MCM's Blog, page 16

Chapter 5p1 – Lifesaver

Tic and Milly sat on stools in the back room of Haglyn's shot up and now abandoned pawn shop. Tic was slurping at a Saucy Wench, wincing with each mouthful but grateful for the numbing effects of the alcohol.

Haglyn entered with a heaping plateful of greasy bacon and plunked it down in front of them. "Eat up," she said.

"You're a lifesaver, Hagga," said Tic. "In more ways than one." He folded up two slices of bacon and set to chewing. Ah…

Milly idly tinked her fingernail against her glass.

"What's wrong, missy?" said Haglyn. "Never seen a man shot before?"

Milly's eyes clouded a little further.

"Don't let it bother you," advised Haglyn. "He was just one of Dunter's goons. Not worth battin' your eyelashes over."

"Is Mr. Dunter…" began Milly, but trailed off.

"Is he what?" prompted Haglyn.

"Well, evil?" said Milly. Haglyn threw back her head and laughed. Milly looked miffed.

"There's the word!" Haglyn wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "Sorry, sweetie. I just haven't heard that word in years. You're on Haddock, dear. Didn't you know? We're all 'evil,' in one way or another. But Dunter's worse than most. Started out rotten and got worse. I still remember that day, twenty years ago, when he waltzed in here, stuffed some jewelry down his pants, and took off running! I took a shot at him that day, but I missed. Shame, too."

"That's horrible!" said Milly.

"I know!" said Hagyln. "And he went downhill from there."

"So why is he after Tic?"

"Blessed if I know," said Haglyn. "Bolter?"

Tic swallowed a mouthful of bacon. "Um…" What should he tell them? "I, er, stole his girlfriend?"

Haglyn burst out laughing again.

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Chapter 4p5 – Making a Mess

As the pawn shop's panicked customers fled, Tic's searching hand fell upon a wooden object. He pulled it down: it was a battered old ukelele. He felt a little further and reached something with a round metal tip. Some old-fashioned laser blaster, maybe!?

Nope. It was a trumpet… How useful.

But it was all Tic had, so he grabbed the trumpet and tossed it in a high arc backwards over the dresser. While the trumpet distracted Gord, Tic took the ukelele by its neck, stood up quickly, and flung it overhand like he was tossing an axe. It flipped end over end and crashed into the floor at Gord's feet, twanging mournfully.

Gord laughed. "Mr. Dunter said to bring you in alive, Bolter! He likes to hear thieves apologize personally. But he never said you had to walk into his office on your own legs, eh?" He fired another salvo of lasers at the dresser, which was crumbling into smoking sawdust under the assault.

Tic gathered his legs underneath him and prepared to make a run for it. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and leapt out from behind the dresser.

At the same moment he heard an explosive report and flinched as he waited for his legs to be torn off by a hail of lasers.

He landed on his face and skidded for a few feet. He opened one eye, slowly.

Gord toppled to the ground like a collapsing skyscraper.

Haglyn strutted up to him and prodded his lifeless chest with her scatterbeam gun. "That's what you get for making a mess of my shop! Grr, I can't stand Dunter and his ham-headed cronies…"

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Freedom Beer, Part 7

Hank's legs were folded up in front of him. Each bump in the road threatened to send a knee up his left nostril. Luckily, he was wedged in place on either side by the shelves that lined the inside of the van. They were laden with enough parts to repair a swarm of motorcycles.

On the down side, each bump also threatened to drop a gas tank on his head.

On the bright side the tanks were empty.

The stacks of parts and bins of tools rattled like a dumptruck full of snakes driving past a parade route lined with mongoose. The only noise that he could hear over the rattle was the occasional low-flying plane. Hank had once parked himself behind a machine gun for six hours to suppress a an entire platoon of Nazis before the United Nations could arrive and convince them to surrender. By time he saw their blue helmets he thought that his index finger might be permanently cramped. That had been a quiet evening at home with a pitcher of scotch compared to this.

Zelphia had been no help. They wouldn't have been able to hear one another if they had wanted to. Hank wasn't convinced that she did. She had seemed very upset with him at the diner.

She'd feel differently when that grilled cheese was powering a kick to the Viper's stomach.

As it stood, Zelphia had bent her lithe shape into a pretzel that fit up closer to the front of the van. She was engaged in conversation with their two biker escorts: a weathered, ragged piece of man by the name of Daffodil and a woman with all of the black leather biking gear and menacing demeanor of a pretty young bank teller by the name of Mrs. Skull. She sat in the driver's seat and hauled ass across Arizona.

