Chapter 1

It was mid-morning, on the planet Lava, and they looked each other through the vidscreen, pretending to be comfortable. The middle-aged men’s contact reduced to Instant Community video calls from separate living rooms, even though they lived in the same section of the city.

“Falco, I am a retired military pilot, not a merchant,” Lan Peak tried to joke.

“Well, as a bankrupt freighter captain,” Falco took a breath, “I am not touching the Fillmore again.”

“Just pay the pad rental and docking fees until the bank recovers your old ship,” Lan responded.

“Look, I am sorry you co-signed the ship lease with your son. I told you my lawyer said if I spend a credit on that ship or its care, it unravels my bankruptcy protection. I can’t take that risk,” Falco told him.

Falco examined his dead sister’s husband. He was a handsome man of the size and shape which had, three years before, commanded a picture in a feature article on wing-suit athletes; a popular extreme sport on a planet with extreme weather. Lan wore a black, hi-performance skinsuit that ex-military men favored and a pair of red sweat pants.

“Give Raf Ram my best. My sister would be proud of him. Starting a new hauling business with friends and real assets; it’s a real leg up on how I started,” Falco said. “Sorry, Lan. He shouldn’t have bought a new ship without working his way out of the Fillmore with the bank. I can’t fix his impulsiveness for you.”

Curious, Lan tapped his wrist controller and the screen zoomed in on his brother-in-law’s face. Falco’s bloodshot, alcoholic eyes disappeared a moment later. The wall-size video display blinked back to a lush jungle picture of Lan Peak’s birth world, Emerald Sky. The gentle splash of water on rocks played out of the VidScreen’s speakers.

An hour before, Raf had talked with his father, announcing his purchase of a medium class freighter with trust fund money. When Raf was born, Cass’s mother had set aside money for her grandson; part of the money went to Raf’s college expenses and the rest was released on his twenty-fifth birthday. The magic birthday was last week and Raf bought the spaceship the same day with his buddies.

“Instant Community, connect with Raf Ram,” Lan stated to the VidScreen.

“Calling Raf Ram,” the apartment computer announced. After a moment, the computer continued, “Connection Confirmed.”

“Hi, Dad,” a chipper Raf Ram answered.

“He didn’t go for it, Raf,” Lan said.

“You predicted he wouldn’t, Dad,” Raf responded, looking away at someone off screen.

“Son, putting all your capital into the new freighter without consulting me was stupid,” Lan said, firmly.

“With Uncle Falco’s bankruptcy, I thought the whole lease with the bank would go away,” Raf answered defensively, crossing his arms.

“If you had of talked to me. I would’ve told you the contract was enforceable against us,” Lan said, visibly turning red in the face.

“Dad, all of my money is now tied up in the new freighter and the business,” Raf snapped. “What can I do now? Nothing!”

Off-screen, Raf’s wife said, “He is baiting you, honey. It is the start of another lecture. Instant Community, disconnect.”

Lan’s video display unit returned to its home state with jungle sounds and the lush jungle picture. The frustrated father kicked the empty air.

“Another conversation I screwed up with my son and his immature wife,” Lan said. “What a day.”

Lan drifted to the window of his small apartment, looking out from the eighty-second floor as another wispy cloud flew by. He felt embarrassed at asking his brother-in-law to take over the cost of the landing pad, but Lan was desperately short of funds to cover the monthly ship lease. So what could he do? Lan thought. He picked up his lucky charm and twirled it, a combat knife his wife had given him when he was still in the military. On the butt of the knife, in a small bubble, was the planet Lava in an elliptic orbit around the sun. Around the bubble was engraved, “I love you.”

The view of the city unfolded before his eyes with a gap in the cloud. In the distance, Lan could see the business district towers over the otherwise barren landscape. The inert, black lava rock had been a stunning landscape when Lan first moved to the planet. Since his wife’s death, the harsh land only reminded him of his loss. Lan dropped the knife back on the side table. He draped his red sweatshirt over his shoulder and strode out of the apartment door with purpose and a destination in mind. He ignored his hunger.

