[NSW-Fic] Excerpt from The Clothes Make The...

[machievelli]

The Clothes Make The...

 

An excerpt from a full length novella for sale on lulu.com under the name Lorance.

 

What would happen if the costumes really worked?

I

It was almost funny really. How readily you can destroy a man's life with a few simple sentences on paper.

 

Upon examination of the interest shown in Star Frontier when it originally aired, we have come to the conclusion that there is not enough interest in making a movie based on the series.

 

Micah Wayne crumpled the letter, flinging it into the gutter. His last dream in this life, gone in a blot of ink on 20-pound bond.

 

He brushed the graying black hair from his face, wishing he'd waited to find a hair tie. Not that it mattered. He'd stated that if they didn't want to produce the movie, he'd resign effective immediately. The last lines of the letter had been equally damning.

 

Since you have tendered your resignation if this project is rejected, we have no choice but to accept it. All of your effects in the office will be forwarded to your home

 

They didn't even want to let him back on the studio grounds.

 

He walked on, deep in depression. A depression that had started in August of 1971. He'd been 18 then, a fresh faced kid who had been waiting for college admission when his draft notice had come. He'd gone, and been sent to the Nam with an MOS (Method of service He automatically translated. Most people wouldn't have known what it meant) of 19 Bravo, foot infantry scout. Less than a month later, his life had changed forever.

 

They'd been on patrol when the guy behind him stepped on a land mine Ramirez, He remembered. That day was the beginning and end of his life at the same time. The mine was what was called a bouncing betty. When triggered, it bounced four feet into the air, then exploded. What you were supposed to do when you tripped one was keep your foot on the mine. Sure it blew your foot off, but everyone else survived. Ramirez had panicked, turned, and run. As if he could escape the wave front of shrapnel. He'd been dead before he took his second step.

 

Wayne had been ten feet in front of Ramirez. The first he'd known was the strangled yell, then the explosion ripped up his back, throwing him face down in the mud. The medic had taken one look, stopped the bleeding as best he could, and screamed for a chopper.

 

Wayne had been medivaced first to Saigon, then to the VA Hospital in LA. Considering the time of service he still had, they discharged him almost the minute he arrived in the hospital. Every doctor there was sure he'd never walk again.

 

He'd been lying on his stomach after they removed the last of the shrapnel, thinking of the doctor who was too stupid to think that maybe his patient could hear that prognosis. Deep in depression, he'd heard a rolling music that reminded him of the war he'd faced, and on the television they had placed where he could see it, was the premiere episode of what later molded his life.

 

Star Frontier.

 

He'd watched both Star Trek and Lost in Space when they'd been on. Star Trek had always been too upbeat for him, Lost in Space so campy, and hung up on bug eyed monsters with huge heads and gold skinned aliens that it had been almost pathetically funny instead.

 

Not Star Frontiers. It was set in the aftermath of a massive war, alluded to only by the carnage that had not been repaired. A galaxy where might and right equaled Justice. Where those that merely wanted to be left alone had to fight just for that much.

 

The character list was small. Only six, the number needed to man the scout ship Raptor. Her captain was David Morgan, a man sold into slavery by his home planet to pay off that planet's debts along with a few hundred thousand more. He had escaped the labor colony where he had been dumped, gathered others like himself from the internees, and, with the help of Lusaara, an alien woman, captured Raptor. Then they had blasted into space, intent on recreating the Imperium that had collapsed.

 

That first show, bleak with just a hint of hope at the end, had done what nothing else had. It had drawn him out of that depression. After five months of rehabilitation, he had been able to walk again, albeit unsteadily. Every week, he watched the show, watched that black landscape become a shade brighter.

 

Then the next tragedy. Lloyd Sundstrom, the creator was killed in an automobile accident. The studio, upset because the show had little or no viewers, used this as an excuse to cancel it. The final cliffhanger had merely ended the series, and the second episode of it was never aired. The one thing that had gotten him back on his feet was gone.