When Hank heard the familiar crunch of a fender slamming into the side of the van and the jolt sent one of his knees into his eyeball, he let out an unheard woop of delight. Now he was in his element! This was a problem that he could solve!

And then more jolts. Hank felt the van leave the smooth surface of the asphalt. The parts symphony crescendoed. Out of a tiny back window he saw the flash of olive green paint on a big, military-looking truck. One final slam rained parts off of the shelves and the van came to a halt.

Hank didn't wait for Zelphia. Hank didn't wait for Daffodil. Hank didn't wait for Mrs. Skull. Hank kicked open the back door and leapt from it, a long wrench in one hand and an exhaust pipe in the other.

A half dozen army trucks had surrounded them. One of them bore streaks of torquise paint stolen from the van.

Hank dropped his weapons and saluted.

Uniformed soldiers erupted from the trucks. But they hadn't been dressed by the United States Army, Navy or Air Force. In fact, they weren't wearing any military uniform that Hank had ever seen; he did not know of a single military uniform embroidered with the insignia of a brewer. The emblem of Saint Secaire Brewing stood out red against the bland cloth.

It was obscured by the submachine guns that the soldiers carried.

The flash of their muzzles just made it worse.

Hank dove behind the van, where Daffodil, Zelphia and Mrs. Skull waited for him.

"Dammit, I hate that noise! I've heard enough!" Hank bellowed while the bullets pinged off of the van.

"My van!" Mrs. Skull said.

"Her van!" Daffodil said. He grimaced. Or at least, Hank thought that he grimaced. Daffodil had a face like the bottom of a shoe, and its quite hard to tell if a the tread of a shoe is frowning. He pulled a long, silver revolver out of his pocket and traded gunfire with the soldiers.

"This isn't going to stop them for long."

"They're walking towards us!" Mrs. Skull said. She reached underneath the car, rummaged around for a moment, and removed two long machetes with small silver skulls for pommels. "Oh shoot, they've gotten quite dirty."

She rubbed one of the blades on the fabric of her slacks until it shone.

"Do you have any more weapons in the car?" Zelphia asked while the hail of bullets cut through the windshield. It cracked and showered marbles of safety glass into her hair.

"No," Mrs. Skull said. "I only brought these. I didn't expect to get in a proper fight, just a minor scrape."

The sound of the submachine guns came closer. The van wheezed onto its rims as the tires popped.

"They have the advantage of distance. Hhmm. I can fix that." Hank spat into his palms, rooted his feet in the ground, and began to shove the van. It moved towards their assailants.

"What are you doing? You're going to get us killed faster!"

"You, urgh, can kick people, wooogh, in the face and she's, arrggh, got two machetes, ooof, so get to work!"

Mrs. Skull and Daffodil rushed around one side of the van, Zelphia the other. Hank leapt into the van, tore open the side door, and started throwing pieces. A gearbox caught one soldier in the knee. A rack of wrenches hit another in the face. A handlebar jabbed one in the shoulder and polevaulted into the hand of another.

Mrs. Skull had already cut the guns out of the hands of three soldiers. A line of soldiers were doubled over behind Zelphia, clutching at parts of their anatomies. Daffodil had pinned another.

The final soldier brought his gun around at Zelphia. Hank didn't have a choice. He leapt between the gun and Zelphia.

The gun crackled.

The bullets hit Hank. They weren't going very fast. They had just finished traveling through the enormous toolchest that Hank had been hugging to his chest when he jumped from the van. Two hundred pounds of metal tools fatigued them but had not cooled them off. They felt like knobs of hot toast against his chest.

That made him angry. While the soldier tried to load another magazine, Hank seized him by the collar and socked him in the mouth.

"That should be all of them."

"Not quite," Zelphia said.

Hank turned. One soldier stood over Zelphia. The snout of his sub machine gun pointed to her chest like a truffle pig earning its keep. Hank's mind raced. He was too far away. Mrs. Skull was too far away. Daffodil's already emptied his gun.

"Throw your gun."

"Would you throw a baby?" Daffodil asked.

"Don't argue, throw it!"

Daffodil shook his head.

"Zelphia!" the soldier said. He let the gun slide off of his shoulder.

That's all Hank needed. He barreled forward and tackled him.