That afternoon, after wandering around the city’s only domed forest park, Lan slipped into an underground warren. The tight tunnel twisted and turned under the business district towers. No respectable business type would ever set foot in the crowded corridors beneath Lava. Only the poor occupied this space—or someone taking the shortest distance between two spots without paying for a taxi above ground. It was too hot to go outside this time of day, so taking the warren was the fastest route to Lan’s lawyer’s office. The thick smell of human odor and stale air wasn’t pleasant, but Lan was a veteran of the warrens since going on his military pension. His rent-controlled apartment kept his expenses down, along with access to inexpensive goods at the BX on the base, near the edge of town. Retired military personnel, like Lan, could get their necessities at the space port’s exchange.

The crowd’s sentiment towards him grew increasingly negative as Lan navigated the end of a concrete warren that led up into a tower. A horde of homeless beggars collected at each tower entrance; they looked half-aware and half-dead. The squeaky shoes of two private security guards played on the marble floor, which was the unspoken dividing line between the haves and the have-nots. The guardians of the business class looked him over and nodded their acceptance for entry into polite society. Their unseen partner, hidden in a recess of the wall, slurped a coffee. Lan smelled the rare aroma as he pushed the revolving door, sealing the underworld behind him.

When the door rotated open, a blast of fresh air blew Lan’s unruly, long bangs into his eyes. The sudden pain made his eyes water as he stepped into the cavernous main lobby. He inadvertently bumped into a woman who, in her exasperation and amusement, mumbled something about his warren smell. The woman clearly thought Lan had sacrificed his social life and standing by exiting the underground. A collective giggle and chatter of women receded past Lan as he got his bearing in the vast building. There seemed to be more women in the crowd than his last visit to his attorney. Perhaps it was his loneliness and the upcoming anniversary of his wife’s terrible tragedy that sparked his awareness of the female form.

The blend of a white marble floor and black metal beams that supported the massive building were stark contrasts to the colorful VidScreens screaming for the attention of the masses. Above every corridor, which led to a bank of elevators, a visual display of active data pulsed. Lan saw food prices had been declining, raw industrial commodity prices were stabilizing, unit labor costs (ULC) had increased. In a moment, the pilot was splashed with more data, but his disinterest tuned the market conditions out. He caught a FastNews discussion about Emerald Sky’s debt problems and the negotiation hold-outs. He laughed, fully aware of his membership in a group the press labeled the “Vulture Fund.”

Lan moved with the flow of people and hustled to a less-popular elevator bank that served only one particular floor. Calling the elevator, he’d no sooner touched the button than the door slid open. Stepping inside, Lan felt surprise when a man followed him; of all the floors in the tower, relatively few people traveled to the offices of Interstellar Legal Services, the only non-profit in the entire building. The pilot looked at the large, muscular man for a moment. The stranger had big fleshy ears and a thick neck. His dark black eyes were sharp and intense. They seemed to bore into Lan’s soul.

Lan looked away and pushed the button for his floor. The man didn’t move while the shiny metal doors slid closed. Feeling watched, Lan nervously glanced at the stranger who was watching him. Suddenly the man poked the pilot in the chest with a metal rod.

“Emerald Sky requires you to change your position. You will take the deal,” the brute said in a menacing voice.

Shocked at the confrontation, Lan breathed loudly. There was only one door out of the elevator and the man blocked it. Not that it mattered; the elevator shook twice as it changed tracks, moving to its destination. Lan’s bad feelings jumped up a notch with the buzzing sound of the enforcer rod’s discharge.

The brute blinked and looked down at his stun weapon. Old, but not forgotten reflexes surged in Lan, who struck the stranger in the throat with an open-handed strike followed by an elbow to the brute’s chin. For most opponents, the combination would have dropped an assailant. The brute shook his head like an elephant ready to trumpet his displeasure. Realizing the problem, Lan grabbed the stranger’s ears with both hands and thrust his knee into the man’s groin. The brute bent over and Lan karate chopped the back of the man’s neck, crippling him.

The elevator announced, “Interstellar Legal Services, your passport to managing off-world risk.”

The metal door slid open. Lan picked the stun device off the floor, unzipped his red sweatshirt and slipped the Enforcer Rod into a concealed pocket. The brute blinked up at him.