 

Life meant little to him for a long time after that. He drifted from one dead end job to another, releasing the bile from his soul onto sheets of paper. His stories were about what he knew, the agony of Vietnam, the camaraderie of those that stood shoulder to shoulder against the darkness. But this was the mid to late 70s, with a people that wanted to forget about Vietnam, and more importantly, forget those that had fought, died and suffered in it. He'd sold a few, but never enough to more than help make ends meet.

 

Then in the early 80s he had gotten a slightly better job. He had been asked by a friend to rewrite a script for him. The script, a slightly cold rendition of human life had come from his typewriter colder and harsh. Something the more modern audience had been wanting. The studio saw the differences, and hired him to do the same for other scripts. As long as they never handed him something too light, or for that matter, too bleak, he was able to convert it into a gothic horror that Derleth would have approved of.

 

Well the bastards out there decided they didn't want to see the dark side of life anymore, obviously. He raged inwardly. The last three years of Hollywood products had been remakes of old movies, and for god sakes, Cartoon characters in live action! The perfect time to try to bring back Star Frontier he moaned to himself. What's better than a series that was that dark, but also in public domain?

 

He heard a bell, and spun around, looking at the door he had just passed through. He could read the logo on the door, some kind of costume shop.

 

"When the dark surrounds you, any light is a godsend." Someone said. He spun, and looked at the woman standing there. She was about ten years younger than he was, her red hair falling like a sheet of fire to her waist. He knew that line!

 

Scene 15, right before the end of the first show. Morgan talking to Lusaara. Trying to explain to someone who had grown up in such misery why hope is needed

 

"You need what I have." She said, turning. He followed in a daze as she walked back to the counter. A calico cat sat on the counter, watching his approach. The gaze reminded him of Lusaara in the first episode, a human sized cat-like alien that that had been first a terrified captive, and later became Morgan's love interest. It meowed emphatically, eyes locked on him.

 

"You may be right, Belshazaar." The woman replied. "I am Artemis. What dream of yours needs to be fulfilled this night?"

 

"Dream?" His voice sounded rusty. He never had talked much, and the Nam and rehab had actually made him speak less. "Make time go back thirty years, and save a man's life."

 

She smiled. "That is a little beyond what I can do. But I think I have the answer to your need." She stepped through the Flower child style beaded curtain I haven't seen one of those in twenty years he thought. She was back before the bemusement ended. She carried a metal box about the size of a camera case.

 

"Listen very carefully. There are directions inside the box, follow them to the letter. Do not wear this costume by daylight. Remove it before sunlight touches it. If you wear it too soon, or too long, I cannot say what might happen."

 

He grunted, pulling out his wallet. All he had planned to do was go home, chug a few beers, and eat the Tokarev he'd brought home as a souvenir. Anything else wasn't worth worrying about. There was almost five hundred dollars in his wallet, and he kept twenty, merely pulling the bill out, and flipping the wallet with everything else onto the counter. The woman noted it, but did not pick it up.

 

"Please, watch this before you dress." She slid videotape across the counter. It was unmarked.

 

"Yeah, sure." He opened the box, tossed in the tape, and left with his new possession.

 

"Please." She whispered after he left.

 

II

 

The memory of her last words followed him as he left the store where he'd picked up a six-pack of Newcastle. Hey the self-condemned man will drink a good beer he said to himself. Watching a movie with them might even be nice.

He went up the four flights of stairs into his room, set the beer down, and popped the top on one before going to the television. If anything, this room would have told anyone with even a modicum of psychological experience that the occupant had never really settled in. His clothes had been unloaded into milk crates, the desk was stacked milk crates with a plank across it to hold the computer. The coffee table was more milk crate with a slab of plywood over them. His bookshelves were also merely milk crates set on their sides, and filled. In one of those was his most prized possession. He touched the twenty-four videotapes with a tentative finger.

 

The series had lived and died before the tape revolution, and no one had ever bothered to try to release the series on tape. But working in Hollywood had its perks. He had a friend at the studio that had made the series, and that guy, in return for a rewrite of a script had made copies of every show but one, the unshown second season opener. The cliffhanger end no one had ever seen.

