Linnea Sinclair - Macawley's List.pdf

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Tales from the Second Chance Saloon:
Macawley's List
Linnea Sinclair
Telling her he loved her was on his list of things to do.
Dying before he had a chance to do so, wasn’t.
The metal decking of Starbase Delta Five skewed suddenly under his boots. The
shock wave of the first explosion blasted by him. He stumbled, slammed against the
bulkhead. Debris cascaded down through the ruptured conduit panels. He swung his
good arm up to shield his face and slid awkwardly to the floor.
“Macawley!” Her anguished voice called to him through the communications badge
pinned to his shirt.
He almost said it, right then and then. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I’m just too
much of a coward to tell you.
He ripped the badge from his shirt, threw it across the wide corridor. It skittered
against a chunk of ceiling tile. If he answered, she’d try to rescue him. Even though
he’d given her a direct order to pull out.
But she had a propensity to ignore his direct orders. That was one of the things he
loved about her.
The station rumbled again. A large section of the corridor collapsed into the level
below, taking the chunk of tile and his badge with it.
He hooked his good arm around a curved support pylon and hung on, though he
didn’t know why. He was already dead. A Duvri ion lance had severed his left arm at
the elbow, cauterizing it neatly. And he was bleeding profusely from a shrapnel
wound in his thigh.
But none of that mattered. What did was the destruction of Delta Five. His tactical
team set the charges for that purpose an hour ago. That would bring the Duvri’s
invasion of the Galleon Quadrant to a dead stop, like slamming into a black hole.
“A waste of a few damn fine pubs,” Briony Winn had quipped just before she
 
followed the rest of the team into the escape shuttle.
That was another thing he loved about her. She always had a quip, some little sotto
voce remark.
“I’m sure you and my crew will take it as a personal challenge to find replacements,”
he’d shouted to her as he jogged backwards towards the airlock. He was headed
down to the next deck to appropriate an X-7 fighter, and blow a few more holes into
the station for good measure as he left.
She had the audacity to stick her tongue out at him just as the hatch was closing.
“They’re my crew, too, Mac!”
They were all hers now. In the death of the captain, the executive officer
automatically took command.
A Duvri suicide squad had greeted him at the fighter bays. They had an ion lance,
shrapnel guns. He was trapped. And wasn’t about to recall the shuttle, risk the lives
of eight team members -- and one irreplaceable Commander Briony Winn-- to save
his own.
The station shuddered violently again. He heard the agonizing groan of metal
stressed to its limits; the harsh snap of plasticrete as it twisted and shattered. The
jagged ledge under his legs vibrated.
He had minutes. No, probably only seconds. The lights blinked out. A rush of wind
drove gritty particles of insulation into his skin. He knew what it was. The station’s
hull had ruptured. The air was being sucked out into the vacuum of deep space.
“I love you, Winnie.” It was the first time he ever said those words out loud.
It was the last thing he remembered.
Until he coughed.
He was face down in a pile of insulation dust. It coated his lips, stuck in his throat.
He coughed again, planted his hands on the ground and pushed his shoulders up.
And heard piano music. Light, tinkling, jaunty piano music.
I’m dead. And someone in hell plays the piano.
He rolled over on one hip, sat up.
Hell is a desert. Legends said the afterworld had seven hells. He didn’t know which
one this was. But he did know deserts. He spent three months on Nas Ramo
 
teaching a dirtside survival course for the Alliance. It was just before the Alliance
gave him his captain’s stars. Winnie was part of his team, but she was only a
lieutenant.
Only a lieutenant. As if Briony Winn could be ‘only’ anything.
He looked around. This hell’s desert was less mountainous than Nas Ramo’s. The
scrub cacti were taller, the sand almost pure white.
And someone was playing the damn piano!
He wrenched his head to the right. A two-story wooden building stood ten feet
behind him. The architecture was unfamiliar. It was painted red-- fitting, he thought--
and had a wide porch with a crisscross style railing. Three slatted chairs waited,
empty, on the porch.
Perhaps hell has a check-in point?
He pushed himself to his feet, wiped gritty hands on his pants. He felt a gust of hot
wind ruffle through his hair. The sign hanging over the porch entry swayed slightly.
Second Chance Saloon.
The boards creaked under his boots as he climbed the three steps to the porch. His
mouth was dry. He could remember the thick insulation dust filling his lungs, the
shuddering of the starbase in its death throes.
He coughed again, his fist coming up to cover his mouth as he stepped through the
open doorway. And for a moment he saw nothing. The white sands and the bright
sun had bleached his vision.
His eyes adjusted. The piano music reached a crescendo and halted. A metallic
skinned ‘droid pushed back the piano bench and stood.
Light applause rippled through the saloon.
“Your kindness is appreciated.” The ‘droid snatched a tall, wide-brimmed hat from
the top of the piano and shoved it onto its bald head. Then it ambled with a swinging
gait over to the bar and leaned against the counter.
A dusky-skinned woman stood behind it, polishing a wide-mouthed drinking glass.
He could see her face in the mirror behind the bar. Her eyes were dark, slightly
almond-shaped. Her hair was a deep magenta color, like rich Trelgarian wine. It was
braided and wrapped with strips of patterned cloth that matched the flowing tunic
covering her tall form.
 
