As Tar and Soot

It's been a while. Yeah. College got pretty busy, and the blog was one of the first things to go this time around, unfortunately. I'm back today with one last link from my Planetside Literary project. Here is my sci-fi flash fic "As Tar and Soot." I'll hopefully have some new content for this blog in the near future. Maybe. We'll see.

Around the Galaxy in 450 Sol Days

Today I'm direct-linking to my story "Around the Galaxy in 450 Sol Days" from my Planetside Literary solo magazine project of the last semester. You can listen to me reading the story here. You can read the text here.

Planetside Literary

First, I will point out that I finally updated my Blogger photo. Yes, I know that Blogger crunched it and it's blurry, but I kind of like it like that, so it'll stay that way for at least a little while, haha. I was a senior in high school when my old photo was taken, and I just finished my junior year of undergrad the day before this photo was taken (which also happens to be today!).

It's probably a questionable decision to release so much of my unpublished work at once, through the link which will be following soon, but I feel good about it. I'm willing to give up on the chance of publishing these pieces elsewhere in order to have some excellent content on here.

Without further ado, I present to you my solo magazine that I created for my Digital Magazine Production class this semester: Planetside Literary. The only previously-published written content in the "magazine" is my story "The Last Photo of Humanity," which can be read a few different places on the web, both in its original contest entry form and in its revised Digital Portfolio form.

Since I don't expect anyone to read everything I've published here all at once, I'll be suggesting certain pieces to read every once in a while over the next month or two. The first piece up is my sci-fi flash fiction piece "As Tar and Soot." I don't know that this story ever found its full potential, but it's one of my personal favorites, and I'd love to know what y'all think about it. And by "y'all," of course, I mean the two or so people who currently read my blog, haha. Anyway, peace out, good friends. More suggestions from my web magazine to come. (Though you can read ahead if you really want to.)

I'll Take This Over Suffocation

[Note: This story started out as a drabble--a story numbering exactly 100 words--some time in late 2014.  I later expanded it to a bit over 500 words, submitted it to a few places that rejected it, then used it in the March 2015 issue of my high school's newspaper as my fiction story for the issue.  I read it over again a few days ago, and I really liked it, so I'm gonna give it some new life here.]

            There is no wind on Edelraa.  Its trees never bend nor bow.  Its birds never ride a gale nor battle a gust.  And so they fall, for they have not grown strong like those of Earth.  Edelraa is perishing.

            I cannot change the course of our little colony ship, barreling through space toward the third planet in the system of the red dwarf Drake VII.  There isn’t enough fuel to turn back for home.  We must land on Edelraa, to survive there or be snuffed out like a candle; not a flame gently blown out, but one smothered under a glass bell.

            The first settlers on Edelraa were dying of starvation and suffocation at the time of their last transmission to our colony ship.  That was three months ago.  They have not responded to our replies.

            There are five hundred and thirty “people” aboard Sterling.  I’ll explain the quotes later.  We come from forty-seven nations across four planets, not counting the fifty children born aboard during our five years of travel.  The animals in our pen are multiplying, so much so that we’ve been eating steak every night for the past week.  The greenhouse is laden with green vegetables and healthy fruits, grown in designed soils.  Until this morning, I thought we might be able to throw our mission aside and live out of our tiny ship, without need to descend onto the deoxygenating surface of Edelraa.

            Two significant events occurred between the Earth-time hours of 05:00 and 07:00 today.  The first was an eerie transmission we received from the planet.  When it came in, I threw down everything I was doing and listened, believing it to be from my husband, the leader of the planet’s sole settlement.  As it turns out, there is a much larger power on Edelraa.  It calls itself the “Wind God.”  Apparently it is angry with us.  That explains quite a lot.

            The second event is just as supernatural and a bit more terrifying.  One of my crew woke up this morning dead.  Yes, she died, and then she woke up.  I had the brilliant idea to put on “Monster Mash” and see what would happen, but it only slowed her down.  She would be the “running kind” of zombie, except we’re in low-gravity, so the pursuit occurs in slow-motion.  Isn’t that how everyone dreams of having their brain devoured by a zombie?  So far she’s eaten two brains, killed three passengers with her plasma sidearm, and infected five other people.  Unarmed zombies are one thing, but pistol-toting zombies are a whole ‘nother story.  They give you a choice.  You can run away and get shot, try to fight and get your brain munched upon, or sit there and accept zombification as a new stage in your existence.