 

This was his pride and joy. Something so important, he had to share it with someone. But finding that someone had been almost impossible. In the last ten years, he had shown parts of that set to only five other people. Each in his or her own way had been buried in their own darkness. Harry Regis, about eight years ago, had been an alcoholic, diving head first into the bottle. The series had started to turn him around before he disappeared a few years ago.

 

Then there had been Tyrone Banks, a black gang kid that had tried to rob Wayne. After thumping him, Wayne had dragged him up here, and shown him episodes three and five, where a kid that had grown up on a wrecked colony had discovered friendship. Maybe it might have worked, but he never saw him again.

 

Then had been Walt Seegrams, a kid dying of a drug overdose. Wayne had found him, called the paramedics, and saved his life. When he'd gotten out of rehab, the boy had come looking for Wayne, screaming that he'd wanted to die. In answer, Wayne had shown him episode 17, where an entire race had literally ODed on pleasure.

 

Then Sylvia. He'd never even found out her last name. A whore being beaten by her pimp. Wayne had stopped the beating, and in answer, had shown her episode 1, where women had no rights before Morgan had escaped. She had disappeared two years ago this very week.

 

Then Lillith. He frowned. Lillith had been so dark even the Goth crowd avoided her. A girl that had been sitting on a park bench, giving a poetry recital to winos from her own works. She had seemed to be a lot like him, really. So dark and deep in her own pain that there wasn't a bright spot. When he'd introduced her to the series, she had dived in even deeper than he had. She had spent weeks at his house, watching every episode, and discussing each as if she had found the one true faith in the world. She had left in a huff when he hadn't done the one thing she had been expecting all that time. She was a 15 year old woman in a world where Wayne would have seen jail before the act was completed because of his age.

 

Would he have been willing to risk it? Hell yes! But he hadn't. His first and only attempt to explain what would have happened to him if anyone had found out was enough to send her storming into the night last Halloween, vowing never to return.

 

All gone now. He hadn't heard from any of them in the years since. Maybe they had embraced that darkness as he intended to do tonight.

 

He sipped the beer, and stared at the unmarked tape the woman had given him. What was so important that she had almost begged him? He shrugged, sliding it into his VCR. He walked into the kitchenette, grabbing out the sandwich fixings, which was pretty, much all that was in the refrigerator. Then he went into the bedroom. The Tokarev-Tata 9mm pistol was a heavy weight in his hand. The Russian gun used the 9mm Tokarev round, the knock off of the German 9mm Parabellum. His ticket out of town later tonight.

 

A musical interlude came from the front room as he finished the sandwich. It sounded like-

 

A deep voice said, "Previously on Star Frontier."

 

He ran into the front room.

 

The scenes began, and he stared in wonder. They were the ending of Episode 24, the cliffhanger beginning. Morgan landed on a scouting mission on a planet. (Actually, he remembered, they had used the poorer sections of LA at the time.) Seeing A Zanti scout, following it to discover the Zanti were preparing to set up a transit gate, then the end, Morgan hanging on the edge of a building in downtown as a Zanti reached for his throat.

 

The credits for Star Frontier were running. Wait, I'm the only one that even thought of tapes!

 

Then the show began, and for the first time in 30 years, he was enthralled. He remembered getting the sandwiches he had made, chugging beers as he watched the adventure he had waited three decades to see played out before him. Then the ending credits began.

 

God if they had shown that the series might have been saved! He thought. Then he watched the tape begin to rewind. He stood, still dazed, pulling the tape out, and adding it to his collection. Only now did he consider the costume he had so cavalierly picked up.

 

The case sat there, and he approached it the way he would have approached a mine on a trail. Too much was happening that he didn't understand, and for the first time in a long time, he wanted to understand. There was a layer of paper, and beneath it was a small metal box. He opened it, and took out the small tube and note.

 

Instructions;

"Be sure to bathe before dressing, using the tube of

bath oil enclosed.

 

He set it aside, and pulled out the costume. He held it, and his heart seemed to freeze in his chest.

