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became his home for nearly a year. Marooned, he learned to hunt the local game, which he called rippers ; nastily mean, rodent-like creatures, with abnormally large canines … they were an acquired taste. After thirteen months, his NanoCom saved him. Since all communications equipment on board the ship was destroyed, he not only needed a space vessel to come within range of the desolate planet, he needed, too, to connect with someone also fitted with a NanoCom. As it turned out, Sean Doogin, a scraggly old U.S. petty officer who’d gone AWOL from the Allied forces five years earlier, rescued him. Leon, in no hurry to return to fighting the Craing and feeling more than a little abandoned by his Allied cohorts, partnered up with Doogin for two years. He was introduced to a life he’d had little awareness of previously. Much of space’s commerce took place in what was referred to as the Gray Sleeve. There was nothing for the right price that couldn’t be acquired via the Gray Sleeve. A dark underworld where, to Leon’s surprise, one could not only make a good living but have the adventure of a lifetime in the process. Sure, it was dangerous. Doogin found that out six months earlier, when he was killed fleeing the premises of a Bagram officer’s living quarters. He’d become quite fond of the officer’s wife and both were killed that evening. Leon inherited Doogin’s somewhat beat up ship, called the SpaceRunner. Twenty-five years old, the ship had good bones, was ridiculously fast, and had some cool state of the art features. At the moment, Leon wished he weren’t still a light-year’s distance away from his ship.
    The Pharlom soldiers were gone—headed for the city. The planet would be ravaged for its natural resources, but first cleansed of its inhabitants. From what Leon knew of the Tromian people, they were good traders, avoided war, and definitely didn’t deserve what would be happening here.
    Leon brought his attention toward the vehicles parked along the periphery of the flight deck. They were all large—beat-to-shit excavation tractors, along with several general transportation vehicles. One was definitely space worthy: an old Alliance delivery scout. He’d flown aboard the same type of shuttle countless times when serving in the military.
    Just then Leon realized he wasn’t alone on the flight deck. He heard the ratcheting sound of a projectile weapon being readied. The Pharloms still used what was the equivalent of a machine gun type weapon, and a large one was now pointed directly at his head. He raised both hands—one of which was still gripping the overlarge plasma pistol.
    Without thinking, Leon dove to his right, behind a grouping of stacked, large metal canisters. The Pharlom immediately began firing. The ear-shattering noise, from large caliber projectiles ricocheting off the metal canisters, the deck, and the bulkhead behind him, was near deafening. Leon half crawled, half ran out from his hiding place into the open. He was dead, anyway, if he stayed there another few seconds. Holding the pistol in both hands, two fingers over the trigger, he fired in the general direction of the Pharlom. The weapon bucked in his hands with incredible force. This is an impressive weapon , he thought, trying to reel in his aim while he ran. The Pharloms weren’t the quickest bunch when it came to close-combat fighting and that was Leon’s saving grace. He dove again, as more rounds sparked off the deck plating where his feet stood only two seconds earlier. Leon continued to fire, even as he landed hard on the metal surface. He kept his fingers tightly pulling on the trigger and, like chipping away at a boulder with a hammer, big chips of the creature’s rocky exterior fragmented off, flying into the air. He brought his aim up to the rocky creature’s head area and continued firing. Its bowling ball-sized head exploded into a dust cloud and the Pharlom’s body clanged down in a stony heap onto the