            I don’t feel a whole lot different as a zombie.  In fact, maybe there isn’t a problem here at all.  Since I don’t need to breathe, there’s no reason to not just form the colony on Edelraa as planned.  What’s the Wind God going to do, kill us?  I’ll take this over suffocation.

Konibar

            It began as silence.  Then, one pale tenor cried out.
            A second, a third, a fourth blended into the throng, until the voices numbered ten billion, and the first fell away into weeping.
            After a thousand years, Konibar claimed the Cup again.

Out of the Metal Cage

       She got out of the car.  She really did it.  Left him.  It’s over, she thought.  It’s really over.

       At first she ran, down Eisenhower Street toward Market Avenue with her purse flowing out beside her clamped with one hand to her shoulder.  She looked to the road.  He wasn’t following her.  She decided to walk.
       It’s for the best.  From her wallet she pulled two 20’s and a 5, with her gift card for Chili’s.  Phone.
       Thank the Lord, still 20% battery.  “Uncle Jim,” she said.  “I’m in Carlsville, at the intersection of Eisenhower and Market.  Could you come pick me up?”
       “Well sure,” he replied in his soft-but-gritty vocal fry.  She hung up.
       The headline on the Carlsville Monitor declared “The War On Mars Is Over!”  She crinkled her bow, looking at it through the glass.  After a few lines, it was clear that the headline was just the usual media bait.  The war between the U.S.A. and China was still very much blazing on the Red Planet.
       What an age it is, she thought.  The wars on Earth had virtually ceased after the obliteration of the American East Coast and various parts of the other world superpowers.  Yet despite the peace on our home soil, humanity decided it could not survive without the taste of blood in its mouth.
       Isn’t that what I’ve been doing all along?  Giving up on Stephen just to go and date a bunch of low-lifes?  But I never needed any of them, did I?

Safe Flight

I noted in my last post that I plan on posting every Thursday in 2016, and I plan on delivering on that statement.  Below is a link to a 242-word story that I wrote for the Year 1, 22nd edition of the Cracked Flash Fiction Competition.  I was declared one of two honorable mentions for the competition (essentially a tie for third out of eight or nine entries, depending upon whether they considered one story that was a few minutes late or not).

"Safe Flight"

Biggest Flash Fic Contest Win Yet

Head on over to the results page for the Year 1, Week 18 round of the Cracked Flash Fiction Competition to read my winning story "Special."  It's only 299 words, so right in my wheelhouse for flash.  It's not exactly my best story though.  I won't tell you the genre because it's a surprise (though you could just look at the label for this post; shhh).  This win over six other entries breaks my record by one entry.  This is also my first 3rd-person story to win a contest (and all of my published stories were written in 1st-person too).

F is for Frieda

April 4, 2053

Frieda slept through much of the alien landing.  She would've slept through all of it had it not been for the turncoat.

Barbara was like a sister to her.  She was a budding botanist whereas Barbara was a veteran astronaut on her third mission, but they had a lot alike.  They were both heavy sleepers.  The biggest difference there was that Frieda woke up that day and Barbara never did.  Frieda slept through Barbara's throat being cut.  Only God could have awoken her before her own was slit.

E is for Ephraim

(Note: It's best that you at least glance at my A to Z Plan before reading unless you want to go into this story completely cold.)

June 24, 2096

            Ephraim was young and, frankly, stupid.  He almost got thirty-six people killed.  Or was it thirty-seven?  It was fifty years ago, and yet it feels like something he should remember.

            He was late leaving his room that day.  When he opened the door, the Base’s chief biologist—Lira or Leona or Lisa, maybe—was leading one of the aliens down the hall.  Ephraim didn’t understand.  He threw the biologist into his room and drew a utility knife.  Likely, the blade couldn’t have even pierced the alien’s hide, but Ephraim was young and stupid.

            “Is this a sign of aggression?” the alien asked gravelly.

            Ephraim muttered something about protecting his comrades or some such other thing that sounded a lot more gallant in his head than it did at the end of his tongue.

            The alien pushed the knife down with one wing.  Huffing air from his long, strange mouth in a defective copy of laughter, he slithered on past.

