Bridge Across the Stars: A Sci-Fi Bridge Original Anthology Read online

  Edited by

  Chris Pourteau and Rhett C. Bruno

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  Sci-Fi Bridge

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  BRIDGE ACROSS THE STARS

  No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without the proper written permission of the appropriate copyright holder listed below, unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal and international copyright law. Permission must be obtained from the individual copyright owners as identified herein.

  The stories in this book are fiction. Any resemblance to any event, place, person, or animal—whether dog, wolf, monkey, or any combination thereof—is purely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Bridge Across the Stars copyright © 2017 Sci-Fi Bridge.

  “Foreword to the Collection” by Kevin J. Anderson, copyright © 2017 Kevin J. Anderson. Used by permission of the author.

  “As the Sparks Fly Upward” by David VanDyke, copyright © 2017 David VanDyke. Used by permission of the author.

  “Peace Force” by Ann Christy, copyright © 2017 Ann Christy. Used by permission of the author.

  “Scrapyard Ship” by Felix R. Savage, copyright © 2018 Felix R. Savage. Used by permission of the author.

  “Here Be Dragons” by Lindsay Buroker, copyright © 2017 Lindsay Buroker. Used by permission of the author.

  “The Gordian Asteroid” by Chris Dietzel, copyright © 2017 Chris Dietzel. Used by permission of the author.

  “The Trenches of Centauri Prime” by Craig Martelle, copyright © 2017 Craig Martelle. Used by permission of the author.

  “Broken One” by Josi Russell, copyright © 2017 Josi Russell. Used by permission of the author.

  “The Erkennen Job” by Chris Pourteau, copyright © 2017 Chris Pourteau. Used by permission of the author.

  “The Firebug and the Pharaoh” by Daniel Arenson, copyright © 2017 Daniel Arenson. Used by permission of the author.

  “Interview for the End of the World” by Rhett C. Bruno, copyright © 2017 Rhett C. Bruno. Used by permission of the author.

  “Night Shift” by Steve Beaulieu, copyright © 2017 Steve Beaulieu. Used by permission of the author.

  “A Friend to Man” by Lucas Bale, copyright © 2017 Lucas Bale. Used by permission of the author.

  “Queen’s Iris, or: The Initial Adventures of Roderick Langston, or: The Tale of General Smith, featuring Roderick Langston, or: Space Pirates” by Jason Anspach, copyright © 2017 Jason Anspach. Used by permission of the author.

  “Just Drive” by Will McIntosh, copyright © 2017 Will McIntosh. Used by permission of the author.

  “Water Babies” by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff, copyright © 2017 Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff. Used by permission of the author.

  “Take Only Memories, Leave Only Footprints” by David Bruns, copyright © 2017 David Bruns. Used by permission of the author.

  “This Deceitful State of Truth” by Patty Jansen, copyright © 2017 Patty Jansen. Used by permission of the author.

  All other text copyright © 2017 by Sci-Fi Bridge.

  Edited by Chris Pourteau and Rhett C. Bruno.

  Formatting, cover art and design by Steve Beaulieu.

  Contents

  Foreword to the Collection by Kevin J. Anderson

  As the Sparks Fly Upward by David VanDyke

  Peace Force by Ann Christy

  Scrapyard Ship by Felix R. Savage

  Here Be Dragons by Lindsay Buroker

  The Gordian Asteroid by Chris Dietzel

  The Trenches of Centauri Prime by Craig Martelle

  Broken One by Josi Russell

  The Erkennen Job by Chris Pourteau

  The Firebug and the Pharaoh by Daniel Arenson

  Interview for the End of the World by Rhett C. Bruno

  Night Shift by Steve Beaulieu

  A Friend to Man by Lucas Bale

  Queen’s Iris, or: The Initial Adventures of Roderick Langston, or: The Tale of General Smith, featuring Roderick Langston, or: Space Pirates by Jason Anspach

  Just Drive by Will McIntosh

  Water Babies by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  Take Only Memories, Leave Only Footprints by David Bruns

  This Deceitful State of Truth by Patty Jansen

  Afterword by Rhett C. Bruno

  Foreword to the Collection

  by Kevin J. Anderson

  WHEN I WAS A KID, THE UNIVERSE OPENED UP FOR ME with thought-provoking and imaginative space adventures about colonies on other planets, alien intelligences, time travel, and mind-bending scientific inventions.

