arcosan fashion: the feathers around his face fanned outward. He had very little down around his face, now.

     “My dad was furious at first,” he said, “but when the Representative contacted him and told him the news, he decided to not ground me for the next ten years.”

     “So, you’ve your outbound flight logged?” William asked. “I’m sure your folks are wanting you home.”

     “Yes, and they are,” Ishtah said. He held up a small data holder and presented it to William. “Dad forwarded the fee for transporting me to the Capital. Ten thousand vancos, as promised.”

     “That better not be out of your college money,” William growled, taking the data holder and inserting it into a handheld he kept nearby. It showed the amount of money held within, and the option to transfer the amount to his personal accounts.

     “Nah,” Ishtah said, dropping the formal Arcosan accent and sliding into Williams’ own speech pattern. “Da’ has a big enough budget to cover this at least once, and said it was worth the price if it meant we kept the Lagrange Point.”

     William smiled, hit a few keys to run a transaction, and ejected the data holder from the handheld. He gave it back to Ishtah.

     “There’s four thousand in there,” he said as Ishtah took the data holder back. “I only needed six. No arguing.” He held up an admonishing finger. “Take the rest and buy yourself a few classes in stellar navigation. You’d make a great cowboy in a few years.”

     Widowmaker let out several whistles that meant it had finished its maintenance check, and William looked over to the harbormaster, who nodded and approximated a ‘thumbs-up’ for the human.

     “You think so?” Ishtah asked, looking at the Pecostian with wonder.

     “Absolutely,” William said with another smile. He tapped a control pad of the hull and Widowmaker lowered the ramp for him. The Pecostian took the wide-brim hat from his head and set it on Ishtah’s own feathery forehead.

     Just then, several youths of different species ran up the walkway and stopped to stare up at Ishtah, clamoring to get closer to the Arcosan.

     “Are you Ishtah the Arcosan?” one of the youths asked excitedly. “The Mad Flyer who lassoed Old Man Twister with William the Pecostian?”

     Ishtah, not knowing what to say, lifted the large hat from his brow to look behind him. William had already walked aboard Widowmaker and was lifting the gangplank. The Arcosan smiled at the ship and turned back to the youths.

     “Yes,” he said, as Widowmaker lifted from its dock and began ascending. The youths gaped at him in wonder. “Yes, I am.”

                                #

     William smiled to himself as Widowmaker left orbit from the Capital and headed toward the junction. He began typing in the coordinates for his next jump, wondering where he was heading to next.

     “Think we ought to visit Johanness Henris, old boy?” he asked the ship, listening to it ping its search results on the main screen. “He was going to be going up against some kind of new-fangled railway machine, last I heard.”

     The junction came to within Widowmaker’s jump proximity, and William flipped the switch and leaped into otherspace.