"Hank! Let him go!" Zelphia said.

"Why should I do that?"

"Because he's an old friend!" Zelphia hauled Hank off of the man. "We used to be partners in a cleaning service that actually conducted corporate espionage. Josiah, it's great to see you!"

"You too! What're you doing out here?"

"A client is trying to kill me."

"Perry Easton?"

"Yes! How did you know?"

Josiah gestured at his outfit.

"I didn't want to tell you this at the time, but the reason that I sold my part of the cleaning business was on the advice of my doctor. I had some pretty serious ulcers burning a hole in my gut She said it was stress and told me that I could either pick a new career or look forward to a future of surgeons rummaging around in my digestive tract. Burgling had lost its charm so I joined the air force. Turns out they need electrical engineers. After learning to defeat all of those alarm systems it was a quick couple of courses to fill in the gaps."

Hank thought the story sounded real. Too real. Without letting Zelphia see, he tensed his body to tackle him again if he tried any funny business.

"But this isn't an air force uniform," Zelphia said.

"No. My life was going too well. I forgot my luck. I went out to a party one night and on my way back to the base a couple of goons threw me into the back of a van and told me that The Viper would ruin my career if I didn't cooperate."

"Where does Perry Easton come into this?"

"I'm sure that Perry Easton is the Viper. It makes sense. He was my point of contact for quite a few jobs that he always claimed were for that Mr. X guy."

"Listen, toots, we can't trust this guy just because he had an airtight story. Now I'm going to be a bad cop for a while."

Zelphia rolled her eyes.

Hank stood so close to Josiah that their stubble almost touched.

"You still haven't told me one thing," Hank said, "that's going to blow your whole story to tatters. How did you know where we were?"

"Haven't you seen those planes flying overhead?"

"Yes. All the time. They're for traffic enforcement."

"Not all of them," Josiah said.

Hank stepped back and scratched his chin.

"But you never answered Zelphia's question about your uniform! Hah! Very clever!"

"Oh, that. When the call came from Perry Easton today that he'd need me to steal some trucks I told him that I'd do it. But I made damn sure that as soon as we left the base to change out of my uniform. I may be a coward, but I wouldn't be a coward in my uniform."

Hank clapped Josiah on the back.

"You know what, you're alright. And not just for not shooting Zelphia, but for treating the uniform with the respect that it deserves. Are you based at the Ariel Hanson Air Force Base?"

Josiah nodded.

"Good. I'll be telling Colonel Josen about your integrity."

"You know the colonel?"

"We go way back. I've wrestled more bears with him than any other man."

"That eyepatch isn't just for show?"

"Ask the polar bear that took it from him. Oh wait, you can't, because he had it pinned in ten seconds flat after that. If there's one thing that Josen can't stand, it's cheating in a fight. The golden rule: in a fair fight no hitting the balls, either the ones in your head or the ones between, um, well, there's a lady present."

"Getting back to the price that's on my head," Zelphia said, "do you have any more information on Perry Easton?"

"A little. Some of our birds have collected surveilance in the Sonoran desert. There have been a lot of arms shipments and building materials going to a supposedly uninhabited stretch of dust. The Mexican military has no reason to maintain any facilities there but they're too busy to investigate."

"The Sonoran desert. Josh Spurlock," Hank said.

"My client," Zelphia said.

"Time to see if Colonel Josen remembers those favors that he owes me. Help us pick up this trash and take us to the base and we'll call it even with the whole damn shooting match."

"I'd be glad to," Josiah said.

Hank shook hands with Mrs. Skull and Daffodil.

"Thank you for all of your help. I was serious about you and your crew stopping by for a beer."

 

Chapter 4p4 – Look How Fast

Gord got a funny look on his ham-like face. He pulled his PAI back and started tapping and swiping at the screen.

"What kind of 'history' are you talking about?" Milly asked Tic.

"Nothing important!" said Tic quickly, eyeing Gord.

Gord glowered at Tic and tapped his chin.

"Hey," said Tic, "did you know I used to be a track-and-field athlete? Look how fast I can run!" He sprinted for the door.

"Wait!" said Milly. "Tic, where are you going?"

At the mention of Tic's name, Gord whipped a laser pistol out from under his parka. "Hold it!" he grunted.

Tic froze, and a hush fell over the pawn shop as the other customers saw what was happening.

Gord held up his PAI and compared a photo of Tic's face to the real man standing in front of him. "You're Tic Bolter!"

