Cats in Space and Other Places by Bill Fawcett (the first e reader txt) 📕

"We got that way clear?" Haral was asking on com.

"Clear," Chur's welcome voice came back. "You all right out there?"

All right. My gods!

"Yeah," Haral said. "Few cuts and scrapes."

A numbness insulated her mind. Even with eyes open on the ribbed yellow passage, even with the shock of space-chilled air to jolt the senses, there was this drifting sense of nowhere, as if right and wrong had gotten lost.

A hani that sold us out. A hani like that. A kif like that gods-be son Skkukuk. Which is worth more to the universe?

I shot her. We all did. Crew did it for me. Why'd I do it?

Hearth and blood, Ehrran.

For Chur. But that wasn't why.

For our lives, because we have to survive, because a fool can't be let loose in this. We have to do it, got to do something to stop this, play every gods-be throw we got and cheat into the bargain. Got to live. Long enough.

What will they say about us then?

That's nothing in the balances. That there's someone left to remember at all—that's what matters.

Duty Calls

Anne McCaffrey

With the sort of bad luck which has dogged the Alliance lately, escort and convoy came back into normal space in the midst of space debris.

We came from the queer blankness of FTL drive into the incredible starscape of that sector, so tightly packed with sun systems that we had had to re-enter far sooner than the Admiral liked, considering nearby Khalian positions. But we had no choice. We had to leave the obscurity of FTL in relatively "open" space. It would take nearly six weeks to reduce our re-entry velocity of 93%C to one slow enough to make an orbit over the beleaguered world of Persuasion, our eventual destination. We also were constrained to reduce that tremendous velocity before nearing the gravity wells of such a profusion of stars or the Fleet could be disrupted, or worse, scattered to be easily picked off by any roving Khalia. The Admiral had plotted a brilliant two-step braking progress through the gravity wells of nearer star systems to "lose" speed. So we emerged from FTL, nearly blinded by the blaze of brilliantly glowing stars which was, as suddenly, obscured. Then WOW! Every alert on the Dreadnought Gormenghast went spare.

Considering my position, attached to a landing pod, slightly forward of the main Bridge Section, I immediately went into action. Under the circumstances, the faster we could clear the junk the better, because 1) many of the supply pods towed by the freighters could be holed by some of the bigger tidbits flying around at the speeds they were moving and 2) we were awfuldam close to a colony the Khalia had overrun three galactic years ago. If they had set up any peripheral scanners, they'd catch the Cerenkov radiations from our plasma weapons. So everything that could blast a target throughout the length of the convoy was!

Me, I always enjoy target practice, if I'm not it (which in my line of work as pilot of the Admiral's gig is more frequently the case than the sane would wish). Against space debris I have no peer and I was happily potting the stuff with for'ard and port side cannon when I received an urgent signal from the Bridge.

"Hansing? Prepare to receive relevant charts and data for Area ASD 800/900. Are you flight ready?"

"Aye, aye, sir," I said, for an Admiral's gig is always ready or you're dropped onto garbage runs right smart. I recognized the voice as that of the Admiral's aide, Commander Het Lee Wing, a frequent passenger of mine and a canny battle strategist who enjoys the full confidence of Admiral Ban Corrie Eberhard. Commander Het has planned, and frequently participated in, some of the more successful forays against Khalian forces which have overrun Alliance planets. Het doesn't have much sense of humor; I don't think I would either if only half of me was human and the more useful parts no longer in working order. I think all his spare parts affected his brain. That's all that's left of me but I got spared an off-beat but workable humor. "Data received."

"Stand by, Bil," he said. I stifled a groan. When Het gets friendly, I get worried. "The Admiral!"

"Mr. Hansing." The Admiral's baritone voice was loud and clear, just a shade too jovial for my peace of mind. "I have a mission for you. Need a recon on the third planet of ASD 836/929: its settlers call it Bethesda. It's coming up below us in a half a light-year. The one the pirates got a couple of years back. Need to be sure the Khalia don't know we've passed by. Don't want them charging up our ass end. We've got to get the convoy, intact, to the colony. They're counting on us."

"Yes, sir!" I made me sound approving and willing.

"You'll have a brawn to make contact with our local agent who is, fortunately, still alive. The colony surrendered to the Khalia, you know. Hadn't equipped themselves with anything larger than handguns." The Admiral's voice registered impatient disapproval of people unable to protect themselves from invasion. But then, a lot of the earliest colonies had been sponsored by nonaggressives long before the Alliance encountered the Khalia. Or had they encountered us? I can never remember now, for the initial contact was several lifetimes ago, or so it seems to me, who has fought Khalia all my adult life. However, it had been SOP to recruit a few "observers" in every colonial contingent, and equip them with implanted receivers for just such an emergency as had overtaken Bethesda. "Het'll give you the agent's coordinates," the Admiral went on. "Had to patch this trip up, Bil, but you're the best one to handle it. Space dust! Hah!" I could appreciate his disgust at our bad luck. "You've got a special brawn partner for this, Bil. She'll brief you on the way."

I didn't like the sound of that. But