            Ephraim went back to bed, not at all suspecting that the alien he had let pass would very nearly kill everyone he had come to love.  There was a pistol at his belt.  He should have used it.  But how could he have known?  He was young and, in hindsight, he was stupid.

C is for Christopher

(Note: It's best that you at least glance at my A to Z Plan before reading unless you want to go into this story completely cold.)

December 6, 2046

Coffee was scarce in the Lunar Base, real coffee from beans, not the caffeine-pill-and-water upper to be drunk six days of the week.  It was a Tuesday, so Christopher sprung from his bed at ST+8:00 (eight hours after sunset) to brew the Base’s sole pot of coffee for the week.

He divided the contents into twenty-two mugs, one for each crew member who had requested the beverage the day before.  One of the otherwise-identical cups sported a chip on its rim.  The bottom appeared perfectly white, replaced to the cabinet with every last drop consumed.  Only two people at the Base drank their coffee to the last drop, and Martha would’ve fessed up if she had chipped her mug.  It wasn’t even a challenge.  When Jarod walked into the kitchen at ST+12:44, Christopher handed him his cup and waggled a finger at him.

Echoing screams prevented Christopher’s intended lecture.  They were Kyra’s screams, he decided.  Too shrill to be from any of the other women at the Base.

Christopher fell into a stream of moving people, several yet in their pajamas.  He noticed Abednego at the head of the pack, raven-black hair cut at the shoulders.  The Israeli turned a corner and the river ceased flowing behind him.

After approximately two minutes, to Christopher’s watch, a dark figure slithered by up ahead.  It took only a moment to deduce its alien nature.  Christopher smiled.

An intriguing puzzle, he thought.  What is it?  Why is it here?  Why now?

“I suppose I shall have to find out,” Christopher said to himself.  He pardoned his way through the stunned mass to get a better vantage point.

B is for Beatrice

(Note: It's best that you at least glance at my A to Z Plan before reading unless you want to go into this story completely cold.  Also, if you happen to be British, please tell me all the things I inevitably got wrong in this story, as far as word choice goes.)

June 24, 2056

            There weren’t supposed to be children on the moon.  Beatrice and Arran had been told this several times before they boarded the shuttle to the Drake Lunar Base, both by UKSA and NASA.  But Beatrice couldn’t help it.  She had given up on conceiving months before she and her husband had been selected to participate in this venture with the Americans.  Nonetheless, thirty-nine weeks after landing at the Base, Beatrice delivered the first baby born outside of Earth’s atmosphere.

            Luna woke up wailing on the morning the aliens came.  She had just been fully weaned, so Beatrice cradled her in her arms and rocked her back to sleep.  Luna’s kip lasted perhaps twenty minutes before the sound of heavy footsteps outside of her door had her crying again.

            Arran didn’t even stir in his sleep beside Beatrice.  She set Luna down beside him and opened the door to have a butchers, dressed only in her nightie.

            “What is going on?” she asked Jarod, one of the Base’s septics, as he hustled by.

            “Not sure, going to see.”

            Beatrice ran after him, navigating the halls as best she could.  It wasn’t often that she was beyond the life sciences laboratory on the airlock’s side of the Base.

            Jarod stopped dead in his tracks in front of her.  He looked up at the head of a giant, snake-like beast.  It must have been thirty meters long.

            The beast unhinged its jaw and said, “hello,” sounding as if it were gargling marbles.

            While Jarod continued staring at the beast in silence, Beatrice spun around and broke into a footballer’s pace to cradle her baby, expecting it to be her final chance to do so.

A is for Abednego

(Note: It's best that you at least glance over my A to Z Plan before reading unless you want to go into this story completely cold.)

March 27, 2047

            Abednego rolled out of his bunk and laced up his indoor boots.  He threw a pair of earbuds in and started a rock playlist on his government-issue mp3/mp4-player.  Patrick snored in the bunk above him, loud enough to cut through the King.

            It was a Tuesday, so Abednego pulled his razor from his all-purpose bag as soon as he made it to the restroom.  His face down to black stubble—the razor blade was seeing its last days—he brushed his teeth and yanked a stiff comb through his shoulder-length hair.  Harold, the base’s linguist, greeted Abednego in Farsi as he pushed open the door to leave.  “You know I was born in Jerusalem, right?” he said with a laugh, remembering the first iteration of the long-running exchange as it occurred the day he and Harold had arrived at the Drake Lunar Base.