 

It was an exact duplicate of Morgan's costume from the last months of the show. At first, he and the crew had run around in the tattered remnants of their original clothing, looking like refugees, which is what they were. Briefly they had worn Imperial Gray with black trim, from a store of uniforms they had discovered in episode 7. Then Morgan had designed a uniform for his crew, not Imperial, not from any of the planets they had contacted, but of his own. Wayne had almost snickered when the Jedi of the Star Wars series of movies had used pretty much the same things. Trousers, loose vests with shirts under them, soft boots and hooded cloaks. Morgan's had been almost exactly like that, regal in it's very drabness, only a brightly colored sash around his waist acting as an accent.

 

Under the clothing was a belt with several belt pouches. On the left hand side of the belt was a low-slung holster. Wayne pulled the weapon from the holster, and cradled it like a newborn child.

 

The basic idea of what a person might carry as a sidearm in science fiction had run into problems in the 70s. Before that, all there had been in the genre were pistols not unlike everyone else carried in reality, and the various named disruptors, blasters, and lasers. The Star Trek franchise had slapped a copyright on the word Phaser, but they all worked pretty much the same.

 

Star Frontier had called theirs a Plasma disruptor. It looked like the original Klingon disruptor pistols of Star Trek without the elongated diamonds on the sides, and with a heavier barrel. A small box attached beneath the balance point, which was the magazine. He tapped the button, and the magazine popped out. Whoever had made this duplicate had done their homework. Everything was exactly as it should be.

 

He slid the magazine home, and set the weapon down with a trembling hand. Another note was in the box

 

Take care with the weapon.

 

He took the tube of oil into the bathroom, and in a daze, took a long hot tub bath. The scent of the oil took him back, to Saigon when he had first arrived; a bathhouse where he'd luxuriated in the tub for hours. As if he'd known he might never be clean again. Morgan had done that the first episode after they had captured Raptor. He understood now why the man had done it. Like him in Saigon, Morgan had been washing away his old life, moving into the new with nothing to hold him back.

 

He couldn't wait. The sun was still well up, but the admonition to not wear it in sunlight couldn't stop him.

 

The costume fit perfectly, and Wayne wondered how they had made it exactly the right size for him. He looked in the mirror, and was astonished. Wayne looked not unlike Morgan from those last episodes.

 

He considered what had happened today. For the first time in hours he didn't want to kill himself. He wanted to live, and prove that he had been right. If only to himself.

 

The weapon belt went on, and he touched the long handle on his right side. Like the Jedi, Morgan had carried what might have been called a light saber, but Star Frontiers had called it a monocutter. A magnetic repulsion field held a string of monomolecular wire rigid, and the wire, able to cut anything, was the edge. Only another monocutter could block it. The blade glowed of course, but that was merely to warn the wielder where his invisible blade was. That wouldn't work of course.

 

He walked over to the six-pack of Newcastle, but it was empty. He considered and rejected changing clothes. Well it's only a block to the store. And it is Halloween.

 

He walked into the sunlight, and turned toward the corner. A few passersby saw him, and someone shouted 'May the Force be with you!" but he ignored them.

 

As he passed the alley, something caught his eye, and he turned. A small glowing spot was against a dumpster. Something about it nagged his mind, and he walked toward it, his hand instinctively pulled the disruptor.

 

If this had been the show, that would be residue from a Zanti blaster. He thought. He knelt, and looked at what had once been a man. The bum had been opened up like an autopsy subject, the soft internal tissues had already disappeared and what he had seen that alarmed him was the flesh also starting to evaporate like heated water. The Zanti weapons always took longer to turn anyone to dust He thought. That had been part of the horror of the alien race on the series.

 

He heard a noise, and dived, his back screaming. The dumpster glowed, and began to dissolve as he scrambled frantically clear. It can't be! This is only a costume, and that can't be-

 

He rolled up, and for a fraction of a second, he saw the Zanti.

 

The special effects of the 70s hadn't done the race justice. Unable to create perfectly acceptable races like the modern Star Trek and Star Wars did, the Zanti had been old fashioned clay and stop motion. The closest they had come is when they had made the movie Titan A.E. where the Dredg were introduced. All this thought happened as he pulled the disruptor's trigger.