  My real world was nowhere near as exciting. In fact, it was quite mundane, and I think I was the only dreamer for miles around. As a boy I lived in a speck-on-the-map small town in southeastern Wisconsin, not the sort of place that would inspire big thinking and lots of creativity. Sure, it was a charming laid-back environment straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting, with red barns and cornfields, where nobody locked their doors and where all of the neighbors were related to me somehow. Franksville, Wisconsin, was a place with absolutely no imagination, and no excitement.

  Anyone who longed for adventure beyond the stars had to travel vicariously.

  And that’s where the library came in, with its science fiction section, which comprised the top half of one tall set of metal bookshelves. At the time, reading four entire shelves of books—each book sporting a little rocketship logo surrounded by an atom symbol—seemed a daunting task. Like the characters I watched on Star Trek (which my young imagination didn’t think was nearly as good as Lost in Space, because it had more monsters), I decided to embark on a five-year mission “to boldly go where no man has gone before.” Or at least where no kid in my town had gone before. I wanted to read all the science fiction, every book in the world (and surely my library had them all on that one set of shelves). Poul Anderson, Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke—yes, I started at the beginning of the alphabet.

  But even that was too slow a delivery system. I needed more science fiction. And faster.

  I discovered that the way to get the most science fiction ideas delivered like a triple espresso was to read big SF anthologies. My small-town library had every volume of Nebula Award winners and an entire set of the Orbit anthology series edited by Damon Knight. But a lot of those stories were too artsy and esoteric for my 12-year-old tastes. I didn’t know anything about the New Wave movement or experimental writing; I just wanted great stories. I was in the Age of Wonder.

  Then I discovered the story collections of Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov. Asimov would take an idea and run with it. Bradbury blew my mind in collection after collection, The Golden Apples of the Sun, The Illustrated Man, R Is for Rocket, S Is for Space, The Martian Chronicles. Best of all, I discovered several giant SF anthologies edited by Groff Conklin: A Treasury of Science Fiction, The Big Book of Science Fiction, Great Short Novels of Science Fiction. These were massive tomes chock-full of adventures taken from the pages of the best pulp magazines—Amazing Stories, Ast
ounding Science Fiction, Thrilling Wonder Stories—the true breeding ground of the genre.

  During the summer when I was reading those anthologies, I might have slept in small-town Wisconsin, but my mind really lived in the wildest frontiers of space and time. That’s when I really fell in love with short stories.

  And it wouldn’t do just to read them. I decided to start writing stories of my own and sending them to magazines. I began to get those published, nearly 150 of them so far.

  Even though some of the magazines are still around, today’s true breeding ground for the best short SF stories is in anthologies. And the most fertile land for new anthologies comes out of the indie presses. Some anthologies are assembled along traditional lines, such as those from my own WordFire Press, but others are more of a co-op venture with ambitious indie writers and publishers throwing a party with their imagination. Bridge Across the Stars is one such book.

  Here, you’ll find a wide selection of big SF stories, big ideas and big adventures written by well-established veterans such as Maya K. Bohnhoff and Will McIntosh to extremely successful Indie authors such as Lindsay Buroker, David VanDyke, Jason Anspach, Daniel Arenson, and Patty Jansen. You’ll read great tales by emerging talents like Rhett C. Bruno, Craig Martelle, Chris Pourteau, Ann Christy, Chris Dietzel, David Bruns, Steve Beaulieu, Josi Russell, Lucas Bale, and Felix R. Savage. Turn your imaginations loose.