"Oh, no," said Tic. "That isn't me. I'm Tic, uh, Hawkins. Completely different guy!"

"Mr. Dunter wants to see you," rumbled Gord.

"Does he? Well I'd love to see him, too, but like I said, I've got something to take care of, so maybe just tell him I—"

Gord took the safety off his pistol. Tic shut up.

"Is this a money problem, Gord?" said Milly. "Maybe I can help clear it up. Tic's my friend, and—"

"If you're Tic Bolter's friend," said Gord, "then Mr. Dunter wants to see you, too." He turned his pistol towards her.

Tic seized the opportunity and dove out of sight behind a shabby antique dresser.

Gord sent a barrage of lasers at the dresser as Milly shrieked.

Hunching into as small a target as possible, Tic felt around frantically for something, anything, to defend himself with.

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

FREEDOM

 

Freedom.

It's everywhere.

And yet, no matter how many miles of open paddock cattle have they will move along well worn paths from favored vegetation types to water and back. These paths can get so worn and dangerous that they erode into gullies and washouts, but the cows continue to follow them anyway.

[I went to Google to find you some pictures of this phenomenon and got waylaid for half an hour reading the amusing debates on a UFO site about 'impact craters', featuring aerial/satellite images of bores in Western Australia with wash lines and cattle pads around them. I recommend the search for one lazy afternoon. Hilarious.]

They have freedom to wander anywhere they choose and yet they go to the same familiar zones of grass, shrubs and herbage day after day. Sheep do the same. People do the same.

No matter how much freedom we have, human beings generally do not like change. Sure, we get bored and complain about the same old thing every day, but when something new comes along, we dig our heels in and rail against it. I think we like to complain.

I read a Daily Wisdom quote from Startup Quotes:

"Most users have no imagination.

They want what they know.

When they say they want the future, what they are really saying is that

they want a moderately updated version of the past."  MG Siegler

With all the new freedoms available to authors these days, it is an important point to remember. DIY authors are entirely free to customize their creations. No more clover, saltbush and spinifex for them. They can turn blue blossoms into luscious tropical fruits, with variegated foliage or twisted bonsai forms; they can even produce hybrids somewhere between a cactus and a willow if that's what they choose to do. There are no more infernal gatekeepers, no more gates, in fact. There are no more guides or maps, no one to please but themselves.

And for those few who genuinely do write only for the sake of writing — and who truly mean it when they say they write because they must and they dinna care if no one ever reads their words – their creations can be wildly inventive and wholly new.

But for most of us, there is one essential marker that has not been removed. Users. Readers. Readers with their unimaginative expectations. While DIY authors have the freedom to expand the fundamental structure of any genre and make the story bigger and better, or to strip it to the bones and produce a clean and precise minimalist expression, they must still provide their reader with those genre fundamentals. Their readers expect certain things from certain types of story.

When I first began to read ebooks, I found wonderfully talented writers who were producing rambling stories that didn't fit in any set genre. Most included elements of several different genres without ever having any focus, and reading them was like following some characters from A to B without really knowing why. I consistently had the feeling that I was wading through mists, but soon, any minute, the story would condense into something solid and I'd have an 'Aha!' moment. That clarity rarely ever came. In avoiding genre guidelines, a lot of authors failed to deliver anything satisfying at all. And it wasn't only me that found this; I was working at the time with a voracious consumer of fiction who was irked by exactly the same thing.

Freedom from false, externally imposed boundaries is a wonderful state to be in when authors have a vision of their own and sufficient self discipline. Unless you really, genuinely are – forgive me if I'm skeptical – an author who does not care if their words find an audience, you must gain an understanding of what your audience wants. Anarchy is wonderful, but order inevitably emerges from chaos. With the absence of rules, self-discipline becomes essential.

And so, back to calling our wonderful benefactors, the readers, cattle. Just as the cattle in my original metaphor follow well trodden paths to their preferences in food and drink, so readers go predictably to the style of story they prefer. As soon as a book is labeled, it sets up an expectation in the readership.

People read for different reasons, and their reasons do not always involve literary excellence. Beautifully written does not cut it for a reader if the story offers no payoff; they will lose interest. Authors must know their audience

Know why readers read your particular genre and what the payoff they want will be. Know why they'll read your story, and if not, why not. When you have packaged your work and put it on the shelf, what is it about your story that will draw your readers in and have them beating a well-worn path to come back?