 

He stared as a bolt of light shot out, and slammed the Zanti against the wall. It was already starting to dissolve under the plasma bolt, and it dropped something as it disappeared.

 

He lay there, shocked. He hadn't expected the Zanti, and he especially hadn't expected a costume weapon to work! Frantically he clamored to his feet, ignoring the screaming pain, shaking as he approached the blackened outline of the enemy he had killed. The small metal device winked in the sunlight as he bent to pick it up. It was a scanner, a device not unlike the tricorder of Star Trek. He tapped the proper button, and it unfolded. The screen was small, and the alien writing jarring, but his mind supplied a translation. After all, Morgan had stolen a Zanti scout ship when he had escaped, and had learned how to read it. The letters of that language, and translation had briefly graced the pages of StarLog magazine in the mid 80s.

 

Find an adequate space to activate a transit gate.

 

Suddenly he was in episode 24. Morgan had landed on a human settled planet, trying to gather supplies for his ship. While there he had discovered and killed one of a Zanti ‘fist’ as humans called it. He had been acting alone to find and destroy the remainder of the team at the end of episode 24.

 

The Zanti operated in groups of five on missions such as this. One was the scout, another the guard, a procurer who gathered required materials, an analyst who set up the gate and tuned it, and a Master, who commanded the unit. This must have been the scout. Unfortunately, this was also the episode where the idea that the Zanti could meld their own bodies with humans as a camouflage had been revealed. The others would not look like their dead compatriot.

 

My god. The Zanti are real, I don't know how that is possible, but they are real! That means there are four more of them out there, and by this evening, they will be setting up a transit gate

 

He considered and rejected the idea of trying to notify anyone. In the series it had been because the Zanti had been supposedly obliterated by the last offensives of the war. The ones that had caused the collapse of the Imperium. It's even more important to me he thought. He could picture it, going into the Hollywood police station, standing in front of the desk sergeant, I'm serious, an alien race from a TV show in the 70s is real. They have landed a team in LA and unless we move right this minute, there will be thousands of them by midnight, and millions here by dawn! He wouldn't believe anymore than Morgan would have in episode 24.

 

The Zanti didn't invade like a normal race would, with masses of ships, and thousands of troops. Instead they sent in a fist that set up a transit gate. Through that opening between different planets, thousands would pour into wherever they were attacking, spreading rapidly until they had conquered the planet. The technique had a brutal elegance about it. If this were real, what president would be willing to nuke LA to stop them? Once they brought through the required equipment, that bastion would be protected by a force field capable of stopping the weapons of the Imperium itself! Mere nuclear weapons had been toys to them!

 

He stood. The sad man he had been was gone. He had a mission at last.

 

Find the procurer, then find the site. I have to stop them!

 

 

III

 

In ways it was like the Nam again. There were hundreds, no millions around him, but only a few were enemies. Among the millions in the LA metroplex, there were only four more Zanti to find. And they, like Charlie, were hiding among them. They need electronics supplies. Something to direct the flow of the energies they intended to create. One thing the series had concentrated on was the sheer power necessary to create a gate. Probably the power of the entire city if read in megawatts. Once it was up, it didn't need more than a trickle charge to keep it open. But by then thousands were pouring through the gate every minute.

 

All right, electrical supplies, electronics, a metal framework. All easy to get in LA if you have the will to do it.

 

He went to the nearest phone booth, and pulled up the book. Unfortunately the pages he needed had been ripped out. Coincidence? No. I met the scout in this area. It would have been his job to find the information they needed. I just found the one flipping book he had used.

 

He crossed the street to another phone booth a block away. This one was intact, and he ripped out the pages he needed. Then he sat on the bus bench, going through them.

 

Hmn, electrical warehouses, three of them. Only one is in LA city proper. The Zanti tended to be direct. The Dodson warehouse was less than three blocks from him, and the others would have come down in an X shape from where the Scout had been. Dodson was near where one of them would have landed. He walked back to the booth, and called.

 

"Dodson Electrical."

 

"Have you gotten a large order for electrical wiring and circuit breakers in the last hours or so?"

 

"I'm sorry, sir, that information is between our sales department and our clients."