  To find these great stories, you don’t have to do your searching like I did. You have the stories right here in your hands. (But wouldn’t it be cool if someone actually discovered this collection on a shelf in the science fiction section of a tiny, small-town library?)

  Oh, one other thing about all those big anthologies that I read as a kid. I remember many of them had Forewords, where the editor talked about the stories themselves and his process in choosing them.

  I never read the Forewords. I just dove right into the stories.

  So what are you reading this for? Turn the page and get started on the real fiction!

  About Kevin J. Anderson

  Kevin J. Anderson has published more than 140 books, 56 of which have been national or international bestsellers. He has written numerous novels in the Star Wars, X-Files, and Dune universes, as well as unique steampunk fantasy novels Clockwork Angels and Clockwork Lives, written with legendary rock drummer Neil Peart, based on the concept album by the band Rush. His original works include the Saga of Seven Suns series, the Terra Incognita fantasy trilogy, the Saga of Shadows trilogy, and his humorous horror series featuring Dan Shamble, Zombie PI. He has edited numerous anthologies, written comics and games, and the lyrics to two rock CDs. Anderson and his wife Rebecca Moesta are the publishers of WordFire Press.

  As the Sparks Fly Upward

  by David VanDyke

  Yet mankind is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward. Job 5:7

  FIRST LIEUTENANT JOSEPH “BULL” BEN TAUROS, EARTHFLEET MARINES, jerked upright in his bunk as the assault carrier Melita’s General Quarters alarm shrieked. In droll counterpoint, its recorded voice calmly called all hands to battle stations. Adrenaline warred with sleep as Bull rolled to his feet and pulled on his combat underlayers with well-drilled motions. The smart cloth resisted shrapnel, spread heat, wicked sweat, compressed injuries and more, all in service to the battlesuits that kept every Fleet Marine alive.

  As he dressed, Bull waited for more detail to come over the PA. Were they under sudden attack by Meme Empire ships? Was the carrier reacting to flash orders that would send her boosting for a rendezvous in battle? Or was it a no-notice drill?

  It didn’t matter. His actions were the same.

  At least they were until the lights went out. A shock took his feet out from under him, and he found himself falling gently to the floor, a sure sign the gravplating had defaulted to emergency backup.

  And a sure sign of severe damage to the ship.

  Accessing his cybernetic chipset, Bull extended his optical implant’s range up and down until the combination of UV and infrared gave him limited sight. He completed donning his equipment, keying his internal comlink as he did, hoping someone was up.

  “I’m here, Bull,” he heard his company first sergeant, Jill “Reaper” Repeth, reply, “but I can’t reach the bridge. Aux-conn says the task force got jumped and the other ships have their hands full, so we’re on our own.”

  “On my way to the armory,” Bull said. He’d feel a lot better in a battlesuit.

  “Meet you there.”

  In the passageways, dim emergency lighting gave plenty of illumination to his implanted eye. He smelled the telltale tang of combustion mixed with fire-suppression chemicals. Swabbies in damage control gear hurried past, using handholds or magnetic boots to assist their movements.

  Bull did the same, and had almost reached the armory when his field of view shredded. Instinctively lifting his arms and squeezing his eyes shut, he felt a roaring wall of debris fling him backward, and he took a blow to the head.

  A long moment later, he shook free of a half-ton of wreckage that would have pinned him if the gravplating had been operating at full. As it was, a strong, steady push left him standing free in a section of passageway, bruised and foggy-headed, but otherwise uninjured.

  “Reaper?”

  No answer.

  He ran through channels. “Any station? Anyone?”

  Nothing.

  Dammit. Maybe it’s my comms, or maybe there’s nobody to reach.

  A quick examination showed the corridor ahead to be hopeless. Something had punched deep into the ship, probably a hypervelocity penetrator, or hyper. The non-explosive living bullets were favorites of the alien Meme and their slave races—cheap, semi-smart, easy to gestate from local materials.