Lan pointed at his black skinsuit under the sweatshirt before he said, “It’s a military version with ARC thermal performance. Bar bouncers hate these things, but they save wingsuit athletes every day.” He walked onto the floor and looked back at the thug. “I decline your government’s offer. I want my money back in its entirety.”

The open elevator door closed, as Lan zipped up his garment. A young woman with a wide open mouth and pale-moon white skin stood at her desk, she clearly saw the man laid out on the elevator floor. Lan didn’t stop has he walked by the familiar secretary.

“Call security for trash pick-up. Also, as a tenant of the building, I expect you to access the Instant Community video camera in the elevator and lock it down as client confidential for an on-going investigation,” Lan commanded.

She yelled to him as he opened the glass doors into the legal organization, “You know that only holds the video for 48 hours before it’s released to FastNews. The elevator is public space.”

Lan knew the privacy laws on Lava better than most. The death of his wife went out live and Raf Ram saw it. Nothing was private anymore. Kids flew Go-Drones with cameras peeking into government buildings and rent-controlled apartments, filming residents—a totally legal operation if you paid for your drone license. A FastNews drone had filmed Lan’s wife’s last moments as an unexpected lava flow burnt through her derailed train car. The replay was on Worst Final Moments, an entertainment drama show, distributed to all the planets in the region. Raf Ram had never looked at his father the same after the broadcast.

The grief from the memory encumbered Lan less each year, but his strained relationship with his son always pointed back to Lan’s lack of action that day.

The glass-walled waiting room of the legal organization was not ornate or boiling over with rich décor. A few comfortable couches, side tables, tasteful rugs with an abundance of light fixtures surrounded Lan as he waited for his lawyer, Earnest Locke. The wait was much longer than the pilot expected.

He needed good news about the pending bond default negotiations. Until now, money hadn’t been a real concern for Lan; low budget living was fine with him. Raf Ram had been paying the lease payment on the light freighter, while working it with his friends. A youthful, rash decision changed everything for the retired father. Now his son was effectively saddling him with the debt and moving the crew to the new ship too.

Earnest Locke entered the room through a secure door, his smile filled the man’s elderly face. Sylvia, his young paralegal, followed him, her eyes surveyed the room and the hallway with the elevator. She moved like a predator, her green eyes taking in everything. The non-profit was less pretentious than its for-profit peers, but it was stocked with many gifted associates and interns. Sylvia was a recent addition.

“Come on in, Lan,” Earnest said, waving him into a conference room.

The pilot followed the bushy-haired, old man who had a kindly soul. They circled the mammoth conference table and exited through a hidden door into the heart of the organization’s working area.

Lan had never seen this area before, a circular room with a set of cubicles facing a central, raised, podium-workstation. All the cubicles looked like pilot stations on a starship, muted VidScreens with an attractive command chair at the center filled out each cube. All the chairs held young people. A few stations had a clear-table to cover part of the workspace; most of the stations had retracted the tables. When their client entered the area, most of the lawyers stopped working and watched Lan. Setting his jaw and tempering down his unease, Lan put on his game face. Earnest had made Lan the public face of the legal battle with Emerald Sky, his frequent exposure to sports news had broadened the appeal of the story.

“This is one of our project areas, Lan. At present, we call this one, Vulture, since the popular press is painting us with a black hat,” Earnest said with a laugh.

Lan stood awkwardly next to Earnest on the central workstation-platform. Sylvia rested against the far wall, maintaining her serious look as Earnest gave a brief testimonial about Lan. It wasn’t that the staff didn’t know about Lan; it was more or less a preamble for Earnest to introduce his subject. The lawyer added a compassionate speech about helping poor widows collect money from Emerald Sky, which was trying to renegotiate the term of the planet’s debt payment. The sovereign bond was due at the end of the month and this organization represented the hold outs, commonly called the vultures. The associate lawyers listened intently to Earnest, since he was the organization’s founder.

Earnest continued, “Lan was just assaulted in our elevator. Sylvia and I reviewed the video stream of the attack. Mr. Peak was unharmed and the assailant was disarmed by our client. Building security was not as fortunate, three guards were sent to the hospital and the villain escaped.”

