THE LAUGHING CROW: A CRYPTIC Anthology

Time for Infinite

Four minutes 26 seconds to impact.

The stiletto heel dug into Roy's cheek. From this angle, the only encouraging thing was the skin of her bare leg past the knee-high, faux-leather boot, stretching up to the shadowy nether regions of her, well, nether regions.

Not that he wanted to go there.

An asteroid field would be safer to navigate and probably more welcoming. But the view was nice. If this was the last thing he would ever see, hey, you took what you could get.

She drew the pull chain on the stuffed crow that was perched on her shoulder.

"Smash the patriarchy!" the thing croaked.

"What were you saying about the last coordinates you programmed in the computer? You were on a rescue mission and not headed for an up close encounter with a large moon?" she asked. "If only there was some way you could make me believe you."

"I swear—"

"Tut, tut. Don't swear, honey-bumpkins, it ruins your adorable, nerdy image."

She whipped out a 3R8 from a holster on her back. And pointed it at his nose. The warning light from the console flickered in the crow's glass eye.

Thirty-eight Standard Hours previously

Farah blushed and tucked a loose strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. She had two triangular notches in the top cartilage. Once upon a time, she had been a thief. Twice, actually. But Roy didn't give a flying flowchart. Her primer code was etched in silver on the disk she passed him over the bar. This was the first time a woman gave him her coordinates, which sounded about as pathetic as it actually was.

The first twenty-five years of life were spent in his mother's basement until he was recruited for off-planet Terra programming support with an all-male regiment for another three. There was no one to date but the bots or other guys, but no one special—biological or virtual—caught Roy's interest.

Two days back on Metradon and he was going on a date. With a real live woman. He swallowed nervously. "Sure, I'd love to. What time should I pick you up?"

"Twenty S.H. I'll be waiting."

Sixteen Standard Hours Previously

"What do you mean she was collected? She had a job, she was an honest bar-tend. The government can't round up innocent people and ship them off to the mines!" Roy ran a hand through his hair, or what was left of it. His twenty-eighth birthday was not kind to his hairline.

"Yeah, buddy, where you been? Your mom's basement? A pretty girl like that isn't going to the mines. No, they round up batches and pack them like cattle on cargo ships for whatever hell-hole needs more women. That's what keeps the government in place. Happy campers on the outskirts, scared rats at home." Farrah's former neighbor lit up an Ecrivain special, the newest fashion in fake cigs. Hologram smoke rings puffed from his mouth. "If she owed you money, you can kiss it goodbye."

Roy pivoted. His girl, or the girl who might one day be his girl, especially if he could save her from forced labor and an arranged marriage with the scum they shipped to work in the newly Terra-formed planets, needed a hero.

And he had just spent the last twenty some years practicing how to infiltrate government issue data bases in all their many forms. He was the hero she needed.

Fifteen Standard Hours Previously

The ship would launch in twenty-six minutes 12 seconds. He swiped his genera-disk over the read to erase the search and reset the security. The next officer checking the dock schedule wouldn't see a thing. Gathering intel was easy—getting on her ship would be tricky.