Wilma's War

Chapter 1

Things are often as they seem.

It was another hot day, as they all were, one-hundred-eighty days of the year. The lack of rain was sarcastically referred to as one of the perks on the mining planet of Jangeroo. It was a half-life planet, the days twelve hours long. The miners neither noticed nor cared, as they burrowed underground like squigs, looking for the elusive and profitable barnium, a mineral which, when refined to a pig-pound, could run a Series Four Starcatcher for a year.

During the day, Wilma Dern's sweat was as constant on her as the sun. Her coolie hat, wide as her shoulders, helped, but the heat was relentless. When she wiped her brow, the cutting sands that stuck to her hand, scratched her to bleeding and her sweat, tinged pink, dripped down her face. Sweating blood was not a metaphor on Jangeroo.

She was refitting a washer on the well cap when she noticed something in the heat-wavering distance. Wilma stood, trying to see what was at the head of the dust plume that spread for miles above and behind it. The brilliant purple sky exaggerated the contrast and distorted reality. A small war could be occurring over the horizon for all she knew. Wouldn't be the first time.

Though Wilma ran the outpost Chezneck 4, she hated company. Situated on Ribaldune Way–a poor excuse for a road– it was on the way to the mining hills of Mecador. The land was mostly flat and hard as the dried sea beds of Albacore that covered the top third of the planet. The name Ribaldune had come from the high sand dune that had held the first discovery of the barnium deposits. It was not gold or diamonds, but you could make a living mining the stuff. Wilma had a mine out back she worked when she felt the need to exercise or when her mind reluctantly fell back to happier times. Nothing could take your mind off the good things in life like mining.

The station had ten small rooms with double-bunks and one shared bathroom for the “pig-miners” as she called them. A separate corrugated tin mechanic's stall was just big enough for a Treb-Runner. When the occasional miner did arrive, she was usually prepared. Check their papers, record them in, feed them, then show them their bunk. That was her way of life for now. Until things settled down on Perkland 2, she had to remain in hiding– out in the open– on this barren sand-covered rock that grudgingly gave up its precious ore.

Wilma stood upon the high fence post, her feet barely covering the top, holding her binocks steady on the vehicle racing ahead of the dust cloud. It was faster than anything she had ever seen on land. It looked to be the size of a Treb-Runner, but those dune buggies, built for endurance and rough driving, were not capable of that kind of speed. She sensed that whoever it was, didn't have peaceful intentions.

The vehicle disappeared behind a large dune. Wilma jumped with catlike agility to the ground, creating her own cloud of dust. She looked down at her long legs covered in white seldurium metal boots to her knees and nothing but a short semi-white shift, spotted with fresh droplets of pink sweat. A rip in her hem went dangerously high and she wished she had spent a night with her sewing kit fixing it and other exposures. Her scant, torn clothing was fine when she was alone doing her duties or mining, but was too much of an invitation to a man on a barren and lawless planet.

Wilma hurried to the smooth-stone, one-story outpost. It was called a Justlicks Post because of the expression miners used: Just stopped to lick some water. She opened the steel door and threw one last look over her shoulder at the dust cloud. She had five minutes at most. As she crossed the sitting room, she pulled the dirty shift over her head, balled it up, and threw it precisely into the laundry chute. Pulling the key tied to her naked waist, she waved it over the door handle to her living quarters. Which, along with the food locker, were the only doors made of slabos steel, impenetrable with anything less than a level-three weapon. In two steps she reached into her clothes drawer, took a throwing knife, slid it into her right boot, put on a dark purple shift and pulled on some shorts.

Looking in the mirror she was surprised to see the many scratches on her face. They would heal. Her face was holding up pretty good in the rough climate, except for wedges of crow's feet etched by the sun. Not bad for three days over 132–in Jangeroo years. On earth she would be thirty-three.

By all standards, human or alien, she was a strong beauty, so magnificent that she was often accused of being an alien from the restricted Marsha Cluster, a small solar system with a dwarf sun and three planets, where lived a race of statuesque beings. Perfect in every way by human standards, except for two troubling differences: they had no genitalia and were insatiable cannibals.

Her shoulder-length blonde hair was tied back. Intense blue eyes radiated intellect, her nose nobility and her cheeks strength. She moved with animal-like confidence. The scratches didn't bother her; anything to diminish her beauty and keep men away was a plus. Men were the reason her life had all but ended– why she was here now.