The mugger’s escape surprised Lan. The man was a true professional. “I made a mistake gloating over him,” Lan thought.

“Considering the media frenzy around Emerald Sky I expect this incident to make the news,” the old lawyer announced.

No surprise there, Lan thought.

“What will not make the news this week is that half of our clients accepted Emerald Sky’s modified offer of 15% of the principal payment with no accumulated interest,” Earnest said, turning around in a complete circle with his hands out.

The collective gasp from the associate lawyers ended as their leader completed his turn.

The founder said coolly, “None of those clients will tell us why, after all these years of fighting, they gave up, but now you can see they were approached as Mr. Peak was. Emerald is playing dirty. They must be more politically unstable and desperate than is commonly known.”

“And I thought my day couldn’t get any worse,” Lan whispered, his hope for a quick pay out dashed.

Conesavanh Aralast walked into a small warehouse of Rollin Industries, a munitions manufacturer where he’d been employed since he was eighteen. He’d worked his way up from draftsman to factory engineer until he was noticed by the company founder. His meticulous focus, brainy thoughtfulness, and candid nature took him far. His friends called him Cone; others called him CEO Aralast. When the company founder decided to go into politics, Cone was selected as the next generation leader of the medium-sized manufacturer.

Cone was an avid wingsuit enthusiast, taught and tempered for the sport by his best friend, Lan Peak. The extreme sport of flying the human body through the air used a special jump suit called a wingsuit, which added surface area around the body to increase lift. A wingsuit flight typically ends when the chest repulsor is activated, so a wingsuit is flown from a reasonable altitude; normally a wingsuit drop-ship deployed an entire club of athletes at once. A repulsor is form of particle beam technology created by circular particle accelerators that can smash atoms together to generate heavier elements. Back when he was a lowly factory engineer, Cone took lessons on how to navigate the extreme winds of Lava from Lan. No one skydives on Lava, they wingsuit; and anyone-who-was-anyone got instruction from Broken Wing Lan Peak. His nickname was hung on the pilot from commanding and surviving a controlled, crash landing in his military days.

Since that certification course, the two men did everything together: bars, wingsuiting, tinkering with tools in garage workshops. Once Cone became CEO, the two men moved their tools and projects into this under-utilized company warehouse, which had better lighting, improved environmental controls, more space, and it was free. Over the last year, they spent almost every Saturday working on Lan’s pet project, trying to get it ready for the annual Aerospace-Concepts trade show on the space station above Lava. The trade show moved around the Solon Protectorate, and this year it was Lava’s turn to host the prestigious event. Lan could never afford to pursue the show outside of Lava’s solar system. Cone’s access to the Rollin Industries hangar on the orbital, and the availability of the company’s private orbital-shuttle was a perk of his job. All these factors put Lan into the running to make some real money—if his concept caught the eye of the right buyers.

The attack on Lan did make a FastNews program two days after his visit to Earnest Locke. The elevator had no audio and the camera angle was from the back of the large thug. So the report didn’t mention Emerald Sky’s involvement, rather it was played up as an underworld resident attack. The outraged commentator wondered how such a low life could get into a tower elevator. Lan had hoped his friend would have missed the segment. Unfortunately, Lan was a familiar figure around Rollin Industries and someone pointed out the replay to Cone. The pilot had to spill the tale to his CEO friend, which pissed him off. He had just wanted to forget about it.

The two of them unlocked their workspace cage and talked, tools in hand, until the evening. Cone was smart enough not to bring up the sore subject again until they were ready to depart the warehouse.

“The Supreme Thruster is wired now, Lan,” Cone said. “When people see it attached to this long, yellow tube they are going to scratch their heads. I love it.” Cone’s enthusiasm for their project never waned.

“It’s your access to black silicon circuits that make this prototype possible,” Lan responded.

“This surplus warehouse is full of junk, Lan. If we make this rescue drone work, my company will thank me and pay you for your patent,” Cone responded. “This skunk works project is in the finest tradition of Rollin Industries, using surplus parts and free labor. We will make the stock holders happy, the chairman of the board is going to pat you on the back, and then we will give you a nice big deposit of Empire Credits. A contract for these drones could be a huge product line addition for us.