 

He sighed. "Listen, someone has a desperate need for one hell of a lot of electrical equipment right now. If they didn't buy it, they might have stolen it. That isn't a bloody secret!"

 

"Well we did have a truck stolen off the lot but-" He hung up. Would there be enough? He asked. Knowing the Zanti as he did, they wouldn't have stolen the truck unless it had more than enough.

 

Calling the electronics supply stores in sequence, he found one that had just gotten off the phone with police. A pair of men had come in, blown half the store to hell, and escaped with about fifty motherboards and a large computer mainframe. By doing the same, he found that a construction warehouse store had been hit by three people, and that they had escaped with a truckload of structural aluminum with assorted tools to connect the pieces.

 

They have everything they need. Except a place to set it up.

 

He walked down the street. Where could they set up without being noticed? He raged. They'd need an open space; with enough area where humans would not be present- He stopped beside a store specializing in maps. In the mood he was in, he wasn't interested in dealing with customer service. Ten minutes later, he walked out with a Thomas guide.

 

All right, central to the city itself, where a bomb would kill millions of innocents, where it’s wild, still unsettled. Where a group of aliens could spread through the indigenous population before being noticed- His finger touched the one true wilderness in LA's heart.

 

Griffith Park!

 

He walked back to the apartment, his back giving him more hell every minute. He had never really recovered after the Nam, only found ways to make the abused tissues do what he wanted. If he survived the night, he'd be back in the hospital for a week at this rate. But he didn't care. For the first time since he'd boarded the 707 to fly to the Nam he was alive!

 

He opened the door of the 1969 Mustang Mach One. The only remaining vestige of his prewar life. He'd bought it less than a month before going overseas, and a year later his dad had delivered it to the hospital so that Wayne could go home in style, and under his own power.

 

The engine roared, and Wayne took off. It was about a mile and a half to the park by city streets, and he burned rubber all the way. He hit the road that entered the park, and he turned. He saw the sign for the observatory, and spun onto it. Ahead of him he saw a gate, and instead of slowing, he punched the gas. Metal shredded as he punched through the gate at just under a hundred miles an hour. The fan screamed as the radiator was rammed back into it, but he ignored it. To hell with the car!

 

Steam and smoke was billowing past him as he pulled to a stop. He'd seen the Observatory back then, and since in movies like the Rocketeer. A sad building now more used to laser light shows. He clambered out of the car, and staggered toward the building without bothering to turn off lights or engine. He staggered up the steps. He needed to get as high as he could.

 

As he reached the upper level he heard a screech as the car finally died from overheating. In the silence, all he could hear was the frantic bellows of his lungs feel the burning pain of his back injuries. He climbed to the upper level near the flag, and stopped, bent forward, back screaming, lungs burning.

 

Something made him dive forward, and he felt rather than heard the sweep of a metal bar as he rolled to the side. He caught a metal strut, and looked upward as his body went over the edge, only that frantic grip keeping him from falling forty feet to the pavement. The man in the suit looked incongruous, the steel beam in his hands even more so. Then the mouth opened, and the Zanti voice came out.

 

Frantically, Wayne reached for his belt. There was a hum as he pulled the monocutter free, the flashing beam of light intersecting metal and man in one sweep. His left hand screamed as the metal beam fell on it, and he dropped the monocutter, hearing it shut down as his hand released the grip safety. He felt it rattle between his body and the building as his right hand frantically caught the strut.

 

Above him, the man in the three-piece suit stared at the riven metal still in his hands as if he'd never seen anything like it before. Then the eyes turned toward him. Wayne had seen that look before. A three-tour sergeant that had stopped caring about anything but the killing. The hands turned, the cut edge as sharp as any razor turned forward. The man bent, raising the metal spear.

Then the body, cut across the waist fell in half, the eyes still as dead as the metal missed Wayne by less than a foot, dropping it to clang on the stone. The hands reached out, and tried to scrabble at him, but the upper part of the body followed that weapon to thud far below.