Wilma had long tired of what her looks brought her–three bad marriages and one dead child. Her cube-house on the planet Perkland 2, had been wrongly searched by the Fernandy Stomp Squad, an outpost police organization that ran on bribes and theft. They shot and didn't ask questions later. After her daughter's funeral, she left Perkland 2 and her last husband, who hadn't even faked a tear at their daughter's burial. Seeking solitude, she found it in spades on Jangeroo.

Wilma bent over the sink and threw water on her face, then took a swig of Toothfizz, swished it around and spat it out. She stood back, looked in the mirror and shook her head. She decided to put on an overshirt, as her nipples stuck out like head lamps on a Treb Runner.

She rapped four times on the wall. An armored gun cache slid out. She activated the voice lock saying, “Jangeroo squig,” and took out a Petter 444 with holster and two charged clips. She had it on before she closed and locked the door behind her on her way out.

Now ready for company, she stood on the front porch. Three rockers were sitting silent and her sabercat, Baby Puss, sat on the one stationary chair. He stared at the growing cloud of dust, now only a few poolongs away. Baby clicked his teeth, as he did when agitated.

Wilma clicked off the safety, sat in the rocker next to Baby, and with the back of one finger stroked his closest tooth. The cat, large as a giant Chinchaun Chow and weighing two-hundred pounds, purred more in expectancy of new company than of being petted. A vehicle rushing their way was not always a gun-safety-off meeting, but the vehicle's speed demanded caution. The unmarked graves out back attested to that. Wilma couldn’t take credit for all them, as Baby was often more prone to instigate a fight than the lawless men. One miner had lost his manners and grabbed her ass as she served him dinner. Wilma had simply nodded and Baby relieved the man of his arm and then his head. She herself thought that excessive punishment, but stopping Baby wasn't wise. Wilma had learned long ago not to come between Baby and his food. Because, as the previous owner had told her, “You can take the sabercat into your home, but you can't take your arm out of the sabercat.”

Wilma focused on the vehicle, now less than a poolong away. Abruptly, from the Treb shed next door, a loud thump brought Wilma and Baby to their feet. She drew her gun. Baby went on alert and roared. A squig had breached ground; it was as serious as it gets. Kill it or run, the only options. It was a really bad time for this interruption. The vibrations of the speeding vehicle had probably attracted every squig in the area.

The animal in the shed was brutal, relentless and stupid. An eating machine that could and would eat anything. Squigs usually avoided humans, but when hungry, the word usually didn't apply. The fat worm-like monsters were about twice the size of a human, with pink scaly skin and four claws instead of arms and legs. Their faces were made for killing, eating and burrowing. They had long, armored snouts with folding serrated teeth as long as Baby's fangs. Their constantly runny eyes were surrounded by tufts of hair to keep the sand away. No one knew how fast they burrowed through the ground, it was more a matter of where they would surface, not their speed.

The shed had four metal walls and a sand floor. Wilma wished she had holstered her Manning Pulsator instead of the wimpy Petter. The gun could take down a man, but a squig was like a Marvonian-tank and with the Petter, only well placed shots to the neck were effective. If there were more than one, she was in trouble. So far there had only been one thump, the sound of one breaking ground at high speed. If it was a pack, she and Baby would have their hands full and running would be the only option. The racer heading towards them with intentions unknown, put them at a disadvantage, but she turned back to the shed, the squigs were a more immediate threat.

She thought to go back inside to get her Pulsator, but time was leaking fast. Wilma ran to the side of the open door and knew what was happening before she could see it. The sound of teeth crunching on rubber and metal was brutal. She looked in and saw the squig sitting with its hind claws under its butt and its claws holding a Treb tire before its razor-toothed face. Before it could take another bite, she fired four rounds into it's neck. As soon as the squig hit the floor, Baby was on it, thrashing it soundly until all life was gone. An artistry of green blood painted the walls. The partially eaten Treb lay on its side.

Wilma knew she had a day's work cleaning the blood off everything, for if it sat too long, the disease from the bacteria-rich guts of the beast could spread to humans. Baby was immune, proven by his long-time taste for the creatures.

Relaxing her guard was a foolish thing to do, she was whipped from her feet as a squig hidding behind the door, ambushed her. Her metal boots stopped its teeth from penetrating her leg, but she couldn't dislodge the vise-like bite. Her gun had been flung through the air, so she pulled her knife, but the beast shook her so forcefully the blade also flew from her grip.

