As Seen On TV

Thresher looked up from a panel on the bridge of the Nightstalker, Honor Guard's patrol ship. He was a veteran powered armor trooper who was ambushed by a Reyll pyrokinetic; unlike many other casualties, he opted for superior replacement parts for his lost limbs.

"All right, kid -- listen up. I just sent you an arming code for your tac nuke."

On the view-screen, a shaken and nervous Victor pulled a beer-can sized grenade from his utility belt.

"Got it."

"You know what to do, Ensign. Hit him before he closes in!"

"Yes, sir!"

The young super-soldier in training flipped open the breech of the stubby grenade launcher, inserted the cartridge, and snapped the chamber closed. Control computers in the gun and the ammunition exchanged credentials; circuits energized within the shell and the gun. A blast of electrical energy drove the metallic sabot covering the physics package down a superconducting rail, driving the shell out of the barrel at a velocity carefully calculated to be slightly below the speed of sound.

"Duck and cover!"

The soldiers assumed the position, rolling into lethal armored giant pill bugs; their hard suits might have protected their bodies from the radiation in the event of a premature detonation downrange, but the shock wave from an atomic could easily tear an articulated limb from a main battle suit.

One kilometer downrange, the physics package produced a chaotic magnetic field inside the core of some few hundred grams of neptunium, drawing together the isolated paramagnetic clusters that formed around the super-heavy dopant atoms. Thousands of tiny super critical points formed, evenly distributed throughout the fissionable core.

Neutron begat neutron as nuclei shattered. A golden egg was laid at the feet of the oncoming fungoid monstrosity. The radiation blast shriveled and blackened its surface before the fireball tore the monster to vapor.

Bob swore and finished his can.

He paused the stream and looked around the bridge of the freighter. The re-run had been punishing by the rules of the Honor Guard drinking game; Victor had saved the day, again, and had demonstrated the value of regulated personal possession of nuclear weapons.

Six empty cans were strewn over the grubby bridge. Behind his back, a yellow light blinked on a panel; a momentary air pressure anomaly just occurred in the sealed, airless hold of the freighter.

He ignored the warning light. Pressure seals did, after all, just wear out sometimes. The hull was intact, it's only an internal problem.

His own virtual "Liquid Waste Storage Full" warning light was burning an angry red; he staggered off to the head.

The door to the sleeping quarters was closed, which prevented a great deal of screaming. His crew-mate had made a successful attempt to eat his pillow and had smothered.

On the bridge, a single light lit on the communications console -- video was being uploaded from the freighter's internal cameras. The lights dimmed, and the view-screen filled with blue static.

Bob, visibly relieved, walked into the bridge to see three words flashing on his view-screen in a field of static.

YOU'RE A WINNER!

He walked up to the window-sized flat screen, visibly confused.

A face appeared -- leonine with ice-cold blue eyes and a shock of dark hair, a short female with hypnotic eyes.

She said, "Don't turn around."

Bob panicked, and did.

An arm reached out of the view-screen and grabbed him by the nape of the neck, pulling him through to the other side.

"I told you not to turn around."

A moment later, the woman stepped casually out of the view-screen.

She sat down in the captain's chair, brushed an empty can off the armrest, and summoned a squat, fat brown toad-dog thing with flapping bat wings and scaly skin. It hovered uneasily a moment before the woman's gaze fell upon it; it spasmed and turned to face her.

"Enter, Demonslayer."

The imp opened its mouth to speak, and its voice was that of an old woman with a sing-song voice.

"Number Six. You've secured the vessel."

"No, just captured it. What do you need me to do to the cargo?"

"Ensure the charges can be armed locally, without outside interference, then land as per the flight plan. My agents will meet you at the East Pole star-port."

Jinx Bubastis thought for a moment. The cargo of ten thousand bug bombs would take days to prepare, although her mind raced for short-cuts. Perhaps she could steal the private key of an exterminator or demolitions specialist, provision a few thousand security modules, set them up to be unlocked with a simple transaction modules and a short PIN code...

"It will take a while."

"Don't rush."

The imp tried to pause dramatically, which was somewhat sabotaged by the frantic fluttering of his undersized bat-wings.

"You will betray me. I know this, I have prophetic dreams. But you will give me the tools we need. Fare thee well, hireling."

The imp went limp, and flopped gracelessly to the floor.

Jinx Bubastis glared at the ectoplasmic lower astral ambient tulpa, and it wearily opened a single urine-yellow eye.

"Clean up the bridge. I have some corpses to space."