FREEDOM.

 

Freedom.

It's everywhere.

And yet, no matter how many miles of open paddock cattle have they will move along well worn paths from favored vegetation types to water and back. These paths can get so worn and dangerous that they erode into gullies and washouts, but the cows continue to follow them anyway.

[I went to Google to find you some pictures of this phenomenon and got waylaid for half an hour reading the amusing debates on a UFO site about 'impact craters', featuring aerial/satellite images of bores in Western Australia with wash lines and cattle pads around them. I recommend the search for one lazy afternoon. Hilarious.]

They have freedom to wander anywhere they choose and yet they go to the same familiar zones of grass, shrubs and herbage day after day. Sheep do the same. People do the same.

No matter how much freedom we have, human beings generally do not like change. Sure, we get bored and complain about the same old thing every day, but when something new comes along, we dig our heels in and rail against it. I think we like to complain.

I read a Daily Wisdom quote from Startup Quotes:

"Most users have no imagination.

They want what they know.

When they say they want the future, what they are really saying is that

they want a moderately updated version of the past."  MG Siegler

With all the new freedoms available to authors these days, it is an important point to remember. DIY authors are entirely free to customize their creations. No more clover, saltbush and spinifex for them. They can turn blue blossoms into luscious tropical fruits, with variegated foliage or twisted bonsai forms; they can even produce hybrids somewhere between a cactus and a willow if that's what they choose to do. There are no more infernal gatekeepers, no more gates, in fact. There are no more guides or maps, no one to please but themselves.

And for those few who genuinely do write only for the sake of writing — and who truly mean it when they say they write because they must and they dinna care if no one ever reads their words – their creations can be wildly inventive and wholly new.

But for most of us, there is one essential marker that has not been removed. Users. Readers. Readers with their unimaginative expectations. While DIY authors have the freedom to expand the fundamental structure of any genre and make the story bigger and better, or to strip it to the bones and produce a clean and precise minimalist expression, they must still provide their reader with those genre fundamentals. Their readers expect certain things from certain types of story.

When I first began to read ebooks, I found wonderfully talented writers who were producing rambling stories that didn't fit in any set genre. Most included elements of several different genres without ever having any focus, and reading them was like following some characters from A to B without really knowing why. I consistently had the feeling that I was wading through mists, but soon, any minute, the story would condense into something solid and I'd have an 'Aha!' moment. That clarity rarely ever came. In avoiding genre guidelines, a lot of authors failed to deliver anything satisfying at all. And it wasn't only me that found this; I was working at the time with a voracious consumer of fiction who was irked by exactly the same thing.

Freedom from false, externally imposed boundaries is a wonderful state to be in when authors have a vision of their own and sufficient self discipline. Unless you really, genuinely are – forgive me if I'm skeptical – an author who does not care if their words find an audience, you must gain an understanding of what your audience wants. Anarchy is wonderful, but order inevitably emerges from chaos. With the absence of rules, self-discipline becomes essential.

And so, back to calling our wonderful benefactors, the readers, cattle. Just as the cattle in my original metaphor follow well trodden paths to their preferences in food and drink, so readers go predictably to the style of story they prefer. As soon as a book is labeled, it sets up an expectation in the readership.

People read for different reasons, and their reasons do not always involve literary excellence. Beautifully written does not cut it for a reader if the story offers no payoff; they will lose interest. Authors must know their audience

Know why readers read your particular genre and what the payoff they want will be. Know why they'll read your story, and if not, why not. When you have packaged your work and put it on the shelf, what is it about your story that will draw your readers in and have them beating a well-worn path to come back?

Chapter 4p3 – Have Some History

"So let me get this straight," said Tic. "Your friend, here—"

"—Gord," said Milly. The slab-faced man nodded solemnly.

"Right, Gord says he has an idea where your parents are?"

"Not exactly," said Milly, "but he says who knows someone who might."

Tic sighed. "Meaning no offense to Gord—really, Gord, I'm sure you have the best of intentions—but everyone you meet in a place like this is going to say they know something about everything."

"I'm not that naïve," said Milly. "Gord, why don't you show him what you showed me?"

Gord dug around in his back pocket and took out a greasy old PAI with a cracked screen. He opened a photo and held it up for Tic to see.

"Gord works for the yeti control company here on Haddock. They're a pretty big organization, you know. Apparently there are over a million yetis on this planet! Isn't that crazy? Anyways, this photo is from an old story in the company newsletter," said Milly. "Those are my parents in the photo."