 

Everything in his body wanted to give in. Let go, accept the plummet to death. But the people of this city, the ones he had gone to war for, come back crippled for, still had his loyalty. Somehow, he got a leg up, and was lying on the dome face. He pushed himself up, the legs didn't want to work, but the arms worked just fine thank you.

 

He lay against the dome half standing, only the stone holding him up. One of the pouches of course had to have a set of Binos, and he found them. He looked at the dial setting on the top.

 

Infrared. They have to assemble the framework, and that means heat. Turning the dial to the correct setting, he raised the fancy binoculars. The scene was the green of an old light amplification Starlight scope. Slowly breath settling back to panic normal, he scanned the park. There was a glow over there, along the Park road. The main camping area near the zoo He thought. Hell if they used tanks, they could wheel a couple of M1s through without blocking too much, right onto a feeder road! He touched the one pouch he hadn't considered. The flat metal box opened, and he stared at it.

 

Emergency med hot shots. He mused. It wasn't recommended to use them except in emergencies. One of the Original crew Dufriees He remembered, had been trapped, and used them to keep a body that had been torn up by a blast working for several minutes to give Raptor a chance to escape. Yeah and it killed him Wayne remembered. No pain, no injury, the body works as if nothing is wrong. For a price.

 

He looked at the distance. At least 500 yards. He could never run it in his present condition. Not in time to try to stop them.

 

No options. He took the red striped tube, pressed it against his leg, and triggered it.

 

It was like a cool wave washed over him. He stood, everything working perfectly. Oh there were twinges, his previous injuries were there, but a sheet of glass lay between them and him.

 

He moved down the stairs smoothly, and began running. He hadn't felt this good in years!

 

It's the drugs He reminded himself sternly. Let's not even consider the damage your doing to all of your injuries. In maybe half an hour your body is going to go into overload, and when it does you'll die.

 

The trees began to come closer, and he was in the woods, still running. Ahead of him was an embankment, and he went down it in a spray of pebbles. Below him, he could see a framework of metal, and three people working around it. One was a stereotypical bum, his hands nimbly attaching a power cable to the nearest transformer. Another, this one a cop was working with a Zanti control panel, his head cocked as he listened to the modulating sound they used for fine tuning electronics. The last was a cold-faced woman in a business suit who paced angrily near the focus of the system.

 

She spun, and a whining sound came from her mouth. The cop looked toward her, and answered. Then she looked at the bum. She whined again, and the bum closed the panel he was working on. He whined at her, and then scuttled aside.

 

The framework began to hum.

 

Too late! Wayne drew his Plasma Disruptor, and checked the setting. Like the phasers of Star Trek, it could be set for overload. I just hope it's enough. He pressed the button, then charged forward. The weapon began burring, a warning to whoever was near that the weapon would explode any moment.

 

The people turned, staring as he ran like a track star toward the framework. Wayne flipped the weapon into the framework, still running. He had to get to safe distance-

 

Safe distance? He laughed at the thought. Was there a safe distance from that?

 

The woman leaped to intercept, the cop and the bum running into the framework to remove the bomb. But luck had made it fall between beams, making it difficult to grab. The woman tackled Wayne, and they rolled, punching at each other.

 

Too close Too close Too close!

 

Her hands locked on his neck, choking him. He caught at them frantically trying to get her loose. If he-

 

There was a flash, and a wave of plasma blasted through the framework. The two that had been trying to grab the bomb were gone, reduced to their component atoms. Then the wave caught the woman. Her hair exploded into flame, flesh beginning to dissolve, yet her hands stayed locked in Wayne's throat.

 

He felt one give, and threw away the arm. The other came lose more readily. He sat up, looking at the devastation. The nearby trees had been blasted clear of leaves, and a couple were wavering, as matter did when caught in a disruption pulse.

 

He tried to stand, but agony ran through him. The pain must be a real bitch for me to feel it through the meds.

 

He rolled over, clawing the ground. He pulled at his belt, and found the med kit. There was a hot shot in there, something to kill someone too badly injured to help. He took it out, and it fell from his numb hand. No rest for the wicked He thought. He could hear a screaming sound, like a, Arc Light mission coming in.

 

Did I ever really leave the Nam? He asked fading out.