  Bull tried to access the shipnet, but got no connection. He turned away and tried to find a route around to the armory. All the Marines’ equipment was stored near the hull for maximum accessibility and proximity to the assault sleds—but not for easy damage control. Vital ship’s systems occupied the prime real estate near the center of the wheel-shaped vessel.

  And that protection didn’t seem to have saved the ship. He could only hope the EarthFleet crew had control, and that the task force’s combat vessels—missile frigates, destroyers, beam cruisers, and the fearsome, wedge-shaped armored battleship Tokyo—would be in better shape and come to Melita’s rescue.

  Bull’s inner ear alerted him to a drop in pressure, and he grabbed a breathing rig from an emergency cabinet and pulled it on. The lightweight, clear nanoplastic helmet mated to his skinsuit, creating a short-term spacesuit, while its two small air tanks on a back harness gave him a couple of hours of oxygen.

  A tinny sound rattled through the passageway, and it took him a moment to realize he was hearing weapons fire—and the cries of the injured—muffled by the low pressure. Adrenaline flooded his system, and he instinctively enabled full cybernetic combat mode.

  Combat? What the hell were people doing shooting? And Bull without a weapon. Or at least, a firearm. By the usual definitions, he was a weapon, if he could get close enough.

  Swarming forward through the detritus of damage, he scanned for movement. As he rounded a corner, he saw a suited crewman backing up and intermittently discharging his fire extinguisher, creating a cloud of condensation.

  The cloud fractured and split, showing lines of weapons fire reaching for the crewman. In response, the man clicked the tank to continuous blast and chucked it in the direction of his attacker, and then turned to run—or swim—away. He lifted his hands, startled upon encountering Bull.

  “Who’s shooting?” Bull barked, grabbing the man. His suit nametag read Calvin. “Spacer Calvin, report!”

  “Sir, sir—it’s one of us. She just started shooting!” Calvin struggled to get past Bull. “It must be a Meme infiltrator!”

  Bull shook the man. “Focus, spacer! I need to get to the armory. Where’s the nearest maintenance crawlway?”

  Calvin pointed upward and back t
he way Bull had come. “There.”

  Bull hustled around the corner, dragging the crewman with him as projectiles spanged off the crysteel bulkheads. He spotted the hatch in the overhead, one of many maintenance access panels he normally paid no attention to.

  “Hell,” he said. “I can’t get through there.” At more than two meters tall and one hundred fifty kilos, Bull was the biggest man on the ship—a ship not designed for people his size. “You go. Try to reach the armory. Get weapons and ammo, and then come find me or any other Marines.”

  The man nodded and undogged the panel. In a moment, he’d vanished into the guts of the damaged ship, closing the hatch. Bull wondered whether the frightened man would do his job, or simply hide.

  No matter. Bull crouched at the corner, readying himself. His enhanced hearing detected unhurried footsteps advancing toward him.

  When the sound reached one meter’s range, Bull surged upward and around the corner, reaching for the firearm he expected the infiltrator to hold. His textbook attack found a pulse rifle exactly where he anticipated. His right hand closed on it, wrenching it away while his left hand blurred, its edge slamming into the wielder’s neck just below the jaw.

  It takes a lot to break a human neck, and Bull had put more speed than power into the blow, so the target merely slumped slowly toward the deck. Bull had already thought of several reasons not to kill, beginning with his need for information and ending in the possibility that he—no, she, he saw—was just an ordinary woman, influenced by Meme biotech. Mind control, in other words, and it might be reversible.

  Bull shuddered with the same visceral horror most humans felt when contemplating the amoeba-like Meme, their Blends, and their slave races. Better to die than be brainwashed and lose what made him human.

  Fortunately, if given time, such a reprogrammed person could be cleansed of alien influence. So, Bull snagged the unconscious shooter and pulled her through the nearest door into a cramped enlisted quarters.