            Abednego was halfway to the planetary science room when he heard Kyra screaming.  He threw down his bag and sprinted toward the airlock, where Kyra was stationed.

            Kyra was hyperventilating against the wall opposite the lock.  She held a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other, as if unsure which to use.  Or maybe which to use first.  Abednego met her from the left and stopped cold.

            “Basalt-black, hairy worms with wings” was the only way he could describe the figures looming before him.  They were built no thicker than a cobra, but their full length must have approached ten meters.  Their mouths were perhaps a cubit long, cut out of their length like a crocodile’s snout.  Where eyes should have been there were only two small patches of yellow hair that flowed as if dancing.  One of them dropped his lower jaw.

            “Spoke” is too strong a word.  The extraterrestrial “communicated” is all Abednego could say, though how it did so was entirely outside the realm of his expertise.

“Greetings,” it communicated.  “We come in peace.  My name is unpronounceable in any of your Earthling tongues, but for now you may call me simply ‘Leader.’  I am glad to make your acquaintance.”  Leader stretched out a wing toward Kyra.

Abednego pulled the knife from Kyra’s hand just before she fainted.

“Shalom,” he said to Leader, taking the offered wing with his free hand and shaking it.  “Don’t mind her.”

The Sky Was Our Savior

I'm swapping the order of my posts this week.  I shall post my literary criticism on Sunday.  (Edit: I shall not post a literary criticism this week, because college applications.)  Today I am providing a link to my entry in this week's Finish That Thought contest.  "The Sky Was Our Savior" is a 467-word sci-fi story with a few humorous elements thrown in.

White, Rubbery Dragoon Uniform

A sci-fi flash fic (158 words) I wrote for Vol 2-38 of Flash! Friday: "White, Rubbery Dragoon Uniform."

Oh, the Rust and Atrophy

I attempted to write two or three stories in the last month and failed each time.  Only just now did I manage to write words that I'm going to keep, and those are in the form of a 158-word sci-fi flash fic that I probably won't want to talk about a year from now.  It's quite clear to me that I've gone a bit rusty and my writing muscles have already begun to atrophy.  Exhibit A: "White, Rubbery Dragoon Uniform."

Having written something at least, good or strange and mediocre, I feel a little better about the decline of my writing abilities.  I really hope I can kick myself into writing more frequently, even though I'm now juggling school as well as various other commitments.  My  fear is that it shall take at least as long for my writing muscles to return to peak fitness as it took for them to decline.  I pray that I underestimate myself.

An Ancient Beverage

     Orth’gung plunged his proboscis into a hummingbird.  Plant fluid flooded his mouth.  He shook with delight.

     A man-beast, bound by an electroweb, asked, “Why drink the blood of such a small animal, Great Gung?”

     Orth’gung whispered to Clor’gung, his translator.  “It’s not the blood I cherish, sapien.  It is the plant juice.”

     The man-beast’s face contorted.  “Oh, we call that ‘nectar’.”

     “Clor’gung, define this ‘nectar’.”

     “In ancient Earth mythology, nectar was the drink of the gods.  In modern—”

     “The gods,” Orth’gong exclaimed.  “The Ancestors who scouted Earth must have drunk it first.  How cultural trends repeat over the millennia.”

Indigo the Hynopolic

     Indigo tumbled down the transport ship’s gangplank.  Her head struck the sheet of iron alloy with a resounding “thud”.  Someone chuckled behind her.  Darn Yeopian, she thought.  If he had only one leg he’d have fallen too.

     The grass at the foot of the plank tasted like peppermint on Indigo’s skin.  She opened her pores, drawing in the minute doses of flavor.  Her fellow travelers stepped over her on their way.  A Hynopolic and her sweetgrass were not to be separated.  Still, local Ponsers gave her their signature tilted-unibrow sneer as they strode past.

     Time to get up, thought Indigo.  She tensed the muscles in her back and leg.  One, two, three…hop!  The landing would have lost points in a Hynopol gymnastics competition, but she’d never been one for human sports anyway.

     A metropolis stretched before her.  Small metal crafts zoomed between skyscrapers at dozens of altitudes.  She hopped toward one of the buildings.  It shone with the light of the two Ponser suns.  Neon characters above the massive entryway spelled out “Uplift Facility.”