“You still need to name this craft, however.”

“I need that money,” Lan admitted honestly. “I’ll come up with a name soon.”

Cone shrugged. “You know I can help with the lease payment, Broken Wing.”

Lan wagged a finger in front of his friend’s face. “That’s not how I navigate life. I have always found a way to lift my own ship.” The money problem darkened his mood and face.

Lifting his hands, Cone answered, “Perhaps your 500,000 par Emerald bond will pay off in full. That would cover you for the rest of the year with the bank.”

Before they continued the discussion, they stepped out of the secure cage and locked it. Even though company security remained in the building, they always locked up their private tools.

Stepping out into the cool night, Lan finally responded, “My attorney believes Emerald Sky will be desperate to settle the negotiation soon. With a few people holding out for full payment, they would be crazy to default and lose their credit rating. I am sure they will come around. The bond’s maturity is finally upon them.”

The CEO set his jaw, amazed how upbeat his friend was after the attack on him. It gnawed at him that Broken Wing wouldn’t accept his money to smooth out the financial struggle.

Lan raised his eyebrows, surprised his friend was still politely pushing him.

Cone smiled and changed the subject as they walked to their ride a few feet away. “Are you set to defend your title tomorrow on Mount Ayer? The whole wingsuit community is cheering for your team. That Atwood team has dropped off Ayer all week getting ready to take the grudge trophy back to their planet.”

Normally not one to boast, Lan said, “Cone, they don’t have a chance this year. All that noble blue-blood isn’t going to mean a thing on our mountain.”

Lava was the center of the universe for wingsuit athletes, its harsh winds and foreboding landscape gave the biggest thrills and greatest adrenalin rushes. Lava’s home team hadn’t lost a championship since Lan had become team captain six years ago. The competition was always on FastNews; everyone knew the team captain and everyone knew about his horrible loss. After winning his first team trophy, in a room full of camera drones, a reporter actually asked him how he felt about his wife’s lava flow death. The sight of the reporter’s broken nose and the blood splatter stain was the talk of the planet’s wingsuit enthusiasts for a month. FastNews loved the rating spike and didn’t want bad publicity by causing Broken Wing trouble over the fist, so he wasn’t charged. Needless to say, Fastnews reporters didn’t inquire about her anymore.

Cone dropped Lan off at the pilot’s residential tower, and then darted off to get ready for a late night meeting with his Search and Rescue contact. It never hurt to take a purchasing agent out for drinks.

In the morning, a rare thunderstorm caught the Atwood team. They had been slow to get off the mountain, which was a problem since, unlike with drop ships, the route to safety was crowded with other adrenalin junkies converging on the same descent path. The official practice time didn’t start until noon, so there were no event guides to help them. A heavy, warm rain turned the loose rocky path’s surface into a treacherous trail. Locals knew better than climbing Mount Ayer in the morning, this time of year, when the weather was the most unpredictable. The surrounding terrain was a mixture of razor-sharp volcanic rock and loose black pebbles. The off-world team made it back to the Lower Saddle Rest Stop after the storm blew off the unforgiving, gray mountain. Lower Saddle Rest Stop was a private pavilion, gift shop and restaurant combination that served mountain walkers and wingsuit athletes. Backlit clouds and eery rays of light swept over the dangerous ridge.

Lan saw the FastNews report of the body of a dead mountain walker sprawled out in a crevice, not far from safety at Lower Saddle, the steep slopes surrounding the pass with its winding service road. Another ten feet and the dead man would have been safe. The news drones circled the body from every angle; it was the start of another wonderful FastNews day.

The bloody face of the victim was unrecognizable; surprisingly he was missing an eye. A slow pan of a drone’s camera over the man was interrupted by the arrival of a recovery team, flying their repulsor bikes. The FastNews commentator shifted to talking about how search and rescue teams operated on the mountain. It wouldn’t be until later that authorities would determine the young man wasn’t a mountain walker but a murdered jump security member.