 

IV

 

The problem with being dead, Wayne found, was that people had even less respect for you than before. He drifted, yet voices kept interfering,

 

Christ, he's a mess.

 

Just help me get the stretcher out-

 

No! Look at his hands! The left is definitely broken-

 

Don't you die you son of a bitch-

 

All right, one, two, three, lift!

 

He weighs a ton!

 

Shut up and move!

 

He felt himself rise into the air, and boots rang on metal. Something hissed, then the floor seemed to come up like a freight train.

 

Have med stand by, stat!

 

Will he make it?

 

If he doesn't I'll bring him back from the dead just to kill him after all we did to set this up!

 

Then he was suddenly awake. There was a glow seeming to come from everywhere around him. A hand, brushed his head, and he felt something running down his face. Tears. But not mine. The hand moved down, and he saw half-inch claws retract as it brushed his cheek

 

He heard a purring cough in some alien language, but his brain translated it as, "Oh, Wayne, what did you do to yourself?"

 

"I fall down and go boom." Wayne whispered.

 

"What? Walt! I think he just spoke!" That purring voice said.

 

"Considering everything else he did to himself tonight, I'd be surprised if he even thought about talking." A hand rested on his back, a rippling sound moved along his back up to his head. "Well I think you’re right, Lil. He's what might jokingly be called conscious. Coherent may be something else."

 

A head came down into Wayne's view. Sleek as a bullet, black fur covering the muzzle, with whiskers almost six inches long. The ears were set a little higher than human, and as he watched, they folded backwards like a cat afraid it was going to be hit. "Wayne?"

 

"Yeah. What do you want?"

 

"Don't you-" She hissed, and then gave a grin. "Of course not. You remember me from before."

 

That grin, even on a feline face, looked familiar. The wide green eyes-

 

"Lillith?"

 

"In the adorable fur." His mind translated. She leaned forward, nuzzling against his face. "I've waited so long for you to come."

 

"I've waited longer, and he ain't even breathing heavy yet." A deep voice said. The man slid down. "How you doing, Micah?"

 

"Harry?" Wayne wasn't even sure he'd spoken.

 

"Yeah man. About time you showed. We've been stooging around the system for the last week.”

 

"Next time buy a calendar." Wayne whispered. "What do you mean, we?"

 

"What do you think? Walt, who is your doctor-"

 

"Who else knows what these drugs do?" The voice from before asked.

 

"Sylvia, who is busy taking on supplies with Tyrone helping."

 

"What's Tyrone doing here?"

 

"What do you think? He's one hell of a scrounger. The synthesizer makes kick ass trading material, though here it's like buying Manhattan from the wrong tribe of Indians. So let's see, Doctor, supercargo slash engineer, supply officer slash marine, Pilot," Regis motioned toward himself. "And the Alien sidekick. All we were missing was a captain."

 

"Why me?"

 

"Are you out of your mind?" Regis stared. "Man, a week after meeting you, I'm walking by a costume shop, and went in to ask if they had a Captain Morgan costume. The redhead that ran it said they did, but it wasn't for me. So I ask, 'Which one is for me then?'. She said 'There's an opening for a pilot'." He waved toward the clothes. "So I took it. I'm walking down the street, wearing that costume when I get a message. I answer it, and here I am. The people that owned the ship won't need it back. They died from injuries in a crash-landing. But they weren't going to let the military on Earth have the ship, so they gave it to me."

 

"I picked up Walt a few months later, near New Years. He still hated you, but found out that giving drugs was more fun than taking them, so he's the doctor.

 

"Then Tyrone's transponder went off. Would you believe he'd stolen his costume? We were short as hell right then, of everything. He found stuff aboard we could fabricate that were valuable, and his old connections still work. Then Sylvia, a failed engineering student who wanted hands on experience."

 

"And me, my love." Lillith said, reaching over, touching his face. "We wanted you home at last."

 

"Home at last." Wayne whispered. He drifted into sleep.

 

Far below, Artemis watched as one dot of light moved suddenly and was gone. Dreams belong not only to those willing to live them, but to those that share them as well.