     The blue-glass door lifted up and away as Indigo approached.  She shuddered.  Nebulas, she thought.  Her pores cemented shut.  She felt her stomachs lurch.

     “Greetings,” said a young Ponser woman in broken Hynopol.  “Meet has you a time, sir?”  Her irises sparkled a sickly shade of green, several shades lighter than her bob-length hair and wax-separated eyebrows.

     Indigo rolled her eyes.  “I am a ‘ma’am,’ miss.  And no, I did not schedule a meeting.  I am here on behalf of your sponsors on Hynopoli.”

     The Ponser stared at her for a few moments, licking her lips.  She pulled a digi-pad from her jacket pocket, hit the expander, and, apparently, opened up a dictionary.  “I see, right this way,” she said, smiling.  “Apology, ma’am.  Given name my is Cla’ira, by the way.”

     “Where did you learn Hynopol?” Indigo asked.  She huffed as she leapt up a flight of stairs to the second floor.  The main laboratory occupied almost every nook of the space, save a cubicle partitioned off in the far corner.

     Many of the lab workers glared.  The redness of their eyes offset the subtle violet of their skin.  They stood in parties of three, two individuals holding down a subject, the third injecting it with its hourly dose of chemicals.  One of the subjects wriggled the gag from its muzzle and began to screech.  The head scientist in its group replaced his empty syringe with a new one, this one filled with a dark, sludgy fluid.  He rammed it directly into the subject’s heart.  It fell silent.

     Cla’ira turned to Indigo, flushing.  “So sorry you had to see fatal.”  She picked up her pace, nearly colliding with a nurse returning her subject to its cage.

     Indigo retched.  Her blood began to heat up as she took the last few hops to the cubicle.

     A short, balding Ponser sat in an office chair at the cubicle’s desk.  He looked up from a mug of what appeared to be some form of hydrated stimulant.  “What you want, sir?”

     Do all Ponsers have this gender problem?  “Ma’am,” Indigo said, pointing at the lump in her neck that validated her femininity.

     “What you want, ma’am?”  He returned his focus to his mug.

     “Your sponsors back on Hynopoli are not pleased with how you are running this facility.  They would like you to treat the uplift candidates as if they were fully uplifted from the door.”

     The Ponser furrowed his unibrow.  “How can a door uplift?”

     “I see you learned your Hynopoli from a free mental download.”

     “I paid well money for learn your language, sir.”  He downed the last half of his mug in a single gulp.  “Oh, sorry,” he said, glancing up.  “Ma’am.”

     Indigo sighed, closed her eyes, and prayed to the god Three-Legs—the most helpful of the four gods of wisdom—for forgiveness should she decide in the next several minutes to kill herself.  “The point is, if you don’t start treating the candidates like your own kind by the time I leave for Hynopoli tomorrow I shall have to shut you down.”

     Cla’ira fidgeted with her digi-pad dictionary.  She said something to her boss in Ponser.  He nodded.

     “They shall be loved as if they were our mothers-in-law,” the male Ponser said.

     Indigo thumbed through a file on Ponser culture stashed in her purse.  “Lovely.  I shall be back tomorrow to confirm your claim.”  What an utterly strange race, she thought.  I can deal with the purple skin, green hair, and unibrows, but loving their mothers-in-law?  She hopped away, face in hands.

A Heated Discussion Between Two Telepaths on a Motorbike

(Note: This story comes from the same setting as my Zento stories, which you can find via my "Zento" label.  A few of the references in this story may not make sense to you if you haven't read certain Zento stories.)

            Ever’clin hopped on the back of Clar’wein’s motorbike and accepted her mental request for a telepathic linkup.  He pulled a helmet from the otherwise-empty sidecar as Clar started up the engine.

            Here we go, Clar pathed.

            Ever put his arms around Clar’s waist as the bike lurched forward.  Where are we going again?

            To the sushi place on 7^th.

            Isn’t that the joint that serves Earth fish?

            Clar motioned for Ever to lean into a sudden turn between two emissary buildings.  I thought you liked Earth fish?

            Karonti fish are my favorite, but good ol’ home-farmed Goran 4 fish are almost just as good.  Ever thumbed the scar above Clar’s currency chip, placed quite controversially on her belly.  And both are a lot cheaper.

            Clar twisted to glare at Ever.  You forgot, didn’t you?

            Forgot what?