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She yelled, “Baby!”

Baby, immersed to his ears in his trophy, heard the plea and without hesitation leaped over the Treb and landed before the squig. Roughly twice the size and weight of Baby, it was mean and made of muscle, but lacked brains. It looked with confusion from its runny-hairy eyes to Wilma, then to Baby. Deciding the cat was the bigger threat, it let go of her boot. Wilma tried to stand to help Baby, but the squig bite had crushed her boot, disabling her calf muscle. Falling backward out of the shed, she hit something behind her. She lashed around with her fist and struck a body. It was a man. He seemed surprised by her punch and its destination – his jaw. He was doing everything in his power to not take another, by grabbing her arm, twisting it behind her back and slamming her to the ground. He straddled her and forced her face into the ground.

Wilma struggled as she spit sand.“Get off of me!”

The renewed ruckus inside the metal building shifted both their attentions.

“What the hell is going on in there?” he yelled.

Wilma twisted and kicked. She had to get this man off her and help Baby. The cat was good at taking down a wounded squig, but a fresh one was another story.

“Get off me! Baby's in there!”

The man calmly spoke in her ear, “Do not hit me again or I will respond without prejudice.”

Wilma nodded her head in affirmation. He let go, jumping back, with his Petter aimed at her.

Wilma got to her feet, but could not walk. She looked helplessly into the cloud of dust raised by the fight in the shed. She could not tell if Baby or the squig was getting the best of it.

“Give me your gun!” She ordered.

“Hell no, Lady!”

“Then go in there and shoot the squig!”

The man with his gun forward, walked past Wilma into the building. He watched as the sabercat circled then suddenly pounced on the squig. They rolled onto the floor, then just as quick, separated.

He backed out of the building, his gun still aimed at the fight, a noticeable shake to his gun hand. He darted a quick nervous look to Wilma, who had collapsed back to the ground.

“I assume the squig is the fat worm with teeth? Not the big pussy.”

“Yes, shoot it. Empty your mag into it.”

“OK, just...wanted to know what I was killing.”

“Don't shoot my cat or I will kill you.”

“Damn, lady. You have a way with words.”

The man went back in and emptied the Petter's clip into the beast. Wilma limped into the building and a smile forced apart her sand bruised lips. Baby was tearing off the head of the squig to confirm his kill.

“Reload your gun and look around for more,” Wilma ordered.

The man reloaded fast and resumed his stance. After making sure the room was clear, he went and stood before Wilma – where she lay on the ground bloodied and dirty. His jaw dropped, obviously now seeing her beauty – the torn dress didn't hurt.

She caught his stare and returned it. He wasn't bad looking for a man. Dark hair, tall and lean, all of it dirty. “Miner, help me to the post,” she demanded.

The man put his gun in his holster. “Lady, I have a name.”

“Well aren't you lucky? Help me inside to the post,” she repeated.

“Call me by my name and I will.”

“This ain't a dance.”

“Courtney Butter. Thanks for asking.”

“Brilliant. Now help me. I have more important issues than getting to know you.”

Courtney gave in and carefully helped her to the Justlicks Post. He opened the door and walked her to a ratty brown couch. She sat and watched him look about the room. She could tell by his look that he was use to better. The furnishings were not very homey. When his eyes came back to her, she was pointing his gun at him.

“What the hell, lady? I'm helping you here. I just risked my life to kill a...what the hell was that thing anyway? Who the hell are you? How do I get off this planet?”

“Squiggle.” She fought the grin that was trying to replace her grimace.

“Cute name for such a nasty fuck.... Do not point MY gun at ME!”

“Who are you and why'd you race here?” she demanded.

“Didn't see any speed limit signs.”

“Common sense. The dust blows high and far, there could be miners behind you blind for days, and just who are you anyway?”

“The man who just saved your life and your...pet. Is that a cat?”

“Small breed saber-tooth. Had him since he was all tooth.”

He shook his head. “Nice... I race because I like speed and I have a new Treb 22. And, if you recall, I introduced myself earlier, I am Courtney Butter.”

“Treb22?” Wilma was reluctantly impressed. Most new miners to the planet came with used equipment and rebuilt Treb rust-buckets.

“You give me back my gun and you can have a ride.”

Wilma started to hand him the gun and then shook it threateningly at him ...again. “What are you looking at?” She was unsuccessfully trying to pull a bit of ripped cloth over an exposed breast.