“Two fingers of premium grade synth-lube, Jezebel,” the ‘droid said.
The woman turned. “Sure thing, Tex. And how about you, Captain Macawley? Need
something to wet your whistle?”
“You know me?”
She chuckled. “Know you? Why, child, we’ve been expecting you.” Her voice was
a rich, warm contralto, as thick as the lubricant she poured into the short crystal
glass. She slid it towards the ‘droid, then looked at Mac, folding her arms across her
chest. Rows of metallic bracelets in a rainbow of silvers and golds jangled. It was a
pleasant sound.
“Double shot of Pagan Gold?” she asked.
He didn’t realize hell kept track of his drinking habits. He nodded, stepped up to the
bar and leaned his elbows on it.
Both elbows. Somehow the one he’d donated to the Duvri was back.
He glanced at his leg. Same gray uniform pants he always wore. But the material--
and his thigh-- was intact. No shredding. No blood.
Hell evidently liked its occupants in one piece. He sipped his drink, watched Jezebel
pour another one. But it wasn’t a double shot of Pagan Gold.
It was a pale green liqueur in a tall, slender glass. Starfrost.
Jezebel thumbed open a small container, took a pinch of dark granules and sprinkled
them on top.
Nightspice. Starfrost with a touch of nightspice.
Winnie’s drink.
He whirled around. If she were here... then she was dead. Which he didn’t want,
Gods, no, he didn’t want her to be dead. He died so that she could live, damn it!
But if she were here, if she were...
He scanned the tables. The saloon was full. There was a trio of pretty women, all
humanoid, at the table closest to him. A voluptuous brunette with shoulder-length
hair popped open a sof-screen ‘puter on the table. The other two leaned closer.
Petite, both of them, one platinum blonde, one a deep auburn. They seemed
unaware, or uninterested, in his scrutiny.
 
At another table, a man and a woman, more felinoid than human, sipped something
frothy from squat mugs. They wore commercial freighter uniforms, though none
bore any insignia he recognized.
Then there was movement at the back stairs. A round-faced young woman sauntered
down, her curls bouncing with each step. The light from the candles in the wall
sconces caught the mix of colors in her hair: honey blonde, amber red, russet
brown. She held a handful of her long, lace trimmed dress in one hand as she
descended, careful, it seemed, not to catch her heels. She smiled, but Mac knew she
wasn’t smiling at him. She wiggled her fingers towards a young man sitting alone in
the corner.
Mac turned, caught the man’s answering nod.
He didn’t know any of them. He didn’t see Winnie anywhere.
He heard Jezebel slide the tall glass in his direction.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Now, that’s a strange question.” Jezebel leaned over the counter towards him.
“Most folks first ask, ‘Where am I?’”
“I know where I am. One of the Seven Hells.” He never had any illusions about
going to heaven.
“Wrong. You’re in the Second Chance.”
“Semantics. I’m in a bar in hell. I’m still--”
“You’re not.”
The intensity of her tone startled him into silence.
“You’re in the Second Chance,” she repeated. “Which is exactly as its name implies:
a second chance.”
“A second chance at...” Okay. I’m not dead. I’m dying. Hallucinating as I die. Still,
he had to say the word. “...at life?”
“No. At love.”
At--?
“Love,” she repeated. “The one thing left on your to-do list. The one most important
thing. The one thing you couldn’t bring yourself to do, until you were just about out
 

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