            The monitor above the next intersection flashed “caution.”  Clar slammed on the brakes.  Ever’s stomach flew into his throat.  Our relationship could stop that fast, Clar pathed.

            Ever shifted to massage Clar’s shoulders.  What are you going on about, Clar?

            You really don’t know, do you?  Clar separated herself from Ever by throwing her weight into an acute veer.

            Flailing his arms to keep from splattering on aptly-named Diagonal Street, Ever pathed, What the eternal fires, are you trying to kill me?

            No, but I’m starting to think about it.

            Wouldn’t I have heard if you were—

            Go to Goran 1.  The left handlebar of the motorbike came within a finger’s width of the side mirror on a hovertaxi.  Clar jerked the bike back into the center of her lane.

            Clar’wein, please.

            You really don’t have a clue?  Not even a guess?

            Your birthday?

            That’s in twenty rotations.

            My birthday?

            Clar slapped Ever across the face.  It’s our one-year anniversary.  We honey-mooned on Earth, so I thought it would be romantic if I brought you to a restaurant that serves Earth food.

            Ever sighed.  Honey, our anniversary was almost forty rotations ago.  I bought you a bouquet from Goran 3, remember?

            That was our Goran 4 anniversary.  Clar slapped Ever on the opposite cheek, nearly driving into the back of another motorbike as she did.  Today is our Earth-year anniversary.

            Ever coughed.  When was the last time I told you I loved you to Goran 6 and back?  And Earth fish.

            The motorbike slowed going into the parking lot of Fish From Earth’s Briny Blue.  By what calendar?  Clar laughed.

            Ever wiped a lake of sweat from his brow as he replaced his helmet and dismounted the bike.  He broke the telepathic link as Clar cut the engine.

            “Wait just one Earth minute,” Clar said aloud, shoving Ever to the ground.  “There are seven planets in the system, not six.”

Z is for Zento Fixes a Wormhole Generator

(Note: This story will make a lot more sense if you've read all of my Zento stories, marked with the "Zento" label, than if you haven't.)

            The bright white helix of the Goran Wormhole blinked.  Zento scrunched his eyebrows together.  “Did the Hole just…?” he muttered.

            The rigid spirals of the Wormhole loosened and spread.  They unwound themselves in the space of a handful of Verion minutes.

            Zento swore in every language he remembered.  “This is the second time this cycle the Hole has gone out,” he said to his copilot, a young man jacketed in ancient Kevlar.

            “Which planet’s cycle?” his copilot asked.

            “Goran 3, sorry.”  Zento turned to face the man.  “What was your name again?”

            “Breed Cornigan.”

            Zento snapped his fingers into a gun.  “Cornigan; I remember.  You were with me when I maimed that Senator on Incubar.”  He looked up and grunted, then jerked his control sticks to the side.  The ship rattled as it skimmed against an asteroid.

            Breed’s eyes widened.  “Is the ship—”

            “It’ll be fine.”  Zento waved a hand at Breed.  “It’s just a scratch.”

            “Maybe you should land in the generator station and check it out.”

            Zento laughed.  “We’re going to have to, Cornigan.  The Hole is out.  And I plan on fixing it.”

*

            “Just one more spin,” said Zento, hefting a large wrench up to the central pin of the wormhole generator.

            “You really think this is going to work?” Breed said behind him.

            Zento completed his motion and took a massive breath, wiping his forehead with the back of one cramping hand.  “Look outside.”

            One of the generator station staff—a young Goran woman wearing a dull blue uniform that paled against her green skin—took a step toward the room’s single window.  “Sir, you fixed, it curls anew,” she said in accented Verion.

            “Nothing a top-notch mercenary can’t handle,” said Zento.

            Breed led Zento back to the emergency hangar at the opposite end of the ship.  “Where did you learn to do that?”

            Zento shrugged.  “You learn a few things after eight years of odd jobs for the biggest mercenary company for fifty parsecs.”

            Smoke battered Zento’s eyes as he opened the door to the hangar.

            “Can you repair a ship as easily as a wormhole generator?” Breed asked, coughing.

            “Sure.  It’s just a really big, slightly fiery scratch.”

            A dull clatter reverberated through the hangar.  “Sir, the left wing just fell off.  Perhaps we should call a mechanic.”

            Zento activated his communicator.  “Carmel-Eyes, we’re going to be a bit late for that hit on Karont.  My ship is on fire.”