“I am looking at what I want...my gun.”

She handed it back and then winced as she tried to stand. Wilma heard Baby whimper and looked to the open door. Baby would not come in unless invited and he was so green with squig blood Wilma did not call him. Even though she was now unarmed with this breast-obsessed stranger. Wilma sensed he was alright, but as moments ago had proven, relaxing your guard would get you dead.

“Want me to look at that leg or your ribs?”

“Looking at my breast isn't enough?”

“Listen lady. I know you have thick skin and tough knuckles,” he rubbed his jaw. “But I didn't coax that breast out and while it is impressive, I have other concerns right now. Your leg is squeezed tight in the boot. It'll have to be torched off.”

Wilma reached inside the rim of the boot and pressed. The boot whirred loudly, struggling against the damage and finally opened. She kicked it off and smiled.

Court frowned. “Technology ain't shy on this planet.” He gently held her leg and examined it. “Doesn’t feel broken, but your going to have a bruise stretching from your ankle to your sling shot.”

Wilma jerked her leg away from him.

Court smiled. “Your knee. Lady. Settle down.” He reached tentatively to her ribs. Wilma watching him suspiciously. “You might have a few broken ribs. More than I can handle.”

“Handle?” she asked warily, looking to Baby who waited for the attack signal.

“I use to be a medic.”

“Medic? Which war?”

“Does it matter?”

Wilma looked at her ribs realized it didn’t.

“I can take you to Obloo station to see a doctor or you can let me see how bad it is and if anything is broken.”

“First get me some towels and wipe all that green blood off so I don't get infected. If you see an open wound and blood you're going to have to give me a shot from my med kit. There’s a red shot for squigs in there.”

“Where do I get all this?”

She pointed to a silver door behind what served as a bar and card table.

He brought back the med kit and some wet towels. She took one from him before he got any ideas and wiped her upper body checking the towel for any signs of blood. On the third wipe she saw a lonely streak of red blood and a smattering of green on the towel. She looked down and saw a thin but bleeding cut running across the top of her breast.

Courtney said, “That's nothing.”

“Could be worse if I don't get the serum in me. You're going to have to give the shot right in the middle of the wound and don't get any joy out of it.”

“I will do my best. A bleeding breast, no matter how well proportioned, does not get me romantic.”

He took the red plastic shot and clicked it on to green. He placed the surface against her breast.

“Harder,” she said. “It won't fire unless it is flush with the skin.

He pushed the shot, but it slipped away, lubed by the sweat and blood.

“Damn!” she said. “Push down hard.”

He pushed down with the shot. The compressed air popped and the serum made a slurpy sound as it was delivered. She pushed him away and wiped again with the towel, satisfied that she did not see blood anywhere else.

“Take of mmmy other booot.” He speech was already slurring.

Courtney stood up and backed off. “Listen lady, it's bad enough you accuse me of staring at you in some kind of wanton way, but ordering me like your slave without a hint of manners or appreciation, is pushing it. I'd rather throw you in the back of the Treb and haul you to Obloo to let a doctor deal with your demands. And mind you lady, I'm being generous with this offer.”

She ignored him and reached down to the inside of her boot. It fell to the floor and she lay back.

She ignored him. “You staying...the night?”

“Short as it is. Yes.”

“Sign the book on the table over...there.”

“What's your name?”

“Wilma.”

He laughed and she looked at him sharply. He immediately defended his humor.

“Sorry, reminds me of a cartoon I saw on Tergus.”

“My parents had little originality.”

“Call me Fred.”

She neither amused at his remark or acknowledged it. She watched him rise and go to the counter, turn the book around and sign it. Fred Flintstone. Far as she was concerned business was done. She needed her weekly shower – badly.

“Help yourself. Take the key to room 3 on the wall there. It's the cleanest. I'm off to wash the day from me.”

Wilma stood and slowly limped towards the hallway leading to her room.

He called after her, “You like Barney better?”

She stopped and turned. “What?”

“You know...Rubble.”

“Courtneys fine.” Then she did something she hadn't done in a Jangeroo year. She laughed. Not just because of what he said, but he was actually kind of nice and handsome in a dusty way. Curiosity prodded her to see him cleaned up. He really had helped, if not saved her and Baby's lives.

Before she could stop the words from coming from her mouth, “I'll save you some water.”