By noon, practice jumps were sanctioned and the embarrassed Atwood team drove off the lip of the mountain, one after another. Lan sniffed the air, taking in the distant scent of sulfur from the warm mountain breeze. The bright sun illuminated the landscape; brownish-green plants dotted the mountain-side, but they all were short and dry-looking. No one called Lava a very habitable planet; yet, massive, terra-forming plants produced relatively clear air. There were a few native plants and boring bugs, but no native animals on what people, in this region of space, called the Rock. If you wanted to insult a man from Lava, you’d call him a “Rocker.” Not being a native of the planet, Lan just laughed at off-world drunks in the bar when they called him the demeaning term.

The FastNews coverage was always good for the annual competition; they knew most of the local population thought it was crazy to jump off a cliff. It was rare for a highly skilled Base-jumper to fail to keep a team member in sight during radical turns, but collisions could happen. Such collisions normally ruined a wing, forcing one or both members to shed their other wing, making for a spectacularly scary few moments. If the height permitted, the jumper’s chest repulsor would offer just enough thrust to float the athlete to a safe landing. A FastNews drone was never far from such accidents and the entire world loved to watch such crashes. However, at the amateur champion level such accidents were unlikely.

An attractive couple of women, acting as departure guides, asked Lan for his autograph on their vidpad. They took a picture with him and he signed the pad with his finger. A FastNews drone broadcast the scene as each young woman kissed him on the cheek, giggling and stepping away from the old athlete. He clicked the heels of his lucky boots. It was his signature move. A sign of respect, Lan had said years ago. The women loved it. He unconsciously tapped the combat knife on his thigh, an old comfort for an old soldier, a lucky charm from his wife.

Even old athlete heroes get polite kisses he thought, feeling pleased for just a moment. It was the extent of his female companionship, a reminder of what he lost with his wife’s death. He tried to ignore the tinge of regret for not kissing the two fans on the lips. It no longer felt like he was cheating when those thoughts slid into his consciousness.

From the look-out at the rest stop, Lan saw an orbital shuttle engage its backup thrusters as it glided to the landing zone at the base of the mountain. The familiar markings on the ship wasn’t lost on Lan. The precision and lightness of the machines landing spoke of Cone’s skill. His friend was a natural pilot but Cone always joked that it was Lan who was the all-weather pilot. The CEO wasn’t known for taking his shuttle out during the big blows, which were more common during the close pass of the moon, once every 36 days.

After Cone landed the corporate shuttle, he danced around people in the crowd to make his way to the VIP review stand. Since his business supported the charitable event with money and volunteers, he received certain perks—like the best seat near the drop zone. He found one of the many repulsor security bikes used to taxi guests to the landing site and caught a ride. Unlike military quality bikes, civilian bikes were limited in power to follow terrain features, much like hovercraft. Each bike was rated to carry up to six passengers. Cone noticed each security bike driver was armed with a Striker, which was the military version of the Enforcer Rod that bar bouncers used. The Striker is a side arm, which essentially fires a bolt of lighting, creating an electric charge through a stream of plasma. A non-lethal weapon, but effective in crowd-control situations when stunning a target was preferable to killing.

Cone arrived at the VIP area pretty quickly. He could see people in skinsuits with the colors of their regions: Eastern Empire, Core Empire, Solon Protectorate, and various non-aligned planets or border worlds. The woman who checked him in provided a pair of binoculars. Of course, almost everyone just watched the jumps on the giant VidScreen across the field. FastNews drones would capture the best images of the teams. The binoculars were, more or less, just the trappings of the guests in the VIP area, calling attention to their status. Not that the optics didn’t work, it just required effort to use them. Unlike the other VIPs, Cone enjoyed using the binoculars.

Cone settled into his seat. He lowered his optics and let the binos hang from the strap while surveying the drop zone. It was a large open area, well groomed, surrounded by security tape that marked the outer boundary of a qualifying landing site. Given the ideal weather conditions and the abilities of these jumpers, the event coordinators allowed the spectators access to the field, up to the marked circular boundary. Inside the taped-off area, five small-landing targets surrounded one large bullseye. The object of the Base-jump was to land on the circular target. The closer to the center of the circles the better, sensors were laced in the ground to pinpoint the exact placement of each team member’s landing.