"I can see that," said Tic.

"And they're shaking hands with Gord's boss."

"Right," said Tic. "The CEO of the yeti control company. And let me guess: his boss is the person he wants to bring you to."

"Yep," said Milly.

"Fantastic."

"What's wrong?"

"Well," said Tic, "let's just say I don't think Gord's boss would be too happy to see me right now."

"Why not? Do you know each other?"

"Oh, Mr. Dunter and I have some 'history' with one another."

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

Freedom Beer, Part 6

"I'm hungry, but I don't know if I'm this hungry," Zelphia said, while Hank put down the kickstand on his motorcycle.

She eyed Al's Grub, a concrete wart hiding among the foothills of watermelon-colored mountains. An ancient neon sign hung dormant in the morning light. Long-armed stars of grease radiated from beneath a dumpster like blast scars on rocket's launchpad. The build itself looked like it may have weathered one of the atomic bomb tests.

"Very nice," Hank said as they walked towards the entrance.

"It's a piece of junk."

"Don't you see the Norse Hammer exhaust system?"

Zelphia was confused until she saw that Hank was ogling two dozen motorcycles parked in front of the restaurant.

"And that Nanoscrub air filter! It removes sixty-two percent more impurities than your average filter!"

"Seriously?"

"I wouldn't joke around about something like air quality."

"Come on. The faster that I get food poisoning the sooner it will be over." Zelphia dragged Hank into the diner.

"I'll bet that's them over there," Hank said, looking around the restaurant. Four tables had been pushed together in the corner. From them came a ruckus. Zelphia pulled him into a booth before he could walk over and introduce himself.

"Aww."

"You can go play with your friends after we stop Mr. X and the Viper. They aren't going to help me avoid my death sentence."

"Relax. You're not in any danger."

The waitress frisbeed two menus onto the table and dropped off two unsolicited cups of coffee. Some of it sloshed out of the side.

"That puddle is moving by itself." Zelphia picked up the coffee, wrinkled her nose and took a sip. She sputtered.

"Not in any danger? Last that I checked Listeria was pretty serious. That's boiling hot and I still don't think that its safe to drink."

Hank gulped down his cup before Zelphia had finished talking.

"Ahh, delicious." A few tendrils of steam condensed from his lips.

"How could you drink that? It smells like it was strained through some old socks."

Hank smacked his lips.

"Are you sure? I usually can detect a cottony aftertaste."

Zelphia sook her head and read through the menu.

Hank smiled to himself and drummed his fingers on the table, for all appearances perfectly content and in his element. He fiddled with the salt shaker, papper shaker, napkin dispenser, ketchup bottle, mustard bottle silverware and placements while humming a ditty under his breath.

"I am going to kill you if you don't stop fucking around with the condiments," Zelphia said from behind the menu.

"Deadly women are interesting women."

"Grilled cheese sounds like the safest bet. And I could use the calcium to help my teeth. I've been grinding them a lot lately."

When she put the menu down, she saw that Hank had folded her a rose made from a napkin. She locked eyes with him, picked it up and stuck it bloom-down into her cup of coffee.

"That was for you!"

"I didn't want it! What I want are some fucking answers and a bodyguard, or whatever you are, who is taking the threat to my life fucking seriously instead of pretending that he's off on a boy scout field trip! You made it sound like you'd be able to help me get some answers, but here we are eating some hotted-up, triple-distilled skunkwater and pondering whether we'd like the fried chef's hair or the week-old salmonella steak!"

"Fine."

"I went from stealing ancient artifacts and priceless religious relics to eating a grilled cheese sandwich in what I can only imagine is America's dingiest butthole of a restaurant."

"I get the idea. I made a mistake, toots. I'll be outside when you're ready."

"Sit back down. You're the one who was hungry."

"I've lost my appetite."

He left the restaurant. Zelphia's stomach rumbled so she decided to order the grilled cheese. After her first bite, one of the bikers left the restaurant. One her second, he came rushing back in and said something to his colleagues that sent them bounding from their seats. By her third bite a tide of angry bikers surged out through the front door.

Zelphia dropped her sandwich and followed them.

When she left the restaurant she saw that the motorcycle gang had circled Hank. They all were yelling and threatening him. With the same muscles that let her slither through ventilation shafts she slid in between bulging biceps and embroidered leather. She sprang into the middle of the fray in a fighting stance. Then she realized that Hank was leading the inchoate rage and saw why.

The tires on all of the motorcycles had been slashed into streamers. Zelphia glanced over and saw that somebody had given the same treatment to Hank's bike.

"Mr. X?" Zelphia asked.

"You don't touch a man's machine! You walk up and sock him in the mouth! Teeth grow back; tires don't!"

"Or the Viper?"

"That rat goddamn bastard must have found out that we were traveling by motorcycle! I know who did this!" Hank said to the bikers. They fell dead silent. "It's the same man who is trying to kill the lovely Ms. Dipthong, the same man who crossed an ancient and primeval line when he assaulted our chrome horses!"

"We'll help you!" one of the bikers said.

"How? All of the tires have been slashed."

"We have a follower van to carry tools and parts for emergency repairs. Brutus just checked on it and it hasn't been touched."

"Do you have spare tires?"

"We used them all when we rode past the New Mexico Tack & Nail factory. It'll be cramped in the van but we'll get you where you're going."

"You guys are alright," Hank said. "If you can take myself and Ms. Dipthong to the Hanson Air Force Base, you are all welcome to stop by my brewery for as many beers as you can handle, on the house."

"You're that Hank Rockjaw?"

"Kickass!"

"You got it!"

"Hooray!"

Hank beamed. A few minutes later, he and Zelphia were in the back of the van with two of the bikers at the helm, flying down the highway.

Chapter 4p2 – Oddball Tractor Beam

Tic pushed open the door of the Haggle Bin Fine Goods Emporium and wrinkled his nose at the musty smell of old junk.

"Maybe it's not my place to ask these kinds of questions," said Milly, kicking snow off her boots as she came in behind him, "but how is coming to a pawn shop going to help me find my parents?"

"You want information," said Tic, "this is where you go. All the rumours pass through places like this. I've picked up more than a few jobs by just standing around here and keeping my ears open. Just browse around a bit. I'll talk to some friends." He headed down an aisle of stuffed yeti heads towards the back of the shop, where he caught the attention of a bug-eyed little troll of a woman. "Psst, Haglyn!"

"Tic Bolter!" she said with a wide smile, revealing three wiggly-looking teeth set crookedly into her gums. "What brings you back to my humble shop so soon?"

"Last job didn't pan out so well," said Tic. "I'm babysitting a rich kid right now."

Haglyn stepped away from the antique space heaters she'd been rearranging. "Rich kid, eh? You sure find yourself some interesting characters to hang around with, Bolter."

"What can I say?" grinned Tic. "I'm like an oddball tractor beam. Anyways, she thinks her long-lost parents are somewhere around here, so if you hear anything about a couple of kidnapped space/time engineers let me know, okay?" He headed back out to the front of the shop.

"Oh, there you are," said Milly. She was standing in front of a hairy, slab-faced man in a parka, looking very pleased with herself. "Guess what: I got us a lead!"

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Chapter 4p1 – The Flight Plan

The cockpit reassembled itself bit by bit, fastening a hundred billion pinpricks of light back together into solid matter. Tic Bolter felt the shimmering, buzzing sensation of his body being reconstructed. He opened his eyes.

Milly was hunched over in the copilot's seat, holding her stomach and moaning.

"You all right, kid?" said Tic.

"I hate being dimensionally folded like that," groaned Milly. "Where are we?"

"Good question. Pelly?"

"We're just outside the gravity pool of ice planet Haddock. That's where you told me to take you, after all."

"Oh, good," said Tic. "Looks like we got away clean."

"Was jumping away like that really a good idea?" said Milly. "We would've just been in more trouble if they'd managed to get a tractor beam on us!"

"Would've had to fight our way out, I guess," said Tic nonchalantly. "Pelly hasn't gotten many chances to flex her vac gens lately. She probably would've enjoyed it."

"What?" said Milly. "You would've shot at the police?"

"No," said Tic, "I would've shot at the Orbit Patrol. There's a difference. Those guys are on more than one payroll, if you know what I mean."

Milly took a moment to digest this. "Well… thanks, I guess," she said. "So, can they track us here?"

"Probably not."

"But I guess they won't really need to," said Milly. "All they'll have to do is check our flight plan."

"The flight plan said we were going to Bonmaht," said Tic.

"The beach planet? What, do you always lie on your flight plans?"

"Usually." Tic shrugged. "Bad habit, I know. Let's head planetside."

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